The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cousin Betty, by Honore de Balzac #66 in our series by Honore de Balzac Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Cousin Betty Author: Honore de Balzac Release Date: May, 1999 [EBook #1749] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on April 6, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: US-ASCII *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN BETTY *** HTM version produced by Walter Debeuf, the original eBook was prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com and John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz
To Don Michele Angelo Cajetani, Prince of Teano.
It is neither to the Roman Prince, nor to the representative
of
the illustrious house of Cajetani, which has given more than
one
Pope to the Christian Church, that I dedicate this short
portion
of a long history; it is to the learned commentator of
Dante.
It was you who led me to understand the marvelous framework
of
ideas on which the great Italian poet built his poem, the
only
work which the moderns can place by that of Homer. Till I
heard
you, the Divine Comedy was to me a vast enigma to which none
had
found the clue--the commentators least of all. Thus, to
understand
Dante is to be as great as he; but every form of greatness
is
familiar to you.
A French savant could make a reputation, earn a professor's
chair,
and a dozen decorations, by publishing in a dogmatic volume
the
improvised lecture by which you lent enchantment to one of
those
evenings which are rest after seeing Rome. You do not know,
perhaps, that most of our professors live on Germany, on
England,
on the East, or on the North, as an insect lives on a tree;
and,
like the insect, become an integral part of it, borrowing
their
merit from that of what they feed on. Now, Italy hitherto has
not
yet been worked out in public lectures. No one will ever give
me
credit for my literary honesty. Merely by plundering you I
might
have been as learned as three Schlegels in one, whereas I mean
to
remain a humble Doctor of the Faculty of Social Medicine, a
veterinary surgeon for incurable maladies. Were it only to lay
a
token of gratitude at the feet of my cicerone, I would fain
add
your illustrious name to those of Porcia, of San-Severino,
of
Pareto, of di Negro, and of Belgiojoso, who will represent in
this
"Human Comedy" the close and constant alliance between Italy
and
France, to which Bandello did honor in the same way in the
sixteenth century--Bandello, the bishop and author of some
strange
tales indeed, who left us the splendid collection of
romances
whence Shakespeare derived many of his plots and even
complete
characters, word for word.
The two sketches I dedicate to you are the two eternal aspects
of
one and the same fact. Homo duplex, said the great Buffon: why
not
add Res duplex? Everything has two sides, even virtue. Hence
Moliere always shows us both sides of every human problem;
and
Diderot, imitating him, once wrote, "This is not a mere
tale"--in
what is perhaps Diderot's masterpiece, where he shows us the
beautiful picture of Mademoiselle de Lachaux sacrificed by
Gardanne, side by side with that of a perfect lover dying for
his
mistress.
In the same way, these two romances form a pair, like twins
of
opposite sexes. This is a literary vagary to which a writer
may
for once give way, especially as part of a work in which I
am
endeavoring to depict every form that can serve as a garb to
mind.
Most human quarrels arise from the fact that both wise men
and
dunces exist who are so constituted as to be incapable of
seeing
more than one side of any fact or idea, while each asserts
that
the side he sees is the only true and right one. Thus it is
written in the Holy Book, "God will deliver the world over
to
divisions." I must confess that this passage of Scripture
alone
should persuade the Papal See to give you the control of the
two
Chambers to carry out the text which found its commentary in
1814,
in the decree of Louis XVIII.
May your wit and the poetry that is in you extend a
protecting
hand over these two histories of "The Poor Relations"
Of your affectionate humble servant,
DE BALZAC.
PARIS, August-September, 1846.
One day, about the middle of July 1838, one of the carriages,
then
lately introduced to Paris cabstands, and known as
Milords, was
driving down the Rue de l'Universite, conveying a stout man of
middle
height in the uniform of a captain of the National Guard.
Among the Paris crowd, who are supposed to be so clever, there
are
some men who fancy themselves infinitely more attractive in
uniform
than in their ordinary clothes, and who attribute to women so
depraved
a taste that they believe they will be favorably impressed by
the
aspect of a busby and of military accoutrements.
The countenance of this Captain of the Second Company beamed
with a
self-satisfaction that added splendor to his ruddy and somewhat
chubby
face. The halo of glory that a fortune made in business gives to
a
retired tradesman sat on his brow, and stamped him as one of the
elect
of Paris--at least a retired deputy-mayor of his quarter of the
town.
And you may be sure that the ribbon of the Legion of Honor was
not
missing from his breast, gallantly padded a la
Prussienne. Proudly
seated in one corner of the milord, this splendid person
let his
gaze wander over the passers-by, who, in Paris, often thus meet
an
ingratiating smile meant for sweet eyes that are absent.
The vehicle stopped in the part of the street between the Rue
de
Bellechasse and the Rue de Bourgogne, at the door of a large,
newly-
build house, standing on part of the court-yard of an ancient
mansion
that had a garden. The old house remained in its original
state,
beyond the courtyard curtailed by half its extent.
Only from the way in which the officer accepted the assistance
of the
coachman to help him out, it was plain that he was past fifty.
There
are certain movements so undisguisedly heavy that they are as
tell-
tale as a register of birth. The captain put on his
lemon-colored
right-hand glove, and, without any question to the gatekeeper,
went up
the outer steps to the ground of the new house with a look
that
proclaimed, "She is mine!"
The concierges of Paris have sharp eyes; they do not
stop visitors
who wear an order, have a blue uniform, and walk ponderously;
in
short, they know a rich man when they see him.
This ground floor was entirely occupied by Monsieur le Baron
Hulot
d'Ervy, Commissary General under the Republic, retired army
contractor, and at the present time at the head of one of the
most
important departments of the War Office, Councillor of State,
officer
of the Legion of Honor, and so forth.
This Baron Hulot had taken the name of d'Ervy--the place of
his birth
--to distinguish him from his brother, the famous General
Hulot,
Colonel of the Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, created by
the
Emperor Comte de Forzheim after the campaign of 1809. The Count,
the
elder brother, being responsible for his junior, had, with
paternal
care, placed him in the commissariat, where, thanks to the
services of
the two brothers, the Baron deserved and won Napoleon's good
graces.
After 1807, Baron Hulot was Commissary General for the army in
Spain.
Having rung the bell, the citizen-captain made strenuous
efforts to
pull his coat into place, for it had rucked up as much at the
back as
in front, pushed out of shape by the working of a piriform
stomach.
Being admitted as soon as the servant in livery saw him, the
important
and imposing personage followed the man, who opened the door of
the
drawing-room, announcing:
"Monsieur Crevel."
On hearing the name, singularly appropriate to the figure of
the man
who bore it, a tall, fair woman, evidently young-looking for her
age,
rose as if she had received an electric shock.
"Hortense, my darling, go into the garden with your Cousin
Betty," she
said hastily to her daughter, who was working at some embroidery
at
her mother's side.
After curtseying prettily to the captain, Mademoiselle
Hortense went
out by a glass door, taking with her a withered-looking
spinster, who
looked older than the Baroness, though she was five years
younger.
"They are settling your marriage," said Cousin Betty in the
girl's
ear, without seeming at all offended at the way in which the
Baroness
had dismissed them, counting her almost as zero.
The cousin's dress might, at need, have explained this
free-and-easy
demeanor. The old maid wore a merino gown of a dark plum color,
of
which the cut and trimming dated from the year of the
Restoration; a
little worked collar, worth perhaps three francs; and a common
straw
hat with blue satin ribbons edged with straw plait, such as the
old-
clothes buyers wear at market. On looking down at her kid shoes,
made,
it was evident, by the veriest cobbler, a stranger would
have
hesitated to recognize Cousin Betty as a member of the family,
for she
looked exactly like a journeywoman sempstress. But she did not
leave
the room without bestowing a little friendly nod on Monsieur
Crevel,
to which that gentleman responded by a look of mutual
understanding.
"You are coming to us to-morrow, I hope, Mademoiselle
Fischer?" said
he.
"You have no company?" asked Cousin Betty.
"My children and yourself, no one else," replied the visitor.
"Very well," replied she; "depend on me."
"And here am I, madame, at your orders," said the
citizen-captain,
bowing again to Madame Hulot.
He gave such a look at Madame Hulot as Tartuffe casts at
Elmire--when
a provincial actor plays the part and thinks it necessary to
emphasize
its meaning--at Poitiers, or at Coutances.
"If you will come into this room with me, we shall be more
conveniently placed for talking business than we are in this
room,"
said Madame Hulot, going to an adjoining room, which, as the
apartment
was arranged, served as a cardroom.
It was divided by a slight partition from a boudoir looking
out on the
garden, and Madame Hulot left her visitor to himself for a
minute, for
she thought it wise to shut the window and the door of the
boudoir, so
that no one should get in and listen. She even took the
precaution of
shutting the glass door of the drawing-room, smiling on her
daughter
and her cousin, whom she saw seated in an old summer-house at
the end
of the garden. As she came back she left the cardroom door open,
so as
to hear if any one should open that of the drawing-room to come
in.
As she came and went, the Baroness, seen by nobody, allowed
her face
to betray all her thoughts, and any one who could have seen her
would
have been shocked to see her agitation. But when she finally
came back
from the glass door of the drawing-room, as she entered the
cardroom,
her face was hidden behind the impenetrable reserve which every
woman,
even the most candid, seems to have at her command.
During all these preparations--odd, to say the least--the
National
Guardsman studied the furniture of the room in which he found
himself.
As he noted the silk curtains, once red, now faded to dull
purple by
the sunshine, and frayed in the pleats by long wear; the carpet,
from
which the hues had faded; the discolored gilding of the
furniture; and
the silk seats, discolored in patches, and wearing into
strips--
expressions of scorn, satisfaction, and hope dawned in
succession
without disguise on his stupid tradesman's face. He looked at
himself
in the glass over an old clock of the Empire, and was
contemplating
the general effect, when the rustle of her silk skirt announced
the
Baroness. He at once struck at attitude.
After dropping on to a sofa, which had been a very handsome
one in the
year 1809, the Baroness, pointing to an armchair with the arms
ending
in bronze sphinxes' heads, while the paint was peeling from the
wood,
which showed through in many places, signed to Crevel to be
seated.
"All the precautions you are taking, madame, would seem full
of
promise to a----"
"To a lover," said she, interrupting him.
"The word is too feeble," said he, placing his right hand on
his
heart, and rolling his eyes in a way which almost always makes a
woman
laugh when she, in cold blood, sees such a look. "A lover! A
lover?
Say a man bewitched----"
"Listen, Monsieur Crevel," said the Baroness, too anxious to
be able
to laugh, "you are fifty--ten years younger than Monsieur Hulot,
I
know; but at my age a woman's follies ought to be justified by
beauty,
youth, fame, superior merit--some one of the splendid qualities
which
can dazzle us to the point of making us forget all else--even at
our
age. Though you may have fifty thousand francs a year, your
age
counterbalances your fortune; thus you have nothing whatever of
what a
woman looks for----"
"But love!" said the officer, rising and coming forward. "Such
love
as----"
"No, monsieur, such obstinacy!" said the Baroness,
interrupting him to
put an end to his absurdity.
"Yes, obstinacy," said he, "and love; but something stronger
still--a
claim----"
"A claim!" cried Madame Hulot, rising sublime with scorn,
defiance,
and indignation. "But," she went on, "this will bring us to no
issues;
I did not ask you to come here to discuss the matter which led
to your
banishment in spite of the connection between our
families----"
"I had fancied so."
"What! still?" cried she. "Do you not see, monsieur, by the
entire
ease and freedom with which I can speak of lovers and love,
of
everything least creditable to a woman, that I am perfectly
secure in
my own virtue? I fear nothing--not even to shut myself in alone
with
you. Is that the conduct of a weak woman? You know full well why
I
begged you to come."
"No, madame," replied Crevel, with an assumption of great
coldness. He
pursed up his lips, and again struck an attitude.
"Well, I will be brief, to shorten our common discomfort,"
said the
Baroness, looking at Crevel.
Crevel made an ironical bow, in which a man who knew the race
would
have recognized the graces of a bagman.
"Our son married your daughter----"
"And if it were to do again----" said Crevel.
"It would not be done at all, I suspect," said the baroness
hastily.
"However, you have nothing to complain of. My son is not only
one of
the leading pleaders of Paris, but for the last year he has sat
as
Deputy, and his maiden speech was brilliant enough to lead us
to
suppose that ere long he will be in office. Victorin has twice
been
called upon to report on important measures; and he might even
now, if
he chose, be made Attorney-General in the Court of Appeal. So,
if you
mean to say that your son-in-law has no fortune----"
"Worse than that, madame, a son-in-law whom I am obliged to
maintain,"
replied Crevel. "Of the five hundred thousand francs that formed
my
daughter's marriage portion, two hundred thousand have
vanished--God
knows how!--in paying the young gentleman's debts, in furnishing
his
house splendaciously--a house costing five hundred thousand
francs,
and bringing in scarcely fifteen thousand, since he occupies
the
larger part of it, while he owes two hundred and sixty thousand
francs
of the purchase-money. The rent he gets barely pays the interest
on
the debt. I have had to give my daughter twenty thousand francs
this
year to help her to make both ends meet. And then my son-in-law,
who
was making thirty thousand francs a year at the Assizes, I am
told, is
going to throw that up for the Chamber----"
"This, again, Monsieur Crevel, is beside the mark; we are
wandering
from the point. Still, to dispose of it finally, it may be said
that
if my son gets into office, if he has you made an officer of
the
Legion of Honor and councillor of the municipality of Paris,
you, as a
retired perfumer, will not have much to complain of----"
"Ah! there we are again, madame! Yes, I am a tradesman, a
shopkeeper,
a retail dealer in almond-paste, eau-de-Portugal, and hair-oil,
and
was only too much honored when my only daughter was married to
the son
of Monsieur le Baron Hulot d'Ervy--my daughter will be a
Baroness!
This is Regency, Louis XV., (Eil-de-boeuf--quite tip-top!--very
good.)
I love Celestine as a man loves his only child--so well indeed,
that,
to preserve her from having either brother or sister, I
resigned
myself to all the privations of a widower--in Paris, and in the
prime
of life, madame. But you must understand that, in spite of
this
extravagant affection for my daughter, I do not intend to reduce
my
fortune for the sake of your son, whose expenses are not
wholly
accounted for--in my eyes, as an old man of business."
"Monsieur, you may at this day see in the Ministry of
Commerce
Monsieur Popinot, formerly a druggist in the Rue des
Lombards----"
"And a friend of mine, madame," said the ex-perfumer. "For I,
Celestin
Crevel, foreman once to old Cesar Birotteau, brought up the said
Cesar
Birotteau's stock; and he was Popinot's father-in-law. Why, that
very
Popinot was no more than a shopman in the establishment, and he
is the
first to remind me of it; for he is not proud, to do him
justice, to
men in a good position with an income of sixty thousand francs
in the
funds."
"Well then, monsieur, the notions you term 'Regency' are quite
out of
date at a time when a man is taken at his personal worth; and
that is
what you did when you married your daughter to my son."
"But you do not know how the marriage was brought about!"
cried
Crevel. "Oh, that cursed bachelor life! But for my misconduct,
my
Celestine might at this day be Vicomtesse Popinot!"
"Once more have done with recriminations over accomplished
facts,"
said the Baroness anxiously. "Let us rather discuss the
complaints I
have found on your strange behavior. My daughter Hortense had a
chance
of marrying; the match depended entirely on you; I believed you
felt
some sentiments of generosity; I thought you would do justice to
a
woman who has never had a thought in her heart for any man but
her
husband, that you would have understood how necessary it is for
her
not to receive a man who may compromise her, and that for the
honor of
the family with which you are allied you would have been eager
to
promote Hortense's settlement with Monsieur le Conseiller
Lebas.--And
it is you, monsieur, you have hindered the marriage."
"Madame," said the ex-perfumer, "I acted the part of an honest
man. I
was asked whether the two hundred thousand francs to be settled
on
Mademoiselle Hortense would be forthcoming. I replied exactly in
these
words: 'I would not answer for it. My son-in-law, to whom the
Hulots
had promised the same sum, was in debt; and I believe that if
Monsieur
Hulot d'Ervy were to die to-morrow, his widow would have nothing
to
live on.'--There, fair lady."
"And would you have said as much, monsieur," asked Madame
Hulot,
looking Crevel steadily in the face, "if I had been false to my
duty?"
"I should not be in a position to say it, dearest Adeline,"
cried this
singular adorer, interrupting the Baroness, "for you would have
found
the amount in my pocket-book."
And adding action to word, the fat guardsman knelt down on one
knee
and kissed Madame Hulot's hand, seeing that his speech had
filled her
with speechless horror, which he took for hesitancy.
"What, buy my daughter's fortune at the cost of----? Rise,
monsieur--
or I ring the bell."
Crevel rose with great difficulty. This fact made him so
furious that
he again struck his favorite attitude. Most men have some
habitual
position by which they fancy that they show to the best
advantage the
good points bestowed on them by nature. This attitude in
Crevel
consisted in crossing his arms like Napoleon, his head showing
three-
quarters face, and his eyes fixed on the horizon, as the painter
has
shown the Emperor in his portrait.
"To be faithful," he began, with well-acted indignation, "so
faithful
to a liber----"
"To a husband who is worthy of such fidelity," Madame Hulot
put in, to
hinder Crevel from saying a word she did not choose to hear.
"Come, madame; you wrote to bid me here, you ask the reasons
for my
conduct, you drive me to extremities with your imperial airs,
your
scorn, and your contempt! Any one might think I was a Negro. But
I
repeat it, and you may believe me, I have a right to--to make
love to
you, for---- But no; I love you well enough to hold my
tongue."
"You may speak, monsieur. In a few days I shall be
eight-and-forty; I
am no prude; I can hear whatever you can say."
"Then will you give me your word of honor as an honest
woman--for you
are, alas for me! an honest woman--never to mention my name or
to say
that it was I who betrayed the secret?"
"If that is the condition on which you speak, I will swear
never to
tell any one from whom I heard the horrors you propose to tell
me, not
even my husband."
"I should think not indeed, for only you and he are concerned."
Madame Hulot turned pale.
"Oh, if you still really love Hulot, it will distress you.
Shall I say
no more?"
"Speak, monsieur; for by your account you wish to justify in
my eyes
the extraordinary declarations you have chosen to make me, and
your
persistency in tormenting a woman of my age, whose only wish is
to see
her daughter married, and then--to die in peace----"
"You see; you are unhappy."
"I, monsieur?"
"Yes, beautiful, noble creature!" cried Crevel. "You have
indeed been
too wretched!"
"Monsieur, be silent and go--or speak to me as you ought."
"Do you know, madame, how Master Hulot and I first made
acquaintance?
--At our mistresses', madame."
"Oh, monsieur!"
"Yes, madame, at our mistresses'," Crevel repeated in a
melodramatic
tone, and leaving his position to wave his right hand.
"Well, and what then?" said the Baroness coolly, to Crevel's
great
amazement.
Such mean seducers cannot understand a great soul.
"I, a widower five years since," Crevel began, in the tone of
a man
who has a story to tell, "and not wishing to marry again for the
sake
of the daughter I adore, not choosing either to cultivate any
such
connection in my own establishment, though I had at the time a
very
pretty lady-accountant. I set up, 'on her own account,' as they
say, a
little sempstress of fifteen--really a miracle of beauty, with
whom I
fell desperately in love. And in fact, madame, I asked an aunt
of my
own, my mother's sister, whom I sent for from the country, to
live
with the sweet creature and keep an eye on her, that she might
behave
as well as might be in this rather--what shall I
say--shady?--no,
delicate position.
"The child, whose talent for music was striking, had masters,
she was
educated--I had to give her something to do. Besides, I wished
to be
at once her father, her benefactor, and--well, out with it--her
lover;
to kill two birds with one stone, a good action and a
sweetheart. For
five years I was very happy. The girl had one of those voices
that
make the fortune of a theatre; I can only describe her by saying
that
she is a Duprez in petticoats. It cost me two thousand francs a
year
only to cultivate her talent as a singer. She made me music-mad;
I
took a box at the opera for her and for my daughter, and went
there
alternate evenings with Celestine or Josepha."
"What, the famous singer?"
"Yes, madame," said Crevel with pride, "the famous Josepha
owes
everything to me.--At last, in 1834, when the child was
twenty,
believing that I had attached her to me for ever, and being very
weak
where she was concerned, I thought I would give her a little
amusement, and I introduced her to a pretty little actress,
Jenny
Cadine, whose life had been somewhat like her own. This actress
also
owed everything to a protector who had brought her up in
leading-
strings. That protector was Baron Hulot."
"I know that," said the Baroness, in a calm voice without the
least
agitation.
"Bless me!" cried Crevel, more and more astounded. "Well! But
do you
know that your monster of a husband took Jenny Cadine in hand at
the
age of thirteen?"
"What then?" said the Baroness.
"As Jenny Cadine and Josepha were both aged twenty when they
first
met," the ex-tradesman went on, "the Baron had been playing the
part
of Louis XV. to Mademoiselle de Romans ever since 1826, and you
were
twelve years younger then----"
"I had my reasons, monsieur, for leaving Monsieur Hulot his liberty."
"That falsehood, madame, will surely be enough to wipe out
every sin
you have ever committed, and to open to you the gates of
Paradise,"
replied Crevel, with a knowing air that brought the color to
the
Baroness' cheeks. "Sublime and adored woman, tell that to those
who
will believe it, but not to old Crevel, who has, I may tell
you,
feasted too often as one of four with your rascally husband not
to
know what your high merits are! Many a time has he blamed
himself when
half tipsy as he has expatiated on your perfections. Oh, I know
you
well!--A libertine might hesitate between you and a girl of
twenty. I
do not hesitate----"
"Monsieur!"
"Well, I say no more. But you must know, saintly and noble
woman, that
a husband under certain circumstances will tell things about his
wife
to his mistress that will mightily amuse her."
Tears of shame hanging to Madame Hulot's long lashes checked
the
National Guardsman. He stopped short, and forgot his
attitude.
"To proceed," said he. "We became intimate, the Baron and I,
through
the two hussies. The Baron, like all bad lots, is very pleasant,
a
thoroughly jolly good fellow. Yes, he took my fancy, the old
rascal.
He could be so funny!--Well, enough of those reminiscences. We
got to
be like brothers. The scoundrel--quite Regency in his
notions--tried
indeed to deprave me altogether, preached Saint-Simonism as to
women,
and all sorts of lordly ideas; but, you see, I was fond enough
of my
girl to have married her, only I was afraid of having
children.
"Then between two old daddies, such friends as--as we were,
what more
natural than that we should think of our children marrying each
other?
--Three months after his son had married my Celestine, Hulot--I
don't
know how I can utter the wretch's name! he has cheated us both,
madame
--well, the villain did me out of my little Josepha. The
scoundrel
knew that he was supplanted in the heart of Jenny Cadine by a
young
lawyer and by an artist--only two of them!--for the girl had
more and
more of a howling success, and he stole my sweet little girl,
a
perfect darling--but you must have seen her at the opera; he got
her
an engagement there. Your husband is not so well behaved as I
am. I am
ruled as straight as a sheet of music-paper. He had dropped a
good
deal of money on Jenny Cadine, who must have cost him near on
thirty
thousand francs a year. Well, I can only tell you that he is
ruining
himself outright for Josepha.
"Josepha, madame, is a Jewess. Her name is Mirah, the anagram
of
Hiram, an Israelite mark that stamps her, for she was a
foundling
picked up in Germany, and the inquiries I have made prove that
she is
the illegitimate child of a rich Jew banker. The life of the
theatre,
and, above all, the teaching of Jenny Cadine, Madame Schontz,
Malaga,
and Carabine, as to the way to treat an old man, have developed,
in
the child whom I had kept in a respectable and not too expensive
way
of life, all the native Hebrew instinct for gold and jewels--for
the
golden calf.
"So this famous singer, hungering for plunder, now wants to be
rich,
very rich. She tried her 'prentice hand on Baron Hulot, and
soon
plucked him bare--plucked him, ay, and singed him to the skin.
The
miserable man, after trying to vie with one of the Kellers and
with
the Marquis d'Esgrignon, both perfectly mad about Josepha, to
say
nothing of unknown worshipers, is about to see her carried off
by that
very rich Duke, who is such a patron of the arts. Oh, what is
his
name?--a dwarf.--Ah, the Duc d'Herouville. This fine gentleman
insists
on having Josepha for his very own, and all that set are talking
about
it; the Baron knows nothing of it as yet; for it is the same in
the
Thirteenth Arrondissement as in every other: the lover, like
the
husband, is last to get the news.
"Now, do you understand my claim? Your husband, dear lady, has
robbed
me of my joy in life, the only happiness I have known since I
became a
widower. Yes, if I had not been so unlucky as to come across
that old
rip, Josepha would still be mine; for I, you know, should never
have
placed her on the stage. She would have lived obscure, well
conducted,
and mine. Oh! if you could but have seen her eight years ago,
slight
and wiry, with the golden skin of an Andalusian, as they say,
black
hair as shiny as satin, an eye that flashed lightning under long
brown
lashes, the style of a duchess in every movement, the modesty of
a
dependent, decent grace, and the pretty ways of a wild fawn. And
by
that Hulot's doing all this charm and purity has been degraded
to a
man-trap, a money-box for five-franc pieces! The girl is the
Queen of
Trollops; and nowadays she humbugs every one--she who knew
nothing,
not even that word."
At this stage the retired perfumer wiped his eyes, which were
full of
tears. The sincerity of his grief touched Madame Hulot, and
roused her
from the meditation into which she had sunk.
"Tell me, madame, is a man of fifty-two likely to find such
another
jewel? At my age love costs thirty thousand francs a year. It
is
through your husband's experience that I know the price, and I
love
Celestine too truly to be her ruin. When I saw you, at the
first
evening party you gave in our honor, I wondered how that
scoundrel
Hulot could keep a Jenny Cadine--you had the manner of an
Empress. You
do not look thirty," he went on. "To me, madame, you look young,
and
you are beautiful. On my word of honor, that evening I was
struck to
the heart. I said to myself, 'If I had not Josepha, since old
Hulot
neglects his wife, she would fit me like a glove.' Forgive
me--it is a
reminiscence of my old business. The perfumer will crop up now
and
then, and that is what keeps me from standing to be elected
deputy.
"And then, when I was so abominably deceived by the Baron, for
really
between old rips like us our friend's mistress should be sacred,
I
swore I would have his wife. It is but justice. The Baron could
say
nothing; we are certain of impunity. You showed me the door like
a
mangy dog at the first words I uttered as to the state of my
feelings;
you only made my passion--my obstinacy, if you will--twice as
strong,
and you shall be mine."
"Indeed; how?"
"I do not know; but it will come to pass. You see, madame, an
idiot of
a perfumer--retired from business--who has but one idea in his
head,
is stronger than a clever fellow who has a thousand. I am
smitten with
you, and you are the means of my revenge; it is like being in
love
twice over. I am speaking to you quite frankly, as a man who
knows
what he means. I speak coldly to you, just as you do to me, when
you
say, 'I never will be yours,' In fact, as they say, I play the
game
with the cards on the table. Yes, you shall be mine, sooner or
later;
if you were fifty, you should still be my mistress. And it will
be;
for I expect anything from your husband!"
Madame Hulot looked at this vulgar intriguer with such a fixed
stare
of terror, that he thought she had gone mad, and he stopped.
"You insisted on it, you heaped me with scorn, you defied
me--and I
have spoken," said he, feeling that he must justify the ferocity
of
his last words.
"Oh, my daughter, my daughter," moaned the Baroness in a voice
like a
dying woman's.
"Oh! I have forgotten all else," Crevel went on. "The day when
I was
robbed of Josepha I was like a tigress robbed of her cubs; in
short,
as you see me now.--Your daughter? Yes, I regard her as the
means of
winning you. Yes, I put a spoke in her marriage--and you will
not get
her married without my help! Handsome as Mademoiselle Hortense
is, she
needs a fortune----"
"Alas! yes," said the Baroness, wiping her eyes.
"Well, just ask your husband for ten thousand francs," said
Crevel,
striking his attitude once more. He waited a minute, like an
actor who
has made a point.
"If he had the money, he would give it to the woman who will
take
Josepha's place," he went on, emphasizing his tones. "Does a man
ever
pull up on the road he has taken? In the first place, he is too
sweet
on women. There is a happy medium in all things, as our King has
told
us. And then his vanity is implicated! He is a handsome man!--He
would
bring you all to ruin for his pleasure; in fact, you are already
on
the highroad to the workhouse. Why, look, never since I set foot
in
your house have you been able to do up your drawing-room
furniture.
'Hard up' is the word shouted by every slit in the stuff. Where
will
you find a son-in-law who would not turn his back in horror of
the
ill-concealed evidence of the most cruel misery there is--that
of
people in decent society? I have kept shop, and I know. There is
no
eye so quick as that of the Paris tradesman to detect real
wealth from
its sham.--You have no money," he said, in a lower voice. "It
is
written everywhere, even on your man-servant's coat.
"Would you like me to disclose any more hideous mysteries that
are
kept from you?"
"Monsieur," cried Madame Hulot, whose handkerchief was wet
through
with her tears, "enough, enough!"
"My son-in-law, I tell you, gives his father money, and this
is what I
particularly wanted to come to when I began by speaking of your
son's
expenses. But I keep an eye on my daughter's interests, be
easy."
"Oh, if I could but see my daughter married, and die!" cried
the poor
woman, quite losing her head.
"Well, then, this is the way," said the ex-perfumer.
Madame Hulot looked at Crevel with a hopeful expression, which
so
completely changed her countenance, that this alone ought to
have
touched the man's feelings and have led him to abandon his
monstrous
schemes.
"You will still be handsome ten years hence," Crevel went on,
with his
arms folded; "be kind to me, and Mademoiselle Hulot will marry.
Hulot
has given me the right, as I have explained to you, to put the
matter
crudely, and he will not be angry. In three years I have saved
the
interest on my capital, for my dissipations have been
restricted. I
have three hundred thousand francs in the bank over and above
my
invested fortune--they are yours----"
"Go," said Madame Hulot. "Go, monsieur, and never let me see
you
again. But for the necessity in which you placed me to learn
the
secret of your cowardly conduct with regard to the match I had
planned
for Hortense--yes, cowardly!" she repeated, in answer to a
gesture
from Crevel. "How can you load a poor girl, a pretty,
innocent
creature, with such a weight of enmity? But for the necessity
that
goaded me as a mother, you would never have spoken to me again,
never
again have come within my doors. Thirty-two years of an
honorable and
loyal life shall not be swept away by a blow from Monsieur
Crevel----"
"The retired perfumer, successor to Cesar Birotteau at the
Queen of
the Roses, Rue Saint-Honore," added Crevel, in mocking
tones.
"Deputy-mayor, captain in the National Guard, Chevalier of the
Legion
of Honor--exactly what my predecessor was!"
"Monsieur," said the Baroness, "if, after twenty years of
constancy,
Monsieur Hulot is tired of his wife, that is nobody's concern
but
mine. As you see, he has kept his infidelity a mystery, for I
did not
know that he had succeeded you in the affections of
Mademoiselle
Josepha----"
"Oh, it has cost him a pretty penny, madame. His singing-bird
has cost
him more than a hundred thousand francs in these two years. Ah,
ha!
you have not seen the end of it!"
"Have done with all this, Monsieur Crevel. I will not, for
your sake,
forego the happiness a mother knows who can embrace her
children
without a single pang of remorse in her heart, who sees
herself
respected and loved by her family; and I will give up my soul to
God
unspotted----"
"Amen!" exclaimed Crevel, with the diabolical rage that
embitters the
face of these pretenders when they fail for the second time in
such an
attempt. "You do not yet know the latter end of
poverty--shame,
disgrace.--I have tried to warn you; I would have saved you, you
and
your daughter. Well, you must study the modern parable of
the
Prodigal Father from A to Z. Your tears and your pride
move me
deeply," said Crevel, seating himself, "for it is frightful to
see the
woman one loves weeping. All I can promise you, dear Adeline, is
to do
nothing against your interests or your husband's. Only never
send to
me for information. That is all."
"What is to be done?" cried Madame Hulot.
Up to now the Baroness had bravely faced the threefold torment
which
this explanation inflicted on her; for she was wounded as a
woman, as
a mother, and as a wife. In fact, so long as her son's
father-in-law
was insolent and offensive, she had found the strength in
her
resistance to the aggressive tradesman; but the sort of
good-nature he
showed, in spite of his exasperation as a mortified adorer and
as a
humiliated National Guardsman, broke down her nerve, strung to
the
point of snapping. She wrung her hands, melted into tears, and
was in
a state of such helpless dejection, that she allowed Crevel to
kneel
at her feet, kissing her hands.
"Good God! what will become of us!" she went on, wiping away
her
tears. "Can a mother sit still and see her child pine away
before her
eyes? What is to be the fate of that splendid creature, as
strong in
her pure life under her mother's care as she is by every gift
of
nature? There are days when she wanders round the garden, out
of
spirits without knowing why; I find her with tears in her
eyes----"
"She is one-and-twenty," said Crevel.
"Must I place her in a convent?" asked the Baroness. "But in
such
cases religion is impotent to subdue nature, and the most
piously
trained girls lose their head!--Get up, pray, monsieur; do you
not
understand that everything is final between us? that I look upon
you
with horror? that you have crushed a mother's last
hopes----"
"But if I were to restore them," asked he.
Madame Hulot looked at Crevel with a frenzied expression that
really
touched him. But he drove pity back to the depths of his heart;
she
had said, "I look upon you with horror."
Virtue is always a little too rigid; it overlooks the shades
and
instincts by help of which we are able to tack when in a
false
position.
"So handsome a girl as Mademoiselle Hortense does not find a
husband
nowadays if she is penniless," Crevel remarked, resuming his
starchiest manner. "Your daughter is one of those beauties who
rather
alarm intending husbands; like a thoroughbred horse, which is
too
expensive to keep up to find a ready purchaser. If you go out
walking
with such a woman on your arm, every one will turn to look at
you, and
follow and covet his neighbor's wife. Such success is a source
of much
uneasiness to men who do not want to be killing lovers; for,
after
all, no man kills more than one. In the position in which you
find
yourself there are just three ways of getting your daughter
married:
Either by my help--and you will have none of it! That is
one.--Or by
finding some old man of sixty, very rich, childless, and anxious
to
have children; that is difficult, still such men are to be met
with.
Many old men take up with a Josepha, a Jenny Cadine, why should
not
one be found who is ready to make a fool of himself under
legal
formalities? If it were not for Celestine and our two
grandchildren, I
would marry Hortense myself. That is two.--The last way is
the
easiest----"
Madame Hulot raised her head, and looked uneasily at the ex-perfumer.
"Paris is a town whither every man of energy--and they sprout
like
saplings on French soil--comes to meet his kind; talent swarms
here
without hearth or home, and energy equal to anything, even to
making a
fortune. Well, these youngsters--your humble servant was such a
one in
his time, and how many he has known! What had du Tillet or
Popinot
twenty years since? They were both pottering round in Daddy
Birotteau's shop, with not a penny of capital but their
determination
to get on, which, in my opinion, is the best capital a man can
have.
Money may be eaten through, but you don't eat through your
determination. Why, what had I? The will to get on, and plenty
of
pluck. At this day du Tillet is a match for the greatest folks;
little
Popinot, the richest druggist of the Rue des Lombards, became
a
deputy, now he is in office.--Well, one of these free lances, as
we
say on the stock market, of the pen, or of the brush, is the
only man
in Paris who would marry a penniless beauty, for they have
courage
enough for anything. Monsieur Popinot married Mademoiselle
Birotteau
without asking for a farthing. Those men are madmen, to be sure!
They
trust in love as they trust in good luck and brains!--Find a man
of
energy who will fall in love with your daughter, and he will
marry
without a thought of money. You must confess that by way of an
enemy I
am not ungenerous, for this advice is against my own
interests."
"Oh, Monsieur Crevel, if you would indeed be my friend and
give up
your ridiculous notions----"
"Ridiculous? Madame, do not run yourself down. Look at
yourself--I
love you, and you will come to be mine. The day will come when I
shall
say to Hulot, 'You took Josepha, I have taken your wife!'
"It is the old law of tit-for-tat! And I will persevere till I
have
attained my end, unless you should become extremely ugly.--I
shall
succeed; and I will tell you why," he went on, resuming his
attitude,
and looking at Madame Hulot. "You will not meet with such an old
man,
or such a young lover," he said after a pause, "because you love
your
daughter too well to hand her over to the manoeuvres of an
old
libertine, and because you--the Baronne Hulot, sister of the
old
Lieutenant-General who commanded the veteran Grenadiers of the
Old
Guard--will not condescend to take a man of spirit wherever you
may
find him; for he might be a mere craftsman, as many a
millionaire of
to-day was ten years ago, a working artisan, or the foreman of
a
factory.
"And then, when you see the girl, urged by her twenty years,
capable
of dishonoring you all, you will say to yourself, 'It will be
better
that I should fall! If Monsieur Crevel will but keep my secret,
I will
earn my daughter's portion--two hundred thousand francs for ten
years'
attachment to that old gloveseller--old Crevel!'--I disgust you
no
doubt, and what I am saying is horribly immoral, you think? But
if you
happened to have been bitten by an overwhelming passion, you
would
find a thousand arguments in favor of yielding--as women do when
they
are in love.--Yes, and Hortense's interests will suggest to
your
feelings such terms of surrendering your conscience----"
"Hortense has still an uncle."
"What! Old Fischer? He is winding up his concerns, and that
again is
the Baron's fault; his rake is dragged over every till within
his
reach."
"Comte Hulot----"
"Oh, madame, your husband has already made thin air of the
old
General's savings. He spent them in furnishing his singer's
rooms.--
Now, come; am I to go without a hope?"
"Good-bye, monsieur. A man easily gets over a passion for a
woman of
my age, and you will fall back on Christian principles. God
takes care
of the wretched----"
The Baroness rose to oblige the captain to retreat, and drove
him back
into the drawing-room.
"Ought the beautiful Madame Hulot to be living amid such
squalor?"
said he, and he pointed to an old lamp, a chandelier bereft of
its
gilding, the threadbare carpet, the very rags of wealth which
made the
large room, with its red, white, and gold, look like a corpse
of
Imperial festivities.
"Monsieur, virtue shines on it all. I have no wish to owe a
handsome
abode to having made of the beauty you are pleased to ascribe to
me a
man-trap and a money-box for five-franc
pieces!"
The captain bit his lips as he recognized the words he had
used to
vilify Josepha's avarice.
"And for whom are you so magnanimous?" said he. By this time
the
baroness had got her rejected admirer as far as the door.--"For
a
libertine!" said he, with a lofty grimace of virtue and
superior
wealth.
"If you are right, my constancy has some merit, monsieur. That
is
all."
After bowing to the officer as a woman bows to dismiss an
importune
visitor, she turned away too quickly to see him once more fold
his
arms. She unlocked the doors she had closed, and did not see
the
threatening gesture which was Crevel's parting greeting. She
walked
with a proud, defiant step, like a martyr to the Coliseum, but
her
strength was exhausted; she sank on the sofa in her blue room,
as if
she were ready to faint, and sat there with her eyes fixed on
the
tumble-down summer-house, where her daughter was gossiping with
Cousin
Betty.
From the first days of her married life to the present time
the
Baroness had loved her husband, as Josephine in the end had
loved
Napoleon, with an admiring, maternal, and cowardly devotion.
Though
ignorant of the details given her by Crevel, she knew that for
twenty
years past Baron Hulot been anything rather than a faithful
husband;
but she had sealed her eyes with lead, she had wept in silence,
and no
word of reproach had ever escaped her. In return for this
angelic
sweetness, she had won her husband's veneration and
something
approaching to worship from all who were about her.
A wife's affection for her husband and the respect she pays
him are
infectious in a family. Hortense believed her father to be a
perfect
model of conjugal affection; as to their son, brought up to
admire the
Baron, whom everybody regarded as one of the giants who so
effectually
backed Napoleon, he knew that he owed his advancement to his
father's
name, position, and credit; and besides, the impressions of
childhood
exert an enduring influence. He still was afraid of his father;
and if
he had suspected the misdeeds revealed by Crevel, as he was too
much
overawed by him to find fault, he would have found excuses in
the view
every man takes of such matters.
It now will be necessary to give the reasons for the
extraordinary
self-devotion of a good and beautiful woman; and this, in a few
words,
is her past history.
Three brothers, simple laboring men, named Fischer, and living
in a
village situated on the furthest frontier of Lorraine, were
compelled
by the Republican conscription to set out with the so-called
army of
the Rhine.
In 1799 the second brother, Andre, a widower, and Madame
Hulot's
father, left his daughter to the care of his elder brother,
Pierre
Fischer, disabled from service by a wound received in 1797, and
made a
small private venture in the military transport service, an
opening he
owed to the favor of Hulot d'Ervy, who was high in the
commissariat.
By a very obvious chance Hulot, coming to Strasbourg, saw the
Fischer
family. Adeline's father and his younger brother were at that
time
contractors for forage in the province of Alsace.
Adeline, then sixteen years of age, might be compared with the
famous
Madame du Barry, like her, a daughter of Lorraine. She was one
of
those perfect and striking beauties--a woman like Madame
Tallien,
finished with peculiar care by Nature, who bestows on them all
her
choicest gifts--distinction, dignity, grace, refinement,
elegance,
flesh of a superior texture, and a complexion mingled in the
unknown
laboratory where good luck presides. These beautiful creatures
all
have something in common: Bianca Capella, whose portrait is one
of
Bronzino's masterpieces; Jean Goujon's Venus, painted from the
famous
Diane de Poitiers; Signora Olympia, whose picture adorns the
Doria
gallery; Ninon, Madame du Barry, Madame Tallien, Mademoiselle
Georges,
Madame Recamier.--all these women who preserved their beauty in
spite
of years, of passion, and of their life of excess and pleasure,
have
in figure, frame, and in the character of their beauty
certain
striking resemblances, enough to make one believe that there is
in the
ocean of generations an Aphrodisian current whence every such
Venus is
born, all daughters of the same salt wave.
Adeline Fischer, one of the loveliest of this race of
goddesses, had
the splendid type, the flowing lines, the exquisite texture of a
woman
born a queen. The fair hair that our mother Eve received from
the hand
of God, the form of an Empress, an air of grandeur, and an
august line
of profile, with her rural modesty, made every man pause in
delight as
she passed, like amateurs in front of a Raphael; in short,
having once
seen her, the Commissariat officer made Mademoiselle Adeline
Fischer
his wife as quickly as the law would permit, to the great
astonishment
of the Fischers, who had all been brought up in the fear of
their
betters.
The eldest, a soldier of 1792, severely wounded in the attack
on the
lines at Wissembourg, adored the Emperor Napoleon and everything
that
had to do with the Grande Armee. Andre and Johann spoke
with respect
of Commissary Hulot, the Emperor's protege, to whom indeed they
owed
their prosperity; for Hulot d'Ervy, finding them intelligent
and
honest, had taken them from the army provision wagons to place
them in
charge of a government contract needing despatch. The brothers
Fischer
had done further service during the campaign of 1804. At the
peace
Hulot had secured for them the contract for forage from Alsace,
not
knowing that he would presently be sent to Strasbourg to prepare
for
the campaign of 1806.
This marriage was like an Assumption to the young peasant
girl. The
beautiful Adeline was translated at once from the mire of her
village
to the paradise of the Imperial Court; for the contractor, one
of the
most conscientious and hard-working of the Commissariat staff,
was
made a Baron, obtained a place near the Emperor, and was
attached to
the Imperial Guard. The handsome rustic bravely set to work to
educate
herself for love of her husband, for she was simply crazy about
him;
and, indeed, the Commissariat office was as a man a perfect
match for
Adeline as a woman. He was one of the picked corps of fine men.
Tall,
well-built, fair, with beautiful blue eyes full of irresistible
fire
and life, his elegant appearance made him remarkable by the side
of
d'Orsay, Forbin, Ouvrard; in short, in the battalion of fine men
that
surrounded the Emperor. A conquering "buck," and holding the
ideas of
the Directoire with regard to women, his career of gallantry
was
interrupted for some long time by his conjugal affection.
To Adeline the Baron was from the first a sort of god who
could do no
wrong. To him she owed everything: fortune--she had a carriage,
a fine
house, every luxury of the day; happiness--he was devoted to her
in
the face of the world; a title, for she was a Baroness; fame,
for she
was spoken of as the beautiful Madame Hulot--and in Paris!
Finally,
she had the honor of refusing the Emperor's advances, for
Napoleon
made her a present of a diamond necklace, and always remembered
her,
asking now and again, "And is the beautiful Madame Hulot still a
model
of virtue?" in the tone of a man who might have taken his
revenge on
one who should have triumphed where he had failed.
So it needs no great intuition to discern what were the
motives in a
simple, guileless, and noble soul for the fanaticism of Madame
Hulot's
love. Having fully persuaded herself that her husband could do
her no
wrong, she made herself in the depths of her heart the humble,
abject,
and blindfold slave of the man who had made her. It must be
noted,
too, that she was gifted with great good sense--the good sense
of the
people, which made her education sound. In society she spoke
little,
and never spoke evil of any one; she did not try to shine; she
thought
out many things, listened well, and formed herself on the model
of the
best-conducted women of good birth.
In 1815 Hulot followed the lead of the Prince de Wissembourg,
his
intimate friend, and became one of the officers who organized
the
improvised troops whose rout brought the Napoleonic cycle to a
close
at Waterloo. In 1816 the Baron was one of the men best hated by
the
Feltre administration, and was not reinstated in the
Commissariat till
1823, when he was needed for the Spanish war. In 1830 he took
office
as the fourth wheel of the coach, at the time of the levies, a
sort of
conscription made by Louis Philippe on the old Napoleonic
soldiery.
From the time when the younger branch ascended the throne,
having
taken an active part in bringing that about, he was regarded as
an
indispensable authority at the War Office. He had already won
his
Marshal's baton, and the King could do no more for him unless
by
making him minister or a peer of France.
From 1818 till 1823, having no official occupation, Baron
Hulot had
gone on active service to womankind. Madame Hulot dated her
Hector's
first infidelities from the grand finale of the Empire.
Thus, for
twelve years the Baroness had filled the part in her household
of
prima donna assoluta, without a rival. She still could
boast of the
old-fashioned, inveterate affection which husbands feel for
wives who
are resigned to be gentle and virtuous helpmates; she knew that
if she
had a rival, that rival would not subsist for two hours under a
word
of reproof from herself; but she shut her eyes, she stopped her
ears,
she would know nothing of her husband's proceedings outside his
home.
In short, she treated her Hector as a mother treats a spoilt
child.
Three years before the conversation reported above, Hortense,
at the
Theatre des Varietes, had recognized her father in a lower tier
stage-
box with Jenny Cadine, and had exclaimed:
"There is papa!"
"You are mistaken, my darling; he is at the Marshal's," the
Baroness
replied.
She too had seen Jenny Cadine; but instead of feeling a pang
when she
saw how pretty she was, she said to herself, "That rascal Hector
must
think himself very lucky."
She suffered nevertheless; she gave herself up in secret to
rages of
torment; but as soon as she saw Hector, she always remembered
her
twelve years of perfect happiness, and could not find it in her
to
utter a word of complaint. She would have been glad if the Baron
would
have taken her into his confidence; but she never dared to let
him see
that she knew of his kicking over the traces, out of respect for
her
husband. Such an excess of delicacy is never met with but in
those
grand creatures, daughters of the soil, whose instinct it is to
take
blows without ever returning them; the blood of the early
martyrs
still lives in their veins. Well-born women, their husbands'
equals,
feel the impulse to annoy them, to mark the points of their
tolerance,
like points at billiards, by some stinging word, partly in the
spirit
of diabolical malice, and to secure the upper hand or the right
of
turning the tables.
The Baroness had an ardent admirer in her brother-in-law,
Lieutenant-
General Hulot, the venerable Colonel of the Grenadiers of the
Imperial
Infantry Guard, who was to have a Marshal's baton in his old
age. This
veteran, after having served from 1830 to 1834 as Commandant of
the
military division, including the departments of Brittany, the
scene of
his exploits in 1799 and 1800, had come to settle in Paris near
his
brother, for whom he had a fatherly affection.
This old soldier's heart was in sympathy with his
sister-in-law; he
admired her as the noblest and saintliest of her sex. He had
never
married, because he hoped to find a second Adeline, though he
had
vainly sought for her through twenty campaigns in as many lands.
To
maintain her place in the esteem of this blameless and spotless
old
republican--of whom Napoleon had said, "That brave old Hulot is
the
most obstinate republican, but he will never be false to
me"--Adeline
would have endured griefs even greater than those that had just
come
upon her. But the old soldier, seventy-two years of age,
battered by
thirty campaigns, and wounded for the twenty-seventh time at
Waterloo,
was Adeline's admirer, and not a "protector." The poor old
Count,
among other infirmities, could only hear through a speaking
trumpet.
So long as Baron Hulot d'Ervy was a fine man, his flirtations
did not
damage his fortune; but when a man is fifty, the Graces claim
payment.
At that age love becomes vice; insensate vanities come into
play.
Thus, at about that time, Adeline saw that her husband was
incredibly
particular about his dress; he dyed his hair and whiskers, and
wore a
belt and stays. He was determined to remain handsome at any
cost. This
care of his person, a weakness he had once mercilessly mocked
at, was
carried out in the minutest details.
At last Adeline perceived that the Pactolus poured out before
the
Baron's mistresses had its source in her pocket. In eight years
he had
dissipated a considerable amount of money; and so effectually,
that,
on his son's marriage two years previously, the Baron had
been
compelled to explain to his wife that his pay constituted their
whole
income.
"What shall we come to?" asked Adeline.
"Be quite easy," said the official, "I will leave the whole of
my
salary in your hands, and I will make a fortune for Hortense,
and some
savings for the future, in business."
The wife's deep belief in her husband's power and superior
talents, in
his capabilities and character, had, in fact, for the moment
allayed
her anxiety.
What the Baroness' reflections and tears were after Crevel's
departure
may now be clearly imagined. The poor woman had for two years
past
known that she was at the bottom of a pit, but she had fancied
herself
alone in it. How her son's marriage had been finally arranged
she had
not known; she had known nothing of Hector's connection with
the
grasping Jewess; and, above all, she hoped that no one in the
world
knew anything of her troubles. Now, if Crevel went about so
ready to
talk of the Baron's excesses, Hector's reputation would suffer.
She
could see, under the angry ex-perfumer's coarse harangue, the
odious
gossip behind the scenes which led to her son's marriage.
Two
reprobate hussies had been the priestesses of this union planned
at
some orgy amid the degrading familiarities of two tipsy old
sinners.
"And has he forgotten Hortense!" she wondered.
"But he sees her every day; will he try to find her a husband
among
his good-for-nothing sluts?"
At this moment it was the mother that spoke rather than the
wife, for
she saw Hortense laughing with her Cousin Betty--the reckless
laughter
of heedless youth; and she knew that such hysterical laughter
was
quite as distressing a symptom as the tearful reverie of
solitary
walks in the garden.
Hortense was like her mother, with golden hair that waved
naturally,
and was amazingly long and thick. Her skin had the lustre of
mother-
of-pearl. She was visibly the offspring of a true marriage, of a
pure
and noble love in its prime. There was a passionate vitality in
her
countenance, a brilliancy of feature, a full fount of youth, a
fresh
vigor and abundance of health, which radiated from her with
electric
flashes. Hortense invited the eye.
When her eye, of deep ultramarine blue, liquid with the
moisture of
innocent youth, rested on a passer-by, he was involuntarily
thrilled.
Nor did a single freckle mar her skin, such as those with which
many a
white and golden maid pays toll for her milky whiteness. Tall,
round
without being fat, with a slender dignity as noble as her
mother's,
she really deserved the name of goddess, of which old authors
were so
lavish. In fact, those who saw Hortense in the street could
hardly
restrain the exclamation, "What a beautiful girl!"
She was so genuinely innocent, that she could say to her mother:
"What do they mean, mamma, by calling me a beautiful girl when
I am
with you? Are not you much handsomer than I am?"
And, in point of fact, at seven-and-forty the Baroness might
have been
preferred to her daughter by amateurs of sunset beauty; for she
had
not yet lost any of her charms, by one of those phenomena which
are
especially rare in Paris, where Ninon was regarded as
scandalous,
simply because she thus seemed to enjoy such an unfair advantage
over
the plainer women of the seventeenth century.
Thinking of her daughter brought her back to the father; she
saw him
sinking by degrees, day after day, down to the social mire, and
even
dismissed some day from his appointment. The idea of her idol's
fall,
with a vague vision of the disasters prophesied by Crevel, was
such a
terror to the poor woman, that she became rapt in the
contemplation
like an ecstatic.
Cousin Betty, from time to time, as she chatted with Hortense,
looked
round to see when they might return to the drawing-room; but her
young
cousin was pelting her with questions, and at the moment when
the
Baroness opened the glass door she did not happen to be
looking.
Lisbeth Fischer, though the daughter of the eldest of the
three
brothers, was five years younger than Madame Hulot; she was far
from
being as handsome as her cousin, and had been desperately
jealous of
Adeline. Jealousy was the fundamental passion of this
character,
marked by eccentricities--a word invented by the English to
describe
the craziness not of the asylum, but of respectable households.
A
native of the Vosges, a peasant in the fullest sense of the
word,
lean, brown, with shining black hair and thick eyebrows joining
in a
tuft, with long, strong arms, thick feet, and some moles on her
narrow
simian face--such is a brief description of the elderly
virgin.
The family, living all under one roof, had sacrificed the
common-
looking girl to the beauty, the bitter fruit to the splendid
flower.
Lisbeth worked in the fields, while her cousin was indulged; and
one
day, when they were alone together, she had tried to destroy
Adeline's
nose, a truly Greek nose, which the old mothers admired. Though
she
was beaten for this misdeed, she persisted nevertheless in
tearing the
favorite's gowns and crumpling her collars.
At the time of Adeline's wonderful marriage, Lisbeth had bowed
to
fate, as Napoleon's brothers and sisters bowed before the
splendor of
the throne and the force of authority.
Adeline, who was extremely sweet and kind, remembered Lisbeth
when she
found herself in Paris, and invited her there in 1809, intending
to
rescue her from poverty by finding her a husband. But seeing
that it
was impossible to marry the girl out of hand, with her black
eyes and
sooty brows, unable, too, to read or write, the Baron began
by
apprenticing her to a business; he placed her as a learner with
the
embroiderers to the Imperial Court, the well-known Pons
Brothers.
Lisbeth, called Betty for short, having learned to embroider
in gold
and silver, and possessing all the energy of a mountain race,
had
determination enough to learn to read, write, and keep accounts;
for
her cousin the Baron had pointed out the necessity for these
accomplishments if she hoped to set up in business as an
embroiderer.
She was bent on making a fortune; in two years she was
another
creature. In 1811 the peasant woman had become a very
presentable,
skilled, and intelligent forewoman.
Her department, that of gold and silver lace-work, as it is
called,
included epaulettes, sword-knots, aiguillettes; in short, the
immense
mass of glittering ornaments that sparkled on the rich uniforms
of the
French army and civil officials. The Emperor, a true Italian in
his
love of dress, had overlaid the coats of all his servants with
silver
and gold, and the Empire included a hundred and thirty-three
Departments. These ornaments, usually supplied to tailors who
were
solvent and wealthy paymasters, were a very secure branch of
trade.
Just when Cousin Betty, the best hand in the house of Pons
Brothers,
where she was forewoman of the embroidery department, might have
set
up in business on her own account, the Empire collapsed. The
olive-
branch of peace held out by the Bourbons did not reassure
Lisbeth; she
feared a diminution of this branch of trade, since henceforth
there
were to be but eighty-six Departments to plunder, instead of a
hundred
and thirty-three, to say nothing of the immense reduction of the
army.
Utterly scared by the ups and downs of industry, she refused
the
Baron's offers of help, and he thought she must be mad. She
confirmed
this opinion by quarreling with Monsieur Rivet, who bought
the
business of Pons Brothers, and with whom the Baron wished to
place her
in partnership; she would be no more than a workwoman. Thus
the
Fischer family had relapsed into the precarious mediocrity from
which
Baron Hulot had raised it.
The three brothers Fischer, who had been ruined by the
abdication at
Fontainebleau, in despair joined the irregular troops in 1815.
The
eldest, Lisbeth's father, was killed. Adeline's father,
sentenced to
death by court-martial, fled to Germany, and died at Treves in
1820.
Johann, the youngest, came to Paris, a petitioner to the queen
of the
family, who was said to dine off gold and silver plate, and
never to
be seen at a party but with diamonds in her hair as big as
hazel-nuts,
given to her by the Emperor.
Johann Fischer, then aged forty-three, obtained from Baron
Hulot a
capital of ten thousand francs with which to start a small
business as
forage-dealer at Versailles, under the patronage of the War
Office,
through the influence of the friends still in office, of the
late
Commissary-General.
These family catastrophes, Baron Hulot's dismissal, and the
knowledge
that he was a mere cipher in that immense stir of men and
interests
and things which makes Paris at once a paradise and a hell,
quite
quelled Lisbeth Fischer. She gave up all idea of rivalry and
comparison with her cousin after feeling her great superiority;
but
envy still lurked in her heart, like a plague-germ that may
hatch and
devastate a city if the fatal bale of wool is opened in which it
is
concealed.
Now and again, indeed, she said to herself:
"Adeline and I are the same flesh and blood, our fathers were
brothers
--and she is in a mansion, while I am in a garret."
But every New Year Lisbeth had presents from the Baron and
Baroness;
the Baron, who was always good to her, paid for her firewood in
the
winter; old General Hulot had her to dinner once a week; and
there was
always a cover laid for her at her cousin's table. They laughed
at her
no doubt, but they never were ashamed to own her. In short, they
had
made her independent in Paris, where she lived as she
pleased.
The old maid had, in fact, a terror of any kind of tie. Her
cousin had
offered her a room in her own house--Lisbeth suspected the
halter of
domestic servitude; several times the Baron had found a solution
of
the difficult problem of her marriage; but though tempted in the
first
instance, she would presently decline, fearing lest she should
be
scorned for her want of education, her general ignorance, and
her
poverty; finally, when the Baroness suggested that she should
live
with their uncle Johann, and keep house for him, instead of the
upper
servant, who must cost him dear, Lisbeth replied that that was
the
very last way she should think of marrying.
Lisbeth Fischer had the sort of strangeness in her ideas which
is
often noticeable in characters that have developed late, in
savages,
who think much and speak little. Her peasant's wit had acquired
a good
deal of Parisian asperity from hearing the talk of workshops
and
mixing with workmen and workwomen. She, whose character had a
marked
resemblance to that of the Corsicans, worked upon without
fruition by
the instincts of a strong nature, would have liked to be the
protectress of a weak man; but, as a result of living in the
capital,
the capital had altered her superficially. Parisian polish
became rust
on this coarsely tempered soul. Gifted with a cunning which had
become
unfathomable, as it always does in those whose celibacy is
genuine,
with the originality and sharpness with which she clothed her
ideas,
in any other position she would have been formidable. Full of
spite,
she was capable of bringing discord into the most united
family.
In early days, when she indulged in certain secret hopes which
she
confided to none, she took to wearing stays, and dressing in
the
fashion, and so shone in splendor for a short time, that the
Baron
thought her marriageable. Lisbeth at that stage was the
piquante
brunette of old-fashioned novels. Her piercing glance, her olive
skin,
her reed-like figure, might invite a half-pay major; but she
was
satisfied, she would say laughing, with her own admiration.
And, indeed, she found her life pleasant enough when she had
freed it
from practical anxieties, for she dined out every evening
after
working hard from sunrise. Thus she had only her rent and her
midday
meal to provide for; she had most of her clothes given her, and
a
variety of very acceptable stores, such as coffee, sugar, wine,
and so
forth.
In 1837, after living for twenty-seven years, half maintained
by the
Hulots and her Uncle Fischer, Cousin Betty, resigned to being
nobody,
allowed herself to be treated so. She herself refused to appear
at any
grand dinners, preferring the family party, where she held her
own and
was spared all slights to her pride.
Wherever she went--at General Hulot's, at Crevel's, at the
house of
the young Hulots, or at Rivet's (Pons' successor, with whom she
made
up her quarrel, and who made much of her), and at the Baroness'
table
--she was treated as one of the family; in fact, she managed to
make
friends of the servants by making them an occasional small
present,
and always gossiping with them for a few minutes before going
into the
drawing-room. This familiarity, by which she uncompromisingly
put
herself on their level, conciliated their servile good-nature,
which
is indispensable to a parasite. "She is a good, steady woman,"
was
everybody's verdict.
Her willingness to oblige, which knew no bounds when it was
not
demanded of her, was indeed, like her assumed bluntness, a
necessity
of her position. She had at length understood what her life must
be,
seeing that she was at everybody's mercy; and needing to
please
everybody, she would laugh with young people, who liked her for
a sort
of wheedling flattery which always wins them; guessing and
taking part
with their fancies, she would make herself their spokeswoman,
and they
thought her a delightful confidante, since she had no
right to find
fault with them.
Her absolute secrecy also won her the confidence of their
seniors;
for, like Ninon, she had certain manly qualities. As a rule,
our
confidence is given to those below rather than above us. We
employ our
inferiors rather than our betters in secret transactions, and
they
thus become the recipients of our inmost thoughts, and look on
at our
meditations; Richelieu thought he had achieved success when he
was
admitted to the Council. This penniless woman was supposed to be
so
dependent on every one about her, that she seemed doomed to
perfect
silence. She herself called herself the Family Confessional.
The Baroness only, remembering her ill-usage in childhood by
the
cousin who, though younger, was stronger than herself, never
wholly
trusted her. Besides, out of sheer modesty, she would never have
told
her domestic sorrows to any one but God.
It may here be well to add that the Baron's house preserved
all its
magnificence in the eyes of Lisbeth Fischer, who was not struck,
as
the parvenu perfumer had been, with the penury stamped on the
shabby
chairs, the dirty hangings, and the ripped silk. The furniture
we live
with is in some sort like our own person; seeing ourselves every
day,
we end, like the Baron, by thinking ourselves but little
altered, and
still youthful, when others see that our head is covered
with
chinchilla, our forehead scarred with circumflex accents, our
stomach
assuming the rotundity of a pumpkin. So these rooms, always
blazing in
Betty's eyes with the Bengal fire of Imperial victory, were to
her
perennially splendid.
As time went on, Lisbeth had contracted some rather strange
old-
maidish habits. For instance, instead of following the fashions,
she
expected the fashion to accept her ways and yield to her always
out-
of-date notions. When the Baroness gave her a pretty new bonnet,
or a
gown in the fashion of the day, Betty remade it completely at
home,
and spoilt it by producing a dress of the style of the Empire or
of
her old Lorraine costume. A thirty-franc bonnet came out a rag,
and
the gown a disgrace. On this point, Lisbeth was as obstinate as
a
mule; she would please no one but herself and believed
herself
charming; whereas this assimilative process--harmonious, no
doubt, in
so far as that it stamped her for an old maid from head to
foot--made
her so ridiculous, that, with the best will in the world, no one
could
admit her on any smart occasion.
This refractory, capricious, and independent spirit, and
the
inexplicable wild shyness of the woman for whom the Baron had
four
times found a match--an employe in his office, a retired major,
an
army contractor, and a half-pay captain--while she had refused
an army
lacemaker, who had since made his fortune, had won her the name
of the
Nanny Goat, which the Baron gave her in jest. But this nickname
only
met the peculiarities that lay on the surface, the
eccentricities
which each of us displays to his neighbors in social life. This
woman,
who, if closely studied, would have shown the most savage traits
of
the peasant class, was still the girl who had clawed her
cousin's
nose, and who, if she had not been trained to reason, would
perhaps
have killed her in a fit of jealousy.
It was only her knowledge of the laws and of the world that
enabled
her to control the swift instinct with which country folk, like
wild
men, reduce impulse to action. In this alone, perhaps, lies
the
difference between natural and civilized man. The savage has
only
impulse; the civilized man has impulses and ideas. And in the
savage
the brain retains, as we may say, but few impressions, it is
wholly at
the mercy of the feeling that rushes in upon it; while in
the
civilized man, ideas sink into the heart and change it; he has
a
thousand interests and many feelings, where the savage has but
one at
a time. This is the cause of the transient ascendency of a child
over
its parents, which ceases as soon as it is satisfied; in the man
who
is still one with nature, this contrast is constant. Cousin
Betty, a
savage of Lorraine, somewhat treacherous too, was of this class
of
natures, which are commoner among the lower orders than is
supposed,
accounting for the conduct of the populace during
revolutions.
At the time when this Drama opens, if Cousin Betty
would have
allowed herself to be dressed like other people; if, like the
women of
Paris, she had been accustomed to wear each fashion in its turn,
she
would have been presentable and acceptable, but she preserved
the
stiffness of a stick. Now a woman devoid of all the graces, in
Paris
simply does not exist. The fine but hard eyes, the severe
features,
the Calabrian fixity of complexion which made Lisbeth like a
figure by
Giotto, and of which a true Parisian would have taken advantage,
above
all, her strange way of dressing, gave her such an
extraordinary
appearance that she sometimes looked like one of those monkeys
in
petticoats taken about by little Savoyards. As she was well
known in
the houses connected by family which she frequented, and
restricted
her social efforts to that little circle, as she liked her own
home,
her singularities no longer astonished anybody; and out of doors
they
were lost in the immense stir of Paris street-life, where only
pretty
women are ever looked at.
Hortense's laughter was at this moment caused by a victory won
over
her Cousin Lisbeth's perversity; she had just wrung from her an
avowal
she had been hoping for these three years past. However
secretive an
old maid may be, there is one sentiment which will always avail
to
make her break her fast from words, and that is her vanity. For
the
last three years, Hortense, having become very inquisitive on
such
matters, had pestered her cousin with questions, which, however,
bore
the stamp of perfect innocence. She wanted to know why her
cousin had
never married. Hortense, who knew of the five offers that she
had
refused, had constructed her little romance; she supposed that
Lisbeth
had had a passionate attachment, and a war of banter was the
result.
Hortense would talk of "We young girls!" when speaking of
herself and
her cousin.
Cousin Betty had on several occasions answered in the same
tone--"And
who says I have not a lover?" So Cousin Betty's lover, real
or
fictitious, became a subject of mild jesting. At last, after two
years
of this petty warfare, the last time Lisbeth had come to the
house
Hortense's first question had been:
"And how is your lover?"
"Pretty well, thank you," was the answer. "He is rather
ailing, poor
young man."
"He has delicate health?" asked the Baroness, laughing.
"I should think so! He is fair. A sooty thing like me can love
none
but a fair man with a color like the moon."
"But who is he? What does he do?" asked Hortense. "Is he a prince?"
"A prince of artisans, as I am queen of the bobbin. Is a poor
woman
like me likely to find a lover in a man with a fine house and
money in
the funds, or in a duke of the realm, or some Prince Charming
out of a
fairy tale?"
"Oh, I should so much like to see him!" cried Hortense, smiling.
"To see what a man can be like who can love the Nanny Goat?"
retorted
Lisbeth.
"He must be some monster of an old clerk, with a goat's
beard!"
Hortense said to her mother.
"Well, then, you are quite mistaken, mademoiselle."
"Then you mean that you really have a lover?" Hortense
exclaimed in
triumph.
"As sure as you have not!" retorted Lisbeth, nettled.
"But if you have a lover, why don't you marry him, Lisbeth?"
said the
Baroness, shaking her head at her daughter. "We have been
hearing
rumors about him these three years. You have had time to study
him;
and if he has been faithful so long, you should not persist in a
delay
which must be hard upon him. After all, it is a matter of
conscience;
and if he is young, it is time to take a brevet of dignity."
Cousin Betty had fixed her gaze on Adeline, and seeing that
she was
jesting, she replied:
"It would be marrying hunger and thirst; he is a workman, I am
a
workwoman. If we had children, they would be workmen.--No, no;
we love
each other spiritually; it is less expensive."
"Why do you keep him in hiding?" Hortense asked.
"He wears a round jacket," replied the old maid, laughing.
"You truly love him?" the Baroness inquired.
"I believe you! I love him for his own sake, the dear cherub.
For four
years his home has been in my heart."
"Well, then, if you love him for himself," said the Baroness
gravely,
"and if he really exists, you are treating him criminally. You
do not
know how to love truly."
"We all know that from our birth," said Lisbeth.
"No, there are women who love and yet are selfish, and that is
your
case."
Cousin Betty's head fell, and her glance would have made any
one
shiver who had seen it; but her eyes were on her reel of
thread.
"If you would introduce your so-called lover to us, Hector
might find
him employment, or put him in a position to make money."
"That is out of the question," said Cousin Betty.
"And why?"
"He is a sort of Pole--a refugee----"
"A conspirator?" cried Hortense. "What luck for you!--Has he
had any
adventures?"
"He has fought for Poland. He was a professor in the school
where the
students began the rebellion; and as he had been placed there by
the
Grand Duke Constantine, he has no hope of mercy----"
"A professor of what?"
"Of fine arts."
"And he came to Paris when the rebellion was quelled?"
"In 1833. He came through Germany on foot."
"Poor young man! And how old is he?"
"He was just four-and-twenty when the insurrection broke
out--he is
twenty-nine now."
"Fifteen years your junior," said the Baroness.
"And what does he live on?" asked Hortense.
"His talent."
"Oh, he gives lessons?"
"No," said Cousin Betty; "he gets them, and hard ones too!"
"And his Christian name--is it a pretty name?"
"Wenceslas."
"What a wonderful imagination you old maids have!" exclaimed
the
Baroness. "To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one might really believe
you."
"You see, mamma, he is a Pole, and so accustomed to the knout
that
Lisbeth reminds him of the joys of his native land."
They all three laughed, and Hortense sang Wenceslas! idole
de mon
ame! instead of O Mathilde.
Then for a few minutes there was a truce.
"These children," said Cousin Betty, looking at Hortense as
she went
up to her, "fancy that no one but themselves can have
lovers."
"Listen," Hortense replied, finding herself alone with her
cousin, "if
you prove to me that Wenceslas is not a pure invention, I will
give
you my yellow cashmere shawl."
"He is a Count."
"Every Pole is a Count!"
"But he is not a Pole; he comes from Liva--Litha----"
"Lithuania?"
"No."
"Livonia?"
"Yes, that's it!"
"But what is his name?"
"I wonder if you are capable of keeping a secret."
"Cousin Betty, I will be as mute!----"
"As a fish?"
"As a fish."
"By your life eternal?"
"By my life eternal!"
"No, by your happiness in this world?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, his name is Wenceslas Steinbock."
"One of Charles XII.'s Generals was named Steinbock."
"He was his grand-uncle. His own father settled in Livonia
after the
death of the King of Sweden; but he lost all his fortune during
the
campaign of 1812, and died, leaving the poor boy at the age of
eight
without a penny. The Grand Duke Constantine, for the honor of
the name
of Steinbock, took him under his protection and sent him to
school."
"I will not break my word," Hortense replied; "prove his
existence,
and you shall have the yellow shawl. The color is most becoming
to
dark skins."
"And you will keep my secret?"
"And tell you mine."
"Well, then, the next time I come you shall have the proof."
"But the proof will be the lover," said Hortense.
Cousin Betty, who, since her first arrival in Paris, had been
bitten
by a mania for shawls, was bewitched by the idea of owning the
yellow
cashmere given to his wife by the Baron in 1808, and handed down
from
mother to daughter after the manner of some families in 1830.
The
shawl had been a good deal worn ten years ago; but the costly
object,
now always kept in its sandal-wood box, seemed to the old maid
ever
new, like the drawing-room furniture. So she brought in her
handbag a
present for the Baroness' birthday, by which she proposed to
prove the
existence of her romantic lover.
This present was a silver seal formed of three little figures
back to
back, wreathed with foliage, and supporting the Globe. They
represented Faith, Hope, and Charity; their feet rested on
monsters
rending each other, among them the symbolical serpent. In 1846,
now
that such immense strides have been made in the art of which
Benvenuto
Cellini was the master, by Mademoiselle de Fauveau, Wagner,
Jeanest,
Froment-Meurice, and wood-carvers like Lienard, this little
masterpiece would amaze nobody; but at that time a girl who
understood
the silversmith's art stood astonished as she held the seal
which
Lisbeth put into her hands, saying:
"There! what do you think of that?"
In design, attitude, and drapery the figures were of the
school of
Raphael; but the execution was in the style of the Florentine
metal
workers--the school created by Donatello, Brunelleschi,
Ghiberti,
Benvenuto Cellini, John of Bologna, and others. The French
masters of
the Renaissance had never invented more strangely twining
monsters
than these that symbolized the evil passions. The palms, ferns,
reeds,
and foliage that wreathed the Virtues showed a style, a taste,
a
handling that might have driven a practised craftsman to
despair; a
scroll floated above the three figures; and on its surface,
between
the heads, were a W, a chamois, and the word fecit.
"Who carved this?" asked Hortense.
"Well, just my lover," replied Lisbeth. "There are ten months'
work in
it; I could earn more at making sword-knots.--He told me
that
Steinbock means a rock goat, a chamois, in German. And he
intends to
mark all his work in that way.--Ah, ha! I shall have the
shawl."
"What for?"
"Do you suppose I could buy such a thing, or order it?
Impossible!
Well, then, it must have been given to me. And who would make me
such
a present? A lover!"
Hortense, with an artfulness that would have frightened
Lisbeth
Fischer if she had detected it, took care not to express all
her
admiration, though she was full of the delight which every soul
that
is open to a sense of beauty must feel on seeing a faultless
piece of
work--perfect and unexpected.
"On my word," said she, "it is very pretty."
"Yes, it is pretty," said her cousin; "but I like an
orange-colored
shawl better.--Well, child, my lover spends his time in doing
such
work as that. Since he came to Paris he has turned out three or
four
little trifles in that style, and that is the fruit of four
years'
study and toil. He has served as apprentice to founders,
metal-
casters, and goldsmiths.--There he has paid away thousands
and
hundreds of francs. And my gentleman tells me that in a few
months now
he will be famous and rich----"
"Then you often see him?"
"Bless me, do you think it is all a fable? I told you truth in jest."
"And he is in love with you?" asked Hortense eagerly.
"He adores me," replied Lisbeth very seriously. "You see,
child, he
had never seen any women but the washed out, pale things they
all are
in the north, and a slender, brown, youthful thing like me
warmed his
heart.--But, mum; you promised, you know!"
"And he will fare like the five others," said the girl
ironically, as
she looked at the seal.
"Six others, miss. I left one in Lorraine, who, to this day,
would
fetch the moon down for me."
"This one does better than that," said Hortense; "he has
brought down
the sun."
"Where can that be turned into money?" asked her cousin. "It
takes
wide lands to benefit by the sunshine."
These witticisms, fired in quick retort, and leading to the
sort of
giddy play that may be imagined, had given cause for the
laughter
which had added to the Baroness' troubles by making her compare
her
daughter's future lot with the present, when she was free to
indulge
the light-heartedness of youth.
"But to give you a gem which cost him six months of work, he
must be
under some great obligations to you?" said Hortense, in whom
the
silver seal had suggested very serious reflections.
"Oh, you want to know too much at once!" said her cousin.
"But,
listen, I will let you into a little plot."
"Is your lover in it too?"
"Oh, ho! you want so much to see him! But, as you may suppose,
an old
maid like Cousin Betty, who had managed to keep a lover for
five
years, keeps him well hidden.--Now, just let me alone. You see,
I have
neither cat nor canary, neither dog nor a parrot, and the old
Nanny
Goat wanted something to pet and tease--so I treated myself to
a
Polish Count."
"Has he a moustache?"
"As long as that," said Lisbeth, holding up her shuttle filled
with
gold thread. She always took her lace-work with her, and worked
till
dinner was served.
"If you ask too many questions, you will be told nothing," she
went
on. "You are but two-and-twenty, and you chatter more than I do
though
I am forty-two--not to say forty-three."
"I am listening; I am a wooden image," said Hortense.
"My lover has finished a bronze group ten inches high,"
Lisbeth went
on. "It represents Samson slaying a lion, and he has kept it
buried
till it is so rusty that you might believe it to be as old as
Samson
himself. This fine piece is shown at the shop of one of the
old
curiosity sellers on the Place du Carrousel, near my lodgings.
Now,
your father knows Monsieur Popinot, the Minister of Commerce
and
Agriculture, and the Comte de Rastignac, and if he would mention
the
group to them as a fine antique he had seen by chance! It seems
that
such things take the fancy of your grand folks, who don't care
so much
about gold lace, and that my man's fortune would be made if one
of
them would buy or even look at the wretched piece of metal. The
poor
fellow is sure that it might be mistaken for old work, and that
the
rubbish is worth a great deal of money. And then, if one of
the
ministers should purchase the group, he would go to pay his
respects,
and prove that he was the maker, and be almost carried in
triumph! Oh!
he believes he has reached the pinnacle; poor young man, and he
is as
proud as two newly-made Counts."
"Michael Angelo over again; but, for a lover, he has kept his
head on
his shoulders!" said Hortense. "And how much does he want for
it?"
"Fifteen hundred francs. The dealer will not let it go for
less, since
he must take his commission."
"Papa is in the King's household just now," said Hortense. "He
sees
those two ministers every day at the Chamber, and he will do the
thing
--I undertake that. You will be a rich woman, Madame la Comtesse
de
Steinbock."
"No, the boy is too lazy; for whole weeks he sits twiddling
with bits
of red wax, and nothing comes of it. Why, he spends all his days
at
the Louvre and the Library, looking at prints and sketching
things. He
is an idler!"
The cousins chatted and giggled; Hortense laughing a forced
laugh, for
she was invaded by a kind of love which every girl has gone
through--
the love of the unknown, love in its vaguest form, when every
thought
is accreted round some form which is suggested by a chance word,
as
the efflorescence of hoar-frost gathers about a straw that the
wind
has blown against the window-sill.
For the past ten months she had made a reality of her
cousin's
imaginary romance, believing, like her mother, that Lisbeth
would
never marry; and now, within a week, this visionary being had
become
Comte Wenceslas Steinbock, the dream had a certificate of birth,
the
wraith had solidified into a young man of thirty. The seal she
held in
her hand--a sort of Annunciation in which genius shone like
an
immanent light--had the powers of a talisman. Hortense felt such
a
surge of happiness, that she almost doubted whether the tale
were
true; there was a ferment in her blood, and she laughed wildly
to
deceive her cousin.
"But I think the drawing-room door is open," said Lisbeth; "let
us go
and see if Monsieur Crevel is gone."
"Mamma has been very much out of spirits these two days. I
suppose the
marriage under discussion has come to nothing!"
"Oh, it may come on again. He is--I may tell you so much--a
Councillor
of the Supreme Court. How would you like to be Madame la
Presidente?
If Monsieur Crevel has a finger in it, he will tell me about it
if I
ask him. I shall know by to-morrow if there is any hope."
"Leave the seal with me," said Hortense; "I will not show
it--mamma's
birthday is not for a month yet; I will give it to you that
morning."
"No, no. Give it back to me; it must have a case."
"But I will let papa see it, that he may know what he is
talking about
to the ministers, for men in authority must be careful what they
say,"
urged the girl.
"Well, do not show it to your mother--that is all I ask; for
if she
believed I had a lover, she would make game of me."
"I promise."
The cousins reached the drawing-room just as the Baroness
turned
faint. Her daughter's cry of alarm recalled her to herself.
Lisbeth
went off to fetch some salts. When she came back, she found the
mother
and daughter in each other's arms, the Baroness soothing her
daughter's fears, and saying:
"It was nothing; a little nervous attack.--There is your
father," she
added, recognizing the Baron's way of ringing the bell. "Say not
a
word to him."
Adeline rose and went to meet her husband, intending to take
him into
the garden and talk to him till dinner should be served of
the
difficulties about the proposed match, getting him to come to
some
decision as to the future, and trying to hint at some warning
advice.
Baron Hector Hulot came in, in a dress at once lawyer-like
and
Napoleonic, for Imperial men--men who had been attached to the
Emperor
--were easily distinguishable by their military deportment,
their blue
coats with gilt buttons, buttoned to the chin, their black silk
stock,
and an authoritative demeanor acquired from a habit of command
in
circumstances requiring despotic rapidity. There was nothing of
the
old man in the Baron, it must be admitted; his sight was still
so
good, that he could read without spectacles; his handsome oval
face,
framed in whiskers that were indeed too black, showed a
brilliant
complexion, ruddy with the veins that characterize a
sanguine
temperament; and his stomach, kept in order by a belt, had
not
exceeded the limits of "the majestic," as Brillat-Savarin says.
A fine
aristocratic air and great affability served to conceal the
libertine
with whom Crevel had had such high times. He was one of those
men
whose eyes always light up at the sight of a pretty woman, even
of
such as merely pass by, never to be seen again.
"Have you been speaking, my dear?" asked Adeline, seeing him
with an
anxious brow.
"No," replied Hector, "but I am worn out with hearing others
speak for
two hours without coming to a vote. They carry on a war of
words, in
which their speeches are like a cavalry charge which has no
effect on
the enemy. Talk has taken the place of action, which goes very
much
against the grain with men who are accustomed to marching
orders, as I
said to the Marshal when I left him. However, I have enough of
being
bored on the ministers' bench; here I may play.--How do, la
Chevre!--
Good morning, little kid," and he took his daughter round the
neck,
kissed her, and made her sit on his knee, resting her head on
his
shoulder, that he might feel her soft golden hair against his
cheek.
"He is tired and worried," said his wife to herself. "I shall
only
worry him more.--I will wait.--Are you going to be at home
this
evening?" she asked him.
"No, children. After dinner I must go out. If it had not been
the day
when Lisbeth and the children and my brother come to dinner, you
would
not have seen me at all."
The Baroness took up the newspaper, looked down the list of
theatres,
and laid it down again when she had seen that Robert le
Diable was
to be given at the Opera. Josepha, who had left the Italian
Opera six
months since for the French Opera, was to take the part of
Alice.
This little pantomime did not escape the Baron, who looked
hard at his
wife. Adeline cast down her eyes and went out into the garden;
her
husband followed her.
"Come, what is it, Adeline?" said he, putting his arm round
her waist
and pressing her to his side. "Do not you know that I love you
more
than----"
"More than Jenny Cadine or Josepha!" said she, boldly
interrupting
him.
"Who put that into your head?" exclaimed the Baron, releasing
his
wife, and starting back a step or two.
"I got an anonymous letter, which I burnt at once, in which I
was
told, my dear, that the reason Hortense's marriage was broken
off was
the poverty of our circumstances. Your wife, my dear Hector,
would
never have said a word; she knew of your connection with Jenny
Cadine,
and did she ever complain?--But as the mother of Hortense, I am
bound
to speak the truth."
Hulot, after a short silence, which was terrible to his wife,
whose
heart beat loud enough to be heard, opened his arms, clasped her
to
his heart, kissed her forehead, and said with the vehemence
of
enthusiasm:
"Adeline, you are an angel, and I am a wretch----"
"No, no," cried the Baroness, hastily laying her hand upon his
lips to
hinder him from speaking evil of himself.
"Yes, for I have not at this moment a sou to give to Hortense,
and I
am most unhappy. But since you open your heart to me, I may pour
into
it the trouble that is crushing me.--Your Uncle Fischer is
in
difficulties, and it is I who dragged him there, for he has
accepted
bills for me to the amount of twenty-five thousand francs! And
all for
a woman who deceives me, who laughs at me behind my back, and
calls me
an old dyed Tom. It is frightful! A vice which costs me more
than it
would to maintain a family!--And I cannot resist!--I would
promise you
here and now never to see that abominable Jewess again; but if
she
wrote me two lines, I should go to her, as we marched into fire
under
the Emperor."
"Do not be so distressed," cried the poor woman in despair,
but
forgetting her daughter as she saw the tears in her husband's
eyes.
"There are my diamonds; whatever happens, save my uncle."
"Your diamonds are worth scarcely twenty thousand francs
nowadays.
That would not be enough for old Fischer, so keep them for
Hortense; I
will see the Marshal to-morrow."
"My poor dear!" said the Baroness, taking her Hector's hands
and
kissing them.
This was all the scolding he got. Adeline sacrificed her
jewels, the
father made them a present to Hortense, she regarded this as a
sublime
action, and she was helpless.
"He is the master; he could take everything, and he leaves me
my
diamonds; he is divine!"
This was the current of her thoughts; and indeed the wife had
gained
more by her sweetness than another perhaps could have achieved
by a
fit of angry jealousy.
The moralist cannot deny that, as a rule, well-bred though
very wicked
men are far more attractive and lovable than virtuous men;
having
crimes to atone for, they crave indulgence by anticipation, by
being
lenient to the shortcomings of those who judge them, and they
are
thought most kind. Though there are no doubt some charming
people
among the virtuous, Virtue considers itself fair enough,
unadorned, to
be at no pains to please; and then all really virtuous persons,
for
the hypocrites do not count, have some slight doubts as to
their
position; they believe that they are cheated in the bargain of
life on
the whole, and they indulge in acid comments after the fashion
of
those who think themselves unappreciated.
Hence the Baron, who accused himself of ruining his family,
displayed
all his charm of wit and his most seductive graces for the
benefit of
his wife, for his children, and his Cousin Lisbeth.
Then, when his son arrived with Celestine, Crevel's daughter,
who was
nursing the infant Hulot, he was delightful to his
daughter-in-law,
loading her with compliments--a treat to which Celestine's
vanity was
little accustomed for no moneyed bride more commonplace or
more
utterly insignificant was ever seen. The grandfather took the
baby
from her, kissed it, declared it was a beauty and a darling; he
spoke
to it in baby language, prophesied that it would grow to be
taller
than himself, insinuated compliments for his son's benefit,
and
restored the child to the Normandy nurse who had charge of
it.
Celestine, on her part, gave the Baroness a look, as much as to
say,
"What a delightful man!" and she naturally took her
father-in-law's
part against her father.
After thus playing the charming father-in-law and the
indulgent
grandpapa, the Baron took his son into the garden, and laid
before him
a variety of observations full of good sense as to the attitude
to be
taken up by the Chamber on a certain ticklish question which had
that
morning come under discussion. The young lawyer was struck
with
admiration for the depth of his father's insight, touched by
his
cordiality, and especially by the deferential tone which seemed
to
place the two men on a footing of equality.
Monsieur Hulot junior was in every respect the young
Frenchman, as
he has been moulded by the Revolution of 1830; his mind
infatuated
with politics, respectful of his own hopes, and concealing them
under
an affectation of gravity, very envious of successful men,
making
sententiousness do the duty of witty rejoinders--the gems of
the
French language--with a high sense of importance, and
mistaking
arrogance for dignity.
Such men are walking coffins, each containing a Frenchman of
the past;
now and again the Frenchman wakes up and kicks against his
English-
made casing; but ambition stifles him, and he submits to be
smothered.
The coffin is always covered with black cloth.
"Ah, here is my brother!" said Baron Hulot, going to meet the
Count at
the drawing-room door.
Having greeted the probable successor of the late Marshal
Montcornet,
he led him forward by the arm with every show of affection
and
respect.
The older man, a member of the Chamber of Peers, but excused
from
attendance on account of his deafness, had a handsome head,
chilled by
age, but with enough gray hair still to be marked in a circle by
the
pressure of his hat. He was short, square, and shrunken, but
carried
his hale old age with a free-and-easy air; and as he was full
of
excessive activity, which had now no purpose, he divided his
time
between reading and taking exercise. In a drawing-room he
devoted his
attention to waiting on the wishes of the ladies.
"You are very merry here," said he, seeing that the Baron shed
a
spirit of animation on the little family gathering. "And yet
Hortense
is not married," he added, noticing a trace of melancholy on
his
sister-in-law's countenance.
"That will come all in good time," Lisbeth shouted in his ear
in a
formidable voice.
"So there you are, you wretched seedling that could never
blossom,"
said he, laughing.
The hero of Forzheim rather liked Cousin Betty, for there were
certain
points of resemblance between them. A man of the ranks, without
any
education, his courage had been the sole mainspring of his
military
promotion, and sound sense had taken the place of brilliancy. Of
the
highest honor and clean-handed, he was ending a noble life in
full
contentment in the centre of his family, which claimed all
his
affections, and without a suspicion of his brother's still
undiscovered misconduct. No one enjoyed more than he the
pleasing
sight of this family party, where there never was the
smallest
disagreement, for the brothers and sisters were all equally
attached,
Celestine having been at once accepted as one of the family. But
the
worthy little Count wondered now and then why Monsieur Crevel
never
joined the party. "Papa is in the country," Celestine shouted,
and it
was explained to him that the ex-perfumer was away from
home.
This perfect union of all her family made Madame Hulot say to
herself,
"This, after all, is the best kind of happiness, and who can
deprive
us of it?"
The General, on seeing his favorite Adeline the object of
her
husband's attentions, laughed so much about it that the Baron,
fearing
to seem ridiculous, transferred his gallantries to his
daughter-in-
law, who at these family dinners was always the object of his
flattery
and kind care, for he hoped to win Crevel back through her, and
make
him forego his resentment.
Any one seeing this domestic scene would have found it hard to
believe
that the father was at his wits' end, the mother in despair, the
son
anxious beyond words as to his father's future fate, and the
daughter
on the point of robbing her cousin of her lover.
At seven o'clock the Baron, seeing his brother, his son, the
Baroness,
and Hortense all engaged at whist, went off to applaud his
mistress at
the Opera, taking with him Lisbeth Fischer, who lived in the Rue
du
Doyenne, and who always made an excuse of the solitude of
that
deserted quarter to take herself off as soon as dinner was
over.
Parisians will all admit that the old maid's prudence was
but
rational.
The existence of the maze of houses under the wing of the old
Louvre
is one of those protests against obvious good sense which
Frenchmen
love, that Europe may reassure itself as to the quantum of
brains they
are known to have, and not be too much alarmed. Perhaps
without
knowing it, this reveals some profound political idea.
It will surely not be a work of supererogation to describe
this part
of Paris as it is even now, when we could hardly expect its
survival;
and our grandsons, who will no doubt see the Louvre finished,
may
refuse to believe that such a relic of barbarism should have
survived
for six-and-thirty years in the heart of Paris and in the face
of the
palace where three dynasties of kings have received, during
those
thirty-six years, the elite of France and of Europe.
Between the little gate leading to the Bridge of the Carrousel
and the
Rue du Musee, every one having come to Paris, were it but for a
few
days, must have seen a dozen of houses with a decayed frontage
where
the dejected owners have attempted no repairs, the remains of an
old
block of buildings of which the destruction was begun at the
time when
Napoleon determined to complete the Louvre. This street, and the
blind
alley known as the Impasse du Doyenne, are the only passages
into this
gloomy and forsaken block, inhabited perhaps by ghosts, for
there
never is anybody to be seen. The pavement is much below the
footway of
the Rue du Musee, on a level with that of the Rue Froidmanteau.
Thus,
half sunken by the raising of the soil, these houses are also
wrapped
in the perpetual shadow cast by the lofty buildings of the
Louvre,
darkened on that side by the northern blast. Darkness, silence,
an icy
chill, and the cavernous depth of the soil combine to make
these
houses a kind of crypt, tombs of the living. As we drive in a
hackney
cab past this dead-alive spot, and chance to look down the
little Rue
du Doyenne, a shudder freezes the soul, and we wonder who can
lie
there, and what things may be done there at night, at an hour
when the
alley is a cut-throat pit, and the vices of Paris run riot there
under
the cloak of night. This question, frightful in itself,
becomes
appalling when we note that these dwelling-houses are shut in on
the
side towards the Rue de Richelieu by marshy ground, by a sea
of
tumbled paving-stones between them and the Tuileries, by
little
garden-plots and suspicious-looking hovels on the side of the
great
galleries, and by a desert of building-stone and old rubbish on
the
side towards the old Louvre. Henri III. and his favorites in
search of
their trunk-hose, and Marguerite's lovers in search of their
heads,
must dance sarabands by moonlight in this wilderness overlooked
by the
roof of a chapel still standing there as if to prove that the
Catholic
religion--so deeply rooted in France--survives all else.
For forty years now has the Louvre been crying out by every gap
in
these damaged walls, by every yawning window, "Rid me of these
warts
upon my face!" This cutthroat lane has no doubt been regarded
as
useful, and has been thought necessary as symbolizing in the
heart of
Paris the intimate connection between poverty and the splendor
that is
characteristic of the queen of cities. And indeed these chill
ruins,
among which the Legitimist newspaper contracted the disease it
is
dying of--the abominable hovels of the Rue du Musee, and the
hoarding
appropriated by the shop stalls that flourish there--will
perhaps live
longer and more prosperously than three successive
dynasties.
In 1823 the low rents in these already condemned houses had
tempted
Lisbeth Fischer to settle there, notwithstanding the necessity
imposed
upon her by the state of the neighborhood to get home before
nightfall. This necessity, however, was in accordance with the
country
habits she retained, of rising and going to bed with the sun,
an
arrangement which saves country folk considerable sums in lights
and
fuel. She lived in one of the houses which, since the demolition
of
the famous Hotel Cambaceres, command a view of the square.
Just as Baron Hulot set his wife's cousin down at the door of
this
house, saying, "Good-night, Cousin," an elegant-looking woman,
young,
small, slender, pretty, beautifully dressed, and redolent of
some
delicate perfume, passed between the wall and the carriage to go
in.
This lady, without any premeditation, glanced up at the Baron
merely
to see the lodger's cousin, and the libertine at once felt the
swift
impression which all Parisians know on meeting a pretty
woman,
realizing, as entomologists have it, their desiderata; so
he waited
to put on one of his gloves with judicious deliberation before
getting
into the carriage again, to give himself an excuse for allowing
his
eye to follow the young woman, whose skirts were pleasingly set
out by
something else than these odious and delusive crinoline
bustles.
"That," said he to himself, "is a nice little person whose
happiness I
should like to provide for, as she would certainly secure
mine."
When the unknown fair had gone into the hall at the foot of
the stairs
going up to the front rooms, she glanced at the gate out of the
corner
of her eye without precisely looking round, and she could see
the
Baron riveted to the spot in admiration, consumed by curiosity
and
desire. This is to every Parisian woman a sort of flower which
she
smells at with delight, if she meets it on her way. Nay,
certain
women, though faithful to their duties, pretty, and virtuous,
come
home much put out if they have failed to cull such a posy in
the
course of their walk.
The lady ran upstairs, and in a moment a window on the second
floor
was thrown open, and she appeared at it, but accompanied by a
man
whose baldhead and somewhat scowling looks announced him as
her
husband.
"If they aren't sharp and ingenious, the cunning jades!"
thought the
Baron. "She does that to show me where she lives. But this is
getting
rather warm, especially for this part of Paris. We must mind
what we
are at."
As he got into the milord, he looked up, and the lady
and the
husband hastily vanished, as though the Baron's face had
affected them
like the mythological head of Medusa.
"It would seem that they know me," thought the Baron. "That
would
account for everything."
As the carriage went up the Rue du Musee, he leaned forward to
see the
lady again, and in fact she was again at the window. Ashamed of
being
caught gazing at the hood under which her admirer was sitting,
the
unknown started back at once.
"Nanny shall tell me who it is," said the Baron to himself.
The sight of the Government official had, as will be seen,
made a deep
impression on this couple.
"Why, it is Baron Hulot, the chief of the department to which
my
office belongs!" exclaimed the husband as he left the
window.
"Well, Marneffe, the old maid on the third floor at the back
of the
courtyard, who lives with that young man, is his cousin. Is it
not odd
that we should never have known that till to-day, and now find
it out
by chance?"
"Mademoiselle Fischer living with a young man?" repeated the
husband.
"That is porter's gossip; do not speak so lightly of the cousin
of a
Councillor of State who can blow hot and cold in the office as
he
pleases. Now, come to dinner; I have been waiting for you since
four
o'clock."
Pretty--very pretty--Madame Marneffe, the natural daughter of
Comte
Montcornet, one of Napoleon's most famous officers, had, on
the
strength of a marriage portion of twenty thousand francs, found
a
husband in an inferior official at the War Office. Through
the
interest of the famous lieutenant-general--made marshal of
France six
months before his death--this quill-driver had risen to
unhoped-for
dignity as head-clerk of his office; but just as he was to be
promoted
to be deputy-chief, the marshal's death had cut off
Marneffe's
ambitions and his wife's at the root. The very small salary
enjoyed by
Sieur Marneffe had compelled the couple to economize in the
matter of
rent; for in his hands Mademoiselle Valerie Fortin's fortune
had
already melted away--partly in paying his debts, and partly in
the
purchase of necessaries for furnishing a house, but chiefly
in
gratifying the requirements of a pretty young wife, accustomed
in her
mother's house to luxuries she did not choose to dispense with.
The
situation of the Rue du Doyenne, within easy distance of the
War
Office, and the gay part of Paris, smiled on Monsieur and
Madame
Marneffe, and for the last four years they had dwelt under the
same
roof as Lisbeth Fischer.
Monsieur Jean-Paul-Stanislas Marneffe was one of the class of
employes
who escape sheer brutishness by the kind of power that comes
of
depravity. The small, lean creature, with thin hair and a
starved
beard, an unwholesome pasty face, worn rather than wrinkled,
with red-
lidded eyes harnessed with spectacles, shuffling in his gait,
and yet
meaner in his appearance, realized the type of man that any one
would
conceive of as likely to be placed in the dock for an offence
against
decency.
The rooms inhabited by this couple had the illusory appearance
of sham
luxury seen in many Paris homes, and typical of a certain class
of
household. In the drawing-room, the furniture covered with
shabby
cotton velvet, the plaster statuettes pretending to be
Florentine
bronze, the clumsy cast chandelier merely lacquered, with cheap
glass
saucers, the carpet, whose small cost was accounted for in
advancing
life by the quality of cotton used in the manufacture, now
visible to
the naked eye,--everything, down to the curtains, which plainly
showed
that worsted damask has not three years of prime, proclaimed
poverty
as loudly as a beggar in rags at a church door.
The dining-room, badly kept by a single servant, had the
sickening
aspect of a country inn; everything looked greasy and
unclean.
Monsieur's room, very like a schoolboy's, furnished with the
bed and
fittings remaining from his bachelor days, as shabby and worn as
he
was, dusted perhaps once a week--that horrible room where
everything
was in a litter, with old socks hanging over the
horsehair-seated
chairs, the pattern outlined in dust, was that of a man to whom
home
is a matter of indifference, who lives out of doors, gambling in
cafes
or elsewhere.
Madame's room was an exception to the squalid slovenliness
that
disgraced the living rooms, where the curtains were yellow with
smoke
and dust, and where the child, evidently left to himself,
littered
every spot with his toys. Valerie's room and dressing-room
were
situated in the part of the house which, on one side of the
courtyard,
joined the front half, looking out on the street, to the wing
forming
the inner side of the court backing against the adjoining
property.
Handsomely hung with chintz, furnished with rosewood, and
thickly
carpeted, they proclaimed themselves as belonging to a pretty
woman--
and indeed suggested the kept mistress. A clock in the
fashionable
style stood on the velvet-covered mantelpiece. There was a
nicely
fitted cabinet, and the Chinese flower-stands were handsomely
filled.
The bed, the toilet-table, the wardrobe with its mirror, the
little
sofa, and all the lady's frippery bore the stamp of fashion
or
caprice. Though everything was quite third-rate as to elegance
or
quality, and nothing was absolutely newer than three years old,
a
dandy would have had no fault to find but that the taste of all
this
luxury was commonplace. Art, and the distinction that comes of
the
choice of things that taste assimilates, was entirely wanting.
A
doctor of social science would have detected a lover in two or
three
specimens of costly trumpery, which could only have come there
through
that demi-god--always absent, but always present if the lady
is
married.
The dinner, four hours behind time, to which the husband, wife,
and
child sat down, betrayed the financial straits in which the
household
found itself, for the table is the surest thermometer for
gauging the
income of a Parisian family. Vegetable soup made with the
water
haricot beans had been boiled in, a piece of stewed veal and
potatoes
sodden with water by way of gravy, a dish of haricot beans, and
cheap
cherries, served and eaten in cracked plates and dishes, with
the
dull-looking and dull-sounding forks of German silver--was this
a
banquet worthy of this pretty young woman? The Baron would have
wept
could he have seen it. The dingy decanters could not disguise
the vile
hue of wine bought by the pint at the nearest wineshop. The
table-
napkins had seen a week's use. In short, everything betrayed
undignified penury, and the equal indifference of the husband
and wife
to the decencies of home. The most superficial observer on
seeing them
would have said that these two beings had come to the stage when
the
necessity of living had prepared them for any kind of dishonor
that
might bring luck to them. Valerie's first words to her husband
will
explain the delay that had postponed the dinner by the not
disinterested devotion of the cook.
"Samanon will only take your bills at fifty per cent, and
insists on a
lien on your salary as security."
So poverty, still unconfessed in the house of the superior
official,
and hidden under a stipend of twenty-four thousand francs,
irrespective of presents, had reached its lowest stage in that
of the
clerk.
"You have caught on with the chief," said the man, looking at
his
wife.
"I rather think so," replied she, understanding the full
meaning of
his slang expression.
"What is to become of us?" Marneffe went on. "The landlord
will be
down on us to-morrow. And to think of your father dying without
making
a will! On my honor, those men of the Empire all think
themselves as
immortal as their Emperor."
"Poor father!" said she. "I was his only child, and he was
very fond
of me. The Countess probably burned the will. How could he
forget me
when he used to give us as much as three or four thousand-franc
notes
at once, from time to time?"
"We owe four quarters' rent, fifteen hundred francs. Is the
furniture
worth so much? That is the question, as Shakespeare
says."
"Now, good-bye, ducky!" said Valerie, who had only eaten a
few
mouthfuls of the veal, from which the maid had extracted all the
gravy
for a brave soldier just home from Algiers. "Great evils demand
heroic
remedies."
"Valerie, where are you off to?" cried Marneffe, standing
between his
wife and the door.
"I am going to see the landlord," she replied, arranging her
ringlets
under her smart bonnet. "You had better try to make friends with
that
old maid, if she really is your chief's cousin."
The ignorance in which the dwellers under one roof can exist
as to the
social position of their fellow-lodgers is a permanent fact
which, as
much as any other, shows what the rush of Paris life is. Still,
it is
easily conceivable that a clerk who goes early every morning to
his
office, comes home only to dinner, and spends every evening out,
and a
woman swallowed up in a round of pleasures, should know nothing
of an
old maid living on the third floor beyond the courtyard of the
house
they dwell in, especially when she lives as Mademoiselle Fischer
did.
Up in the morning before any one else, Lisbeth went out to buy
her
bread, milk, and live charcoal, never speaking to any one, and
she
went to bed with the sun; she never had a letter or a visitor,
nor
chatted with her neighbors. Here was one of those anonymous,
entomological existences such as are to be met with in many
large
tenements where, at the end of four years, you unexpectedly
learn that
up on the fourth floor there is an old man lodging who knew
Voltaire,
Pilatre de Rozier, Beaujon, Marcel, Mole, Sophie Arnould,
Franklin,
and Robespierre. What Monsieur and Madame Marneffe had just
said
concerning Lisbeth Fischer they had come to know, in
consequence,
partly, of the loneliness of the neighborhood, and of the
alliance, to
which their necessities had led, between them and the
doorkeepers,
whose goodwill was too important to them not to have been
carefully
encouraged.
Now, the old maid's pride, silence, and reserve had engendered
in the
porter and his wife the exaggerated respect and cold civility
which
betray the unconfessed annoyance of an inferior. Also, the
porter
thought himself in all essentials the equal of any lodger whose
rent
was no more than two hundred and fifty francs. Cousin
Betty's
confidences to Hortense were true; and it is evident that the
porter's
wife might be very likely to slander Mademoiselle Fischer in
her
intimate gossip with the Marneffes, while only intending to
tell
tales.
When Lisbeth had taken her candle from the hands of worthy
Madame
Olivier the portress, she looked up to see whether the windows
of the
garret over her own rooms were lighted up. At that hour, even in
July,
it was so dark within the courtyard that the old maid could not
get to
bed without a light.
"Oh, you may be quite easy, Monsieur Steinbock is in his room.
He has
not been out even," said Madame Olivier, with meaning.
Lisbeth made no reply. She was still a peasant, in so far that
she was
indifferent to the gossip of persons unconnected with her. Just
as a
peasant sees nothing beyond his village, she cared for
nobody's
opinion outside the little circle in which she lived. So she
boldly
went up, not to her own room, but to the garret; and this is
why. At
dessert she had filled her bag with fruit and sweets for her
lover,
and she went to give them to him, exactly as an old lady brings
home a
biscuit for her dog.
She found the hero of Hortense's dreams working by the light
of a
small lamp, of which the light was intensified by the use of a
bottle
of water as a lens--a pale young man, seated at a workman's
bench
covered with a modeler's tools, wax, chisels, rough-hewn stone,
and
bronze castings; he wore a blouse, and had in his hand a little
group
in red wax, which he gazed at like a poet absorbed in his
labors.
"Here, Wenceslas, see what I have brought you," said she,
laying her
handkerchief on a corner of the table; then she carefully took
the
sweetmeats and fruit out of her bag.
"You are very kind, mademoiselle," replied the exile in
melancholy
tones.
"It will do you good, poor boy. You get feverish by working so
hard;
you were not born to such a rough life."
Wenceslas Steinbock looked at her with a bewildered air.
"Eat--come, eat," said she sharply, "instead of looking at me
as you
do at one of your images when you are satisfied with it."
On being thus smacked with words, the young man seemed less
puzzled,
for this, indeed, was the female Mentor whose tender moods were
always
a surprise to him, so much more accustomed was he to be
scolded.
Though Steinbock was nine-and-twenty, like many fair men, he
looked
five or six years younger; and seeing his youth, though its
freshness
had faded under the fatigue and stress of life in exile, by the
side
of that dry, hard face, it seemed as though Nature had blundered
in
the distribution of sex. He rose and threw himself into a deep
chair
of Louis XV. pattern, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, as if
to
rest himself. The old maid took a greengage and offered it to
him.
"Thank you," said he, taking the plum.
"Are you tired?" said she, giving him another.
"I am not tired with work, but tired of life," said he.
"What absurd notions you have!" she exclaimed with some
annoyance.
"Have you not had a good genius to keep an eye on you?" she
said,
offering him the sweetmeats, and watching him with pleasure as
he ate
them all. "You see, I thought of you when dining with my
cousin."
"I know," said he, with a look at Lisbeth that was at once
affectionate and plaintive, "but for you I should long since
have
ceased to live. But, my dear lady, artists require
relaxation----"
"Ah! there we come to the point!" cried she, interrupting him,
her
hands on her hips, and her flashing eyes fixed on him. "You want
to go
wasting your health in the vile resorts of Paris, like so
many
artisans, who end by dying in the workhouse. No, no, make a
fortune,
and then, when you have money in the funds, you may amuse
yourself,
child; then you will have enough to pay for the doctor and for
your
pleasure, libertine that you are."
Wenceslas Steinbock, on receiving this broadside, with an
accompaniment of looks that pierced him like a magnetic flame,
bent
his head. The most malignant slanderer on seeing this scene
would at
once have understood that the hints thrown out by the Oliviers
were
false. Everything in this couple, their tone, manner, and way
of
looking at each other, proved the purity of their private live.
The
old maid showed the affection of rough but very genuine
maternal
feeling; the young man submitted, as a respectful son yields to
the
tyranny of a mother. The strange alliance seemed to be the
outcome of
a strong will acting constantly on a weak character, on the
fluid
nature peculiar to the Slavs, which, while it does not hinder
them
from showing heroic courage in battle, gives them an amazing
incoherency of conduct, a moral softness of which physiologists
ought
to try to detect the causes, since physiologists are to
political life
what entomologists are to agriculture.
"But if I die before I am rich?" said Wenceslas dolefully.
"Die!" cried she. "Oh, I will not let you die. I have life
enough for
both, and I would have my blood injected into your veins if
necessary."
Tears rose to Steinbock's eyes as he heard her vehement and
artless
speech.
"Do not be unhappy, my little Wenceslas," said Lisbeth with
feeling.
"My cousin Hortense thought your seal quite pretty, I am sure;
and I
will manage to sell your bronze group, you will see; you will
have
paid me off, you will be able to do as you please, you will soon
be
free. Come, smile a little!"
"I can never repay you, mademoiselle," said the exile.
"And why not?" asked the peasant woman, taking the Livonian's
part
against herself.
"Because you not only fed me, lodged me, cared for me in my
poverty,
but you also gave me strength. You have made me what I am; you
have
often been stern, you have made me very unhappy----"
"I?" said the old maid. "Are you going to pour out all your
nonsense
once more about poetry and the arts, and to crack your fingers
and
stretch your arms while you spout about the ideal, and beauty,
and all
your northern madness?--Beauty is not to compare with solid
pudding--
and what am I!--You have ideas in your brain? What is the use of
them?
I too have ideas. What is the good of all the fine things you
may have
in your soul if you can make no use of them? Those who have
ideas do
not get so far as those who have none, if they don't know which
way to
go.
"Instead of thinking over your ideas you must work.--Now, what
have
you done while I was out?"
"What did your pretty cousin say?"
"Who told you she was pretty?" asked Lisbeth sharply, in a
tone hollow
with tiger-like jealousy.
"Why, you did."
"That was only to see your face. Do you want to go trotting
after
petticoats? You who are so fond of women, well, make them in
bronze.
Let us see a cast of your desires, for you will have to do
without the
ladies for some little time yet, and certainly without my
cousin, my
good fellow. She is not game for your bag; that young lady wants
a man
with sixty thousand francs a year--and has found him!
"Why, your bed is not made!" she exclaimed, looking into the
adjoining
room. "Poor dear boy, I quite forgot you!"
The sturdy woman pulled off her gloves, her cape and bonnet,
and
remade the artist's little camp bed as briskly as any housemaid.
This
mixture of abruptness, of roughness even, with real kindness,
perhaps
accounts for the ascendency Lisbeth had acquired over the man
whom she
regarded as her personal property. Is not our attachment to life
based
on its alternations of good and evil?
If the Livonian had happened to meet Madame Marneffe instead
of
Lisbeth Fischer, he would have found a protectress whose
complaisance
must have led him into some boggy or discreditable path, where
he
would have been lost. He would certainly never have worked, nor
the
artist have been hatched out. Thus, while he deplored the old
maid's
grasping avarice, his reason bid him prefer her iron hand to the
life
of idleness and peril led by many of his fellow-countrymen.
This was the incident that had given rise to the coalition of
female
energy and masculine feebleness--a contrast in union said not to
be
uncommon in Poland.
In 1833 Mademoiselle Fischer, who sometimes worked into the
night when
business was good, at about one o'clock one morning perceived a
strong
smell of carbonic acid gas, and heard the groans of a dying man.
The
fumes and the gasping came from a garret over the two rooms
forming
her dwelling, and she supposed that a young man who had but
lately
come to lodge in this attic--which had been vacant for three
years--
was committing suicide. She ran upstairs, broke in the door by a
push
with her peasant strength, and found the lodger writhing on a
camp-bed
in the convulsions of death. She extinguished the brazier; the
door
was open, the air rushed in, and the exile was saved. Then,
when
Lisbeth had put him to bed like a patient, and he was asleep,
she
could detect the motives of his suicide in the destitution of
the
rooms, where there was nothing whatever but a wretched table,
the
camp-bed, and two chairs.
On the table lay a document, which she read:
"I am Count Wenceslas Steinbock, born at Prelia, in Livonia.
"No one is to be accused of my death; my reasons for killing
myself are, in the words of Kosciusko, Finis Polonioe!"The grand-nephew of a valiant General under Charles XII. could
not beg. My weakly constitution forbids my taking military
service, and I yesterday saw the last of the hundred thalers which
I had brought with me from Dresden to Paris. I have left twenty-
five francs in the drawer of this table to pay the rent I owe to
the landlord."My parents being dead, my death will affect nobody. I desire that
my countrymen will not blame the French Government. I have never
registered myself as a refugee, and I have asked for nothing; I
have met none of my fellow-exiles; no one in Paris knows of my
existence."I am dying in Christian beliefs. May God forgive the last of the
Steinbocks!"WENCESLAS."
Mademoiselle Fischer, deeply touched by the dying man's
honesty,
opened the drawer and found the five five-franc pieces to pay
his
rent.
"Poor young man!" cried she. "And with no one in the world to
care
about him!"
She went downstairs to fetch her work, and sat stitching in
the
garret, watching over the Livonian gentleman.
When he awoke his astonishment may be imagined on finding a
woman
sitting by his bed; it was like the prolongation of a dream. As
she
sat there, covering aiguillettes with gold thread, the old maid
had
resolved to take charge of the poor youth whom she admired as he
lay
sleeping.
As soon as the young Count was fully awake, Lisbeth talked to
give him
courage, and questioned him to find out how he might make a
living.
Wenceslas, after telling his story, added that he owed his
position to
his acknowledged talent for the fine arts. He had always had
a
preference for sculpture; the necessary time for study had,
however,
seemed to him too long for a man without money; and at this
moment he
was far too weak to do any hard manual labor or undertake an
important
work in sculpture. All this was Greek to Lisbeth Fischer. She
replied
to the unhappy man that Paris offered so many openings that any
man
with will and courage might find a living there. A man of spirit
need
never perish if he had a certain stock of endurance.
"I am but a poor girl myself, a peasant, and I have managed to
make
myself independent," said she in conclusion. "If you will work
in
earnest, I have saved a little money, and I will lend you, month
by
month, enough to live upon; but to live frugally, and not to
play
ducks and drakes with or squander in the streets. You can dine
in
Paris for twenty-five sous a day, and I will get you your
breakfast
with mine every day. I will furnish your rooms and pay for
such
teaching as you may think necessary. You shall give me
formal
acknowledgment for the money I may lay out for you, and when you
are
rich you shall repay me all. But if you do not work, I shall
not
regard myself as in any way pledged to you, and I shall leave
you to
your fate."
"Ah!" cried the poor fellow, still smarting from the
bitterness of his
first struggle with death, "exiles from every land may well
stretch
out their hands to France, as the souls in Purgatory do to
Paradise.
In what other country is such help to be found, and generous
hearts
even in such a garret as this? You will be everything to me,
my
beloved benefactress; I am your slave! Be my sweetheart," he
added,
with one of the caressing gestures familiar to the Poles, for
which
they are unjustly accused of servility.
"Oh, no; I am too jealous, I should make you unhappy; but I
will
gladly be a sort of comrade," replied Lisbeth.
"Ah, if only you knew how I longed for some fellow-creature,
even a
tyrant, who would have something to say to me when I was
struggling in
the vast solitude of Paris!" exclaimed Wenceslas. "I
regretted
Siberia, whither I should be sent by the Emperor if I went
home.--Be
my Providence!--I will work; I will be a better man than I am,
though
I am not such a bad fellow!"
"Will you do whatever I bid you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Well, then, I will adopt you as my child," said she lightly.
"Here I
am with a son risen from the grave. Come! we will begin at once.
I
will go out and get what I want; you can dress, and come down
to
breakfast with me when I knock on the ceiling with the
broomstick."
That day, Mademoiselle Fischer made some inquiries, at the
houses to
which she carried her work home, as to the business of a
sculptor. By
dint of many questions she ended by hearing of the studio kept
by
Florent and Chanor, a house that made a special business of
casting
and finishing decorative bronzes and handsome silver plate.
Thither
she went with Steinbock, recommending him as an apprentice
in
sculpture, an idea that was regarded as too eccentric. Their
business
was to copy the works of the greatest artists, but they did not
teach
the craft. The old maid's persistent obstinacy so far succeeded
that
Steinbock was taken on to design ornament. He very soon learned
to
model ornament, and invented novelties; he had a gift for
it.
Five months after he was out of his apprenticeship as a
finisher, he
made acquaintance with Stidmann, the famous head of Florent's
studios.
Within twenty months Wenceslas was ahead of his master; but in
thirty
months the old maid's savings of sixteen years had melted
entirely.
Two thousand five hundred francs in gold!--a sum with which she
had
intended to purchase an annuity; and what was there to show for
it? A
Pole's receipt! And at this moment Lisbeth was working as hard
as in
her young days to supply the needs of her Livonian.
When she found herself the possessor of a piece of paper
instead of
her gold louis, she lost her head, and went to consult Monsieur
Rivet,
who for fifteen years had been his clever head-worker's friend
and
counselor. On hearing her story, Monsieur and Madame Rivet
scolded
Lisbeth, told her she was crazy, abused all refugees whose plots
for
reconstructing their nation compromised the prosperity of the
country
and the maintenance of peace; and they urged Lisbeth to find
what in
trade is called security.
"The only hold you have over this fellow is on his liberty,"
observed
Monsieur Rivet.
Monsieur Achille Rivet was assessor at the Tribunal of Commerce.
"Imprisonment is no joke for a foreigner," said he. "A
Frenchman
remains five years in prison and comes out, free of his debts to
be
sure, for he is thenceforth bound only by his conscience, and
that
never troubles him; but a foreigner never comes out.--Give me
your
promissory note; my bookkeeper will take it up; he will get
it
protested; you will both be prosecuted and both be condemned
to
imprisonment in default of payment; then, when everything is in
due
form, you must sign a declaration. By doing this your interest
will be
accumulating, and you will have a pistol always primed to fire
at your
Pole!"
The old maid allowed these legal steps to be taken, telling
her
protege not to be uneasy, as the proceedings were merely to
afford a
guarantee to a money-lender who agreed to advance them certain
sums.
This subterfuge was due to the inventive genius of Monsieur
Rivet. The
guileless artist, blindly trusting to his benefactress, lighted
his
pipe with the stamped paper, for he smoked as all men do who
have
sorrows or energies that need soothing.
One fine day Monsieur Rivet showed Mademoiselle Fischer a
schedule,
and said to her:
"Here you have Wenceslas Steinbock bound hand and foot, and
so
effectually, that within twenty-four hours you can have him snug
in
Clichy for the rest of his days."
This worthy and honest judge at the Chamber of Commerce
experienced
that day the satisfaction that must come of having done a
malignant
good action. Beneficence has so many aspects in Paris that
this
contradictory expression really represents one of them. The
Livonian
being fairly entangled in the toils of commercial procedure, the
point
was to obtain payment; for the illustrious tradesman looked
on
Wenceslas as a swindler. Feeling, sincerity, poetry, were in his
eyes
mere folly in business matters.
So Rivet went off to see, in behalf of that poor Mademoiselle
Fischer,
who, as he said, had been "done" by the Pole, the rich
manufacturers
for whom Steinbock had worked. It happened that Stidmann--who,
with
the help of these distinguished masters of the goldsmiths' art,
was
raising French work to the perfection it has now reached,
allowing it
to hold its own against Florence and the Renaissance--Stidmann
was in
Chanor's private room when the army lace manufacturer called to
make
inquiries as to "One Steinbock, a Polish refugee."
"Whom do you call 'One Steinbock'? Do you mean a young
Livonian who
was a pupil of mine?" cried Stidmann ironically. "I may tell
you,
monsieur, that he is a very great artist. It is said of me that
I
believe myself to be the Devil. Well, that poor fellow does not
know
that he is capable of becoming a god."
"Indeed," said Rivet, well pleased. And then he added, "Though
you
take a rather cavalier tone with a man who has the honor to be
an
Assessor on the Tribunal of Commerce of the Department of the
Seine."
"Your pardon, Consul!" said Stidmann, with a military salute.
"I am delighted," the Assessor went on, "to hear what you say.
The man
may make money then?"
"Certainly," said Chanor; "but he must work. He would have a
tidy sum
by now if he had stayed with us. What is to be done? Artists
have a
horror of not being free."
"They have a proper sense of their value and dignity,"
replied
Stidmann. "I do not blame Wenceslas for walking alone, trying to
make
a name, and to become a great man; he had a right to do so! But
he was
a great loss to me when he left."
"That, you see," exclaimed Rivet, "is what all young students
aim at
as soon as they are hatched out of the school-egg. Begin by
saving
money, I say, and seek glory afterwards."
"It spoils your touch to be picking up coin," said Stidmann.
"It is
Glory's business to bring us wealth."
"And, after all," said Chanor to Rivet, "you cannot tether them."
"They would eat the halter," replied Stidmann.
"All these gentlemen have as much caprice as talent," said
Chanor,
looking at Stidmann. "They spend no end of money; they keep
their
girls, they throw coin out of window, and then they have no time
to
work. They neglect their orders; we have to employ workmen who
are
very inferior, but who grow rich; and then they complain of the
hard
times, while, if they were but steady, they might have piles of
gold."
"You old Lumignon," said Stidmann, "you remind me of the
publisher
before the Revolution who said--'If only I could keep
Montesquieu,
Voltaire, and Rousseau very poor in my backshed, and lock up
their
breeches in a cupboard, what a lot of nice little books they
would
write to make my fortune.'--If works of art could be hammered
out like
nails, workmen would make them.--Give me a thousand francs, and
don't
talk nonsense."
Worthy Monsieur Rivet went home, delighted for poor
Mademoiselle
Fischer, who dined with him every Monday, and whom he found
waiting
for him.
"If you can only make him work," said he, "you will have more
luck
than wisdom; you will be repaid, interest, capital, and costs.
This
Pole has talent, he can make a living; but lock up his trousers
and
his shoes, do not let him go to the Chaumiere or the
parish of
Notre-Dame de Lorette, keep him in leading-strings. If you do
not take
such precautions, your artist will take to loafing, and if you
only
knew what these artists mean by loafing! Shocking! Why, I have
just
heard that they will spend a thousand-franc note in a day!"
This episode had a fatal influence on the home-life of
Wenceslas and
Lisbeth. The benefactress flavored the exile's bread with the
wormwood
of reproof, now that she saw her money in danger, and often
believed
it to be lost. From a kind mother she became a stepmother; she
took
the poor boy to task, she nagged him, scolded him for working
too
slowly, and blamed him for having chosen so difficult a
profession.
She could not believe that those models in red wax--little
figures and
sketches for ornamental work--could be of any value. Before
long,
vexed with herself for her severity, she would try to efface the
tears
by her care and attention.
Then the poor young man, after groaning to think that he was
dependent
on this shrew and under the thumb of a peasant of the Vosges,
was
bewitched by her coaxing ways and by a maternal affection
that
attached itself solely to the physical and material side of
life. He
was like a woman who forgives a week of ill-usage for the sake
of a
kiss and a brief reconciliation.
Thus Mademoiselle Fischer obtained complete power over his
mind. The
love of dominion that lay as a germ in the old maid's heart
developed
rapidly. She could now satisfy her pride and her craving for
action;
had she not a creature belonging to her, to be schooled,
scolded,
flattered, and made happy, without any fear of a rival? Thus the
good
and bad sides of her nature alike found play. If she
sometimes
victimized the poor artist, she had, on the other hand,
delicate
impulses like the grace of wild flowers; it was a joy to her
to
provide for all his wants; she would have given her life for
him, and
Wenceslas knew it. Like every noble soul, the poor fellow forgot
the
bad points, the defects of the woman who had told him the story
of her
life as an excuse for her rough ways, and he remembered only
the
benefits she had done him.
One day, exasperated with Wenceslas for having gone out
walking
instead of sitting at work, she made a great scene.
"You belong to me," said she. "If you were an honest man, you
would
try to repay me the money you owe as soon as possible."
The gentleman, in whose veins the blood of the Steinbocks was
fired,
turned pale.
"Bless me," she went on, "we soon shall have nothing to live
on but
the thirty sous I earn--a poor work-woman!"
The two penniless creatures, worked up by their own war of
words, grew
vehement; and for the first time the unhappy artist reproached
his
benefactress for having rescued him from death only to make him
lead
the life of a galley slave, worse than the bottomless void,
where at
least, said he, he would have found rest. And he talked of
flight.
"Flight!" cried Lisbeth. "Ah, Monsieur Rivet was right."
And she clearly explained to the Pole that within twenty-four
hours he
might be clapped into prison for the rest of his days. It was
a
crushing blow. Steinbock sank into deep melancholy and total
silence.
In the course of the following night, Lisbeth hearing overhead
some
preparations for suicide, went up to her pensioner's room, and
gave
him the schedule and a formal release.
"Here, dear child, forgive me," she said with tears in her
eyes. "Be
happy; leave me! I am too cruel to you; only tell me that you
will
sometimes remember the poor girl who has enabled you to make a
living.
--What can I say? You are the cause of my ill-humor. I might
die;
where would you be without me? That is the reason of my
being
impatient to see you do some salable work. I do not want my
money back
for myself, I assure you! I am only frightened at your idleness,
which
you call meditation; at your ideas, which take up so many hours
when
you sit gazing at the sky; I want you to get into habits of
industry."
All this was said with an emphasis, a look, and tears that
moved the
high-minded artist; he clasped his benefactress to his heart
and
kissed her forehead.
"Keep these pieces," said he with a sort of cheerfulness. "Why
should
you send me to Clichy? Am I not a prisoner here out of
gratitude?"
This episode of their secret domestic life had occurred six
months
previously, and had led to Steinbock's producing three finished
works:
the seal in Hortense's possession, the group he had placed with
the
curiosity dealer, and a beautiful clock to which he was putting
the
last touches, screwing in the last rivets.
This clock represented the twelve Hours, charmingly
personified by
twelve female figures whirling round in so mad and swift a dance
that
three little Loves perched on a pile of fruit and flowers could
not
stop one of them; only the torn skirts of Midnight remained in
the
hand of the most daring cherub. The group stood on an
admirably
treated base, ornamented with grotesque beasts. The hours were
told by
a monstrous mouth that opened to yawn, and each Hour bore
some
ingeniously appropriate symbol characteristic of the various
occupations of the day.
It is now easy to understand the extraordinary attachment
of
Mademoiselle Fischer for her Livonian; she wanted him to be
happy, and
she saw him pining, fading away in his attic. The causes of
this
wretched state of affairs may be easily imagined. The peasant
woman
watched this son of the North with the affection of a mother,
with the
jealousy of a wife, and the spirit of a dragon; hence she
managed to
put every kind of folly or dissipation out of his power by
leaving him
destitute of money. She longed to keep her victim and companion
for
herself alone, well conducted perforce, and she had no
conception of
the cruelty of this senseless wish, since she, for her own part,
was
accustomed to every privation. She loved Steinbock well enough
not to
marry him, and too much to give him up to any other woman; she
could
not resign herself to be no more than a mother to him, though
she saw
that she was mad to think of playing the other part.
These contradictions, this ferocious jealousy, and the joy of
having a
man to herself, all agitated her old maid's heart beyond
measure.
Really in love as she had been for four years, she cherished
the
foolish hope of prolonging this impossible and aimless way of
life in
which her persistence would only be the ruin of the man she
thought of
as her child. This contest between her instincts and her reason
made
her unjust and tyrannical. She wreaked on the young man her
vengeance
for her own lot in being neither young, rich, nor handsome;
then,
after each fit of rage, recognizing herself wrong, she stooped
to
unlimited humility, infinite tenderness. She never could
sacrifice to
her idol till she had asserted her power by blows of the axe. In
fact,
it was the converse of Shakespeare's Tempest--Caliban
ruling Ariel
and Prospero.
As to the poor youth himself, high-minded, meditative, and
inclined to
be lazy, the desert that his protectress made in his soul might
be
seen in his eyes, as in those of a caged lion. The penal
servitude
forced on him by Lisbeth did not fulfil the cravings of his
heart. His
weariness became a physical malady, and he was dying without
daring to
ask, or knowing where to procure, the price of some little
necessary
dissipation. On some days of special energy, when a feeling of
utter
ill-luck added to his exasperation, he would look at Lisbeth as
a
thirsty traveler on a sandy shore must look at the bitter
sea-water.
These harsh fruits of indigence, and this isolation in the
midst of
Paris, Lisbeth relished with delight. And besides, she foresaw
that
the first passion would rob her of her slave. Sometimes she
even
blamed herself because her own tyranny and reproaches had
compelled
the poetic youth to become so great an artist of delicate work,
and
she had thus given him the means of casting her off.
On the day after, these three lives, so differently but so
utterly
wretched--that of a mother in despair, that of the Marneffe
household,
and that of the unhappy exile--were all to be influenced by
Hortense's
guileless passion, and by the strange outcome of the Baron's
luckless
passion for Josepha.
Just as Hulot was going into the opera-house, he was stopped
by the
darkened appearance of the building and of the Rue le Peletier,
where
there were no gendarmes, no lights, no theatre-servants, no
barrier to
regulate the crowd. He looked up at the announcement-board, and
beheld
a strip of white paper, on which was printed the solemn
notice:
"CLOSED ON ACCOUNT OF ILLNESS."
He rushed off to Josepha's lodgings in the Rue Chauchat; for,
like all
the singers, she lived close at hand.
"Whom do you want, sir?" asked the porter, to the Baron's
great
astonishment.
"Have you forgotten me?" said Hulot, much puzzled.
"On the contrary, sir, it is because I have the honor to
remember you
that I ask you, Where are you going?"
A mortal chill fell upon the Baron.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"If you go up to Mademoiselle Mirah's rooms, Monsieur le Baron,
you
will find Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout there--and Monsieur
Bixiou,
Monsieur Leon de Lora, Monsieur Lousteau, Monsieur de
Vernisset,
Monsieur Stidmann; and ladies smelling of patchouli--holding
a
housewarming."
"Then, where--where is----?"
"Mademoiselle Mirah?--I don't know that I ought to tell you."
The Baron slipped two five-franc pieces into the porter's hand.
"Well, she is now in the Rue de la Ville l'Eveque, in a fine
house,
given to her, they say, by the Duc d'Herouville," replied the
man in a
whisper.
Having ascertained the number of the house, Monsieur Hulot
called a
milord and drove to one of those pretty modern houses
with double
doors, where everything, from the gaslight at the entrance,
proclaims
luxury.
The Baron, in his blue cloth coat, white neckcloth, nankeen
trousers,
patent leather boots, and stiffly starched shirt-frill, was
supposed
to be a guest, though a late arrival, by the janitor of this new
Eden.
His alacrity of manner and quick step justified this
opinion.
The porter rang a bell, and a footman appeared in the hall.
This man,
as new as the house, admitted the visitor, who said to him in
an
imperious tone, and with a lordly gesture:
"Take in this card to Mademoiselle Josepha."
The victim mechanically looked round the room in which he
found
himself--an anteroom full of choice flowers and of furniture
that must
have cost twenty thousand francs. The servant, on his return,
begged
monsieur to wait in the drawing-room till the company came to
their
coffee.
Though the Baron had been familiar with Imperial luxury, which
was
undoubtedly prodigious, while its productions, though not
durable in
kind, had nevertheless cost enormous sums, he stood dazzled,
dumfounded, in this drawing-room with three windows looking out
on a
garden like fairyland, one of those gardens that are created in
a
month with a made soil and transplanted shrubs, while the grass
seems
as if it must be made to grow by some chemical process. He
admired not
only the decoration, the gilding, the carving, in the most
expensive
Pompadour style, as it is called, and the magnificent brocades,
all of
which any enriched tradesman could have procured for money; but
he
also noted such treasures as only princes can select and find,
can pay
for and give away; two pictures by Greuze, two by Watteau, two
heads
by Vandyck, two landscapes by Ruysdael, and two by le Guaspre,
a
Rembrandt, a Holbein, a Murillo, and a Titian, two paintings,
by
Teniers, and a pair by Metzu, a Van Huysum, and an Abraham
Mignon--in
short, two hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures superbly
framed.
The gilding was worth almost as much as the paintings.
"Ah, ha! Now you understand, my good man?" said Josepha.
She had stolen in on tiptoe through a noiseless door, over
Persian
carpets, and came upon her adorer, standing lost in
amazement--in the
stupid amazement when a man's ears tingle so loudly that he
hears
nothing but that fatal knell.
The words "my good man," spoken to an official of such
high
importance, so perfectly exemplified the audacity with which
these
creatures pour contempt on the loftiest, that the Baron was
nailed to
the spot. Josepha, in white and yellow, was so beautifully
dressed for
the banquet, that amid all this lavish magnificence she still
shone
like a rare jewel.
"Isn't this really fine?" said she. "The Duke has spent all
the money
on it that he got out of floating a company, of which the shares
all
sold at a premium. He is no fool, is my little Duke. There is
nothing
like a man who has been a grandee in his time for turning coals
into
gold. Just before dinner the notary brought me the title-deeds
to sign
and the bills receipted!--They are all a first-class set in
there--
d'Esgrignon, Rastignac, Maxime, Lenoncourt, Verneuil,
Laginski,
Rochefide, la Palferine, and from among the bankers Nucingen and
du
Tillet, with Antonia, Malaga, Carabine, and la Schontz; and they
all
feel for you deeply.--Yes, old boy, and they hope you will join
them,
but on condition that you forthwith drink up to two bottles full
of
Hungarian wine, Champagne, or Cape, just to bring you up to
their
mark.--My dear fellow, we are all so much on here, that
it was
necessary to close the Opera. The manager is as drunk as a
cornet-a-
piston; he is hiccuping already."
"Oh, Josepha!----" cried the Baron.
"Now, can anything be more absurd than explanations?" she
broke in
with a smile. "Look here; can you stand six hundred thousand
francs
which this house and furniture cost? Can you give me a bond to
the
tune of thirty thousand francs a year, which is what the Duke
has just
given me in a packet of common sugared almonds from the
grocer's?--a
pretty notion that----"
"What an atrocity!" cried Hulot, who in his fury would have
given his
wife's diamonds to stand in the Duc d'Herouville's shoes for
twenty-
four hours.
"Atrocity is my trade," said she. "So that is how you take it?
Well,
why don't you float a company? Goodness me! my poor dyed Tom,
you
ought to be grateful to me; I have thrown you over just when you
would
have spent on me your widow's fortune, your daughter's
portion.--What,
tears! The Empire is a thing of the past--I hail the coming
Empire!"
She struck a tragic attitude, and exclaimed:
"They call you Hulot! Nay, I know you not--"
And she went into the other room.
Through the door, left ajar, there came, like a
lightning-flash, a
streak of light with an accompaniment of the crescendo of the
orgy and
the fragrance of a banquet of the choicest description.
The singer peeped through the partly open door, and seeing
Hulot
transfixed as if he had been a bronze image, she came one step
forward
into the room.
"Monsieur," said she, "I have handed over the rubbish in the
Rue
Chauchat to Bixiou's little Heloise Brisetout. If you wish to
claim
your cotton nightcap, your bootjack, your belt, and your wax
dye, I
have stipulated for their return."
This insolent banter made the Baron leave the room as
precipitately as
Lot departed from Gomorrah, but he did not look back like Mrs.
Lot.
Hulot went home, striding along in a fury, and talking to
himself; he
found his family still playing the game of whist at two sous a
point,
at which he left them. On seeing her husband return, poor
Adeline
imagined something dreadful, some dishonor; she gave her cards
to
Hortense, and led Hector away into the very room where, only
five
hours since, Crevel had foretold her the utmost disgrace of
poverty.
"What is the matter?" she said, terrified.
"Oh, forgive me--but let me tell you all these horrors." And
for ten
minutes he poured out his wrath.
"But, my dear," said the unhappy woman, with heroic courage,
"these
creatures do not know what love means--such pure and devoted
love as
you deserve. How could you, so clear-sighted as you are, dream
of
competing with millions?"
"Dearest Adeline!" cried the Baron, clasping her to his heart.
The Baroness' words had shed balm on the bleeding wounds to
his
vanity.
"To be sure, take away the Duc d'Herouville's fortune, and she
could
not hesitate between us!" said the Baron.
"My dear," said Adeline with a final effort, "if you
positively must
have mistresses, why do you not seek them, like Crevel, among
women
who are less extravagant, and of a class that can for a time
be
content with little? We should all gain by that
arrangement.--I
understand your need--but I do not understand that
vanity----"
"Oh, what a kind and perfect wife you are!" cried he. "I am an
old
lunatic, I do not deserve to have such a wife!"
"I am simply the Josephine of my Napoleon," she replied, with
a touch
of melancholy.
"Josephine was not to compare with you!" said he. "Come; I
will play a
game of whist with my brother and the children. I must try my
hand at
the business of a family man; I must get Hortense a husband, and
bury
the libertine."
His frankness so greatly touched poor Adeline, that she said:
"The creature has no taste to prefer any man in the world to
my
Hector. Oh, I would not give you up for all the gold on earth.
How can
any woman throw you over who is so happy as to be loved by
you?"
The look with which the Baron rewarded his wife's fanaticism
confirmed
her in her opinion that gentleness and docility were a
woman's
strongest weapons.
But in this she was mistaken. The noblest sentiments, carried
to an
excess, can produce mischief as great as do the worst vices.
Bonaparte
was made Emperor for having fired on the people, at a stone's
throw
from the spot where Louis XVI. lost his throne and his head
because he
would not allow a certain Monsieur Sauce to be hurt.
On the following morning, Hortense, who had slept with the
seal under
her pillow, so as to have it close to her all night, dressed
very
early, and sent to beg her father to join her in the garden as
soon as
he should be down.
By about half-past nine, the father, acceding to his
daughter's
petition, gave her his arm for a walk, and they went along the
quays
by the Pont Royal to the Place du Carrousel.
"Let us look into the shop windows, papa," said Hortense, as
they went
through the little gate to cross the wide square.
"What--here?" said her father, laughing at her.
"We are supposed to have come to see the pictures, and over
there"--
and she pointed to the stalls in front of the houses at a right
angle
to the Rue du Doyenne--"look! there are dealers in curiosities
and
pictures----"
"Your cousin lives there."
"I know it, but she must not see us."
"And what do you want to do?" said the Baron, who, finding
himself
within thirty yards of Madame Marneffe's windows, suddenly
remembered
her.
Hortense had dragged her father in front of one of the shops
forming
the angle of a block of houses built along the front of the
Old
Louvre, and facing the Hotel de Nantes. She went into this shop;
her
father stood outside, absorbed in gazing at the windows of the
pretty
little lady, who, the evening before, had left her image stamped
on
the old beau's heart, as if to alleviate the wound he was so
soon to
receive; and he could not help putting his wife's sage advice
into
practice.
"I will fall back on a simple little citizen's wife," said he
to
himself, recalling Madame Marneffe's adorable graces. "Such a
woman as
that will soon make me forget that grasping Josepha."
Now, this was what was happening at the same moment outside
and inside
the curiosity shop.
As he fixed his eyes on the windows of his new belle,
the Baron saw
the husband, who, while brushing his coat with his own hands,
was
apparently on the lookout, expecting to see some one on the
square.
Fearing lest he should be seen, and subsequently recognized,
the
amorous Baron turned his back on the Rue du Doyenne, or rather
stood
at three-quarters' face, as it were, so as to be able to glance
round
from time to time. This manoeuvre brought him face to face with
Madame
Marneffe, who, coming up from the quay, was doubling the
promontory of
houses to go home.
Valerie was evidently startled as she met the Baron's
astonished eye,
and she responded with a prudish dropping of her eyelids.
"A pretty woman," exclaimed he, "for whom a man would do many
foolish
things."
"Indeed, monsieur?" said she, turning suddenly, like a woman
who has
just come to some vehement decision, "you are Monsieur le Baron
Hulot,
I believe?"
The Baron, more and more bewildered, bowed assent.
"Then, as chance has twice made our eyes meet, and I am so
fortunate
as to have interested or puzzled you, I may tell you that,
instead of
doing anything foolish, you ought to do justice.--My husband's
fate
rests with you."
"And how may that be?" asked the gallant Baron.
"He is employed in your department in the War Office, under
Monsieur
Lebrun, in Monsieur Coquet's room," said she with a smile.
"I am quite disposed, Madame--Madame----?"
"Madame Marneffe."
"Dear little Madame Marneffe, to do injustice for your
sake.--I have a
cousin living in your house; I will go to see her one day
soon--as
soon as possible; bring your petition to me in her rooms."
"Pardon my boldness, Monsieur le Baron; you must understand
that if I
dare to address you thus, it is because I have no friend to
protect
me----"
"Ah, ha!"
"Monsieur, you misunderstand me," said she, lowering her eyelids.
Hulot felt as if the sun had disappeared.
"I am at my wits' end, but I am an honest woman!" she went on.
"About
six months ago my only protector died, Marshal Montcornet--"
"Ah! You are his daughter?"
"Yes, monsieur; but he never acknowledged me."
"That was that he might leave you part of his fortune."
"He left me nothing; he made no will."
"Indeed! Poor little woman! The Marshal died suddenly of
apoplexy.
But, come, madame, hope for the best. The State must do
something for
the daughter of one of the Chevalier Bayards of the Empire."
Madame Marneffe bowed gracefully and went off, as proud of her
success
as the Baron was of his.
"Where the devil has she been so early?" thought he watching
the flow
of her skirts, to which she contrived to impart a somewhat
exaggerated
grace. "She looks too tired to have just come from a bath, and
her
husband is waiting for her. It is strange, and puzzles me
altogether."
Madame Marneffe having vanished within, the Baron wondered
what his
daughter was doing in the shop. As he went in, still staring at
Madame
Marneffe's windows, he ran against a young man with a pale brow
and
sparkling gray eyes, wearing a summer coat of black merino,
coarse
drill trousers, and tan shoes, with gaiters, rushing away
headlong; he
saw him run to the house in the Rue du Doyenne, into which he
went.
Hortense, on going into the shop, had at once recognized the
famous
group, conspicuously placed on a table in the middle and in
front of
the door. Even without the circumstances to which she owed
her
knowledge of this masterpiece, it would probably have struck her
by
the peculiar power which we must call the brio--the
go--of great
works; and the girl herself might in Italy have been taken as a
model
for the personification of Brio.
Not every work by a man of genius has in the same degree
that
brilliancy, that glory which is at once patent even to the
most
ignoble beholder. Thus, certain pictures by Raphael, such as
the
famous Transfiguration, the Madonna di Foligno,
and the frescoes
of the Stanze in the Vatican, do not at first captivate
our
admiration, as do the Violin-player in the Sciarra
Palace, the
portraits of the Doria family, and the Vision of Ezekiel
in the
Pitti Gallery, the Christ bearing His Cross in the
Borghese
collection, and the Marriage of the Virgin in the Brera
at Milan.
The Saint John the Baptist of the Tribuna, and Saint
Luke painting
the Virgin's portrait in the Accademia at Rome, have not
the charm of
the Portrait of Leo X., and of the Virgin at
Dresden.
And yet they are all of equal merit. Nay, more. The
Stanze, the
Transfiguration, the panels, and the three easel pictures
in the
Vatican are in the highest degree perfect and sublime. But they
demand
a stress of attention, even from the most accomplished beholder,
and
serious study, to be fully understood; while the
Violin-player, the
Marriage of the Virgin, and the Vision of Ezekiel
go straight to
the heart through the portal of sight, and make their home
there. It
is a pleasure to receive them thus without an effort; if it is
not the
highest phase of art, it is the happiest. This fact proves that,
in
the begetting of works of art, there is as much chance in
the
character of the offspring as there is in a family of children;
that
some will be happily graced, born beautiful, and costing their
mothers
little suffering, creatures on whom everything smiles, and with
whom
everything succeeds; in short, genius, like love, has its
fairer
blossoms.
This brio, an Italian word which the French have begun
to use, is
characteristic of youthful work. It is the fruit of an impetus
and
fire of early talent--an impetus which is met with again later
in some
happy hours; but this particular brio no longer comes
from the
artist's heart; instead of his flinging it into his work as a
volcano
flings up its fires, it comes to him from outside, inspired
by
circumstances, by love, or rivalry, often by hatred, and more
often
still by the imperious need of glory to be lived up to.
This group by Wenceslas was to his later works what the
Marriage of
the Virgin is to the great mass of Raphael's, the first
step of a
gifted artist taken with the inimitable grace, the eagerness,
and
delightful overflowingness of a child, whose strength is
concealed
under the pink-and-white flesh full of dimples which seem to
echo to a
mother's laughter. Prince Eugene is said to have paid four
hundred
thousand francs for this picture, which would be worth a million
to
any nation that owned no picture by Raphael, but no one would
give
that sum for the finest of the frescoes, though their value is
far
greater as works of art.
Hortense restrained her admiration, for she reflected on the
amount of
her girlish savings; she assumed an air of indifference, and
said to
the dealer:
"What is the price of that?"
"Fifteen hundred francs," replied the man, sending a glance
of
intelligence to a young man seated on a stool in the corner.
The young man himself gazed in a stupefaction at Monsieur
Hulot's
living masterpiece. Hortense, forewarned, at once identified him
as
the artist, from the color that flushed a face pale with
endurance;
she saw the spark lighted up in his gray eyes by her question;
she
looked on the thin, drawn features, like those of a monk
consumed by
asceticism; she loved the red, well-formed mouth, the delicate
chin,
and the Pole's silky chestnut hair.
"If it were twelve hundred," said she, "I would beg you to
send it to
me."
"It is antique, mademoiselle," the dealer remarked, thinking,
like all
his fraternity, that, having uttered this ne plus ultra
of bric-a-
brac, there was no more to be said.
"Excuse me, monsieur," she replied very quietly, "it was made
this
year; I came expressly to beg you, if my price is accepted, to
send
the artist to see us, as it might be possible to procure him
some
important commissions."
"And if he is to have the twelve hundred francs, what am I
to
get? I am the dealer," said the man, with candid good-humor.
"To be sure!" replied the girl, with a slight curl of disdain.
"Oh! mademoiselle, take it; I will make terms with the
dealer,"
cried the Livonian, beside himself.
Fascinated by Hortense's wonderful beauty and the love of art
she
displayed, he added:
"I am the sculptor of the group, and for ten days I have come
here
three times a day to see if anybody would recognize its merit
and
bargain for it. You are my first admirer--take it!"
"Come, then, monsieur, with the dealer, an hour hence.--Here
is my
father's card," replied Hortense.
Then, seeing the shopkeeper go into a back room to wrap the
group in a
piece of linen rag, she added in a low voice, to the great
astonishment of the artist, who thought he must be dreaming:
"For the benefit of your future prospects, Monsieur Wenceslas,
do not
mention the name of the purchaser to Mademoiselle Fischer, for
she is
our cousin."
The word cousin dazzled the artist's mind; he had a glimpse
of
Paradise whence this daughter of Eve had come to him. He had
dreamed
of the beautiful girl of whom Lisbeth had told him, as Hortense
had
dreamed of her cousin's lover; and, as she had entered the
shop--
"Ah!" thought he, "if she could but be like this!"
The look that passed between the lovers may be imagined; it
was a
flame, for virtuous lovers have no hypocrisies.
"Well, what the deuce are you doing here?" her father asked her.
"I have been spending twelve hundred francs that I had saved.
Come."
And she took her father's arm.
"Twelve hundred francs?" he repeated.
"To be exact, thirteen hundred; you will lend me the odd hundred?"
"And on what, in such a place, could you spend so much?"
"Ah! that is the question!" replied the happy girl. "If I have
got a
husband, he is not dear at the money."
"A husband! In that shop, my child?"
"Listen, dear little father; would you forbid my marrying a
great
artist?"
"No, my dear. A great artist in these days is a prince without
a title
--he has glory and fortune, the two chief social
advantages--next to
virtue," he added, in a smug tone.
"Oh, of course!" said Hortense. "And what do you think of sculpture?"
"It is very poor business," replied Hulot, shaking his head.
"It needs
high patronage as well as great talent, for Government is the
only
purchaser. It is an art with no demand nowadays, where there are
no
princely houses, no great fortunes, no entailed mansions, no
hereditary estates. Only small pictures and small figures can
find a
place; the arts are endangered by this need of small
things."
"But if a great artist could find a demand?" said Hortense.
"That indeed would solve the problem."
"Or had some one to back him?"
"That would be even better."
"If he were of noble birth?"
"Pooh!"
"A Count."
"And a sculptor?"
"He has no money."
"And so he counts on that of Mademoiselle Hortense Hulot?"
said the
Baron ironically, with an inquisitorial look into his daughter's
eyes.
"This great artist, a Count and a sculptor, has just seen
your
daughter for the first time in his life, and for the space of
five
minutes, Monsieur le Baron," Hortense calmly replied.
"Yesterday, you
must know, dear little father, while you were at the Chamber,
mamma
had a fainting fit. This, which she ascribed to a nervous
attack, was
the result of some worry that had to do with the failure of
my
marriage, for she told me that to get rid of me---"
"She is too fond of you to have used an expression----"
"So unparliamentary!" Hortense put in with a laugh. "No, she
did not
use those words; but I know that a girl old enough to marry and
who
does not find a husband is a heavy cross for respectable parents
to
bear.--Well, she thinks that if a man of energy and talent could
be
found, who would be satisfied with thirty thousand francs for
my
marriage portion, we might all be happy. In fact, she thought
it
advisable to prepare me for the modesty of my future lot, and
to
hinder me from indulging in too fervid dreams.--Which evidently
meant
an end to the intended marriage, and no settlements for me!"
"Your mother is a very good woman, noble, admirable!" replied
the
father, deeply humiliated, though not sorry to hear this
confession.
"She told me yesterday that she had your permission to sell
her
diamonds so as to give me something to marry on; but I should
like her
to keep her jewels, and to find a husband myself. I think I have
found
the man, the possible husband, answering to mamma's
prospectus----"
"There?--in the Place du Carrousel?--and in one morning?"
"Oh, papa, the mischief lies deeper!" said she archly.
"Well, come, my child, tell the whole story to your good old
father,"
said he persuasively, and concealing his uneasiness.
Under promise of absolute secrecy, Hortense repeated the
upshot of her
various conversations with her Cousin Betty. Then, when they got
home,
she showed the much-talked-of-seal to her father in evidence of
the
sagacity of her views. The father, in the depth of his heart,
wondered
at the skill and acumen of girls who act on instinct, discerning
the
simplicity of the scheme which her idealized love had suggested
in the
course of a single night to his guileless daughter.
"You will see the masterpiece I have just bought; it is to be
brought
home, and that dear Wenceslas is to come with the dealer.--The
man who
made that group ought to make a fortune; only use your influence
to
get him an order for a statue, and rooms at the
Institut----"
"How you run on!" cried her father. "Why, if you had your own
way, you
would be man and wife within the legal period--in eleven
days----"
"Must we wait so long?" said she, laughing. "But I fell in
love with
him in five minutes, as you fell in love with mamma at first
sight.
And he loves me as if we had known each other for two years.
Yes," she
said in reply to her father's look, "I read ten volumes of love
in his
eyes. And will not you and mamma accept him as my husband when
you see
that he is a man of genius? Sculpture is the greatest of the
Arts,"
she cried, clapping her hands and jumping. "I will tell you
everything----"
"What, is there more to come?" asked her father, smiling.
The child's complete and effervescent innocence had restored
her
father's peace of mind.
"A confession of the first importance," said she. "I loved him
without
knowing him; and, for the last hour, since seeing him, I am
crazy
about him."
"A little too crazy!" said the Baron, who was enjoying the
sight of
this guileless passion.
"Do not punish me for confiding in you," replied she. "It is
so
delightful to say to my father's heart, 'I love him! I am so
happy in
loving him!'--You will see my Wenceslas! His brow is so sad. The
sun
of genius shines in his gray eyes--and what an air he has! What
do you
think of Livonia? Is it a fine country?--The idea of Cousin
Betty's
marrying that young fellow! She might be his mother. It would
be
murder! I am quite jealous of all she has ever done for him. But
I
don't think my marriage will please her."
"See, my darling, we must hide nothing from your mother."
"I should have to show her the seal, and I promised not to
betray
Cousin Lisbeth, who is afraid, she says, of mamma's laughing at
her,"
said Hortense.
"You have scruples about the seal, and none about robbing your
cousin
of her lover."
"I promised about the seal--I made no promise about the sculptor."
This adventure, patriarchal in its simplicity, came admirably
a
propos to the unconfessed poverty of the family; the
Baron, while
praising his daughter for her candor, explained to her that she
must
now leave matters to the discretion of her parents.
"You understand, my child, that it is not your part to
ascertain
whether your cousin's lover is a Count, if he has all his
papers
properly certified, and if his conduct is a guarantee for
his
respectability.--As for your cousin, she refused five offers
when she
was twenty years younger; that will prove no obstacle, I
undertake to
say."
"Listen to me, papa; if you really wish to see me married,
never say a
word to Lisbeth about it till just before the contract is
signed. I
have been catechizing her about this business for the last six
months!
Well, there is something about her quite inexplicable----"
"What?" said her father, puzzled.
"Well, she looks evil when I say too much, even in joke, about
her
lover. Make inquiries, but leave me to row my own boat. My
confidence
ought to reassure you."
"The Lord said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me.' You
are one
of those who have come back again," replied the Baron with a
touch of
irony.
After breakfast the dealer was announced, and the artist with
his
group. The sudden flush that reddened her daughter's face at
once made
the Baroness suspicious and then watchful, and the girl's
confusion
and the light in her eyes soon betrayed the mystery so badly
guarded
in her simple heart.
Count Steinbock, dressed in black, struck the Baron as a
very
gentlemanly young man.
"Would you undertake a bronze statue?" he asked, as he held up
the
group.
After admiring it on trust, he passed it on to his wife, who
knew
nothing about sculpture.
"It is beautiful, isn't it, mamma?" said Hortense in her mother' ear.
"A statue! Monsieur, it is less difficult to execute a statue
than to
make a clock like this, which my friend here has been kind
enough to
bring," said the artist in reply.
The dealer was placing on the dining-room sideboard the wax
model of
the twelve Hours that the Loves were trying to delay.
"Leave the clock with me," said the Baron, astounded at the
beauty of
the sketch. "I should like to show it to the Ministers of the
Interior
and of Commerce."
"Who is the young man in whom you take so much interest?" the
Baroness
asked her daughter.
"An artist who could afford to execute this model could get a
hundred
thousand francs for it," said the curiosity-dealer, putting on
a
knowing and mysterious look as he saw that the artist and the
girl
were interchanging glances. "He would only need to sell twenty
copies
at eight thousand francs each--for the materials would cost
about a
thousand crowns for each example. But if each copy were numbered
and
the mould destroyed, it would certainly be possible to meet
with
twenty amateurs only too glad to possess a replica of such a
work."
"A hundred thousand francs!" cried Steinbock, looking from the
dealer
to Hortense, the Baron, and the Baroness.
"Yes, a hundred thousand francs," repeated the dealer. "If I
were rich
enough, I would buy it of you myself for twenty thousand francs;
for
by destroying the mould it would become a valuable property. But
one
of the princes ought to pay thirty or forty thousand francs for
such a
work to ornament his drawing-room. No man has ever succeeded in
making
a clock satisfactory alike to the vulgar and to the connoisseur,
and
this one, sir, solves the difficulty."
"This is for yourself, monsieur," said Hortense, giving six
gold
pieces to the dealer.
"Never breath a word of this visit to any one living," said
the artist
to his friend, at the door. "If you should be asked where we
sold the
group, mention the Duc d'Herouville, the famous collector in the
Rue
de Varenne."
The dealer nodded assent.
"And your name?" said Hulot to the artist when he came back.
"Count Steinbock."
"Have you the papers that prove your identity?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Baron. They are in Russian and in German,
but not
legalized."
"Do you feel equal to undertaking a statue nine feet high?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, then, if the persons whom I shall consult are satisfied
with
your work, I can secure you the commission for the statue of
Marshal
Montcornet, which is to be erected on his monument at
Pere-Lachaise.
The Minister of War and the old officers of the Imperial Guard
have
subscribed a sum large enough to enable us to select our
artist."
"Oh, monsieur, it will make my fortune!" exclaimed
Steinbock,
overpowered by so much happiness at once.
"Be easy," replied the Baron graciously. "If the two ministers
to whom
I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are
delighted with
these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good."
Hortense hugged her father's arm so tightly as to hurt him.
"Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to
anybody, not
even to our old Cousin Betty."
"Lisbeth?" said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of
all
this, though unable to guess the means.
"I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the
Baroness,"
added Wenceslas.
The artist, struck by Madame Hulot's beauty, was comparing the
mother
and daughter.
"Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you," said the Baron,
quite
charmed by Count Steinbock's refined and elegant manner. "You
will
find out that in Paris no man is clever for nothing, and
that
persevering toil always finds its reward here."
Hortense, with a blush, held out to the young man a pretty
Algerine
purse containing sixty gold pieces. The artist, with something
still
of a gentleman's pride, responded with a mounting color easy
enough to
interpret.
"This, perhaps, is the first money your works have brought
you?" said
Adeline.
"Yes, madame--my works of art. It is not the first-fruits of
my labor,
for I have been a workman."
"Well, we must hope my daughter's money will bring you good
luck,"
said she.
"And take it without scruple," added the Baron, seeing that
Wenceslas
held the purse in his hand instead of pocketing it. "The sum
will be
repaid by some rich man, a prince perhaps, who will offer it
with
interest to possess so fine a work."
"Oh, I want it too much myself, papa, to give it up to anybody
in the
world, even a royal prince!"
"I can make a far prettier thing than that for you, mademoiselle."
"But it would not be this one," replied she; and then, as if
ashamed
of having said too much, she ran out into the garden.
"Then I shall break the mould and the model as soon as I go
home,"
said Steinbock.
"Fetch me your papers, and you will hear of me before long, if
you are
equal to what I expect of you, monsieur."
The artist on this could but take leave. After bowing to
Madame Hulot
and Hortense, who came in from the garden on purpose, he went
off to
walk in the Tuileries, not bearing--not daring--to return to
his
attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring
his
secret from him.
Hortense's adorer conceived of groups and statues by the
hundred; he
felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who
was
also a feeble man, and nearly died of it. He was transfigured
by
Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.
"Now then," said the Baroness to her daughter, "what does all
this
mean?"
"Well, dear mamma, you have just seen Cousin Lisbeth's lover,
who now,
I hope, is mine. But shut your eyes, know nothing. Good Heavens!
I was
to keep it all from you, and I cannot help telling you
everything----"
"Good-bye, children!" said the Baron, kissing his wife and
daughter;
"I shall perhaps go to call on the Nanny, and from her I shall
hear a
great deal about our young man."
"Papa, be cautious!" said Hortense.
"Oh! little girl!" cried the Baroness when Hortense had poured
out her
poem, of which the morning's adventure was the last canto,
"dear
little girl, Artlessness will always be the artfulest puss on
earth!"
Genuine passions have an unerring instinct. Set a greedy man
before a
dish of fruit and he will make no mistake, but take the choicest
even
without seeing it. In the same way, if you allow a girl who is
well
brought up to choose a husband for herself, if she is in a
position to
meet the man of her heart, rarely will she blunder. The act of
nature
in such cases is known as love at first sight; and in love,
first
sight is practically second sight.
The Baroness' satisfaction, though disguised under maternal
dignity,
was as great as her daughter's; for, of the three ways of
marrying
Hortense of which Crevel had spoken, the best, as she opined,
was
about to be realized. And she regarded this little drama as an
answer
by Providence to her fervent prayers.
Mademoiselle Fischer's galley slave, obliged at last to go
home,
thought he might hide his joy as a lover under his glee as an
artist
rejoicing over his first success.
"Victory! my group is sold to the Duc d'Herouville, who is
going to
give me some commissions," cried he, throwing the twelve
hundred
francs in gold on the table before the old maid.
He had, as may be supposed concealed Hortense's purse; it lay
next to
his heart.
"And a very good thing too," said Lisbeth. "I was working
myself to
death. You see, child, money comes in slowly in the business you
have
taken up, for this is the first you have earned, and you have
been
grinding at it for near on five years now. That money barely
repays me
for what you have cost me since I took your promissory note;
that is
all I have got by my savings. But be sure of one thing," she
said,
after counting the gold, "this money will all be spent on you.
There
is enough there to keep us going for a year. In a year you may
now be
able to pay your debt and have a snug little sum of your own, if
you
go on in the same way."
Wenceslas, finding his trick successful, expatiated on the
Duc
d'Herouville.
"I will fit you out in a black suit, and get you some new
linen," said
Lisbeth, "for you must appear presentably before your patrons;
and
then you must have a larger and better apartment than your
horrible
garret, and furnish it property.--You look so bright, you are
not like
the same creature," she added, gazing at Wenceslas.
"But my work is pronounced a masterpiece."
"Well, so much the better! Do some more," said the arid
creature, who
was nothing but practical, and incapable of understanding the
joy of
triumph or of beauty in Art. "Trouble your head no further about
what
you have sold; make something else to sell. You have spent two
hundred
francs in money, to say nothing of your time and your labor, on
that
devil of a Samson. Your clock will cost you more than two
thousand
francs to execute. I tell you what, if you will listen to me,
you will
finish the two little boys crowning the little girl with
cornflowers;
that would just suit the Parisians.--I will go round to Monsieur
Graff
the tailor before going to Monsieur Crevel.--Go up now and leave
me to
dress."
Next day the Baron, perfectly crazy about Madame Marneffe,
went to see
Cousin Betty, who was considerably amazed on opening the door to
see
who her visitor was, for he had never called on her before. She
at
once said to herself, "Can it be that Hortense wants my
lover?"--for
she had heard the evening before, at Monsieur Crevel's, that
the
marriage with the Councillor of the Supreme Court was broken
off.
"What, Cousin! you here? This is the first time you have ever
been to
see me, and it is certainly not for love of my fine eyes that
you have
come now."
"Fine eyes is the truth," said the Baron; "you have as fine
eyes as I
have ever seen----"
"Come, what are you here for? I really am ashamed to receive
you in
such a kennel."
The outer room of the two inhabited by Lisbeth served her as
sitting-
room, dining-room, kitchen, and workroom. The furniture was such
as
beseemed a well-to-do artisan--walnut-wood chairs with straw
seats, a
small walnut-wood dining table, a work table, some colored
prints in
black wooden frames, short muslin curtains to the windows, the
floor
well polished and shining with cleanliness, not a speck of
dust
anywhere, but all cold and dingy, like a picture by Terburg in
every
particular, even to the gray tone given by a wall paper once
blue and
now faded to gray. As to the bedroom, no human being had
ever
penetrated its secrets.
The Baron took it all in at a glance, saw the sign-manual
of
commonness on every detail, from the cast-iron stove to the
household
utensils, and his gorge rose as he said to himself, "And
this is
virtue!--What am I here for?" said he aloud. "You are far too
cunning
not to guess, and I had better tell you plainly," cried he,
sitting
down and looking out across the courtyard through an opening he
made
in the puckered curtain. "There is a very pretty woman in
the
house----"
"Madame Marneffe! Now I understand!" she exclaimed, seeing it
all.
"But Josepha?"
"Alas, Cousin, Josepha is no more. I was turned out of doors
like a
discarded footman."
"And you would like . . .?" said Lisbeth, looking at the Baron
with
the dignity of a prude on her guard a quarter of an hour too
soon.
"As Madame Marneffe is very much the lady, and the wife of an
employe,
you can meet her without compromising yourself," the Baron went
on,
"and I should like to see you neighborly. Oh! you need not be
alarmed;
she will have the greatest consideration for the cousin of
her
husband's chief."
At this moment the rustle of a gown was heard on the stairs
and the
footstep of a woman wearing the thinnest boots. The sound ceased
on
the landing. There was a tap at the door, and Madame Marneffe
came in.
"Pray excuse me, mademoiselle, for thus intruding upon you,
but I
failed to find you yesterday when I came to call; we are
near
neighbors; and if I had known that you were related to Monsieur
le
Baron, I should long since have craved your kind interest with
him. I
saw him come in, so I took the liberty of coming across; for
my
husband, Monsieur le Baron, spoke to me of a report on the
office
clerks which is to be laid before the minister to-morrow."
She seemed quite agitated and nervous--but she had only run upstairs.
"You have no need to play the petitioner, fair lady," replied
the
Baron. "It is I who should ask the favor of seeing you."
"Very well, if mademoiselle allows it, pray come!" said
Madame
Marneffe.
"Yes--go, Cousin, I will join you," said Lisbeth judiciously.
The Parisienne had so confidently counted on the chief's visit
and
intelligence, that not only had she dressed herself for so
important
an interview--she had dressed her room. Early in the day it had
been
furnished with flowers purchased on credit. Marneffe had helped
his
wife to polish the furniture, down to the smallest objects,
washing,
brushing, and dusting everything. Valerie wished to be found in
an
atmosphere of sweetness, to attract the chief and to please him
enough
to have a right to be cruel; to tantalize him as a child would,
with
all the tricks of fashionable tactics. She had gauged Hulot.
Give a
Paris woman at bay four-and-twenty hours, and she will overthrow
a
ministry.
The man of the Empire, accustomed to the ways to the Empire, was
no
doubt quite ignorant of the ways of modern love-making, of
the
scruples in vogue and the various styles of conversation
invented
since 1830, which led to the poor weak woman being regarded as
the
victim of her lover's desires--a Sister of Charity salving a
wound, an
angel sacrificing herself.
This modern art of love uses a vast amount of evangelical
phrases in
the service of the Devil. Passion is martyrdom. Both parties
aspire to
the Ideal, to the Infinite; love is to make them so much better.
All
these fine words are but a pretext for putting increased ardor
into
the practical side of it, more frenzy into a fall than of old.
This
hypocrisy, a characteristic of the times, is a gangrene in
gallantry.
The lovers are both angels, and they behave, if they can, like
two
devils.
Love had no time for such subtle analysis between two
campaigns, and
in 1809 its successes were as rapid as those of the Empire. So,
under
the Restoration, the handsome Baron, a lady's man once more, had
begun
by consoling some old friends now fallen from the political
firmament,
like extinguished stars, and then, as he grew old, was captured
by
Jenny Cadine and Josepha.
Madame Marneffe had placed her batteries after due study of
the
Baron's past life, which her husband had narrated in much
detail,
after picking up some information in the offices. The comedy of
modern
sentiment might have the charm of novelty to the Baron; Valerie
had
made up her mind as to her scheme; and we may say the trial of
her
power that she made this morning answered her highest
expectations.
Thanks to her manoeuvres, sentimental, high-flown, and
romantic,
Valerie, without committing herself to any promises, obtained
for her
husband the appointment as deputy head of the office and the
Cross of
the Legion of Honor.
The campaign was not carried out without little dinners at the
Rocher
de Cancale, parties to the play, and gifts in the form of
lace,
scarves, gowns, and jewelry. The apartment in the Rue du Doyenne
was
not satisfactory; the Baron proposed to furnish another
magnificently
in a charming new house in the Rue Vanneau.
Monsieur Marneffe got a fortnight's leave, to be taken a month
hence
for urgent private affairs in the country, and a present in
money; he
promised himself that he would spend both in a little town
in
Switzerland, studying the fair sex.
While Monsieur Hulot thus devoted himself to the lady he
was
"protecting," he did not forget the young artist. Comte
Popinot,
Minister of Commerce, was a patron of Art; he paid two thousand
francs
for a copy of the Samson on condition that the mould
should be
broken, and that there should be no Samson but his and
Mademoiselle
Hulot's. The group was admired by a Prince, to whom the model
sketch
for the clock was also shown, and who ordered it; but that again
was
to be unique, and he offered thirty thousand francs for it.
Artists who were consulted, and among them Stidmann, were of
opinion
that the man who had sketched those two models was capable
of
achieving a statue. The Marshal Prince de Wissembourg, Minister
of
War, and President of the Committee for the subscriptions to
the
monument of Marshal Montcornet, called a meeting, at which it
was
decided that the execution of the work should be placed in
Steinbock's
hands. The Comte de Rastignac, at that time Under-secretary of
State,
wished to possess a work by the artist, whose glory was waxing
amid
the acclamations of his rivals. Steinbock sold to him the
charming
group of two little boys crowning a little girl, and he promised
to
secure for the sculptor a studio attached to the Government
marble-
quarries, situated, as all the world knows, at Le
Gros-Caillou.
This was a success, such success as is won in Paris, that is
to say,
stupendous success, that crushes those whose shoulders and loins
are
not strong enough to bear it--as, be it said, not unfrequently
is the
case. Count Wenceslas Steinbock was written about in all the
newspapers and reviews without his having the least suspicion of
it,
any more than had Mademoiselle Fischer. Every day, as soon as
Lisbeth
had gone out to dinner, Wenceslas went to the Baroness' and
spent an
hour or two there, excepting on the evenings when Lisbeth dined
with
the Hulots.
This state of things lasted for several days.
The Baron, assured of Count Steinbock's titles and position;
the
Baroness, pleased with his character and habits; Hortense, proud
of
her permitted love and of her suitor's fame, none of them
hesitated to
speak of the marriage; in short, the artist was in the seventh
heaven,
when an indiscretion on Madame Marneffe's part spoilt all.
And this was how.
Lisbeth, whom the Baron wished to see intimate with Madame
Marneffe,
that she might keep an eye on the couple, had already dined
with
Valerie; and she, on her part, anxious to have an ear in the
Hulot
house, made much of the old maid. It occurred to Valerie to
invite
Mademoiselle Fischer to a house-warming in the new apartments
she was
about to move into. Lisbeth, glad to have found another house to
dine
in, and bewitched by Madame Marneffe, had taken a great fancy
to
Valerie. Of all the persons she had made acquaintance with, no
one had
taken so much pains to please her. In fact, Madame Marneffe,
full of
attentions for Mademoiselle Fischer, found herself in the
position
towards Lisbeth that Lisbeth held towards the Baroness,
Monsieur
Rivet, Crevel, and the others who invited her to dinner.
The Marneffes had excited Lisbeth's compassion by allowing her
to see
the extreme poverty of the house, while varnishing it as usual
with
the fairest colors; their friends were under obligations to them
and
ungrateful; they had had much illness; Madame Fortin, her
mother, had
never known of their distress, and had died believing herself
wealthy
to the end, thanks to their superhuman efforts--and so
forth.
"Poor people!" said she to her Cousin Hulot, "you are right to
do what
you can for them; they are so brave and so kind! They can hardly
live
on the thousand crowns he gets as deputy-head of the office, for
they
have got into debt since Marshal Montcornet's death. It is
barbarity
on the part of the Government to suppose that a clerk with a
wife and
family can live in Paris on two thousand four hundred francs a
year."
And so, within a very short time, a young woman who affected
regard
for her, who told her everything, and consulted her, who
flattered
her, and seemed ready to yield to her guidance, had become
dearer to
the eccentric Cousin Lisbeth than all her relations.
The Baron, on his part, admiring in Madame Marneffe such
propriety,
education, and breeding as neither Jenny Cadine nor Josepha, nor
any
friend of theirs had to show, had fallen in love with her in a
month,
developing a senile passion, a senseless passion, which had
an
appearance of reason. In fact, he found here neither the banter,
nor
the orgies, nor the reckless expenditure, nor the depravity, nor
the
scorn of social decencies, nor the insolent independence which
had
brought him to grief alike with the actress and the singer. He
was
spared, too, the rapacity of the courtesan, like unto the thirst
of
dry sand.
Madame Marneffe, of whom he had made a friend and confidante,
made the
greatest difficulties over accepting any gift from him.
"Appointments, official presents, anything you can extract
from the
Government; but do not begin by insulting a woman whom you
profess to
love," said Valerie. "If you do, I shall cease to believe
you--and I
like to believe you," she added, with a glance like Saint
Theresa
leering at heaven.
Every time he made her a present there was a fortress to be
stormed, a
conscience to be over-persuaded. The hapless Baron laid deep
stratagems to offer her some trifle--costly, nevertheless--proud
of
having at last met with virtue and the realization of his
dreams. In
this primitive household, as he assured himself, he was the god
as
much as in his own. And Monsieur Marneffe seemed at a thousand
leagues
from suspecting that the Jupiter of his office intended to
descend on
his wife in a shower of gold; he was his august chief's
humblest
slave.
Madame Marneffe, twenty-three years of age, a pure and bashful
middle-
class wife, a blossom hidden in the Rue du Doyenne, could know
nothing
of the depravity and demoralizing harlotry which the Baron could
no
longer think of without disgust, for he had never known the
charm of
recalcitrant virtue, and the coy Valerie made him enjoy it to
the
utmost--all along the line, as the saying goes.
The question having come to this point between Hector and
Valerie, it
is not astonishing that Valerie should have heard from Hector
the
secret of the intended marriage between the great sculptor
Steinbock
and Hortense Hulot. Between a lover on his promotion and a lady
who
hesitates long before becoming his mistress, there are
contests,
uttered or unexpressed, in which a word often betrays a thought;
as,
in fencing, the foils fly as briskly as the swords in duel. Then
a
prudent man follows the example of Monsieur de Turenne. Thus the
Baron
had hinted at the greater freedom his daughter's marriage would
allow
him, in reply to the tender Valerie, who more than once had
exclaimed:
"I cannot imagine how a woman can go wrong for a man who is
not wholly
hers."
And a thousand times already the Baron had declared that for
five-and-
twenty years all had been at an end between Madame Hulot and
himself.
"And they say she is so handsome!" replied Madame Marneffe. "I
want
proof."
"You shall have it," said the Baron, made happy by this
demand, by
which his Valerie committed herself.
Hector had then been compelled to reveal his plans, already
being
carried into effect in the Rue Vanneau, to prove to Valerie that
he
intended to devote to her that half of his life which belonged
to his
lawful wife, supposing that day and night equally divide the
existence
of civilized humanity. He spoke of decently deserting his
wife,
leaving her to herself as soon as Hortense should be married.
The
Baroness would then spend all her time with Hortense or the
young
Hulot couple; he was sure of her submission.
"And then, my angel, my true life, my real home will be in the
Rue
Vanneau."
"Bless me, how you dispose of me!" said Madame Marneffe. "And
my
husband----"
"That rag!"
"To be sure, as compared with you so he is!" said she with a laugh.
Madame Marneffe, having heard Steinbock's history, was
frantically
eager to see the young Count; perhaps she wished to have some
trifle
of his work while they still lived under the same roof. This
curiosity
so seriously annoyed the Baron that Valerie swore to him that
she
would never even look at Wenceslas. But though she obtained, as
the
reward of her surrender of this wish, a little tea-service of
old
Sevres pate tendre, she kept her wish at the bottom of
her heart, as
if written on tablets.
So one day when she had begged "my Cousin Betty" to
come to take
coffee with her in her room, she opened on the subject of her
lover,
to know how she might see him without risk.
"My dear child," said she, for they called each my dear, "why
have you
never introduced your lover to me? Do you know that within a
short
time he has become famous?"
"He famous?"
"He is the one subject of conversation."
"Pooh!" cried Lisbeth.
"He is going to execute the statue of my father, and I could
be of
great use to him and help him to succeed in the work; for
Madame
Montcornet cannot lend him, as I can, a miniature by Sain, a
beautiful
thing done in 1809, before the Wagram Campaign, and given to my
poor
mother--Montcornet when he was young and handsome."
Sain and Augustin between them held the sceptre of miniature
painting
under the Empire.
"He is going to make a statue, my dear, did you say?"
"Nine feet high--by the orders of the Minister of War. Why,
where have
you dropped from that I should tell you the news? Why, the
Government
is going to give Count Steinbock rooms and a studio at Le
Gros-
Caillou, the depot for marble; your Pole will be made the
Director, I
should not wonder, with two thousand francs a year and a ring on
his
finger."
"How do you know all this when I have heard nothing about it?"
said
Lisbeth at last, shaking off her amazement.
"Now, my dear little Cousin Betty," said Madame Marneffe, in
an
insinuating voice, "are you capable of devoted friendship, put
to any
test? Shall we henceforth be sisters? Will you swear to me never
to
have a secret from me any more than I from you--to act as my
spy, as I
will be yours?--Above all, will you pledge yourself never to
betray me
either to my husband or to Monsieur Hulot, and never reveal that
it
was I who told you----?"
Madame Marneffe broke off in this spurring harangue;
Lisbeth
frightened her. The peasant-woman's face was terrible; her
piercing
black eyes had the glare of the tiger's; her face was like that
we
ascribe to a pythoness; she set her teeth to keep them from
chattering, and her whole frame quivered convulsively. She had
pushed
her clenched fingers under her cap to clutch her hair and
support her
head, which felt too heavy; she was on fire. The smoke of the
flame
that scorched her seemed to emanate from her wrinkles as from
the
crevasses rent by a volcanic eruption. It was a startling
spectacle.
"Well, why do you stop?" she asked in a hollow voice. "I will
be all
to you that I have been to him.--Oh, I would have given him my
life-
blood!"
"You loved him then?"
"Like a child of my own!"
"Well, then," said Madame Marneffe, with a breath of relief,
"if you
only love him in that way, you will be very happy--for you wish
him to
be happy?"
Lisbeth replied by a nod as hasty as a madwoman's.
"He is to marry your Cousin Hortense in a month's time."
"Hortense!" shrieked the old maid, striking her forehead, and
starting
to her feet.
"Well, but then you were really in love with this young man?"
asked
Valerie.
"My dear, we are bound for life and death, you and I,"
said
Mademoiselle Fischer. "Yes, if you have any love affairs, to me
they
are sacred. Your vices will be virtues in my eyes.--For I shall
need
your vices!"
"Then did you live with him?" asked Valerie.
"No; I meant to be a mother to him."
"I give it up. I cannot understand," said Valerie. "In that
case you
are neither betrayed nor cheated, and you ought to be very happy
to
see him so well married; he is now fairly afloat. And, at any
rate,
your day is over. Our artist goes to Madame Hulot's every
evening as
soon as you go out to dinner."
"Adeline!" muttered Lisbeth. "Oh, Adeline, you shall pay for
this! I
will make you uglier than I am."
"You are as pale as death!" exclaimed Valerie. "There is
something
wrong?--Oh, what a fool I am! The mother and daughter must
have
suspected that you would raise some obstacles in the way of
this
affair since they have kept it from you," said Madame Marneffe.
"But
if you did not live with the young man, my dear, all this is a
greater
puzzle to me than my husband's feelings----"
"Ah, you don't know," said Lisbeth; "you have no idea of all
their
tricks. It is the last blow that kills. And how many such blows
have I
had to bruise my soul! You don't know that from the time when I
could
first feel, I have been victimized for Adeline. I was beaten,
and she
was petted; I was dressed like a scullion, and she had clothes
like a
lady's; I dug in the garden and cleaned the vegetables, and
she--she
never lifted a finger for anything but to make up some
finery!--She
married the Baron, she came to shine at the Emperor's Court,
while I
stayed in our village till 1809, waiting for four years for a
suitable
match; they brought me away, to be sure, but only to make me a
work-
woman, and to offer me clerks or captains like coalheavers for
a
husband! I have had their leavings for twenty-six years!--And
now like
the story in the Old Testament, the poor relation has one
ewe-lamb
which is all her joy, and the rich man who has flocks covets the
ewe-
lamb and steals it--without warning, without asking. Adeline
has
meanly robbed me of my happiness!--Adeline! Adeline! I will see
you in
the mire, and sunk lower than myself!--And Hortense--I loved
her, and
she has cheated me. The Baron.--No, it is impossible. Tell me
again
what is really true of all this."
"Be calm, my dear child."
"Valerie, my darling, I will be calm," said the strange
creature,
sitting down again. "One thing only can restore me to reason;
give me
proofs."
"Your Cousin Hortense has the Samson group--here is a
lithograph
from it published in a review. She paid for it out of her
pocket-
money, and it is the Baron who, to benefit his future
son-in-law, is
pushing him, getting everything for him."
"Water!--water!" said Lisbeth, after glancing at the print,
below
which she read, "A group belonging to Mademoiselle Hulot
d'Ervy."
"Water! my head is burning, I am going mad!"
Madame Marneffe fetched some water. Lisbeth took off her
cap,
unfastened her black hair, and plunged her head into the basin
her new
friend held for her. She dipped her forehead into it several
times,
and checked the incipient inflammation. After this douche
she
completely recovered her self-command.
"Not a word," said she to Madame Marneffe as she wiped her
face--"not
a word of all this.--You see, I am quite calm; everything is
forgotten. I am thinking of something very different."
"She will be in Charenton to-morrow, that is very certain,"
thought
Madame Marneffe, looking at the old maid.
"What is to be done?" Lisbeth went on. "You see, my angel,
there is
nothing for it but to hold my tongue, bow my head, and drift to
the
grave, as all water runs to the river. What could I try to do?
I
should like to grind them all--Adeline, her daughter, and the
Baron--
all to dust! But what can a poor relation do against a rich
family? It
would be the story of the earthen pot and the iron pot."
"Yes; you are right," said Valerie. "You can only pull as much
hay as
you can to your side of the manger. That is all the upshot of
life in
Paris."
"Besides," said Lisbeth, "I shall soon die, I can tell you, if
I lose
that boy to whom I fancied I could always be a mother, and with
whom I
counted on living all my days----"
There were tears in her eyes, and she paused. Such emotion in
this
woman made of sulphur and flame, made Valerie shudder.
"Well, at any rate, I have found you," said Lisbeth, taking
Valerie's
hand, "that is some consolation in this dreadful trouble.--We
shall be
true friends; and why should we ever part? I shall never cross
your
track. No one will ever be in love with me!--Those who would
have
married me, would only have done it to secure my Cousin
Hulot's
interest. With energy enough to scale Paradise, to have to
devote it
to procuring bread and water, a few rags, and a garret!--That
is
martyrdom, my dear, and I have withered under it."
She broke off suddenly, and shot a black flash into Madame
Marneffe's
blue eyes, a glance that pierced the pretty woman's soul, as the
point
of a dagger might have pierced her heart.
"And what is the use of talking?" she exclaimed in reproof to
herself.
"I never said so much before, believe me! The tables will be
turned
yet!" she added after a pause. "As you so wisely say, let us
sharpen
our teeth, and pull down all the hay we can get."
"You are very wise," said Madame Marneffe, who had been
frightened by
this scene, and had no remembrance of having uttered this maxim.
"I am
sure you are right, my dear child. Life is not so long after
all, and
we must make the best of it, and make use of others to
contribute to
our enjoyment. Even I have learned that, young as I am. I was
brought
up a spoilt child, my father married ambitiously, and almost
forgot
me, after making me his idol and bringing me up like a
queen's
daughter! My poor mother, who filled my head with splendid
visions,
died of grief at seeing me married to an office clerk with
twelve
hundred francs a year, at nine-and-thirty an aged and
hardened
libertine, as corrupt as the hulks, looking on me, as others
looked on
you, as a means of fortune!--Well, in that wretched man, I have
found
the best of husbands. He prefers the squalid sluts he picks up
at the
street corners, and leaves me free. Though he keeps all his
salary to
himself, he never asks me where I get money to live on----"
And she in her turn stopped short, as a woman does who feels
herself
carried away by the torrent of her confessions; struck, too,
by
Lisbeth's eager attention, she thought well to make sure of
Lisbeth
before revealing her last secrets.
"You see, dear child, how entire is my confidence in you!"
she
presently added, to which Lisbeth replied by a most comforting
nod.
An oath may be taken by a look and a nod more solemnly than in
a court
of justice.
"I keep up every appearance of respectability," Valerie went
on,
laying her hand on Lisbeth's as if to accept her pledge. "I am
a
married woman, and my own mistress, to such a degree, that in
the
morning, when Marneffe sets out for the office, if he takes it
into
his head to say good-bye and finds my door locked, he goes off
without
a word. He cares less for his boy than I care for one of the
marble
children that play at the feet of one of the river-gods in
the
Tuileries. If I do not come home to dinner, he dines quite
contentedly
with the maid, for the maid is devoted to monsieur; and he goes
out
every evening after dinner, and does not come in till twelve or
one
o'clock. Unfortunately, for a year past, I have had no ladies'
maid,
which is as much as to say that I am a widow!
"I have had one passion, once have been happy--a rich
Brazilian--who
went away a year ago--my only lapse!--He went away to sell
his
estates, to realize his land, and come back to live in France.
What
will he find left of his Valerie? A dunghill. Well! it is his
fault
and not mine; why does he delay coming so long? Perhaps he has
been
wrecked--like my virtue."
"Good-bye, my dear," said Lisbeth abruptly; "we are friends
for ever.
I love you, I esteem you, I am wholly yours! My cousin is
tormenting
me to go and live in the house you are moving to, in the Rue
Vanneau;
but I would not go, for I saw at once the reasons for this fresh
piece
of kindness----"
"Yes; you would have kept an eye on me, I know!" said Madame Marneffe.
"That was, no doubt, the motive of his generosity," replied
Lisbeth.
"In Paris, most beneficence is a speculation, as most acts
of
ingratitude are revenge! To a poor relation you behave as you do
to
rats to whom you offer a bit of bacon. Now, I will accept the
Baron's
offer, for this house has grown intolerable to me. You and I
have wit
enough to hold our tongues about everything that would damage
us, and
tell all that needs telling. So, no blabbing--and we are
friends."
"Through thick and thin!" cried Madame Marneffe, delighted to
have a
sheep-dog, a confidante, a sort of respectable aunt. "Listen to
me;
the Baron is doing a great deal in the Rue Vanneau----"
"I believe you!" interrupted Lisbeth. "He has spent thirty
thousand
francs! Where he got the money, I am sure I don't know, for
Josepha
the singer bled him dry.--Oh! you are in luck," she went on.
"The
Baron would steal for a woman who held his heart in two little
white
satin hands like yours!"
"Well, then," said Madame Marneffe, with the liberality of
such
creatures, which is mere recklessness, "look here, my dear
child; take
away from here everything that may serve your turn in your
new
quarters--that chest of drawers, that wardrobe and mirror, the
carpet,
the curtains----"
Lisbeth's eyes dilated with excessive joy; she was incredulous
of such
a gift.
"You are doing more for me in a breath than my rich relations
have
done in thirty years!" she exclaimed. "They have never even
asked
themselves whether I had any furniture at all. On his first
visit, a
few weeks ago, the Baron made a rich man's face on seeing how
poor I
was.--Thank you, my dear; and I will give you your money's
worth, you
will see how by and by."
Valerie went out on the landing with her Cousin Betty,
and the two
women embraced.
"Pouh! How she stinks of hard work!" said the pretty little
woman to
herself when she was alone. "I shall not embrace you often, my
dear
cousin! At the same time, I must look sharp. She must be
skilfully
managed, for she can be of use, and help me to make my
fortune."
Like the true Creole of Paris, Madame Marneffe abhorred
trouble; she
had the calm indifference of a cat, which never jumps or runs
but when
urged by necessity. To her, life must be all pleasure; and
the
pleasure without difficulties. She loved flowers, provided they
were
brought to her. She could not imagine going to the play but to a
good
box, at her own command, and in a carriage to take her there.
Valerie
inherited these courtesan tastes from her mother, on whom
General
Montcornet had lavished luxury when he was in Paris, and who
for
twenty years had seen all the world at her feet; who had been
wasteful
and prodigal, squandering her all in the luxurious living of
which the
programme has been lost since the fall of Napoleon.
The grandees of the Empire were a match in their follies for
the great
nobles of the last century. Under the Restoration the nobility
cannot
forget that it has been beaten and robbed, and so, with two or
three
exceptions, it has become thrifty, prudent, and stay-at-home,
in
short, bourgeois and penurious. Since then, 1830 has crowned the
work
of 1793. In France, henceforth, there will be great names, but
no
great houses, unless there should be political changes which we
can
hardly foresee. Everything takes the stamp of individuality.
The
wisest invest in annuities. Family pride is destroyed.
The bitter pressure of poverty which had stung Valerie to the
quick on
the day when, to use Marneffe's expression, she had "caught on"
with
Hulot, had brought the young woman to the conclusion that she
would
make a fortune by means of her good looks. So, for some days,
she had
been feeling the need of having a friend about her to take the
place
of a mother--a devoted friend, to whom such things may be told
as must
be hidden from a waiting-maid, and who could act, come and go,
and
think for her, a beast of burden resigned to an unequal share of
life.
Now, she, quite as keenly as Lisbeth, had understood the
Baron's
motives for fostering the intimacy between his cousin and
herself.
Prompted by the formidable perspicacity of the Parisian
half-breed,
who spends her days stretched on a sofa, turning the lantern of
her
detective spirit on the obscurest depths of souls, sentiments,
and
intrigues, she had decided on making an ally of the spy.
This
supremely rash step was, perhaps premeditated; she had discerned
the
true nature of this ardent creature, burning with wasted
passion, and
meant to attach her to herself. Thus, their conversation was
like the
stone a traveler casts into an abyss to demonstrate its depth.
And
Madame Marneffe had been terrified to find this old maid a
combination
of Iago and Richard III., so feeble as she seemed, so humble,
and so
little to be feared.
For that instant, Lisbeth Fischer had been her real self;
that
Corsican and savage temperament, bursting the slender bonds that
held
it under, had sprung up to its terrible height, as the branch of
a
tree flies up from the hand of a child that has bent it down to
gather
the green fruit.
To those who study the social world, it must always be a
matter of
astonishment to see the fulness, the perfection, and the
rapidity with
which an idea develops in a virgin nature.
Virginity, like every other monstrosity, has its special
richness, its
absorbing greatness. Life, whose forces are always economized,
assumes
in the virgin creature an incalculable power of resistance
and
endurance. The brain is reinforced in the sum-total of its
reserved
energy. When really chaste natures need to call on the resources
of
body or soul, and are required to act or to think, they have
muscles
of steel, or intuitive knowledge in their
intelligence--diabolical
strength, or the black magic of the Will.
From this point of view the Virgin Mary, even if we regard her
only as
a symbol, is supremely great above every other type, whether
Hindoo,
Egyptian, or Greek. Virginity, the mother of great things,
magna
parens rerum, holds in her fair white hands the keys of
the upper
worlds. In short, that grand and terrible exception deserves all
the
honors decreed to her by the Catholic Church.
Thus, in one moment, Lisbeth Fischer had become the Mohican
whose
snares none can escape, whose dissimulation is inscrutable,
whose
swift decisiveness is the outcome of the incredible perfection
of
every organ of sense. She was Hatred and Revenge, as implacable
as
they are in Italy, Spain, and the East. These two feelings,
the
obverse of friendship and love carried to the utmost, are known
only
in lands scorched by the sun. But Lisbeth was also a daughter
of
Lorraine, bent on deceit.
She accepted this detail of her part against her will; she
began by
making a curious attempt, due to her ignorance. She fancied,
as
children do, that being imprisoned meant the same thing as
solitary
confinement. But this is the superlative degree of imprisonment,
and
that superlative is the privilege of the Criminal Bench.
As soon as she left Madame Marneffe, Lisbeth hurried off to
Monsieur
Rivet, and found him in his office.
"Well, my dear Monsieur Rivet," she began, when she had bolted
the
door of the room. "You were quite right. Those Poles! They are
low
villains--all alike, men who know neither law nor fidelity."
"And who want to set Europe on fire," said the peaceable
Rivet, "to
ruin every trade and every trader for the sake of a country that
is
all bog-land, they say, and full of horrible Jews, to say
nothing of
the Cossacks and the peasants--a sort of wild beasts classed
by
mistake with human beings. Your Poles do not understand the
times we
live in; we are no longer barbarians. War is coming to an end,
my dear
mademoiselle; it went out with the Monarchy. This is the age
of
triumph for commerce, and industry, and middle-class prudence,
such as
were the making of Holland.
"Yes," he went on with animation, "we live in a period when
nations
must obtain all they need by the legal extension of their
liberties
and by the pacific action of Constitutional Institutions; that
is what
the Poles do not see, and I hope----
"You were saying, my dear?--" he added, interrupting himself
when he
saw from his work-woman's face that high politics were beyond
her
comprehension.
"Here is the schedule," said Lisbeth. "If I don't want to lose
my
three thousand two hundred and ten francs, I must clap this
rogue into
prison."
"Didn't I tell you so?" cried the oracle of the Saint-Denis quarter.
The Rivets, successor to Pons Brothers, had kept their shop
still in
the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, in the ancient Hotel Langeais,
built by
that illustrious family at the time when the nobility still
gathered
round the Louvre.
"Yes, and I blessed you on my way here," replied Lisbeth.
"If he suspects nothing, he can be safe in prison by eight
o'clock in
the morning," said Rivet, consulting the almanac to ascertain
the hour
of sunrise; "but not till the day after to-morrow, for he cannot
be
imprisoned till he has had notice that he is to be arrested by
writ,
with the option of payment or imprisonment. And so----"
"What an idiotic law!" exclaimed Lisbeth. "Of course the
debtor
escapes."
"He has every right to do so," said the Assessor, smiling. "So
this is
the way----"
"As to that," said Lisbeth, interrupting him, "I will take the
paper
and hand it to him, saying that I have been obliged to raise
the
money, and that the lender insists on this formality. I know
my
gentleman. He will not even look at the paper; he will light his
pipe
with it."
"Not a bad idea, not bad, Mademoiselle Fischer! Well, make
your mind
easy; the job shall be done.--But stop a minute; to put your man
in
prison is not the only point to be considered; you only want
to
indulge in that legal luxury in order to get your money. Who is
to pay
you?"
"Those who give him money."
"To be sure; I forgot that the Minister of War had
commissioned him to
erect a monument to one of our late customers. Ah! the house
has
supplied many an uniform to General Montcornet; he soon
blackened them
with the smoke of cannon. A brave man, he was! and he paid on
the
nail."
A marshal of France may have saved the Emperor or his country;
"He
paid on the nail" will always be the highest praise he can have
from a
tradesman.
"Very well. And on Saturday, Monsieur Rivet, you shall have
the flat
tassels.--By the way, I am moving from the Rue du Doyenne; I am
going
to live in the Rue Vanneau."
"You are very right. I could not bear to see you in that hole
which,
in spite of my aversion to the Opposition, I must say is a
disgrace; I
repeat it, yes! is a disgrace to the Louvre and the Place du
Carrousel. I am devoted to Louis-Philippe, he is my idol; he is
the
august and exact representative of the class on whom he founded
his
dynasty, and I can never forget what he did for the
trimming-makers by
restoring the National Guard----"
"When I hear you speak so, Monsieur Rivet, I cannot help
wondering why
you are not made a deputy."
"They are afraid of my attachment to the dynasty," replied
Rivet. "My
political enemies are the King's. He has a noble character! They
are a
fine family; in short," said he, returning to the charge, "he is
our
ideal: morality, economy, everything. But the completion of the
Louvre
is one of the conditions on which we gave him the crown, and the
civil
list, which, I admit, had no limits set to it, leaves the heart
of
Paris in a most melancholy state.--It is because I am so
strongly in
favor of the middle course that I should like to see the middle
of
Paris in a better condition. Your part of the town is
positively
terrifying. You would have been murdered there one fine
day.--And so
your Monsieur Crevel has been made Major of his division! He
will come
to us, I hope, for his big epaulette."
"I am dining with him to-night, and will send him to you."
Lisbeth believed that she had secured her Livonian to herself
by
cutting him off from all communication with the outer world. If
he
could no longer work, the artist would be forgotten as
completely as a
man buried in a cellar, where she alone would go to see him.
Thus she
had two happy days, for she hoped to deal a mortal blow at
the
Baroness and her daughter.
To go to Crevel's house, in the Rue des Saussayes, she crossed
the
Pont du Carrousel, went along the Quai Voltaire, the Quai
d'Orsay, the
Rue Bellechasse, Rue de l'Universite, the Pont de la Concorde,
and the
Avenue de Marigny. This illogical route was traced by the logic
of
passion, always the foe of the legs.
Cousin Betty, as long as she followed the line of the quays,
kept
watch on the opposite shore of the Seine, walking very slowly.
She had
guessed rightly. She had left Wenceslas dressing; she at
once
understood that, as soon as he should be rid of her, the lover
would
go off to the Baroness' by the shortest road. And, in fact, as
she
wandered along by the parapet of the Quai Voltaire, in fancy
suppressing the river and walking along the opposite bank,
she
recognized the artist as he came out of the Tuileries to cross
the
Pont Royal. She there came up with the faithless one, and could
follow
him unseen, for lovers rarely look behind them. She escorted him
as
far as Madame Hulot's house, where he went in like an
accustomed
visitor.
This crowning proof, confirming Madame Marneffe's revelations,
put
Lisbeth quite beside herself.
She arrived at the newly promoted Major's door in the state of
mental
irritation which prompts men to commit murder, and found
Monsieur
Crevel senior in his drawing-room awaiting his children,
Monsieur
and Madame Hulot junior.
But Celestin Crevel was so unconscious and so perfect a type
of the
Parisian parvenu, that we can scarcely venture so
unceremoniously into
the presence of Cesar Birotteau's successor. Celestin Crevel was
a
world in himself; and he, even more than Rivet, deserves the
honors of
the palette by reason of his importance in this domestic
drama.
Have you ever observed how in childhood, or at the early
stages of
social life, we create a model for our own imitation, with our
own
hands as it were, and often without knowing it? The banker's
clerk,
for instance, as he enters his master's drawing-room, dreams
of
possessing such another. If he makes a fortune, it will not be
the
luxury of the day, twenty years later, that you will find in
his
house, but the old-fashioned splendor that fascinated him of
yore. It
is impossible to tell how many absurdities are due to this
retrospective jealousy; and in the same way we know nothing of
the
follies due to the covert rivalry that urges men to copy the
type they
have set themselves, and exhaust their powers in shining with
a
reflected light, like the moon.
Crevel was deputy mayor because his predecessor had been; he
was Major
because he coveted Cesar Birotteau's epaulettes. In the same
way,
struck by the marvels wrought by Grindot the architect, at the
time
when Fortune had carried his master to the top of the wheel,
Crevel
had "never looked at both sides of a crown-piece," to use his
own
language, when he wanted to "do up" his rooms; he had gone with
his
purse open and his eyes shut to Grindot, who by this time was
quite
forgotten. It is impossible to guess how long an extinct
reputation
may survive, supported by such stale admiration.
So Grindot, for the thousandth time had displayed his
white-and-gold
drawing-room paneled with crimson damask. The furniture, of
rosewood,
clumsily carved, as such work is done for the trade, had in
the
country been the source of just pride in Paris workmanship on
the
occasion of an industrial exhibition. The candelabra, the
fire-dogs,
the fender, the chandelier, the clock, were all in the most
unmeaning
style of scroll-work; the round table, a fixture in the middle
of the
room, was a mosaic of fragments of Italian and antique
marbles,
brought from Rome, where these dissected maps are made of
mineralogical specimens--for all the world like tailors'
patterns--an
object of perennial admiration to Crevel's citizen friends.
The
portraits of the late lamented Madame Crevel, of Crevel himself,
of
his daughter and his son-in-law, hung on the walls, two and two;
they
were the work of Pierre Grassou, the favored painter of the
bourgeoisie, to whom Crevel owed his ridiculous Byronic
attitude. The
frames, costing a thousand francs each, were quite in harmony
with
this coffee-house magnificence, which would have made any true
artist
shrug his shoulders.
Money never yet missed the smallest opportunity of being stupid.
We
should have in Paris ten Venices if our retired merchants had
had the
instinct for fine things characteristic of the Italians. Even in
our
own day a Milanese merchant could leave five hundred thousand
francs
to the Duomo, to regild the colossal statue of the Virgin that
crowns
the edifice. Canova, in his will, desired his brother to build
a
church costing four million francs, and that brother adds
something on
his own account. Would a citizen of Paris--and they all, like
Rivet,
love their Paris in their heart--ever dream of building the
spires
that are lacking to the towers of Notre-Dame? And only think of
the
sums that revert to the State in property for which no heirs
are
found.
All the improvements of Paris might have been completed with
the money
spent on stucco castings, gilt mouldings, and sham sculpture
during
the last fifteen years by individuals of the Crevel stamp.
Beyond this drawing-room was a splendid boudoir furnished with
tables
and cabinets in imitation of Boulle.
The bedroom, smart with chintz, also opened out of the
drawing-room.
Mahogany in all its glory infested the dining-room, and Swiss
views,
gorgeously framed, graced the panels. Crevel, who hoped to
travel in
Switzerland, had set his heart on possessing the scenery in
painting
till the time should come when he might see it in reality.
So, as will have been seen, Crevel, the Mayor's deputy, of the
Legion
of Honor and of the National Guard, had faithfully reproduced
all the
magnificence, even as to furniture, of his luckless predecessor.
Under
the Restoration, where one had sunk, this other, quite
overlooked, had
come to the top--not by any strange stroke of fortune, but by
the
force of circumstance. In revolutions, as in storms at sea,
solid
treasure goes to the bottom, and light trifles are floated to
the
surface. Cesar Birotteau, a Royalist, in favor and envied, had
been
made the mark of bourgeois hostility, while bourgeoisie
triumphant
found its incarnation in Crevel.
This apartment, at a rent of a thousand crowns, crammed with
all the
vulgar magnificence that money can buy, occupied the first floor
of a
fine old house between a courtyard and a garden. Everything was
as
spick-and-span as the beetles in an entomological case, for
Crevel
lived very little at home.
This gorgeous residence was the ambitious citizen's legal
domicile.
His establishment consisted of a woman-cook and a valet; he
hired two
extra men, and had a dinner sent in by Chevet, whenever he gave
a
banquet to his political friends, to men he wanted to dazzle or
to a
family party.
The seat of Crevel's real domesticity, formerly in the Rue
Notre-Dame
de Lorette, with Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout, had lately
been
transferred, as we have seen, to the Rue Chauchat. Every morning
the
retired merchant--every ex-tradesman is a retired
merchant--spent two
hours in the Rue des Saussayes to attend to business, and gave
the
rest of his time to Mademoiselle Zaire, which annoyed Zaire very
much.
Orosmanes-Crevel had a fixed bargain with Mademoiselle Heloise;
she
owed him five hundred francs worth of enjoyment every month, and
no
"bills delivered." He paid separately for his dinner and all
extras.
This agreement, with certain bonuses, for he made her a good
many
presents, seemed cheap to the ex-attache of the great singer;
and he
would say to widowers who were fond of their daughters, that it
paid
better to job your horses than to have a stable of your own. At
the
same time, if the reader remembers the speech made to the Baron
by the
porter at the Rue Chauchat, Crevel did not escape the coachman
and the
groom.
Crevel, as may be seen, had turned his passionate affection
for his
daughter to the advantage of his self-indulgence. The immoral
aspect
of the situation was justified by the highest morality. And then
the
ex-perfumer derived from this style of living--it was the
inevitable,
a free-and-easy life, Regence, Pompadour, Marechal de
Richelieu,
what not--a certain veneer of superiority. Crevel set up for
being a
man of broad views, a fine gentleman with an air and grace, a
liberal
man with nothing narrow in his ideas--and all for the small sum
of
about twelve to fifteen hundred francs a month. This was the
result
not of hypocritical policy, but of middle-class vanity, though
it came
to the same in the end.
On the Bourse Crevel was regarded as a man superior to his
time, and
especially as a man of pleasure, a bon vivant. In this
particular
Crevel flattered himself that he had overtopped his worthy
friend
Birotteau by a hundred cubits.
"And is it you?" cried Crevel, flying into a rage as he saw
Lisbeth
enter the room, "who have plotted this marriage between
Mademoiselle
Hulot and your young Count, whom you have been bringing up by
hand for
her?"
"You don't seem best pleased at it?" said Lisbeth, fixing a
piercing
eye on Crevel. "What interest can you have in hindering my
cousin's
marriage? For it was you, I am told, who hindered her
marrying
Monsieur Lebas' son."
"You are a good soul and to be trusted," said Crevel. "Well,
then, do
you suppose that I will ever forgive Monsieur Hulot for the
crime of
having robbed me of Josepha--especially when he turned a decent
girl,
whom I should have married in my old age, into a
good-for-nothing
slut, a mountebank, an opera singer!--No, no. Never!"
"He is a very good fellow, too, is Monsieur Hulot," said Cousin Betty.
"Amiable, very amiable--too amiable," replied Crevel. "I wish
him no
harm; but I do wish to have my revenge, and I will have it. It
is my
one idea."
"And is that desire the reason why you no longer visit Madame Hulot?"
"Possibly."
"Ah, ha! then you were courting my fair cousin?" said Lisbeth,
with a
smile. "I thought as much."
"And she treated me like a dog!--worse, like a footman; nay, I
might
say like a political prisoner.--But I will succeed yet," said
he,
striking his brow with his clenched fist.
"Poor man! It would be dreadful to catch his wife deceiving
him after
being packed off by his mistress."
"Josepha?" cried Crevel. "Has Josepha thrown him over, packed
him off,
turned him out neck and crop? Bravo, Josepha, you have avenged
me! I
will send you a pair of pearls to hang in your ears, my
ex-sweetheart!
--I knew nothing of it; for after I had seen you, on the day
after
that when the fair Adeline had shown me the door, I went back to
visit
the Lebas, at Corbeil, and have but just come back. Heloise
played the
very devil to get me into the country, and I have found out
the
purpose of her game; she wanted me out of the way while she gave
a
house-warming in the Rue Chauchat, with some artists, and
players, and
writers.--She took me in! But I can forgive her, for Heloise
amuses
me. She is a Dejazet under a bushel. What a character the hussy
is!
There is the note I found last evening:
" 'DEAR OLD CHAP,--I have pitched my tent in the Rue Chauchat. I
have taken the precaution of getting a few friends to clean up the
paint. All is well. Come when you please, monsieur; Hagar awaits
her Abraham.'
"Heloise will have some news for me, for she has her bohemia
at her
fingers' end."
"But Monsieur Hulot took the disaster very calmly," said Lisbeth.
"Impossible!" cried Crevel, stopping in a parade as regular as
the
swing of a pendulum.
"Monsieur Hulot is not as young as he was," Lisbeth
remarked
significantly.
"I know that," said Crevel, "but in one point we are alike:
Hulot
cannot do without an attachment. He is capable of going back to
his
wife. It would be a novelty for him, but an end to my vengeance.
You
smile, Mademoiselle Fischer--ah! perhaps you know
something?"
"I am smiling at your notions," replied Lisbeth. "Yes, my
cousin is
still handsome enough to inspire a passion. I should certainly
fall in
love with her if I were a man."
"Cut and come again!" exclaimed Crevel. "You are laughing at
me.--The
Baron has already found consolation?"
Lisbeth bowed affirmatively.
"He is a lucky man if he can find a second Josepha within
twenty-four
hours!" said Crevel. "But I am not altogether surprised, for he
told
me one evening at supper that when he was a young man he always
had
three mistresses on hand that he might not be left high and
dry--the
one he was giving over, the one in possession, and the one he
was
courting for a future emergency. He had some smart little
work-woman
in reserve, no doubt--in his fish-pond--his
Parc-aux-cerfs! He is
very Louis XV., is my gentleman. He is in luck to be so
handsome!--
However, he is ageing; his face shows it.--He has taken up with
some
little milliner?"
"Dear me, no," replied Lisbeth.
"Oh!" cried Crevel, "what would I not do to hinder him from
hanging up
his hat! I could not win back Josepha; women of that kind never
come
back to their first love.--Besides, it is truly said, such a
return is
not love.--But, Cousin Betty, I would pay down fifty thousand
francs--
that is to say, I would spend it--to rob that great
good-looking
fellow of his mistress, and to show him that a Major with a
portly
stomach and a brain made to become Mayor of Paris, though he is
a
grandfather, is not to have his mistress tickled away by a
poacher
without turning the tables."
"My position," said Lisbeth, "compels me to hear everything
and know
nothing. You may talk to me without fear; I never repeat a word
of
what any one may choose to tell me. How can you suppose I should
ever
break that rule of conduct? No one would ever trust me
again."
"I know," said Crevel; "you are the very jewel of old maids.
Still,
come, there are exceptions. Look here, the family have never
settled
an allowance on you?"
"But I have my pride," said Lisbeth. "I do not choose to be an
expense
to anybody."
"If you will but help me to my revenge," the tradesman went
on, "I
will sink ten thousand francs in an annuity for you. Tell me, my
fair
cousin, tell me who has stepped into Josepha's shoes, and you
will
have money to pay your rent, your little breakfast in the
morning, the
good coffee you love so well--you might allow yourself pure
Mocha,
heh! And a very good thing is pure Mocha!"
"I do not care so much for the ten thousand francs in an
annuity,
which would bring me nearly five hundred francs a year, as
for
absolute secrecy," said Lisbeth. "For, you see, my dear
Monsieur
Crevel, the Baron is very good to me; he is to pay my
rent----"
"Oh yes, long may that last! I advise you to trust him," cried
Crevel.
"Where will he find the money?"
"Ah, that I don't know. At the same time, he is spending more
than
thirty thousand francs on the rooms he is furnishing for this
little
lady."
"A lady! What, a woman in society; the rascal, what luck he
has! He is
the only favorite!"
"A married woman, and quite the lady," Lisbeth affirmed.
"Really and truly?" cried Crevel, opening wide eyes flashing
with
envy, quite as much as at the magic words quite the
lady.
"Yes, really," said Lisbeth. "Clever, a musician,
three-and-twenty, a
pretty, innocent face, a dazzling white skin, teeth like a
puppy's,
eyes like stars, a beautiful forehead--and tiny feet, I never
saw the
like, they are not wider than her stay-busk."
"And ears?" asked Crevel, keenly alive to this catalogue of charms.
"Ears for a model," she replied.
"And small hands?"
"I tell you, in few words, a gem of a woman--and high-minded,
and
modest, and refined! A beautiful soul, an angel--and with
every
distinction, for her father was a Marshal of France----"
"A Marshal of France!" shrieked Crevel, positively bounding
with
excitement. "Good Heavens! by the Holy Piper! By all the joys
in
Paradise!--The rascal!--I beg your pardon, Cousin, I am going
crazy!--
I think I would give a hundred thousand francs----"
"I dare say you would, and, I tell you, she is a respectable
woman--a
woman of virtue. The Baron has forked out handsomely."
"He has not a sou, I tell you."
"There is a husband he has pushed----"
"Where did he push him?" asked Crevel, with a bitter laugh.
"He is promoted to be second in his office--this husband who
will
oblige, no doubt;--and his name is down for the Cross of the
Legion of
Honor."
"The Government ought to be judicious and respect those who
have the
Cross by not flinging it broadcast," said Crevel, with the look
of an
aggrieved politician. "But what is there about the man--that
old
bulldog of a Baron?" he went on. "It seems to me that I am quite
a
match for him," and he struck an attitude as he looked at
himself in
the glass. "Heloise has told me many a time, at moments when a
woman
speaks the truth, that I was wonderful."
"Oh," said Lisbeth, "women like big men; they are almost
always good-
natured; and if I had to decide between you and the Baron, I
should
choose you. Monsieur Hulot is amusing, handsome, and has a
figure; but
you, you are substantial, and then--you see--you look an even
greater
scamp than he does."
"It is incredible how all women, even pious women, take to men
who
have that about them!" exclaimed Crevel, putting his arm
round
Lisbeth's waist, he was so jubilant.
"The difficulty does not lie there," said Betty. "You must see
that a
woman who is getting so many advantages will not be unfaithful
to her
patron for nothing; and it would cost you more than a hundred
odd
thousand francs, for our little friend can look forward to
seeing her
husband at the head of his office within two years' time.--It
is
poverty that is dragging the poor little angel into that
pit."
Crevel was striding up and down the drawing-room in a state of frenzy.
"He must be uncommonly fond of the woman?" he inquired after a
pause,
while his desires, thus goaded by Lisbeth, rose to a sort of
madness.
"You may judge for yourself," replied Lisbeth. I don't believe
he has
had that of her," said she, snapping her thumbnail
against one of
her enormous white teeth, "and he has given her ten thousand
francs'
worth of presents already."
"What a good joke it would be!" cried Crevel, "if I got to the
winning
post first!"
"Good heavens! It is too bad of me to be telling you all this
tittle-
tattle," said Lisbeth, with an air of compunction.
"No.--I mean to put your relations to the blush. To-morrow I
shall
invest in your name such a sum in five-per-cents as will give
you six
hundred francs a year; but then you must tell me
everything--his
Dulcinea's name and residence. To you I will make a clean breast
of
it.--I never have had a real lady for a mistress, and it is the
height
of my ambition. Mahomet's houris are nothing in comparison with
what I
fancy a woman of fashion must be. In short, it is my dream, my
mania,
and to such a point, that I declare to you the Baroness Hulot to
me
will never be fifty," said he, unconsciously plagiarizing one of
the
greatest wits of the last century. "I assure you, my good
Lisbeth, I
am prepared to sacrifice a hundred, two hundred--Hush! Here are
the
young people, I see them crossing the courtyard. I shall never
have
learned anything through you, I give you my word of honor; for I
do
not want you to lose the Baron's confidence, quite the contrary.
He
must be amazingly fond of this woman--that old boy."
"He is crazy about her," said Lisbeth. "He could not find
forty
thousand francs to marry his daughter off, but he has got them
somehow
for his new passion."
"And do you think that she loves him?"
"At his age!" said the old maid.
"Oh, what an owl I am!" cried Crevel, "when I myself allowed
Heloise
to keep her artist exactly as Henri IX. allowed Gabrielle
her
Bellegrade. Alas! old age, old age!--Good-morning, Celestine.
How do,
my jewel!--And the brat? Ah! here he comes; on my honor, he
is
beginning to be like me!--Good-day, Hulot--quite well? We shall
soon
be having another wedding in the family."
Celestine and her husband, as a hint to their father, glanced
at the
old maid, who audaciously asked, in reply to Crevel:
"Indeed--whose?"
Crevel put on an air of reserve which was meant to convey that
he
would make up for her indiscretions.
"That of Hortense," he replied; "but it is not yet quite
settled. I
have just come from the Lebas', and they were talking of
Mademoiselle
Popinot as a suitable match for their son, the young councillor,
for
he would like to get the presidency of a provincial court.--Now,
come
to dinner."
By seven o'clock Lisbeth had returned home in an omnibus, for
she was
eager to see Wenceslas, whose dupe she had been for three weeks,
and
to whom she was carrying a basket filled with fruit by the hands
of
Crevel himself, whose attentions were doubled towards his
Cousin
Betty.
She flew up to the attic at a pace that took her breath away,
and
found the artist finishing the ornamentation of a box to be
presented
to the adored Hortense. The framework of the lid represented
hydrangeas--in French called Hortensias--among which
little Loves
were playing. The poor lover, to enable him to pay for the
materials
of the box, of which the panels were of malachite, had designed
two
candlesticks for Florent and Chanor, and sold them the
copyright--two
admirable pieces of work.
"You have been working too hard these last few days, my dear
fellow,"
said Lisbeth, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and giving
him a
kiss. "Such laborious diligence is really dangerous in the month
of
August. Seriously, you may injure your health. Look, here are
some
peaches and plums from Monsieur Crevel.--Now, do not worry
yourself so
much; I have borrowed two thousand francs, and, short of
some
disaster, we can repay them when you sell your clock. At the
same
time, the lender seems to me suspicious, for he has just sent in
this
document."
She laid the writ under the model sketch of the statue of
General
Montcornet.
"For whom are you making this pretty thing?" said she, taking
up the
model sprays of hydrangea in red wax which Wenceslas had laid
down
while eating the fruit.
"For a jeweler."
"For what jeweler?"
"I do not know. Stidmann asked me to make something out of
them, as he
is very busy."
"But these," she said in a deep voice, "are Hortensias.
How is it
that you have never made anything in wax for me? Is it so
difficult to
design a pin, a little box--what not, as a keepsake?" and she
shot a
fearful glance at the artist, whose eyes were happily lowered.
"And
yet you say you love me?"
"Can you doubt it, mademoiselle?"
"That is indeed an ardent mademoiselle!--Why, you have
been my only
thought since I found you dying--just there. When I saved you,
you
vowed you were mine, I mean to hold you to that pledge; but I
made a
vow to myself! I said to myself, 'Since the boy says he is mine,
I
mean to make him rich and happy!' Well, and I can make your
fortune."
"How?" said the hapless artist, at the height of joy, and too
artless
to dream of a snare.
"Why, thus," said she.
Lisbeth could not deprive herself of the savage pleasure of
gazing at
Wenceslas, who looked up at her with filial affection, the
expression
really of his love for Hortense, which deluded the old maid.
Seeing in
a man's eyes, for the first time in her life, the blazing torch
of
passion, she fancied it was for her that it was lighted.
"Monsieur Crevel will back us to the extent of a hundred
thousand
francs to start in business, if, as he says, you will marry me.
He has
queer ideas, has the worthy man.--Well, what do you say to it?"
she
added.
The artist, as pale as the dead, looked at his benefactress
with a
lustreless eye, which plainly spoke his thoughts. He stood
stupefied
and open-mouthed.
"I never before was so distinctly told that I am hideous,"
said she,
with a bitter laugh.
"Mademoiselle," said Steinbock, "my benefactress can never be
ugly in
my eyes; I have the greatest affection for you. But I am not
yet
thirty, and----"
"I am forty-three," said Lisbeth. "My cousin Adeline is
forty-eight,
and men are still madly in love with her; but then she is
handsome--
she is!"
"Fifteen years between us, mademoiselle! How could we get on
together!
For both our sakes I think we should be wise to think it over.
My
gratitude shall be fully equal to your great kindness.--And your
money
shall be repaid in a few days."
"My money!" cried she. "You treat me as if I were nothing but
an
unfeeling usurer."
"Forgive me," said Wenceslas, "but you remind me of it so
often.--
Well, it is you who have made me; do not crush me."
"You mean to be rid of me, I can see," said she, shaking her
head.
"Who has endowed you with this strength of ingratitude--you who
are a
man of papier-mache? Have you ceased to trust me--your good
genius?--
me, when I have spent so many nights working for you--when I
have
given you every franc I have saved in my lifetime--when for four
years
I have shared my bread with you, the bread of a hard-worked
woman, and
given you all I had, to my very courage."
"Mademoiselle--no more, no more!" he cried, kneeling before
her with
uplifted hands. "Say not another word! In three days I will tell
you,
you shall know all.--Let me, let me be happy," and he kissed
her
hands. "I love--and I am loved."
"Well, well, my child, be happy," she said, lifting him up.
And she
kissed his forehead and hair with the eagerness that a man
condemned
to death must feel as he lives through the last morning.
"Ah! you are of all creatures the noblest and best! You are a
match
for the woman I love," said the poor artist.
"I love you well enough to tremble for your future fate," said
she
gloomily. "Judas hanged himself--the ungrateful always come to a
bad
end! You are deserting me, and you will never again do any good
work.
Consider whether, without being married--for I know I am an old
maid,
and I do not want to smother the blossom of your youth, your
poetry,
as you call it, in my arms, that are like vine-stocks--but
whether,
without being married, we could not get on together? Listen; I
have
the commercial spirit; I could save you a fortune in the course
of ten
years' work, for Economy is my name!--while, with a young wife,
who
would be sheer Expenditure, you would squander everything; you
would
work only to indulge her. But happiness creates nothing but
memories.
Even I, when I am thinking of you, sit for hours with my hands
in my
lap----
"Come, Wenceslas, stay with me.--Look here, I understand all
about it;
you shall have your mistresses; pretty ones too, like that
little
Marneffe woman who wants to see you, and who will give you
happiness
you could never find with me. Then, when I have saved you
thirty
thousand francs a year in the funds----"
"Mademoiselle, you are an angel, and I shall never forget this
hour,"
said Wenceslas, wiping away his tears.
"That is how I like to see you, my child," said she, gazing at
him
with rapture.
Vanity is so strong a power in us all that Lisbeth believed in
her
triumph. She had conceded so much when offering him Madame
Marneffe.
It was the crowning emotion of her life; for the first time she
felt
the full tide of joy rising in her heart. To go through such
an
experience again she would have sold her soul to the Devil.
"I am engaged to be married," Steinbock replied, "and I love a
woman
with whom no other can compete or compare.--But you are, and
always
will be, to me the mother I have lost."
The words fell like an avalanche of snow on a burning crater.
Lisbeth
sat down. She gazed with despondent eyes on the youth before
her, on
his aristocratic beauty--the artist's brow, the splendid
hair,
everything that appealed to her suppressed feminine instincts,
and
tiny tears moistened her eyes for an instant and immediately
dried up.
She looked like one of those meagre statues which the sculptors
of the
Middle Ages carved on monuments.
"I cannot curse you," said she, suddenly rising. "You--you are
but a
boy. God preserve you!"
She went downstairs and shut herself into her own room.
"She is in love with me, poor creature!" said Wenceslas to
himself.
"And how fervently eloquent! She is crazy."
This last effort on the part of an arid and narrow nature to
keep hold
on an embodiment of beauty and poetry was, in truth, so violent
that
it can only be compared to the frenzied vehemence of a
shipwrecked
creature making the last struggle to reach shore.
On the next day but one, at half-past four in the morning,
when Count
Steinbock was sunk in the deepest sleep, he heard a knock at the
door
of his attic; he rose to open it, and saw two men in shabby
clothing,
and a third, whose dress proclaimed him a bailiff down on his
luck.
"You are Monsieur Wenceslas, Count Steinbock?" said this man.
"Yes, monsieur."
"My name is Grasset, sir, successor to Louchard, sheriff's
officer----"
"What then?"
"You are under arrest, sir. You must come with us to
prison--to
Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you
see; I
have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below."
"You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs;
"and we
look to you to be liberal."
Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm;
when he
was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing
where he
was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found
himself
safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so
utterly
amazed was he.
At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he
found
Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself
adequately
and to pay for a room large enough to work in.
"My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to
anybody,
do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we
must
hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I
will
collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for
your
work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it."
"Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I
should
lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow."
Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her
artist under
lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that
he was
a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off
to
Russia.
To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to
the
Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine
with her;
but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure
at the
hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his
appearance.
"Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing
her
disappointment.
"Well, yes."
"That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to
be
punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting."
Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended
to tell
the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should
call; the
man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to
give her
orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her
needlework
and sit in the ante-room.
"And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the
girl
came back. "You never ask about him now?"
"To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become
famous.
You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to
Lisbeth.
"Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock."
"A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones.
"Monsieur is
departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as
to defy
the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in
order
to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols
has
pardoned him----"
"Nonsense!" said the Baroness.
"When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her
heart had
the cramp.
"Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is
bound by
the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so.
He
wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France
to go
to Russia!--"
Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side;
the
Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who
dropped
fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief.
"Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You
were
born to be our curse!"
"Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied
Lisbeth, as
she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her
alarm,
took no notice.
"I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring."
At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round,
and saw
Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the
maid's
absence.
"Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of
women.
And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the
forehead,
and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was
a
better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her
eyes,
saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had
quite
recovered.
"So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas,
and
affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins'
confusion.
"But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading
Hortense into
the garden.
Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father
and
mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never
marry, had
authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown
Agnes,
attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the
introduction of
the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the
name of
his first purchaser.
Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked
the old
maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied
Jesuitically
that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not
hoped
to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person
who
had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct,
had
been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be
perfectly
content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness.
"You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if
you had
only told me the evening before last that you loved my
cousin
Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many
tears.
I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your
governess;
while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth,
you
will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties
that
amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed
Wenceslas
on the forehead.
Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into tears.
"I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never forget it."
"Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her
excitement
at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a
debt
of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with
me,"
she added, leading her away.
So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good
angel
to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by
Adeline
and Hortense.
"We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you
earn
forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred
francs a
year. Well, then, how much have you saved?"
"Four thousand five hundred francs."
"Poor Betty!" said her cousin.
She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the
thought
of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent
accumulated
during thirty years.
Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took
it as
the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred
was
strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment
when her
cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of
her
childhood.
"We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum,"
said
Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the
interest for
life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six
hundred
francs a year."
Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in,
her
handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense
told her
of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the
family.
So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present;
for the
Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son,
and the
wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day
a
fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot
was
rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline
to
speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him.
"You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said
the Baron
sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at
Steinbock,
who turned pale.
"He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist
to
himself.
"Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young
man into
the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the
summer-
house.
"Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved
her
mother?" he asked.
"More, monsieur," said the sculptor.
"Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing
of her
own."
"Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without
a
trousseau even----"
"So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is
the
daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up
in
the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and
the
brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will
ere long
be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion.
"It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem
very
ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I
would
marry her----"
"That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run
away,
Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le
Comte.--He
really loves you, you see!"
"Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy girl.
"My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of
diction
and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were
alone,
"I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of
which
the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of
it. My
daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for
which
you will give a receipt----"
"Yes, Monsieur le Baron."
"You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me
out. I
cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from
my
son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his
future
promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his
two
hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters
are
different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in
State
funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will
be
diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to
Lisbeth; but
she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one;
it is
a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have
a
trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her
six
thousand francs worth of diamonds.
"Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite
bewildered.
"As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand francs----"
"Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my
beloved
Hortense----"
"Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the
remaining
hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you
will
have them--"
"Monsieur?"
"You will get them from the Government, in payment for
commissions
which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You
are to
have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few
fine
statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The
highest
personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope
to
succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at
Versailles
up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the
City
of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear
fellow, you
will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In
that
way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this
way of
giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to
it."
"I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if
all else
failed!" cried the artist-nobleman.
"That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth
that
fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young
sculptor
to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign
the
contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the
following
Saturday, my wife's fete-day."
"It is alright," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood
glued to
the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each
other."
On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of
the
mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed
packet,
containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt
affixed at
the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:--
"MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock
this
morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to
see
you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a
certain little domain--chief town, Clichy Castle.
"So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that
you
could not leave your country quarters for lack of four
thousand
francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you
did
not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was
there
--a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and
has
heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the
money,
and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against
genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries
at
noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I
know
you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two
friends--
but look them up to-morrow.
"Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to
do
them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the
man
who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only
your
faithful ally,
"STIDMANN.
"P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return
till
to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.' "
Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a
rose-leaf
to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the
halting
divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either
Justice
or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes.
Hence,
lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by
their
frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and
the
money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out
men of
merit in the nooks where they hide.
It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron
Hulot had
contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding
portion,
and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the
charming
rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial
scheme
bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love
into
the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing
can
demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by
vice,
to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or
voluptuous men
can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's
pupils.
On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty
thousand
francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under
the
necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the
sum.
This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years,
had such
blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was
an
emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing
his
anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor
apartment
that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the
headquarters of
his extensive dealings in corn and forage.
"Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said he.
The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was
so
convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to
leave
the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the
old
man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet
struck
eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and
held out
his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him
out
thirty thousand-franc notes.
"Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said Fischer.
"Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money
to the
bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door.
When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the
cab
containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said,
as he
led him into the house:
"You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you
paid me
the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was
bad
enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--"
"Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer,"
said the
important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under
a vine
arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in
human
flesh scans a substitute for the conscription.
"Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old
man; his
sinews were wiry, and his eye bright.
"Does heat disagree with you?"
"Quite the contrary."
"What do you say to Africa?"
"A very nice country!--The French went there with the little
Corporal"
(Napoleon).
"To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to
Algiers,"
said the Baron.
"And how about my business?"
"An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not
enough
to live on with his pension, will buy your business."
"And what am I to do in Algiers?"
"Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I
have your
commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies
in the
country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can
credit
us."
"How shall we get them?"
"Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The
country is
little known, though we settled there eight years ago;
Algeria
produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce
belongs
to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when
it
belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a
great
deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly
how much
each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the
open
field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the
hay as
it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our
Spahis,
prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price.
The
Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks
at
exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring
food, and
the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That
is
Algiers from the army contractor's point of view.
"It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every
incipient
government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten
years
--we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has
sharp
eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you
the
job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a
kingdom
where smuggling might be secretly encouraged.
"I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand
francs
within a year."
"I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the
Alsatian
calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----"
"The man who wants to buy your business will be here this
morning, and
pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will
be
enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?"
The old man nodded assent.
"As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the
remainder of
the money due if I find it necessary."
"All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer.
"Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle
saw more
clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your
character
will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at
your
back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am
sure of
them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know
you
well, and I have spoken out without concealment or
circumlocution."
"It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go on----?"
"For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs
of your
own to live happy on in the Vosges."
"I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little
old man
quietly.
"That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go
till you
have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a
Countess."
But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office
clerk
for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty
thousand
francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which
was to
cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be
spent
--on Madame Marneffe.
Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he
had just
produced? This was the history.
A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum
of a
hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two
separate
companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the
premium, he
had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the
Chamber,
in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving
home, in
fact, to dine with him:--
"Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you.
You must
find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the
right to
draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand
francs
a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say,
'But you
may die' "--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a
policy
of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I
will
deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand
francs,"
said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket.
"But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire
Baron,
laughing.
The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave.
"Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I
was not
devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of
cash? for
the Bank will take your signature."
"My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have
no
fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these
thankless
times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will
never
reward the men who devote themselves to the service as
handsomely as
the Emperor did."
"Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied
Nucingen,
"and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the
Duc
d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that
leech from
sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity
your
case,' " he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or
you will
be done for."
This dirty business was carried out in the name of one
Vauvinet, a
small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to
screen
great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to
attend the
shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain
the
patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great
man
to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at
eighty
days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never
pass
them out of his hands.
Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the
house and
the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to
a
department close to Paris.
This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who
had
hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of
the
best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay
the
money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify
his
passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of
this
elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before
Madame
Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A
man
could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of
mind in
the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed
in
shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of
his
department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the
workmen,
he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in
the
Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he
nevertheless
attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at
once, and
neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his
thoughts
were.
Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and
to see a
handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether
easy,
in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under
such
creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding,
fixed by
the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her
new
apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this
ministerial
communication:--
"Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the
subject
are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world:
I
shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only
the time
necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at
any
unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs
a year
in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs'
worth
of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I
have
pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her
little
money, and pay off your uncle----"
"You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and
kissing
his hands.
This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears.
"I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went
on,
disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found
in
the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor,
handsome,
splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where
you
would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite
content
with a boy."
"Yes, my dear."
"If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper
appearance of
course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a
year,
excepting my private account, which I will provide for."
The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's
neck in
her joy.
"How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I
love
you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!"
"We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as
you
know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week
with
Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I
may
succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us;
we can
dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at
home will
fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may
occasionally
be invited to dine elsewhere."
"I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline.
"Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!"
"My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest
breath,"
said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense."
This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame
Hulot's
home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as
Hulot
had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe.
Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of
course
to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract,
behaved
as though the scene with which this drama opened had never
taken
place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron.
Celestin
Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the
ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire
majestic
dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding.
"Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us
know
how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray,
by
gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet
your
children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies
buried
at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for
I
should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you."
"Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as
those you
refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will
give
me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be
painful
in a family."
"Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out
into the
garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are
two
admirers of the fair sex to quarrel for ever over a petticoat?
Come;
this is really too plebeian!"
"I, monsieur, am not such a fine man as you are, and my
small
attractions hinder me from repairing my losses so easily as
you
can----"
"Sarcastic!" said the Baron.
"Irony is allowable from the vanquished to the conquerer."
The conversation, begun in this strain, ended in a
complete
reconciliation; still Crevel maintained his right to take his
revenge.
Madame Marneffe particularly wished to be invited to
Mademoiselle
Hulot's wedding. To enable him to receive his future mistress in
his
drawing-room, the great official was obliged to invite all the
clerks
of his division down to the deputy head-clerks inclusive. Thus a
grand
ball was a necessity. The Baroness, as a prudent housewife,
calculated
that an evening party would cost less than a dinner, and allow
of a
larger number of invitations; so Hortense's wedding was much
talked
about.
Marshal Prince Wissembourg and the Baron de Nucingen signed in
behalf
of the bride, the Comtes de Rastignac and Popinot in behalf
of
Steinbock. Then, as the highest nobility among the Polish
emigrants
had been civil to Count Steinbock since he had become famous,
the
artist thought himself bound to invite them. The State Council,
and
the War Office to which the Baron belonged, and the army,
anxious to
do honor to the Comte de Forzheim, were all represented by
their
magnates. There were nearly two hundred indispensable
invitations. How
natural, then, that little Madame Marneffe was bent on figuring
in all
her glory amid such an assembly. The Baroness had, a month
since, sold
her diamonds to set up her daughter's house, while keeping the
finest
for the trousseau. The sale realized fifteen thousand francs, of
which
five thousand were sunk in Hortense's clothes. And what was
ten
thousand francs for the furniture of the young folks'
apartment,
considering the demands of modern luxury? However, young
Monsieur and
Madame Hulot, old Crevel, and the Comte de Forzheim made very
handsome
presents, for the old soldier had set aside a sum for the
purchase of
plate. Thanks to these contributions, even an exacting Parisian
would
have been pleased with the rooms the young couple had taken in
the Rue
Saint-Dominique, near the Invalides. Everything seemed in
harmony with
their love, pure, honest, and sincere.
At last the great day dawned--for it was to be a great day not
only
for Wenceslas and Hortense, but for old Hulot too. Madame
Marneffe was
to give a house-warming in her new apartment the day after
becoming
Hulot's mistress en titre, and after the marriage of the
lovers.
Who but has once in his life been a guest at a wedding-ball?
Every
reader can refer to his reminiscences, and will probably smile
as he
calls up the images of all that company in their Sunday-best
faces as
well as their finest frippery.
If any social event can prove the influence of environment, is
it not
this? In fact, the Sunday-best mood of some reacts so
effectually on
the rest that the men who are most accustomed to wearing full
dress
look just like those to whom the party is a high festival,
unique in
their life. And think too of the serious old men to whom such
things
are so completely a matter of indifference, that they are
wearing
their everyday black coats; the long-married men, whose faces
betray
their sad experience of the life the young pair are but just
entering
on; and the lighter elements, present as carbonic-acid gas is
in
champagne; and the envious girls, the women absorbed in
wondering if
their dress is a success, the poor relations whose parsimonious
"get-
up" contrasts with that of the officials in uniform; and the
greedy
ones, thinking only of the supper; and the gamblers, thinking
only of
cards.
There are some of every sort, rich and poor, envious and
envied,
philosophers and dreamers, all grouped like the plants in a
flower-bed
round the rare, choice blossom, the bride. A wedding-ball is
an
epitome of the world.
At the liveliest moment of the evening Crevel led the Baron
aside, and
said in a whisper, with the most natural manner possible:
"By Jove! that's a pretty woman--the little lady in pink who
has
opened a racking fire on you from her eyes."
"Which?"
"The wife of that clerk you are promoting, heaven knows
how!--Madame
Marneffe."
"What do you know about it?"
"Listen, Hulot; I will try to forgive you the ill you have
done me if
only you will introduce me to her--I will take you to
Heloise.
Everybody is asking who is that charming creature. Are you sure
that
it will strike no one how and why her husband's appointment got
itself
signed?--You happy rascal, she is worth a whole office.--I would
serve
in her office only too gladly.--Come, cinna, let us be
friends."
"Better friends than ever," said the Baron to the perfumer,
"and I
promise you I will be a good fellow. Within a month you shall
dine
with that little angel.--For it is an angel this time, old boy.
And I
advise you, like me, to have done with the devils."
Cousin Betty, who had moved to the Rue Vanneau, into a nice
little
apartment on the third floor, left the ball at ten o'clock, but
came
back to see with her own eyes the two bonds bearing twelve
hundred
francs interest; one of them was the property of the
Countess
Steinbock, the other was in the name of Madame Hulot.
It is thus intelligible that Monsieur Crevel should have
spoken to
Hulot about Madame Marneffe, as knowing what was a secret to the
rest
of the world; for, as Monsieur Marneffe was away, no one but
Lisbeth
Fischer, besides the Baron and Valerie, was initiated into
the
mystery.
The Baron had made a blunder in giving Madame Marneffe a dress
far too
magnificent for the wife of a subordinate official; other women
were
jealous alike of her beauty and of her gown. There was much
whispering
behind fans, for the poverty of the Marneffes was known to every
one
in the office; the husband had been petitioning for help at the
very
moment when the Baron had been so smitten with madame. Also,
Hector
could not conceal his exultation at seeing Valerie's success;
and she,
severely proper, very lady-like, and greatly envied, was the
object of
that strict examination which women so greatly fear when they
appear
for the first time in a new circle of society.
After seeing his wife into a carriage with his daughter and
his son-
in-law, Hulot managed to escape unperceived, leaving his son
and
Celestine to do the honors of the house. He got into Madame
Marneffe's
carriage to see her home, but he found her silent and pensive,
almost
melancholy.
"My happiness makes you very sad, Valerie," said he, putting
his arm
round her and drawing her to him.
"Can you wonder, my dear," said she, "that a hapless woman
should be a
little depressed at the thought of her first fall from virtue,
even
when her husband's atrocities have set her free? Do you suppose
that I
have no soul, no beliefs, no religion? Your glee this evening
has been
really too barefaced; you have paraded me odiously. Really,
a
schoolboy would have been less of a coxcomb. And the ladies
have
dissected me with their side-glances and their satirical
remarks.
Every woman has some care for her reputation, and you have
wrecked
mine.
"Oh, I am yours and no mistake! And I have not an excuse left
but that
of being faithful to you.--Monster that you are!" she added,
laughing,
and allowing him to kiss her, "you knew very well what you were
doing!
Madame Coquet, our chief clerk's wife, came to sit down by me,
and
admired my lace. 'English point!' said she. 'Was it very
expensive,
madame?'--'I do not know. This lace was my mother's. I am not
rich
enough to buy the like,' said I."
Madame Marneffe, in short, had so bewitched the old beau, that
he
really believed she was sinning for the first time for his sake,
and
that he had inspired such a passion as had led her to this
breach of
duty. She told him that the wretch Marneffe had neglected her
after
they had been three days married, and for the most odious
reasons.
Since then she had lived as innocently as a girl; marriage had
seemed
to her so horrible. This was the cause of her present
melancholy.
"If love should prove to be like marriage----" said she in tears.
These insinuating lies, with which almost every woman in
Valerie's
predicament is ready, gave the Baron distant visions of the
roses of
the seventh heaven. And so Valerie coquetted with her lover,
while the
artist and Hortense were impatiently awaiting the moment when
the
Baroness should have given the girl her last kiss and
blessing.
At seven in the morning the Baron, perfectly happy--for his
Valerie
was at once the most guileless of girls and the most consummate
of
demons--went back to release his son and Celestine from their
duties.
All the dancers, for the most part strangers, had taken
possession of
the territory, as they do at every wedding-ball, and were
keeping up
the endless figures of the cotillions, while the gamblers were
still
crowding round the bouillotte tables, and old Crevel had
won six
thousand francs.
The morning papers, carried round the town, contained this
paragraph
in the Paris article:--
"The marriage was celebrated this morning, at the Church of Saint-
Thomas d'Aquin, between Monsieur le Comte Steinbock and
Mademoiselle Hortense Hulot, daughter of Baron Hulot d'Ervy,
Councillor of State, and a Director at the War Office; niece of
the famous General Comte de Forzheim. The ceremony attracted a
large gathering. There were present some of the most distinguished
artists of the day: Leon de Lora, Joseph Bridau, Stidmann, and
Bixiou; the magnates of the War Office, of the Council of State,
and many members of the two Chambers; also the most distinguished
of the Polish exiles living in Paris: Counts Paz, Laginski, and
others."Monsieur le Comte Wenceslas Steinbock is grandnephew to the
famous general who served under Charles XII., King of Sweden. The
young Count, having taken part in the Polish rebellion, found a
refuge in France, where his well-earned fame as a sculptor has
procured him a patent of naturalization."
And so, in spite of the Baron's cruel lack of money, nothing
was
lacking that public opinion could require, not even the
trumpeting of
the newspapers over his daughter's marriage, which was
solemnized in
the same way, in every particular, as his son's had been to
Mademoiselle Crevel. This display moderated the reports current
as to
the Baron's financial position, while the fortune assigned to
his
daughter explained the need for having borrowed money.
Here ends what is, in a way, the introduction to this story. It
is to
the drama that follows that the premise is to a syllogism, what
the
prologue is to a classical tragedy.
In Paris, when a woman determines to make a business, a trade,
of her
beauty, it does not follow that she will make a fortune.
Lovely
creatures may be found there, and full of wit, who are in
wretched
circumstances, ending in misery a life begun in pleasure. And
this is
why. It is not enough merely to accept the shameful life of
a
courtesan with a view to earning its profits, and at the same
time to
bear the simple garb of a respectable middle-class wife. Vice
does not
triumph so easily; it resembles genius in so far that they both
need a
concurrence of favorable conditions to develop the coalition
of
fortune and gifts. Eliminate the strange prologue of the
Revolution,
and the Emperor would never have existed; he would have been no
more
than a second edition of Fabert. Venal beauty, if it finds
no
amateurs, no celebrity, no cross of dishonor earned by
squandering
men's fortunes, is Correggio in a hay-loft, is genius starving
in a
garret. Lais, in Paris, must first and foremost find a rich man
mad
enough to pay her price. She must keep up a very elegant style,
for
this is her shop-sign; she must be sufficiently well bred to
flatter
the vanity of her lovers; she must have the brilliant wit of a
Sophie
Arnould, which diverts the apathy of rich men; finally, she
must
arouse the passions of libertines by appearing to be mistress to
one
man only who is envied by the rest.
These conditions, which a woman of that class calls being in
luck, are
difficult to combine in Paris, although it is a city of
millionaires,
of idlers, of used-up and capricious men.
Providence has, no doubt, vouchsafed protection to clerks and
middle-
class citizens, for whom obstacles of this kind are at least
double in
the sphere in which they move. At the same time, there are
enough
Madame Marneffes in Paris to allow of our taking Valerie to
figure as
a type in this picture of manners. Some of these women yield to
the
double pressure of a genuine passion and of hard necessity,
like
Madame Colleville, who was for long attached to one of the
famous
orators of the left, Keller the banker. Others are spurred by
vanity,
like Madame de la Baudraye, who remained almost respectable in
spite
of her elopement with Lousteau. Some, again, are led astray by
the
love of fine clothes, and some by the impossibility of keeping a
house
going on obviously too narrow means. The stinginess of the
State--or
of Parliament--leads to many disasters and to much
corruption.
At the present moment the laboring classes are the fashionable
object
of compassion; they are being murdered--it is said--by the
manufacturing capitalist; but the Government is a hundred times
harder
than the meanest tradesman, it carries its economy in the
article of
salaries to absolute folly. If you work harder, the merchant
will pay
you more in proportion; but what does the State do for its crowd
of
obscure and devoted toilers?
In a married woman it is an inexcusable crime when she wanders
from
the path of honor; still, there are degrees even in such a case.
Some
women, far from being depraved, conceal their fall and remain to
all
appearances quite respectable, like those two just referred to,
while
others add to their fault the disgrace of speculation. Thus
Madame
Marneffe is, as it were, the type of those ambitious married
courtesans who from the first accept depravity with all its
consequences, and determine to make a fortune while taking
their
pleasure, perfectly unscrupulous as to the means. But almost
always a
woman like Madame Marneffe has a husband who is her confederate
and
accomplice. These Machiavellis in petticoats are the most
dangerous of
the sisterhood; of every evil class of Parisian woman, they are
the
worst.
A mere courtesan--a Josepha, a Malaga, a Madame Schontz, a
Jenny
Cadine--carries in her frank dishonor a warning signal as
conspicuous
as the red lamp of a house of ill-fame or the flaring lights of
a
gambling hell. A man knows that they light him to his ruin.
But mealy-mouthed propriety, the semblance of virtue, the
hypocritical
ways of a married woman who never allows anything to be seen but
the
vulgar needs of the household, and affects to refuse every kind
of
extravagance, leads to silent ruin, dumb disaster, which is all
the
more startling because, though condoned, it remains unaccounted
for.
It is the ignoble bill of daily expenses and not gay dissipation
that
devours the largest fortune. The father of a family ruins
himself
ingloriously, and the great consolation of gratified vanity is
wanting
in his misery.
This little sermon will go like a javelin to the heart of many
a home.
Madame Marneffes are to be seen in every sphere of social life,
even
at Court; for Valerie is a melancholy fact, modeled from the
life in
the smallest details. And, alas! the portrait will not cure any
man of
the folly of loving these sweetly-smiling angels, with pensive
looks
and candid faces, whose heart is a cash-box.
About three years after Hortense's marriage, in 1841, Baron
Hulot
d'Ervy was supposed to have sown his wild oats, to have "put up
his
horses," to quote the expression used by Louis XV.'s head
surgeon, and
yet Madame Marneffe was costing him twice as much as Josepha had
ever
cost him. Still, Valerie, though always nicely dressed, affected
the
simplicity of a subordinate official's wife; she kept her luxury
for
her dressing-gowns, her home wear. She thus sacrificed her
Parisian
vanity to her dear Hector. At the theatre, however, she
always
appeared in a pretty bonnet and a dress of extreme elegance; and
the
Baron took her in a carriage to a private box.
Her rooms, the whole of the second floor of a modern house in
the Rue
Vanneau, between a fore-court and a garden, was redolent of
respectability. All its luxury was in good chintz hangings
and
handsome convenient furniture.
Her bedroom, indeed, was the exception, and rich with such
profusion
as Jenny Cadine or Madame Schontz might have displayed. There
were
lace curtains, cashmere hangings, brocade portieres, a set of
chimney
ornaments modeled by Stidmann, a glass cabinet filled with
dainty
nicknacks. Hulot could not bear to see his Valerie in a bower
of
inferior magnificence to the dunghill of gold and pearls owned
by a
Josepha. The drawing-room was furnished with red damask, and
the
dining-room had carved oak panels. But the Baron, carried away
by his
wish to have everything in keeping, had at the end of six
months,
added solid luxury to mere fashion, and had given her
handsome
portable property, as, for instance, a service of plate that was
to
cost more than twenty-four thousand francs.
Madame Marneffe's house had in a couple of years achieved a
reputation
for being a very pleasant one. Gambling went on there. Valerie
herself
was soon spoken of as an agreeable and witty woman. To account
for her
change of style, a rumor was set going of an immense legacy
bequeathed
to her by her "natural father," Marshal Montcornet, and left in
trust.
With an eye to the future, Valerie had added religious to
social
hypocrisy. Punctual at the Sunday services, she enjoyed all the
honors
due to the pious. She carried the bag for the offertory, she was
a
member of a charitable association, presented bread for the
sacrament,
and did some good among the poor, all at Hector's expense.
Thus
everything about the house was extremely seemly. And a great
many
persons maintained that her friendship with the Baron was
entirely
innocent, supporting the view by the gentleman's mature age,
and
ascribing to him a Platonic liking for Madame Marneffe's
pleasant wit,
charming manners, and conversation--such a liking as that of the
late
lamented Louis XVIII. for a well-turned note.
The Baron always withdrew with the other company at about
midnight,
and came back a quarter of an hour later.
The secret of this secrecy was as follows. The lodge-keepers
of the
house were a Monsieur and Madame Olivier, who, under the
Baron's
patronage, had been promoted from their humble and not very
lucrative
post in the Rue du Doyenne to the highly-paid and handsome one
in the
Rue Vanneau. Now, Madame Olivier, formerly a needlewoman in
the
household of Charles X., who had fallen in the world with
the
legitimate branch, had three children. The eldest, an
under-clerk in a
notary's office, was object of his parents' adoration. This
Benjamin,
for six years in danger of being drawn for the army, was on the
point
of being interrupted in his legal career, when Madame
Marneffe
contrived to have him declared exempt for one of those
little
malformations which the Examining Board can always discern
when
requested in a whisper by some power in the ministry. So
Olivier,
formerly a huntsman to the King, and his wife would have
crucified the
Lord again for the Baron or for Madame Marneffe.
What could the world have to say? It knew nothing of the
former
episode of the Brazilian, Monsieur Montes de Montejanos--it
could say
nothing. Besides, the world is very indulgent to the mistress of
a
house where amusement is to be found.
And then to all her charms Valerie added the highly-prized
advantage
of being an occult power. Claude Vignon, now secretary to
Marshal the
Prince de Wissembourg, and dreaming of promotion to the Council
of
State as a Master of Appeals, was constantly seen in her rooms,
to
which came also some Deputies--good fellows and gamblers.
Madame
Marneffe had got her circle together with prudent deliberation;
only
men whose opinions and habits agreed foregathered there, men
whose
interest it was to hold together and to proclaim the many merits
of
the lady of the house. Scandal is the true Holy Alliance in
Paris.
Take that as an axiom. Interests invariably fall asunder in the
end;
vicious natures can always agree.
Within three months of settling in the Rue Vanneau, Madame
Marneffe
had entertained Monsieur Crevel, who by that time was Mayor of
his
arrondissement and Officer of the Legion of Honor. Crevel
had
hesitated; he would have to give up the famous uniform of the
National
Guard in which he strutted at the Tuileries, believing himself
quite
as much a soldier as the Emperor himself; but ambition, urged
by
Madame Marneffe, had proved stronger than vanity. Then Monsieur
le
Maire had considered his connection with Mademoiselle
Heloise
Brisetout as quite incompatible with his political position.
Indeed, long before his accession to the civic chair of the
Mayoralty,
his gallant intimacies had been wrapped in the deepest mystery.
But,
as the reader may have guessed, Crevel had soon purchased the
right of
taking his revenge, as often as circumstances allowed, for
having been
bereft of Josepha, at the cost of a bond bearing six thousand
francs
of interest in the name of Valerie Fortin, wife of Sieur
Marneffe, for
her sole and separate use. Valerie, inheriting perhaps from her
mother
the special acumen of the kept woman, read the character of
her
grotesque adorer at a glance. The phrase "I never had a lady for
a
mistress," spoken by Crevel to Lisbeth, and repeated by Lisbeth
to her
dear Valerie, had been handsomely discounted in the bargain by
which
she got her six thousand francs a year in five per cents. And
since
then she had never allowed her prestige to grow less in the eyes
of
Cesar Birotteau's erewhile bagman.
Crevel himself had married for money the daughter of a miller
of la
Brie, an only child indeed, whose inheritance constituted
three-
quarters of his fortune; for when retail-dealers grow rich, it
is
generally not so much by trade as through some alliance between
the
shop and rural thrift. A large proportion of the farmers,
corn-
factors, dairy-keepers, and market-gardeners in the neighborhood
of
Paris, dream of the glories of the desk for their daughters, and
look
upon a shopkeeper, a jeweler, or a money-changer as a son-in-law
after
their own heart, in preference to a notary or an attorney,
whose
superior social position is a ground of suspicion; they are
afraid of
being scorned in the future by these citizen bigwigs.
Madame Crevel, ugly, vulgar, and silly, had given her husband
no
pleasures but those of paternity; she died young. Her
libertine
husband, fettered at the beginning of his commercial career by
the
necessity for working, and held in thrall by want of money, had
led
the life of Tantalus. Thrown in--as he phrased it--with the
most
elegant women in Paris, he let them out of the shop with
servile
homage, while admiring their grace, their way of wearing the
fashions,
and all the nameless charms of what is called breeding. To rise
to the
level of one of these fairies of the drawing-room was a desire
formed
in his youth, but buried in the depths of his heart. Thus to win
the
favors of Madame Marneffe was to him not merely the realization
of his
chimera, but, as has been shown, a point of pride, of vanity, of
self-
satisfaction. His ambition grew with success; his brain was
turned
with elation; and when the mind is captivated, the heart feels
more
keenly, every gratification is doubled.
Also, it must be said that Madame Marneffe offered to Crevel
a
refinement of pleasure of which he had no idea; neither Josepha
nor
Heloise had loved him; and Madame Marneffe thought it necessary
to
deceive him thoroughly, for this man, she saw, would prove
an
inexhaustible till. The deceptions of a venal passion are
more
delightful than the real thing. True love is mixed up with
birdlike
squabbles, in which the disputants wound each other to the
quick; but
a quarrel without animus is, on the contrary, a piece of
flattery to
the dupe's conceit.
The rare interviews granted to Crevel kept his passion at
white heat.
He was constantly blocked by Valerie's virtuous severity; she
acted
remorse, and wondered what her father must be thinking of her in
the
paradise of the brave. Again and again he had to contend with a
sort
of coldness, which the cunning slut made him believe he had
overcome
by seeming to surrender to the man's crazy passion; and then, as
if
ashamed, she entrenched herself once more in her pride of
respectability and airs of virtue, just like an Englishwoman,
neither
more nor less; and she always crushed her Crevel under the
weight of
her dignity--for Crevel had, in the first instance, swallowed
her
pretensions to virtue.
In short, Valerie had special veins of affections which made
her
equally indispensable to Crevel and to the Baron. Before the
world she
displayed the attractive combination of modest and pensive
innocence,
of irreproachable propriety, with a bright humor enhanced by
the
suppleness, the grace and softness of the Creole; but in a
tete-a-
tete she would outdo any courtesan; she was
audacious, amusing, and
full of original inventiveness. Such a contrast is irresistible
to a
man of the Crevel type; he is flattered by believing himself
sole
author of the comedy, thinking it is performed for his benefit
alone,
and he laughs at the exquisite hypocrisy while admiring the
hypocrite.
Valerie had taken entire possession of Baron Hulot; she had
persuaded
him to grow old by one of those subtle touches of flattery
which
reveal the diabolical wit of women like her. In all
evergreen
constitutions a moment arrives when the truth suddenly comes
out, as
in a besieged town which puts a good face on affairs as long
as
possible. Valerie, foreseeing the approaching collapse of the
old beau
of the Empire, determined to forestall it.
"Why give yourself so much bother, my dear old veteran?" said
she one
day, six months after their doubly adulterous union. "Do you
want to
be flirting? To be unfaithful to me? I assure you, I should like
you
better without your make-up. Oblige me by giving up all your
artificial charms. Do you suppose that it is for two sous' worth
of
polish on your boots that I love you? For your india-rubber
belt, your
strait-waistcoat, and your false hair? And then, the older you
look,
the less need I fear seeing my Hulot carried off by a
rival."
And Hulot, trusting to Madame Marneffe's heavenly friendship
as much
as to her love, intending, too, to end his days with her, had
taken
this confidential hint, and ceased to dye his whiskers and hair.
After
this touching declaration from his Valerie, handsome Hector made
his
appearance one morning perfectly white. Madame Marneffe could
assure
him that she had a hundred times detected the white line of the
growth
of the hair.
"And white hair suits your face to perfection," said she; "it
softens
it. You look a thousand times better, quite charming."
The Baron, once started on this path of reform, gave up his
leather
waistcoat and stays; he threw off all his bracing. His stomach
fell
and increased in size. The oak became a tower, and the heaviness
of
his movements was all the more alarming because the Baron
grew
immensely older by playing the part of Louis XII. His eyebrows
were
still black, and left a ghostly reminiscence of Handsome Hulot,
as
sometimes on the wall of some feudal building a faint trace
of
sculpture remains to show what the castle was in the days of
its
glory. This discordant detail made his eyes, still bright
and
youthful, all the more remarkable in his tanned face, because it
had
so long been ruddy with the florid hues of a Rubens; and now a
certain
discoloration and the deep tension of the wrinkles betrayed
the
efforts of a passion at odds with natural decay. Hulot was now
one of
those stalwart ruins in which virile force asserts itself by
tufts of
hair in the ears and nostrils and on the fingers, as moss grows
on the
almost eternal monuments of the Roman Empire.
How had Valerie contrived to keep Crevel and Hulot side by
side, each
tied to an apron-string, when the vindictive Mayor only longed
to
triumph openly over Hulot? Without immediately giving an answer
to
this question, which the course of the story will supply, it may
be
said that Lisbeth and Valerie had contrived a powerful piece
of
machinery which tended to this result. Marneffe, as he saw his
wife
improved in beauty by the setting in which she was enthroned,
like the
sun at the centre of the sidereal system, appeared, in the eyes
of the
world, to have fallen in love with her again himself; he was
quite
crazy about her. Now, though his jealousy made him somewhat of
a
marplot, it gave enhanced value to Valerie's favors.
Marneffe
meanwhile showed a blind confidence in his chief, which
degenerated
into ridiculous complaisance. The only person whom he really
would not
stand was Crevel.
Marneffe, wrecked by the debauchery of great cities, described
by
Roman authors, though modern decency has no name for it, was
as
hideous as an anatomical figure in wax. But this disease on
feet,
clothed in good broadcloth, encased his lathlike legs in
elegant
trousers. The hollow chest was scented with fine linen, and
musk
disguised the odors of rotten humanity. This hideous specimen
of
decaying vice, trotting in red heels--for Valerie dressed the
man as
beseemed his income, his cross, and his appointment--horrified
Crevel,
who could not meet the colorless eyes of the Government
clerk.
Marneffe was an incubus to the Mayor. And the mean rascal, aware
of
the strange power conferred on him by Lisbeth and his wife, was
amused
by it; he played on it as on an instrument; and cards being the
last
resource of a mind as completely played out as the body, he
plucked
Crevel again and again, the Mayor thinking himself bound to
subserviency to the worthy official whom he was
cheating.
Seeing Crevel a mere child in the hands of that hideous and
atrocious
mummy, of whose utter vileness the Mayor knew nothing; and
seeing him,
yet more, an object of deep contempt to Valerie, who made game
of
Crevel as of some mountebank, the Baron apparently thought him
so
impossible as a rival that he constantly invited him to
dinner.
Valerie, protected by two lovers on guard, and by a jealous
husband,
attracted every eye, and excited every desire in the circle she
shone
upon. And thus, while keeping up appearances, she had, in the
course
of three years, achieved the most difficult conditions of the
success
a courtesan most cares for and most rarely attains, even with
the help
of audacity and the glitter of an existence in the light of the
sun.
Valerie's beauty, formerly buried in the mud of the Rue du
Doyenne,
now, like a well-cut diamond exquisitely set by Chanor, was
worth more
than its real value--it could break hearts. Claude Vignon
adored
Valerie in secret.
This retrospective explanation, quite necessary after the
lapse of
three years, shows Valerie's balance-sheet. Now for that of
her
partner, Lisbeth.
Lisbeth Fischer filled the place in the Marneffe household of
a
relation who combines the functions of a lady companion and
a
housekeeper; but she suffered from none of the humiliations
which, for
the most part, weigh upon the women who are so unhappy as to
be
obliged to fill these ambiguous situations. Lisbeth and
Valerie
offered the touching spectacle of one of those friendships
between
women, so cordial and so improbable, that men, always too
keen-tongued
in Paris, forthwith slander them. The contrast between Lisbeth's
dry
masculine nature and Valerie's creole prettiness encouraged
calumny.
And Madame Marneffe had unconsciously given weight to the
scandal by
the care she took of her friend, with matrimonial views, which
were,
as will be seen, to complete Lisbeth's revenge.
An immense change had taken place in Cousin Betty; and
Valerie, who
wanted to smarten her, had turned it to the best account. The
strange
woman had submitted to stays, and laced tightly, she used
bandoline to
keep her hair smooth, wore her gowns as the dressmaker sent them
home,
neat little boots, and gray silk stockings, all of which were
included
in Valerie's bills, and paid for by the gentleman in possession.
Thus
furbished up, and wearing the yellow cashmere shawl, Lisbeth
would
have been unrecognizable by any one who had not seen her for
three
years.
This other diamond--a black diamond, the rarest of all--cut by
a
skilled hand, and set as best became her, was appreciated at her
full
value by certain ambitious clerks. Any one seeing her for the
first
time might have shuddered involuntarily at the look of poetic
wildness
which the clever Valerie had succeeded in bringing out by the
arts of
dress in this Bleeding Nun, framing the ascetic olive face in
thick
bands of hair as black as the fiery eyes, and making the most of
the
rigid, slim figure. Lisbeth, like a Virgin by Cranach or Van
Eyck, or
a Byzantine Madonna stepped out of its frame, had all the
stiffness,
the precision of those mysterious figures, the more modern
cousins of
Isis and her sister goddesses sheathed in marble folds by
Egyptian
sculptors. It was granite, basalt, porphyry, with life and
movement.
Saved from want for the rest of her life, Lisbeth was most
amiable;
wherever she dined she brought merriment. And the Baron paid the
rent
of her little apartment, furnished, as we know, with the
leavings of
her friend Valerie's former boudoir and bedroom.
"I began," she would say, "as a hungry nanny goat, and I am
ending as
a lionne."
She still worked for Monsieur Rivet at the more elaborate
kinds of
gold-trimming, merely, as she said, not to lose her time. At the
same
time, she was, as we shall see, very full of business; but it
is
inherent in the nature of country-folks never to give up
bread-
winning; in this they are like the Jews.
Every morning, very early, Cousin Betty went off to market
with the
cook. It was part of Lisbeth's scheme that the house-book, which
was
ruining Baron Hulot, was to enrich her dear Valerie--as it did
indeed.
Is there a housewife who, since 1838, has not suffered from
the evil
effects of Socialist doctrines diffused among the lower classes
by
incendiary writers? In every household the plague of servants
is
nowadays the worst of financial afflictions. With very few
exceptions,
who ought to be rewarded with the Montyon prize, the cook, male
or
female, is a domestic robber, a thief taking wages, and
perfectly
barefaced, with the Government for a fence, developing the
tendency to
dishonesty, which is almost authorized in the cook by the
time-honored
jest as to the "handle of the basket." The women who formerly
picked
up their forty sous to buy a lottery ticket now take fifty
francs to
put into the savings bank. And the smug Puritans who amuse
themselves
in France with philanthropic experiments fancy that they are
making
the common people moral!
Between the market and the master's table the servants have
their
secret toll, and the municipality of Paris is less sharp in
collecting
the city-dues than the servants are in taking theirs on every
single
thing. To say nothing of fifty per cent charged on every form of
food,
they demand large New Year's premiums from the tradesmen. The
best
class of dealers tremble before this occult power, and subsidize
it
without a word--coachmakers, jewelers, tailors, and all. If
any
attempt is made to interfere with them, the servants reply
with
impudent retorts, or revenge themselves by the costly blunders
of
assumed clumsiness; and in these days they inquire into their
master's
character as, formerly, the master inquired into theirs. This
mischief
is now really at its height, and the law-courts are beginning to
take
cognizance of it; but in vain, for it cannot be remedied but by
a law
which shall compel domestic servants, like laborers, to have a
pass-
book as a guarantee of conduct. Then the evil will vanish as if
by
magic. If every servant were obliged to show his pass-book, and
if
masters were required to state in it the cause of his dismissal,
this
would certainly prove a powerful check to the evil.
The men who are giving their attentions to the politics of the
day
know not to what lengths the depravity of the lower classes has
gone.
Statistics are silent as to the startling number of working men
of
twenty who marry cooks of between forty and fifty enriched by
robbery.
We shudder to think of the result of such unions from the three
points
of view of increasing crime, degeneracy of the race, and
miserable
households.
As to the mere financial mischief that results from
domestic
peculation, that too is immense from a political point of view.
Life
being made to cost double, any superfluity becomes impossible in
most
households. Now superfluity means half the trade of the world,
as it
is half the elegance of life. Books and flowers are to many
persons as
necessary as bread.
Lisbeth, well aware of this dreadful scourge of Parisian
households,
determined to manage Valerie's, promising her every assistance
in the
terrible scene when the two women had sworn to be like sisters.
So she
had brought from the depths of the Vosges a humble relation on
her
mother's side, a very pious and honest soul, who had been cook
to the
Bishop of Nancy. Fearing, however, her inexperience of Paris
ways, and
yet more the evil counsel which wrecks such fragile virtue, at
first
Lisbeth always went to market with Mathurine, and tried to teach
her
what to buy. To know the real prices of things and command
the
salesman's respect; to purchase unnecessary delicacies, such as
fish,
only when they were cheap; to be well informed as to the price
current
of groceries and provisions, so as to buy when prices are low
in
anticipation of a rise,--all this housekeeping skill is in
Paris
essential to domestic economy. As Mathurine got good wages and
many
presents, she liked the house well enough to be glad to drive
good
bargains. And by this time Lisbeth had made her quite a match
for
herself, sufficiently experienced and trustworthy to be sent to
market
alone, unless Valerie was giving a dinner--which, in fact, was
not
unfrequently the case. And this was how it came about.
The Baron had at first observed the strictest decorum; but his
passion
for Madame Marneffe had ere long become so vehement, so greedy,
that
he would never quit her if he could help it. At first he dined
there
four times a week; then he thought it delightful to dine with
her
every day. Six months after his daughter's marriage he was
paying her
two thousand francs a month for his board. Madame Marneffe
invited any
one her dear Baron wished to entertain. The dinner was always
arranged
for six; he could bring in three unexpected guests. Lisbeth's
economy
enabled her to solve the extraordinary problem of keeping up the
table
in the best style for a thousand francs a month, giving the
other
thousand to Madame Marneffe. Valerie's dress being chiefly paid
for by
Crevel and the Baron, the two women saved another thousand
francs a
month on this.
And so this pure and innocent being had already accumulated a
hundred
and fifty thousand francs in savings. She had capitalized her
income
and monthly bonus, and swelled the amount by enormous interest,
due to
Crevel's liberality in allowing his "little Duchess" to invest
her
money in partnership with him in his financial operations.
Crevel had
taught Valerie the slang and the procedure of the money market,
and,
like every Parisian woman, she had soon outstripped her
master.
Lisbeth, who never spent a sou of her twelve hundred francs,
whose
rent and dress were given to her, and who never put her hand in
her
pocket, had likewise a small capital of five or six thousand
francs,
of which Crevel took fatherly care.
At the same time, two such lovers were a heavy burthen on
Valerie. On
the day when this drama reopens, Valerie, spurred by one of
those
incidents which have the effect in life that the ringing of a
bell has
in inducing a swarm of bees to settle, went up to Lisbeth's
rooms to
give vent to one of those comforting lamentations--a sort of
cigarette
blown off from the tongue--by which women alleviate the minor
miseries
of life.
"Oh, Lisbeth, my love, two hours of Crevel this morning! It
is
crushing! How I wish I could send you in my place!"
"That, unluckily, is impossible," said Lisbeth, smiling. "I
shall die
a maid."
"Two old men lovers! Really, I am ashamed sometimes! If my
poor mother
could see me."
"You are mistaking me for Crevel!" said Lisbeth.
"Tell me, my little Betty, do you not despise me?"
"Oh! if I had but been pretty, what adventures I would have
had!"
cried Lisbeth. "That is your justification."
"But you would have acted only at the dictates of your heart,"
said
Madame Marneffe, with a sigh.
"Pooh! Marneffe is a dead man they have forgotten to bury,"
replied
Lisbeth. "The Baron is as good as your husband; Crevel is your
adorer;
it seems to me that you are quite in order--like every other
married
woman."
"No, it is not that, dear, adorable thing; that is not where
the shoe
pinches; you do not choose to understand."
"Yes, I do," said Lisbeth. "The unexpressed factor is part of
my
revenge; what can I do? I am working it out."
"I love Wenceslas so that I am positively growing thin, and I
can
never see him," said Valerie, throwing up her arms. "Hulot asks
him to
dinner, and my artist declines. He does not know that I idolize
him,
the wretch! What is his wife after all? Fine flesh! Yes, she
is
handsome, but I--I know myself--I am worse!"
"Be quite easy, my child, he will come," said Lisbeth, in the
tone of
a nurse to an impatient child. "He shall."
"But when?"
"This week perhaps."
"Give me a kiss."
As may be seen, these two women were but one. Everything
Valerie did,
even her most reckless actions, her pleasures, her little sulks,
were
decided on after serious deliberation between them.
Lisbeth, strangely excited by this harlot existence, advised
Valerie
on every step, and pursued her course of revenge with pitiless
logic.
She really adored Valerie; she had taken her to be her child,
her
friend, her love; she found her docile, as Creoles are, yielding
from
voluptuous indolence; she chattered with her morning after
morning
with more pleasure than with Wenceslas; they could laugh
together over
the mischief they plotted, and over the folly of men, and count
up the
swelling interest on their respective savings.
Indeed in this new enterprise and new affection, Lisbeth had
found
food for her activity that was far more satisfying than her
insane
passion for Wenceslas. The joys of gratified hatred are the
fiercest
and strongest the heart can know. Love is the gold, hatred the
iron of
the mine of feeling that lies buried in us. And then, Valerie
was, to
Lisbeth, Beauty in all its glory--the beauty she worshiped, as
we
worship what we have not, beauty far more plastic to her hand
than
that of Wenceslas, who had always been cold to her and
distant.
At the end of nearly three years, Lisbeth was beginning to
perceive
the progress of the underground mine on which she was expending
her
life and concentrating her mind. Lisbeth planned, Madame
Marneffe
acted. Madame Marneffe was the axe, Lisbeth was the hand the
wielded
it, and that hand was rapidly demolishing the family which was
every
day more odious to her; for we can hate more and more, just as,
when
we love, we love better every day.
Love and hatred are feelings that feed on themselves; but of
the two,
hatred has the longer vitality. Love is restricted within limits
of
power; it derives its energies from life and from lavishness.
Hatred
is like death, like avarice; it is, so to speak, an active
abstraction, above beings and things.
Lisbeth, embarked on the existence that was natural to her,
expended
in it all her faculties; governing, like the Jesuits, by
occult
influences. The regeneration of her person was equally complete;
her
face was radiant. Lisbeth dreamed of becoming Madame la
Marechale
Hulot.
This little scene, in which the two friends had bluntly
uttered their
ideas without any circumlocution in expressing them, took
place
immediately on Lisbeth's return from market, whither she had
been to
procure the materials for an elegant dinner. Marneffe, who hoped
to
get Coquet's place, was to entertain him and the virtuous
Madame
Coquet, and Valerie hoped to persuade Hulot, that very evening,
to
consider the head-clerk's resignation.
Lisbeth dressed to go to the Baroness, with whom she was to dine.
"You will come back in time to make tea for us, my Betty?"
said
Valerie.
"I hope so."
"You hope so--why? Have you come to sleeping with Adeline to
drink her
tears while she is asleep?"
"If only I could!" said Lisbeth, laughing. "I would not
refuse. She is
expiating her happiness--and I am glad, for I remember our young
days.
It is my turn now. She will be in the mire, and I shall be
Comtesse de
Forzheim!"
Lisbeth set out for the Rue Plumet, where she now went as to
the
theatre--to indulge her emotions.
The residence Hulot had found for his wife consisted of a
large, bare
entrance-room, a drawing-room, and a bed and dressing-room.
The
dining-room was next the drawing-room on one side. Two servants'
rooms
and a kitchen on the third floor completed the accommodation,
which
was not unworthy of a Councillor of State, high up in the War
Office.
The house, the court-yard, and the stairs were extremely
handsome.
The Baroness, who had to furnish her drawing-room, bed-room,
and
dining-room with the relics of her splendor, had brought away
the best
of the remains from the house in the Rue de l'Universite.
Indeed, the
poor woman was attached to these mute witnesses of her happier
life;
to her they had an almost consoling eloquence. In memory she saw
her
flowers, as in the carpets she could trace patterns hardly
visible now
to other eyes.
On going into the spacious anteroom, where twelve chairs, a
barometer,
a large stove, and long, white cotton curtains, bordered with
red,
suggested the dreadful waiting-room of a Government office,
the
visitor felt oppressed, conscious at once of the isolation in
which
the mistress lived. Grief, like pleasure, infects the
atmosphere. A
first glance into any home is enough to tell you whether love
or
despair reigns there.
Adeline would be found sitting in an immense bedroom with
beautiful
furniture by Jacob Desmalters, of mahogany finished in the
Empire
style with ormolu, which looks even less inviting than the
brass-work
of Louis XVI.! It gave one a shiver to see this lonely woman
sitting
on a Roman chair, a work-table with sphinxes before her,
colorless,
affecting false cheerfulness, but preserving her imperial air,
as she
had preserved the blue velvet gown she always wore in the house.
Her
proud spirit sustained her strength and preserved her
beauty.
The Baroness, by the end of her first year of banishment to
this
apartment, had gauged every depth of misfortune.
"Still, even here my Hector has made my life much handsomer
than it
should be for a mere peasant," said she to herself. "He chooses
that
it should be so; his will be done! I am Baroness Hulot, the
sister-in-
law of a Marshal of France. I have done nothing wrong; my two
children
are settled in life; I can wait for death, wrapped in the
spotless
veil of an immaculate wife and the crape of departed
happiness."
A portrait of Hulot, in the uniform of a Commissary General of
the
Imperial Guard, painted in 1810 by Robert Lefebvre, hung above
the
work-table, and when visitors were announced, Adeline threw into
a
drawer an Imitation of Jesus Christ, her habitual study.
This
blameless Magdalen thus heard the Voice of the Spirit in her
desert.
"Mariette, my child," said Lisbeth to the woman who opened the
door,
"how is my dear Adeline to-day?"
"Oh, she looks pretty well, mademoiselle; but between you and
me, if
she goes on in this way, she will kill herself," said Mariette
in a
whisper. "You really ought to persuade her to live better.
Now,
yesterday madame told me to give her two sous' worth of milk and
a
roll for one sou; to get her a herring for dinner and a bit of
cold
veal; she had a pound cooked to last her the week--of course,
for the
days when she dines at home and alone. She will not spend more
than
ten sous a day for her food. It is unreasonable. If I were to
say
anything about it to Monsieur le Marechal, he might quarrel
with
Monsieur le Baron and leave him nothing, whereas you, who are so
kind
and clever, can manage things----"
"But why do you not apply to my cousin the Baron?" said Lisbeth.
"Oh, dear mademoiselle, he has not been here for three weeks
or more;
in fact, not since we last had the pleasure of seeing you!
Besides,
madame has forbidden me, under threat of dismissal, ever to ask
the
master for money. But as for grief!--oh, poor lady, she has been
very
unhappy. It is the first time that monsieur has neglected her
for so
long. Every time the bell rang she rushed to the window--but for
the
last five days she has sat still in her chair. She reads.
Whenever she
goes out to see Madame la Comtesse, she says, 'Mariette, if
monsieur
comes in,' says she, 'tell him I am at home, and send the porter
to
fetch me; he shall be well paid for his trouble.' "
"Poor soul!" said Lisbeth; "it goes to my heart. I speak of
her to the
Baron every day. What can I do? 'Yes,' says he, 'Betty, you are
right;
I am a wretch. My wife is an angel, and I am a monster! I will
go
to-morrow----' And he stays with Madame Marneffe. That woman
is
ruining him, and he worships her; he lives only in her sight.--I
do
what I can; if I were not there, and if I had not Mathurine to
depend
upon, he would spend twice as much as he does; and as he has
hardly
any money in the world, he would have blown his brains out by
this
time. And, I tell you, Mariette, Adeline would die of her
husband's
death, I am perfectly certain. At any rate, I pull to make both
ends
meet, and prevent my cousin from throwing too much money into
the
fire."
"Yes, that is what madame says, poor soul! She knows how much
she owes
you," replied Mariette. "She said she had judged you unjustly
for many
years----"
"Indeed!" said Lisbeth. "And did she say anything else?"
"No, mademoiselle. If you wish to please her, talk to her
about
Monsieur le Baron; she envies you your happiness in seeing him
every
day."
"Is she alone?"
"I beg pardon, no; the Marshal is with her. He comes every
day, and
she always tells him she saw monsieur in the morning, but that
he
comes in very late at night."
"And is there a good dinner to-day?"
Mariette hesitated; she could not meet Lisbeth's eye. The
drawing-room
door opened, and Marshal Hulot rushed out in such haste that he
bowed
to Lisbeth without looking at her, and dropped a paper. Lisbeth
picked
it up and ran after him downstairs, for it was vain to hail a
deaf
man; but she managed not to overtake the Marshal, and as she
came up
again she furtively read the following lines written in
pencil:--
"MY DEAR BROTHER,--My husband has given me the money for
my
quarter's expenses; but my daughter Hortense was in such need
of
it, that I lent her the whole sum, which was scarcely enough
to
set her straight. Could you lend me a few hundred francs? For
I
cannot ask Hector for more; if he were to blame me, I could
not
bear it."
"My word!" thought Lisbeth, "she must be in extremities to
bend her
pride to such a degree!"
Lisbeth went in. She saw tears in Adeline's eyes, and threw
her arms
round her neck.
"Adeline, my dearest, I know all," cried Cousin Betty. "Here,
the
Marshal dropped this paper--he was in such a state of mind,
and
running like a greyhound.--Has that dreadful Hector given you no
money
since----?"
"He gives it me quite regularly," replied the Baroness, "but
Hortense
needed it, and--"
"And you had not enough to pay for dinner to-night," said
Lisbeth,
interrupting her. "Now I understand why Mariette looked so
confused
when I said something about the soup. You really are
childish,
Adeline; come, take my savings."
"Thank you, my kind cousin," said Adeline, wiping away a tear.
"This
little difficulty is only temporary, and I have provided for
the
future. My expenses henceforth will be no more than two thousand
four
hundred francs a year, rent inclusive, and I shall have the
money.--
Above all, Betty, not a word to Hector. Is he well?"
"As strong as the Pont Neuf, and as gay as a lark; he thinks
of
nothing but his charmer Valerie."
Madame Hulot looked out at a tall silver-fir in front of the
window,
and Lisbeth could not see her cousin's eyes to read their
expression.
"Did you mention that it was the day when we all dine together here?"
"Yes. But, dear me! Madame Marneffe is giving a grand dinner;
she
hopes to get Monsieur Coquet to resign, and that is of the
first
importance.--Now, Adeline, listen to me. You know that I am
fiercely
proud as to my independence. Your husband, my dear, will
certainly
bring you to ruin. I fancied I could be of use to you all by
living
near this woman, but she is a creature of unfathomable
depravity, and
she will make your husband promise things which will bring you
all to
disgrace." Adeline writhed like a person stabbed to the heart.
"My
dear Adeline, I am sure of what I say. I feel it is my duty
to
enlighten you.--Well, let us think of the future. The Marshal is
an
old man, but he will last a long time yet--he draws good pay;
when he
dies his widow would have a pension of six thousand francs. On
such an
income I would undertake to maintain you all. Use your influence
over
the good man to get him to marry me. It is not for the sake of
being
Madame la Marechale; I value such nonsense at no more than I
value
Madame Marneffe's conscience; but you will all have bread. I see
that
Hortense must be wanting it, since you give her yours."
The Marshal now came in; he had made such haste, that he was
mopping
his forehead with his bandana.
"I have given Mariette two thousand francs," he whispered to
his
sister-in-law.
Adeline colored to the roots of her hair. Two tears hung on
the
fringes of the still long lashes, and she silently pressed the
old
man's hand; his beaming face expressed the glee of a favored
lover.
"I intended to spend the money in a present for you, Adeline,"
said
he. "Instead of repaying me, you must choose for yourself the
thing
you would like best."
He took Lisbeth's hand, which she held out to him, and so
bewildered
was he by his satisfaction, that he kissed it.
"That looks promising," said Adeline to Lisbeth, smiling so
far as she
was able to smile.
The younger Hulot and his wife now came in.
"Is my brother coming to dinner?" asked the Marshal sharply.
Adeline took up a pencil and wrote these words on a scrap of paper:
"I expect him; he promised this morning that he would be here;
but if
he should not come, it would be because the Marshal kept him. He
is
overwhelmed with business."
And she handed him the paper. She had invented this way of
conversing
with Marshal Hulot, and kept a little collection of paper scraps
and a
pencil at hand on the work-table.
"I know," said the Marshal, "he is worked very hard over the
business
in Algiers."
At this moment, Hortense and Wenceslas arrived, and the
Baroness, as
she saw all her family about her, gave the Marshal a
significant
glance understood by none but Lisbeth.
Happiness had greatly improved the artist, who was adored by
his wife
and flattered by the world. His face had become almost round,
and his
graceful figure did justice to the advantages which blood gives
to men
of birth. His early fame, his important position, the
delusive
eulogies that the world sheds on artists as lightly as we say,
"How
d'ye do?" or discuss the weather, gave him that high sense of
merit
which degenerates into sheer fatuity when talent wanes. The
Cross of
the Legion of Honor was the crowning stamp of the great man
he
believed himself to be.
After three years of married life, Hortense was to her husband
what a
dog is to its master; she watched his every movement with a look
that
seemed a constant inquiry, her eyes were always on him, like
those of
a miser on his treasure; her admiring abnegation was quite
pathetic.
In her might be seen her mother's spirit and teaching. Her
beauty, as
great as ever, was poetically touched by the gentle shadow
of
concealed melancholy.
On seeing Hortense come in, it struck Lisbeth that some
long-
suppressed complaint was about to break through the thin veil
of
reticence. Lisbeth, from the first days of the honeymoon, had
been
sure that this couple had too small an income for so great a
passion.
Hortense, as she embraced her mother, exchanged with her a
few
whispered phrases, heart to heart, of which the mystery was
betrayed
to Lisbeth by certain shakes of the head.
"Adeline, like me, must work for her living," thought Cousin
Betty.
"She shall be made to tell me what she will do! Those pretty
fingers
will know at last, like mine, what it is to work because they
must."
At six o'clock the family party went in to dinner. A place was
laid
for Hector.
"Leave it so," said the Baroness to Mariette, "monsieur
sometimes
comes in late."
"Oh, my father will certainly come," said Victorin to his
mother. "He
promised me he would when we parted at the Chamber."
Lisbeth, like a spider in the middle of its net, gloated over
all
these countenances. Having known Victorin and Hortense from
their
birth, their faces were to her like panes of glass, through
which she
could read their young souls. Now, from certain stolen looks
directed
by Victorin on his mother, she saw that some disaster was
hanging over
Adeline which Victorin hesitated to reveal. The famous young
lawyer
had some covert anxiety. His deep reverence for his mother was
evident
in the regret with which he gazed at her.
Hortense was evidently absorbed in her own woes; for a
fortnight past,
as Lisbeth knew, she had been suffering the first uneasiness
which
want of money brings to honest souls, and to young wives on whom
life
has hitherto smiled, and who conceal their alarms. Also Lisbeth
had
immediately guessed that her mother had given her no money.
Adeline's
delicacy had brought her so low as to use the fallacious excuses
that
necessity suggests to borrowers.
Hortense's absence of mind, with her brother's and the
Baroness' deep
dejection, made the dinner a melancholy meal, especially with
the
added chill of the Marshal's utter deafness. Three persons gave
a
little life to the scene: Lisbeth, Celestine, and Wenceslas.
Hortense's affection had developed the artist's natural
liveliness as
a Pole, the somewhat swaggering vivacity and noisy high spirits
that
characterize these Frenchmen of the North. His frame of mind and
the
expression of his face showed plainly that he believed in
himself, and
that poor Hortense, faithful to her mother's training, kept
all
domestic difficulties to herself.
"You must be content, at any rate," said Lisbeth to her young
cousin,
as they rose from table, "since your mother has helped you with
her
money."
"Mamma!" replied Hortense in astonishment. "Oh, poor mamma! It
is for
me that she would like to make money. You do not know, Lisbeth,
but I
have a horrible suspicion that she works for it in secret."
They were crossing the large, dark drawing-room where there
were no
candles, all following Mariette, who was carrying the lamp
into
Adeline's bedroom. At this instant Victorin just touched Lisbeth
and
Hortense on the arm. The two women, understanding the hint,
left
Wenceslas, Celestine, the Marshal, and the Baroness to go on
together,
and remained standing in a window-bay.
"What is it, Victorin?" said Lisbeth. "Some disaster caused by
your
father, I dare wager."
"Yes, alas!" replied Victorin. "A money-lender named Vauvinet
has
bills of my father's to the amount of sixty thousand francs, and
wants
to prosecute. I tried to speak of the matter to my father at
the
Chamber, but he would not understand me; he almost avoided me.
Had we
better tell my mother?"
"No, no," said Lisbeth, "she has too many troubles; it would
be a
death-blow; you must spare her. You have no idea how low she
has
fallen. But for your uncle, you would have found no dinner here
this
evening."
"Dear Heaven! Victorin, what wretches we are!" said Hortense
to her
brother. "We ought to have guessed what Lisbeth has told us. My
dinner
is choking me!"
Hortense could say no more; she covered her mouth with her
handkerchief to smother a sob, and melted into tears.
"I told the fellow Vauvinet to call on me to-morrow,"
replied
Victorin, "but will he be satisfied by my guarantee on a
mortgage? I
doubt it. Those men insist on ready money to sweat others on
usurious
terms."
"Let us sell out of the funds!" said Lisbeth to Hortense.
"What good would that do?" replied Victorin. "It would bring
fifteen
or sixteen thousand francs, and we want sixty thousand."
"Dear cousin!" cried Hortense, embracing Lisbeth with the
enthusiasm
of guilelessness.
"No, Lisbeth, keep your little fortune," said Victorin,
pressing the
old maid's hand. "I shall see to-morrow what this man would be
up to.
With my wife's consent, I can at least hinder or postpone
the
prosecution--for it would really be frightful to see my father's
honor
impugned. What would the War Minister say? My father's salary,
which
he pledged for three years, will not be released before the
month of
December, so we cannot offer that as a guarantee. This Vauvinet
has
renewed the bills eleven times; so you may imagine what my
father must
pay in interest. We must close this pit."
"If only Madame Marneffe would throw him over!" said
Hortense
bitterly.
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Victorin. "He would take up some
one else;
and with her, at any rate, the worst outlay is over."
What a change in children formerly so respectful, and kept so
long by
their mother in blind worship of their father! They knew him now
for
what he was.
"But for me," said Lisbeth, "your father's ruin would be more
complete
than it is."
"Come in to mamma," said Hortense; "she is very sharp, and
will
suspect something; as our kind Lisbeth says, let us keep
everything
from her--let us be cheerful."
"Victorin," said Lisbeth, "you have no notion of what your
father will
be brought to by his passion for women. Try to secure some
future
resource by getting the Marshal to marry me. Say something about
it
this evening; I will leave early on purpose."
Victorin went into the bedroom.
"And you, poor little thing!" said Lisbeth in an undertone
to
Hortense, "what can you do?"
"Come to dinner with us to-morrow, and we will talk it over,"
answered
Hortense. "I do not know which way to turn; you know how hard
life is,
and you will advise me."
While the whole family with one consent tried to persuade the
Marshal
to marry, and while Lisbeth was making her way home to the
Rue
Vanneau, one of those incidents occurred which, in such women
as
Madame Marneffe, are a stimulus to vice by compelling them to
exert
their energy and every resource of depravity. One fact, at any
rate,
must however be acknowledged: life in Paris is too full for
vicious
persons to do wrong instinctively and unprovoked; vice is only
a
weapon of defence against aggressors--that is all.
Madame Marneffe's drawing-room was full of her faithful
admirers, and
she had just started the whist-tables, when the footman, a
pensioned
soldier recruited by the Baron, announced:
"Monsieur le Baron Montes de Montejanos."
Valerie's heart jumped, but she hurried to the door, exclaiming:
"My cousin!" and as she met the Brazilian, she whispered:
"You are my relation--or all is at an end between us!--And so
you were
not wrecked, Henri?" she went on audibly, as she led him to the
fire.
"I heard you were lost, and have mourned for you these three
years."
"How are you, my good fellow?" said Marneffe, offering his
hand to the
stranger, whose get-up was indeed that of a Brazilian and a
millionaire.
Monsieur le Baron Henri Montes de Montejanos, to whom the
climate of
the equator had given the color and stature we expect to see
in
Othello on the stage, had an alarming look of gloom, but it was
a
merely pictorial illusion; for, sweet and affectionate by
nature, he
was predestined to be the victim that a strong man often is to a
weak
woman. The scorn expressed in his countenance, the muscular
strength
of his stalwart frame, all his physical powers were shown only
to his
fellow-men; a form of flattery which women appreciate, nay,
which so
intoxicates them, that every man with his mistress on his arm
assumes
a matador swagger that provokes a smile. Very well set up, in
a
closely fitting blue coat with solid gold buttons, in black
trousers,
spotless patent evening boots, and gloves of a fashionable hue,
the
only Brazilian touch in the Baron's costume was a large diamond,
worth
about a hundred thousand francs, which blazed like a star on
a
handsome blue silk cravat, tucked into a white waistcoat in such
a way
as to show corners of a fabulously fine shirt front.
His brow, bossy like that of a satyr, a sign of tenacity in
his
passions, was crowned by thick jet-black hair like a virgin
forest,
and under it flashed a pair of hazel eyes, so wild looking as
to
suggest that before his birth his mother must have been scared
by a
jaguar.
This fine specimen of the Portuguese race in Brazil took his
stand
with his back to the fire, in an attitude that showed
familiarity with
Paris manners; holding his hat in one hand, his elbow resting on
the
velvet-covered shelf, he bent over Madame Marneffe, talking to
her in
an undertone, and troubling himself very little about the
dreadful
people who, in his opinion, were so very much in the way.
This fashion of taking the stage, with the Brazilian's
attitude and
expression, gave, alike to Crevel and to the baron, an identical
shock
of curiosity and anxiety. Both were struck by the same
impression and
the same surmise. And the manoeuvre suggested in each by their
very
genuine passion was so comical in its simultaneous results, that
it
made everybody smile who was sharp enough to read its meaning.
Crevel,
a tradesman and shopkeeper to the backbone, though a mayor of
Paris,
unluckily, was a little slower to move than his rival partner,
and
this enabled the Baron to read at a glance Crevel's involuntary
self-
betrayal. This was a fresh arrow to rankle in the very amorous
old
man's heart, and he resolved to have an explanation from
Valerie.
"This evening," said Crevel to himself too, as he sorted his
hand, "I
must know where I stand."
"You have a heart!" cried Marneffe. "You have just revoked."
"I beg your pardon," said Crevel, trying to withdraw his
card.--"This
Baron seems to me very much in the way," he went on, thinking
to
himself. "If Valerie carries on with my Baron, well and good--it
is a
means to my revenge, and I can get rid of him if I choose; but
as for
this cousin!--He is one Baron too many; I do not mean to be made
a
fool of. I will know how they are related."
That evening, by one of those strokes of luck which come to
pretty
women, Valerie was charmingly dressed. Her white bosom gleamed
under a
lace tucker of rusty white, which showed off the satin texture
of her
beautiful shoulders--for Parisian women, Heaven knows how, have
some
way of preserving their fine flesh and remaining slender. She
wore a
black velvet gown that looked as if it might at any moment slip
off
her shoulders, and her hair was dressed with lace and
drooping
flowers. Her arms, not fat but dimpled, were graced by deep
ruffles to
her sleeves. She was like a luscious fruit coquettishly served
in a
handsome dish, and making the knife-blade long to be cutting
it.
"Valerie," the Brazilian was saying in her ear, "I have come
back
faithful to you. My uncle is dead; I am twice as rich as I was
when I
went away. I mean to live and die in Paris, for you and with
you."
"Lower, Henri, I implore you----"
"Pooh! I mean to speak to you this evening, even if I should
have to
pitch all these creatures out of window, especially as I have
lost two
days in looking for you. I shall stay till the last.--I can,
I
suppose?"
Valerie smiled at her adopted cousin, and said:
"Remember that you are the son of my mother's sister, who
married your
father during Junot's campaign in Portugal."
"What, I, Montes de Montejanos, great grandson of a conquerer
of
Brazil! Tell a lie?"
"Hush, lower, or we shall never meet again."
"Pray, why?"
"Marneffe, like all dying wretches, who always take up some
last whim,
has a revived passion for me----"
"That cur?" said the Brazilian, who knew his Marneffe; "I will
settle
him!"
"What violence!"
"And where did you get all this splendor?" the Brazilian went
on, just
struck by the magnificence of the apartment.
She began to laugh.
"Henri! what bad taste!" said she.
She had felt two burning flashes of jealousy which had moved
her so
far as to make her look at the two souls in purgatory. Crevel,
playing
against Baron Hulot and Monsieur Coquet, had Marneffe for his
partner.
The game was even, because Crevel and the Baron were equally
absent-
minded, and made blunder after blunder. Thus, in one instant,
the old
men both confessed the passion which Valerie had persuaded them
to
keep secret for the past three years; but she too had failed to
hide
the joy in her eyes at seeing the man who had first taught her
heart
to beat, the object of her first love. The rights of such
happy
mortals survive as long as the woman lives over whom they
have
acquired them.
With these three passions at her side--one supported by the
insolence
of wealth, the second by the claims of possession, and the third
by
youth, strength, fortune, and priority--Madame Marneffe
preserved her
coolness and presence of mind, like General Bonaparte when, at
the
siege of Mantua, he had to fight two armies, and at the same
time
maintain the blockade.
Jealousy, distorting Hulot's face, made him look as terrible
as the
late Marshal Montcornet leading a cavalry charge against a
Russian
square. Being such a handsome man, he had never known any ground
for
jealousy, any more than Murat knew what it was to be afraid. He
had
always felt sure that he should triumph. His rebuff by Josepha,
the
first he had ever met, he ascribed to her love of money; "he
was
conquered by millions, and not by a changeling," he would say
when
speaking of the Duc d'Herouville. And now, in one instant, the
poison
and delirium that the mad passion sheds in a flood had rushed to
his
heart. He kept turning from the whist-table towards the
fireplace with
an action a la Mirabeau; and as he laid down his cards to
cast a
challenging glance at the Brazilian and Valerie, the rest of
the
company felt the sort of alarm mingled with curiosity that is
caused
by evident violence ready to break out at any moment. The sham
cousin
stared at Hulot as he might have looked at some big China
mandarin.
This state of things could not last; it was bound to end in
some
tremendous outbreak. Marneffe was as much afraid of Hulot as
Crevel
was of Marneffe, for he was anxious not to die a mere clerk.
Men
marked for death believe in life as galley-slaves believe in
liberty;
this man was bent on being a first-class clerk at any cost.
Thoroughly
frightened by the pantomime of the Baron and Crevel, he rose,
said a
few words in his wife's ear, and then, to the surprise of all,
Valerie
went into the adjoining bedroom with the Brazilian and her
husband.
"Did Madame Marneffe ever speak to you of this cousin of
hers?" said
Crevel to Hulot.
"Never!" replied the Baron, getting up. "That is enough for
this
evening," said he. "I have lost two louis--there they are."
He threw the two gold pieces on the table, and seated himself
on the
sofa with a look which everybody else took as a hint to go.
Monsieur
and Madame Coquet, after exchanging a few words, left the room,
and
Claude Vignon, in despair, followed their example. These two
departures were a hint to less intelligent persons, who now
found that
they were not wanted. The Baron and Crevel were left together,
and
spoke never a word. Hulot, at last, ignoring Crevel, went on
tiptoe to
listen at the bedroom door; but he bounded back with a
prodigious
jump, for Marneffe opened the door and appeared with a calm
face,
astonished to find only the two men.
"And the tea?" said he.
"Where is Valerie?" replied the Baron in a rage.
"My wife," said Marneffe. "She is gone upstairs to speak
to
mademoiselle your cousin. She will come down directly."
"And why has she deserted us for that stupid creature?"
"Well," said Marneffe, "Mademoiselle Lisbeth came back from
dining
with the Baroness with an attack of indigestion and Mathurine
asked
Valerie for some tea for her, so my wife went up to see what was
the
matter."
"And her cousin?"
"He is gone."
"Do you really believe that?" said the Baron.
"I have seen him to his carriage," replied Marneffe, with a
hideous
smirk.
The wheels of a departing carriage were audible in the street.
The
Baron, counting Marneffe for nothing, went upstairs to Lisbeth.
An
idea flashed through him such as the heart sends to the brain
when it
is on fire with jealousy. Marneffe's baseness was so well known
to
him, that he could imagine the most degrading connivance
between
husband and wife.
"What has become of all the ladies and gentlemen?" said
Marneffe,
finding himself alone with Crevel.
"When the sun goes to bed, the cocks and hens follow suit,"
said
Crevel. "Madame Marneffe disappeared, and her adorers departed.
Will
you play a game of piquet?" added Crevel, who meant to
remain.
He too believed that the Brazilian was in the house.
Monsieur Marneffe agreed. The Mayor was a match for the Baron.
Simply
by playing cards with the husband he could stay on indefinitely;
and
Marneffe, since the suppression of the public tables, was
quite
satisfied with the more limited opportunities of private
play.
Baron Hulot went quickly up to Lisbeth's apartment, but the
door was
locked, and the usual inquiries through the door took up time
enough
to enable the two light-handed and cunning women to arrange the
scene
of an attack of indigestion with the accessories of tea. Lisbeth
was
in such pain that Valerie was very much alarmed, and
consequently
hardly paid any heed to the Baron's furious entrance.
Indisposition is
one of the screens most often placed by women to ward off a
quarrel.
Hulot peeped about, here and there, but could see no spot in
Cousin
Betty's room where a Brazilian might lie hidden.
"Your indigestion does honor to my wife's dinner, Lisbeth," said
he,
scrutinizing her, for Lisbeth was perfectly well, trying to
imitate
the hiccough of spasmodic indigestion as she drank her tea.
"How lucky it is that dear Betty should be living under my
roof!" said
Madame Marneffe. "But for me, the poor thing would have
died."
"You look as if you only half believed it," added Lisbeth,
turning to
the Baron, "and that would be a shame----"
"Why?" asked the Baron. "Do you know the purpose of my visit?"
And he leered at the door of a dressing-closet from which the
key had
been withdrawn.
"Are you talking Greek?" said Madame Marneffe, with an
appealing look
of misprized tenderness and devotedness.
"But it is all through you, my dear cousin; yes, it is your
doing that
I am in such a state," said Lisbeth vehemently.
This speech diverted the Baron's attention; he looked at the
old maid
with the greatest astonishment.
"You know that I am devoted to you," said Lisbeth. "I am here,
that
says everything. I am wearing out the last shreds of my strength
in
watching over your interests, since they are one with our
dear
Valerie's. Her house costs one-tenth of what any other does that
is
kept on the same scale. But for me, Cousin, instead of two
thousand
francs a month, you would be obliged to spend three or four
thousand."
"I know all that," replied the Baron out of patience; "you are
our
protectress in many ways," he added, turning to Madame Marneffe
and
putting his arm round her neck.--"Is not she, my pretty
sweet?"
"On my honor," exclaimed Valerie, "I believe you are gone mad!"
"Well, you cannot doubt my attachment," said Lisbeth. "But I
am also
very fond of my cousin Adeline, and I found her in tears. She
has not
seen you for a month. Now that is really too bad; you leave my
poor
Adeline without a sou. Your daughter Hortense almost died of it
when
she was told that it is thanks to your brother that we had any
dinner
at all. There was not even bread in your house this day.
"Adeline is heroically resolved to keep her sufferings to
herself. She
said to me, 'I will do as you have done!' The speech went to my
heart;
and after dinner, as I thought of what my cousin had been in
1811, and
of what she is in 1841--thirty years after--I had a violent
indigestion.--I fancied I should get over it; but when I got
home, I
thought I was dying--"
"You see, Valerie, to what my adoration of you has brought me!
To
crime--domestic crime!"
"Oh! I was wise never to marry!" cried Lisbeth, with savage
joy. "You
are a kind, good man; Adeline is a perfect angel;--and this is
the
reward of her blind devotion."
"An elderly angel!" said Madame Marneffe softly, as she looked
half
tenderly, half mockingly, at her Hector, who was gazing at her
as an
examining judge gazes at the accused.
"My poor wife!" said Hulot. "For more than nine months I have
given
her no money, though I find it for you, Valerie; but at what a
cost!
No one else will ever love you so, and what torments you inflict
on me
in return!"
"Torments?" she echoed. "Then what do you call happiness?"
"I do not yet know on what terms you have been with this
so-called
cousin whom you never mentioned to me," said the Baron, paying
no heed
to Valerie's interjection. "But when he came in I felt as if
a
penknife had been stuck into my heart. Blinded I may be, but I
am not
blind. I could read his eyes, and yours. In short, from under
that
ape's eyelids there flashed sparks that he flung at you--and
your
eyes!--Oh! you have never looked at me so, never! As to this
mystery,
Valerie, it shall all be cleared up. You are the only woman who
ever
made me know the meaning of jealousy, so you need not be
surprised by
what I say.--But another mystery which has rent its cloud, and
it
seems to me infamous----"
"Go on, go on," said Valerie.
"It is that Crevel, that square lump of flesh and stupidity,
is in
love with you, and that you accept his attentions with so good a
grace
that the idiot flaunts his passion before everybody."
"Only three! Can you discover no more?" asked Madame Marneffe.
"There may be more!" retorted the Baron.
"If Monsieur Crevel is in love with me, he is in his rights as
a man
after all; if I favored his passion, that would indeed be the
act of a
coquette, or of a woman who would leave much to be desired on
your
part.--Well, love me as you find me, or let me alone. If you
restore
me to freedom, neither you nor Monsieur Crevel will ever enter
my
doors again. But I will take up with my cousin, just to keep my
hand
in, in those charming habits you suppose me to
indulge.--Good-bye,
Monsieur le Baron Hulot."
She rose, but the Baron took her by the arm and made her sit
down
again. The old man could not do without Valerie. She had become
more
imperatively indispensable to him than the necessaries of life;
he
preferred remaining in uncertainty to having any proof of
Valerie's
infidelity.
"My dearest Valerie," said he, "do you not see how miserable I
am? I
only ask you to justify yourself. Give me sufficient
reasons--"
"Well, go downstairs and wait for me; for I suppose you do not
wish to
look on at the various ceremonies required by your cousin's
state."
Hulot slowly turned away
"You old profligate," cried Lisbeth, "you have not even asked
me how
your children are? What are you going to do for Adeline? I, at
any
rate, will take her my savings to-morrow."
"You owe your wife white bread to eat at least," said Madame
Marneffe,
smiling.
The Baron, without taking offence at Lisbeth's tone, as
despotic as
Josepha's, got out of the room, only too glad to escape so
importunate
a question.
The door bolted once more, the Brazilian came out of the
dressing-
closet, where he had been waiting, and he appeared with his eyes
full
of tears, in a really pitiable condition. Montes had heard
everything.
"Henri, you must have ceased to love me, I know it!" said
Madame
Marneffe, hiding her face in her handkerchief and bursting into
tears.
It was the outcry of real affection. The cry of a woman's
despair is
so convincing that it wins the forgiveness that lurks at the
bottom of
every lover's heart--when she is young and pretty, and wears a
gown so
low that she could slip out at the top and stand in the garb of
Eve.
"But why, if you love me, do you not leave everything for my
sake?"
asked the Brazilian.
This South American born, being logical, as men are who have
lived the
life of nature, at once resumed the conversation at the point
where it
had been broken off, putting his arm round Valerie's waist.
"Why?" she repeated, gazing up at Henri, whom she subjugated
at once
by a look charged with passion, "why, my dear boy, I am married;
we
are in Paris, not in the savannah, the pampas, the backwoods
of
America.--My dear Henri, my first and only love, listen to me.
That
husband of mine, a second clerk in the War Office, is bent on
being a
head-clerk and officer of the Legion of Honor; can I help his
being
ambitious? Now for the very reason that made him leave us our
liberty
--nearly four years ago, do you remember, you bad boy?--he
now
abandons me to Monsieur Hulot. I cannot get rid of that
dreadful
official, who snorts like a grampus, who has fins in his
nostrils, who
is sixty-three years old, and who had grown ten years older by
dint of
trying to be young; who is so odious to me that the very day
when
Marneffe is promoted, and gets his Cross of the Legion of
Honor----"
"How much more will your husband get then?"
"A thousand crowns."
"I will pay him as much in an annuity," said Baron Montes. "We
will
leave Paris and go----"
"Where?" said Valerie, with one of the pretty sneers by which
a woman
makes fun of a man she is sure of. "Paris is the only place
where we
can live happy. I care too much for your love to risk seeing it
die
out in a tete-a-tete in the wilderness. Listen, Henri,
you are the
only man I care for in the whole world. Write that down clearly
in
your tiger's brain."
For women, when they have made a sheep of a man, always tell
him that
he is a lion with a will of iron.
"Now, attend to me. Monsieur Marneffe has not five years to
live; he
is rotten to the marrow of his bones. He spends seven months of
the
twelve in swallowing drugs and decoctions; he lives wrapped
in
flannel; in short, as the doctor says, he lives under the
scythe, and
may be cut off at any moment. An illness that would not harm
another
man would be fatal to him; his blood is corrupt, his life
undermined
at the root. For five years I have never allowed him to kiss
me--he is
poisonous! Some day, and the day is not far off, I shall be a
widow.
Well, then, I--who have already had an offer from a man with
sixty
thousand francs a year, I who am as completely mistress of that
man as
I am of this lump of sugar--I swear to you that if you were as
poor as
Hulot and as foul as Marneffe, if you beat me even, still you
are the
only man I will have for a husband, the only man I love, or
whose name
I will ever bear. And I am ready to give any pledge of my love
that
you may require."
"Well, then, to-night----"
"But you, son of the South, my splendid jaguar, come expressly
for me
from the virgin forest of Brazil," said she, taking his hand
and
kissing and fondling it, "I have some consideration for the
poor
creature you mean to make your wife.--Shall I be your wife,
Henri?"
"Yes," said the Brazilian, overpowered by this unbridled
volubility of
passion. And he knelt at her feet.
"Well, then, Henri," said Valerie, taking his two hands and
looking
straight into his eyes, "swear to me now, in the presence of
Lisbeth,
my best and only friend, my sister--that you will make me your
wife at
the end of my year's widowhood."
"I swear it."
"That is not enough. Swear by your mother's ashes and
eternal
salvation, swear by the Virgin Mary and by all your hopes as
a
Catholic!"
Valerie knew that the Brazilian would keep that oath even if
she
should have fallen into the foulest social slough.
The Baron solemnly swore it, his nose almost touching
Valerie's white
bosom, and his eyes spellbound. He was drunk, drunk as a man is
when
he sees the woman he loves once more, after a sea voyage of a
hundred
and twenty days.
"Good. Now be quite easy. And in Madame Marneffe respect the
future
Baroness de Montejanos. You are not to spend a sou upon me; I
forbid
it.--Stay here in the outer room; sleep on the sofa. I myself
will
come and tell you when you may move.--We will breakfast
to-morrow
morning, and you can be leaving at about one o'clock as if you
had
come to call at noon. There is nothing to fear; the gate-keepers
love
me as much as if they were my father and mother.--Now I must go
down
and make tea."
She beckoned to Lisbeth, who followed her out on to the
landing. There
Valerie whispered in the old maid's ear:
"My darkie has come back too soon. I shall die if I cannot
avenge you
on Hortense!"
"Make your mind easy, my pretty little devil!" said Lisbeth,
kissing
her forehead. "Love and Revenge on the same track will never
lose the
game. Hortense expects me to-morrow; she is in beggary. For a
thousand
francs you may have a thousand kisses from Wenceslas."
On leaving Valerie, Hulot had gone down to the porter's lodge
and made
a sudden invasion there.
"Madame Olivier?"
On hearing the imperious tone of this address, and seeing the
action
by which the Baron emphasized it, Madame Olivier came out into
the
courtyard as far as the Baron led her.
"You know that if any one can help your son to a connection by
and by,
it is I; it is owing to me that he is already third clerk in
a
notary's office, and is finishing his studies."
"Yes, Monsieur le Baron; and indeed, sir, you may depend on
our
gratitude. Not a day passes that I do not pray to God for
Monsieur le
Baron's happiness."
"Not so many words, my good woman," said Hulot, "but deeds----"
"What can I do, sir?" asked Madame Olivier.
"A man came here to-night in a carriage. Do you know him?"
Madame Olivier had recognized Montes well enough. How could
she have
forgotten him? In the Rue du Doyenne the Brazilian had always
slipped
a five-franc piece into her hand as he went out in the morning,
rather
too early. If the Baron had applied to Monsieur Olivier, he
would
perhaps have learned all he wanted to know. But Olivier was in
bed. In
the lower orders the woman is not merely the superior of the
man--she
almost always has the upper hand. Madame Olivier had long since
made
up her mind as to which side to take in case of a collision
between
her two benefactors; she regarded Madame Marneffe as the
stronger
power.
"Do I know him?" she repeated. "No, indeed, no. I never saw
him
before!"
"What! Did Madame Marneffe's cousin never go to see her when
she was
living in the Rue du Doyenne?"
"Oh! Was it her cousin?" cried Madame Olivier. "I dare say he
did
come, but I did not know him again. Next time, sir, I will look
at
him----"
"He will be coming out," said Hulot, hastily interrupting
Madame
Olivier.
"He has left," said Madame Olivier, understanding the
situation. "The
carriage is gone."
"Did you see him go?"
"As plainly as I see you. He told his servant to drive to
the
Embassy."
This audacious statement wrung a sigh of relief from the
Baron; he
took Madame Olivier's hand and squeezed it.
"Thank you, my good Madame Olivier. But that is not
all.--Monsieur
Crevel?"
"Monsieur Crevel? What can you mean, sir? I do not
understand," said
Madame Olivier.
"Listen to me. He is Madame Marneffe's lover----"
"Impossible, Monsieur le Baron; impossible," said she,
clasping her
hands.
"He is Madame Marneffe's lover," the Baron repeated very
positively.
"How do they manage it? I don't know; but I mean to know, and
you are
to find out. If you can put me on the tracks of this intrigue,
your
son is a notary."
"Don't you fret yourself so, Monsieur le Baron," said Madame
Olivier.
"Madame cares for you, and for no one but you; her maid knows
that for
true, and we say, between her and me, that you are the luckiest
man in
this world--for you know what madame is.--Just perfection!
"She gets up at ten every morning; then she breakfasts. Well
and good.
After that she takes an hour or so to dress; that carries her on
till
two; then she goes for a walk in the Tuileries in the sight of
all
men, and she is always in by four to be ready for you. She lives
like
clockwork. She keeps no secrets from her maid, and Reine keeps
nothing
from me, you may be sure. Reine can't if she would--along of my
son,
for she is very sweet upon him. So, you see, if madame had
any
intimacy with Monsieur Crevel, we should be bound to know
it."
The Baron went upstairs again with a beaming countenance,
convinced
that he was the only man in the world to that shameless slut,
as
treacherous, but as lovely and as engaging as a siren.
Crevel and Marneffe had begun a second rubber at piquet.
Crevel was
losing, as a man must who is not giving his thoughts to his
game.
Marneffe, who knew the cause of the Mayor's absence of mind,
took
unscrupulous advantage of it; he looked at the cards in reverse,
and
discarded accordingly; thus, knowing his adversary's hand, he
played
to beat him. The stake being a franc a point, he had already
robbed
the Mayor of thirty francs when Hulot came in.
"Hey day!" said he, amazed to find no company. "Are you alone?
Where
is everybody gone?"
"Your pleasant temper put them all to flight," said Crevel.
"No, it was my wife's cousin," replied Marneffe. "The ladies
and
gentlemen supposed that Valerie and Henri might have something
to say
to each other after three years' separation, and they very
discreetly
retired.--If I had been in the room, I would have kept them; but
then,
as it happens, it would have been a mistake, for Lisbeth, who
always
comes down to make tea at half-past ten, was taken ill, and that
upset
everything--"
"Then is Lisbeth really unwell?" asked Crevel in a fury.
"So I was told," replied Marneffe, with the heartless
indifference of
a man to whom women have ceased to exist.
The Mayor looked at the clock; and, calculating the time, the
Baron
seemed to have spent forty minutes in Lisbeth's rooms.
Hector's
jubilant expression seriously incriminated Valerie, Lisbeth,
and
himself.
"I have just seen her; she is in great pain, poor soul!" said
the
Baron.
"Then the sufferings of others must afford you much joy, my
friend,"
retorted Crevel with acrimony, "for you have come down with a
face
that is positively beaming. Is Lisbeth likely to die? For
your
daughter, they say, is her heiress. You are not like the same
man. You
left this room looking like the Moor of Venice, and you come
back with
the air of Saint-Preux!--I wish I could see Madame Marneffe's
face at
this minute----"
"And pray, what do you mean by that?" said Marneffe to Crevel,
packing
his cards and laying them down in front of him.
A light kindled in the eyes of this man, decrepit at the age
of forty-
seven; a faint color flushed his flaccid cold cheeks, his
ill-
furnished mouth was half open, and on his blackened lips a sort
of
foam gathered, thick, and as white as chalk. This fury in such
a
helpless wretch, whose life hung on a thread, and who in a duel
would
risk nothing while Crevel had everything to lose, frightened
the
Mayor.
"I said," repeated Crevel, "that I should like to see
Madame
Marneffe's face. And with all the more reason since yours, at
this
moment, is most unpleasant. On my honor, you are horribly ugly,
my
dear Marneffe----"
"Do you know that you are very uncivil?"
"A man who has won thirty francs of me in forty-five minutes
cannot
look handsome in my eyes."
"Ah, if you had but seen me seventeen years ago!" replied the clerk.
"You were so good-looking?" asked Crevel.
"That was my ruin; now, if I had been like you--I might be a
mayor and
a peer."
"Yes," said Crevel, with a smile, "you have been too much in
the wars;
and of the two forms of metal that may be earned by worshiping
the god
of trade, you have taken the worse--the dross!" [This dialogue
is
garnished with puns for which it is difficult to find any
English
equivalent.] And Crevel roared with laughter. Though Marneffe
could
take offence if his honor were in peril, he always took these
rough
pleasantries in good part; they were the small coin of
conversation
between him and Crevel.
"The daughters of Eve cost me dear, no doubt; but, by the
powers!
'Short and sweet' is my motto."
" 'Long and happy' is more to my mind," returned Crevel.
Madame Marneffe now came in; she saw that her husband was at
cards
with Crevel, and only the Baron in the room besides; a mere
glance at
the municipal dignitary showed her the frame of mind he was in,
and
her line of conduct was at once decided on.
"Marneffe, my dear boy," said she, leaning on her husband's
shoulder,
and passing her pretty fingers through his dingy gray hair,
but
without succeeding in covering his bald head with it, "it is
very late
for you; you ought to be in bed. To-morrow, you know, you must
dose
yourself by the doctor's orders. Reine will give you your herb
tea at
seven. If you wish to live, give up your game."
"We will pay it out up to five points," said Marneffe to Crevel.
"Very good--I have scored two," replied the Mayor.
"How long will it take you?"
"Ten minutes," said Marneffe.
"It is eleven o'clock," replied Valerie. "Really, Monsieur
Crevel, one
might fancy you meant to kill my husband. Make haste, at any
rate."
This double-barreled speech made Crevel and Hulot smile, and
even
Marneffe himself. Valerie sat down to talk to Hector.
"You must leave, my dearest," said she in Hulot's ear. "Walk
up and
down the Rue Vanneau, and come in again when you see Crevel go
out."
"I would rather leave this room and go into your room through
the
dressing-room door. You could tell Reine to let me in."
"Reine is upstairs attending to Lisbeth."
"Well, suppose then I go up to Lisbeth's rooms?"
Danger hemmed in Valerie on every side; she foresaw a
discussion with
Crevel, and could not allow Hulot to be in her room, where he
could
hear all that went on.--And the Brazilian was upstairs with
Lisbeth.
"Really, you men, when you have a notion in your head, you
would burn
a house down to get into it!" exclaimed she. "Lisbeth is not in
a fit
state to admit you.--Are you afraid of catching cold in the
street? Be
off there--or good-night."
"Good evening, gentlemen," said the Baron to the other two.
Hulot, when piqued in his old man's vanity, was bent on
proving that
he could play the young man by waiting for the happy hour in the
open
air, and he went away.
Marneffe bid his wife good-night, taking her hands with a
semblance of
devotion. Valerie pressed her husband's hand with a
significant
glance, conveying:
"Get rid of Crevel."
"Good-night, Crevel," said Marneffe. "I hope you will not stay
long
with Valerie. Yes! I am jealous--a little late in the day, but
it has
me hard and fast. I shall come back to see if you are gone."
"We have a little business to discuss, but I shall not stay
long,"
said Crevel.
"Speak low.--What is it?" said Valerie, raising her voice, and
looking
at him with a mingled expression of haughtiness and scorn.
Crevel, as he met this arrogant stare, though he was doing
Valerie
important services, and had hoped to plume himself on the fact,
was at
once reduced to submission.
"That Brazilian----" he began, but, overpowered by Valerie's
fixed
look of contempt, he broke off.
"What of him?" said she.
"That cousin--"
"Is no cousin of mine," said she. "He is my cousin to the
world and to
Monsieur Marneffe. And if he were my lover, it would be no
concern of
yours. A tradesman who pays a woman to be revenged on another
man, is,
in my opinion, beneath the man who pays her for love of her. You
did
not care for me; all you saw in me was Monsieur Hulot's
mistress. You
bought me as a man buys a pistol to kill his adversary. I
wanted
bread--I accepted the bargain."
"But you have not carried it out," said Crevel, the tradesman
once
more.
"You want Baron Hulot to be told that you have robbed him of
his
mistress, to pay him out for having robbed you of Josepha?
Nothing can
more clearly prove your baseness. You say you love a woman, you
treat
her like a duchess, and then you want to degrade her? Well, my
good
fellow, and you are right. This woman is no match for Josepha.
That
young person has the courage of her disgrace, while I--I am
a
hypocrite, and deserve to be publicly whipped.--Alas! Josepha
is
protected by her cleverness and her wealth. I have nothing to
shelter
me but my reputation; I am still the worthy and blameless wife
of a
plain citizen; if you create a scandal, what is to become of me?
If I
were rich, then indeed; but my income is fifteen thousand francs
a
year at most, I suppose."
"Much more than that," said Crevel. "I have doubled your savings
in
these last two months by investing in Orleans."
"Well, a position in Paris begins with fifty thousand. And
you
certainly will not make up to me for the position I should
surrender.
--What was my aim? I want to see Marneffe a first-class clerk;
he will
then draw a salary of six thousand francs. He has been
twenty-seven
years in his office; within three years I shall have a right to
a
pension of fifteen hundred francs when he dies. You, to whom I
have
been entirely kind, to whom I have given your fill of
happiness--you
cannot wait!--And that is what men call love!" she
exclaimed.
"Though I began with an ulterior purpose," said Crevel, "I
have become
your poodle. You trample on my heart, you crush me, you stultify
me,
and I love you as I have never loved in my life. Valerie, I love
you
as much as I love my Celestine. I am capable of anything for
your
sake.--Listen, instead of coming twice a week to the Rue du
Dauphin,
come three times."
"Is that all! You are quite young again, my dear boy!"
"Only let me pack off Hulot, humiliate him, rid you of him,"
said
Crevel, not heeding her impertinence! "Have nothing to say to
the
Brazilian, be mine alone; you shall not repent of it. To begin
with, I
will give you eight thousand francs a year, secured by bond, but
only
as an annuity; I will not give you the capital till the end of
five
years' constancy--"
"Always a bargain! A tradesman can never learn to give. You
want to
stop for refreshments on the road of love--in the form of
Government
bonds! Bah! Shopman, pomatum seller! you put a price on
everything!--
Hector told me that the Duc d'Herouville gave Josepha a bond
for
thirty thousand francs a year in a packet of sugar almonds! And
I am
worth six of Josepha.
"Oh! to be loved!" she went on, twisting her ringlets round
her
fingers, and looking at herself in the glass. "Henri loves me.
He
would smash you like a fly if I winked at him! Hulot loves me;
he
leaves his wife in beggary! As for you, go my good man, be the
worthy
father of a family. You have three hundred thousand francs over
and
above your fortune, only to amuse yourself, a hoard, in fact,
and you
think of nothing but increasing it--"
"For you, Valerie, since I offer you half," said he, falling
on his
knees.
"What, still here!" cried Marneffe, hideous in his
dressing-gown.
"What are you about?"
"He is begging my pardon, my dear, for an insulting proposal
he has
dared to make me. Unable to obtain my consent, my gentleman
proposed
to pay me----"
Crevel only longed to vanish into the cellar, through a trap,
as is
done on the stage.
"Get up, Crevel," said Marneffe, laughing, "you are
ridiculous. I can
see by Valerie's manner that my honor is in no danger."
"Go to bed and sleep in peace," said Madame Marneffe.
"Isn't she clever?" thought Crevel. "She has saved me. She
is
adorable!"
As Marneffe disappeared, the Mayor took Valerie's hands and
kissed
them, leaving on them the traces of tears.
"It shall all stand in your name," he said.
"That is true love," she whispered in his ear. "Well, love for
love.
Hulot is below, in the street. The poor old thing is waiting to
return
when I place a candle in one of the windows of my bedroom. I
give you
leave to tell him that you are the man I love; he will refuse
to
believe you; take him to the Rue du Dauphin, give him every
proof,
crush him; I allow it--I order it! I am tired of that old seal;
he
bores me to death. Keep your man all night in the Rue du
Dauphin,
grill him over a slow fire, be revenged for the loss of Josepha.
Hulot
may die of it perhaps, but we shall save his wife and children
from
utter ruin. Madame Hulot is working for her bread--"
"Oh! poor woman! On my word, it is quite shocking!" exclaimed
Crevel,
his natural feeling coming to the top.
"If you love me, Celestin," said she in Crevel's ear, which
she
touched with her lips, "keep him there, or I am done for.
Marneffe is
suspicious. Hector has a key of the outer gate, and will
certainly
come back."
Crevel clasped Madame Marneffe to his heart, and went away in
the
seventh heaven of delight. Valerie fondly escorted him to the
landing,
and then followed him, like a woman magnetized, down the stairs
to the
very bottom.
"My Valerie, go back, do not compromise yourself before the
porters.--
Go back; my life, my treasure, all is yours.--Go in, my
duchess!"
"Madame Olivier," Valerie called gently when the gate was closed.
"Why, madame! You here?" said the woman in bewilderment.
"Bolt the gates at top and bottom, and let no one in."
"Very good, madame."
Having barred the gate, Madame Olivier told of the bribe that
the War
Office chief had tried to offer her.
"You behaved like an angel, my dear Olivier; we shall talk of
that
to-morrow."
Valerie flew like an arrow to the third floor, tapped three
times at
Lisbeth's door, and then went down to her room, where she
gave
instructions to Mademoiselle Reine, for a woman must make the
most of
the opportunity when a Montes arrives from Brazil.
"By Heaven! only a woman of the world is capable of such
love," said
Crevel to himself. "How she came down those stairs, lighting
them up
with her eyes, following me! Never did Josepha--Josepha! she is
cag-
mag!" cried the ex-bagman. "What have I said?
Cag-mag--why, I might
have let the word slip out at the Tuileries! I can never do any
good
unless Valerie educates me--and I was so bent on being a
gentleman.--
What a woman she is! She upsets me like a fit of the colic when
she
looks at me coldly. What grace! What wit! Never did Josepha move
me
so. And what perfection when you come to know her!--Ha, there is
my
man!"
He perceived in the gloom of the Rue de Babylone the tall,
somewhat
stooping figure of Hulot, stealing along close to a boarding,
and he
went straight up to him.
"Good-morning, Baron, for it is past midnight, my dear fellow.
What
the devil are your doing here? You are airing yourself under
a
pleasant drizzle. That is not wholesome at our time of life.
Will you
let me give you a little piece of advice? Let each of us go
home; for,
between you and me, you will not see the candle in the
window."
The last words made the Baron suddenly aware that he was
sixty-three,
and that his cloak was wet.
"Who on earth told you--?" he began.
"Valerie, of course, our Valerie, who means henceforth
to be my
Valerie. We are even now, Baron; we will play off the tie when
you
please. You have nothing to complain of; you know, I always
stipulated
for the right of taking my revenge; it took you three months to
rob me
of Josepha; I took Valerie from you in--We will say no more
about
that. Now I mean to have her all to myself. But we can be very
good
friends, all the same."
"Crevel, no jesting," said Hulot, in a voice choked by rage.
"It is a
matter of life and death."
"Bless me, is that how you take it!--Baron, do you not
remember what
you said to me the day of Hortense's marriage: 'Can two old
gaffers
like us quarrel over a petticoat? It is too low, too common. We
are
Regence, we agreed, Pompadour, eighteenth century, quite
the
Marechal Richelieu, Louis XV., nay, and I may say,
Liaisons
dangereuses!"
Crevel might have gone on with his string of literary
allusions; the
Baron heard him as a deaf man listens when he is but half deaf.
But,
seeing in the gaslight the ghastly pallor of his face, the
triumphant
Mayor stopped short. This was, indeed, a thunderbolt after
Madame
Olivier's asservations and Valerie's parting glance.
"Good God! And there are so many other women in Paris!" he
said at
last.
"That is what I said to you when you took Josepha," said Crevel.
"Look here, Crevel, it is impossible. Give me some
proof.--Have you a
key, as I have, to let yourself in?"
And having reached the house, the Baron put the key into the
lock; but
the gate was immovable; he tried in vain to open it.
"Do not make a noise in the streets at night," said Crevel
coolly. "I
tell you, Baron, I have far better proof than you can show."
"Proofs! give me proof!" cried the Baron, almost crazy
with
exasperation.
"Come, and you shall have them," said Crevel.
And in obedience to Valerie's instructions, he led the Baron
away
towards the quay, down the Rue Hillerin-Bertin. The unhappy
Baron
walked on, as a merchant walks on the day before he stops
payment; he
was lost in conjectures as to the reasons of the depravity
buried in
the depths of Valerie's heart, and still believed himself the
victim
of some practical joke. As they crossed the Pont Royal, life
seemed to
him so blank, so utterly a void, and so out of joint from
his
financial difficulties, that he was within an ace of yielding to
the
evil prompting that bid him fling Crevel into the river and
throw
himself in after.
On reaching the Rue du Dauphin, which had not yet been
widened, Crevel
stopped before a door in a wall. It opened into a long corridor
paved
with black-and-white marble, and serving as an entrance-hall, at
the
end of which there was a flight of stairs and a doorkeeper's
lodge,
lighted from an inner courtyard, as is often the case in Paris.
This
courtyard, which was shared with another house, was oddly
divided into
two unequal portions. Crevel's little house, for he owned it,
had
additional rooms with a glass skylight, built out on to the
adjoining
plot, under conditions that it should have no story added above
the
ground floor, so that the structure was entirely hidden by the
lodge
and the projecting mass of the staircase.
This back building had long served as a store-room, backshop,
and
kitchen to one of the shops facing the street. Crevel had cut
off
these three rooms from the rest of the ground floor, and Grindot
had
transformed them into an inexpensive private residence. There
were two
ways in--from the front, through the shop of a furniture-dealer,
to
whom Crevel let it at a low price, and only from month to month,
so as
to be able to get rid of him in case of his telling tales, and
also
through a door in the wall of the passage, so ingeniously hidden
as to
be almost invisible. The little apartment, comprising a
dining-room,
drawing-room, and bedroom, all lighted from above, and standing
partly
on Crevel's ground and partly on his neighbor's, was very
difficult to
find. With the exception of the second-hand furniture-dealer,
the
tenants knew nothing of the existence of this little
paradise.
The doorkeeper, paid to keep Crevel's secrets, was a capital
cook. So
Monsieur le Maire could go in and out of his inexpensive retreat
at
any hour of the night without any fear of being spied upon. By
day, a
lady, dressed as Paris women dress to go shopping, and having a
key,
ran no risk in coming to Crevel's lodgings; she would stop to
look at
the cheapened goods, ask the price, go into the shop, and come
out
again, without exciting the smallest suspicion if any one
should
happen to meet her.
As soon as Crevel had lighted the candles in the sitting-room,
the
Baron was surprised at the elegance and refinement it displayed.
The
perfumer had given the architect a free hand, and Grindot had
done
himself credit by fittings in the Pompadour style, which had in
fact
cost sixty thousand francs.
"What I want," said Crevel to Grindot, "is that a duchess, if
I
brought one there, should be surprised at it."
He wanted to have a perfect Parisian Eden for his Eve, his
"real
lady," his Valerie, his duchess.
"There are two beds," said Crevel to Hulot, showing him a sofa
that
could be made wide enough by pulling out a drawer. "This is one,
the
other is in the bedroom. We can both spend the night here."
"Proof!" was all the Baron could say.
Crevel took a flat candlestick and led Hulot into the
adjoining room,
where he saw, on a sofa, a superb dressing-gown belonging to
Valerie,
which he had seen her wear in the Rue Vanneau, to display it
before
wearing it in Crevel's little apartment. The Mayor pressed the
spring
of a little writing-table of inlaid work, known as a
bonheur-du-
jour, and took out of it a letter that he handed to the
Baron.
"Read that," said he.
The Councillor read these words written in pencil:
"I have waited in vain, you old wretch! A woman of my quality
does
not expect to be kept waiting by a retired perfumer. There was
no
dinner ordered--no cigarettes. I will make you pay for
this!"
"Well, is that her writing?"
"Good God!" gasped Hulot, sitting down in dismay. "I see all
the
things she uses--her caps, her slippers. Why, how long
since--?"
Crevel nodded that he understood, and took a packet of bills
out of
the little inlaid cabinet.
"You can see, old man. I paid the decorators in December,
1838. In
October, two months before, this charming little place was
first
used."
Hulot bent his head.
"How the devil do you manage it? I know how she spends every
hour of
her day."
"How about her walk in the Tuileries?" said Crevel, rubbing
his hands
in triumph.
"What then?" said Hulot, mystified.
"Your lady love comes to the Tuileries, she is supposed to be
airing
herself from one till four. But, hop, skip, and jump, and she is
here.
You know your Moliere? Well, Baron, there is nothing imaginary
in your
title."
Hulot, left without a shred of doubt, sat sunk in ominous
silence.
Catastrophes lead intelligent and strong-minded men to be
philosophical. The Baron, morally, was at this moment like a
man
trying to find his way by night through a forest. This
gloomy
taciturnity and the change in that dejected countenance made
Crevel
very uneasy, for he did not wish the death of his colleague.
"As I said, old fellow, we are now even; let us play for the
odd. Will
you play off the tie by hook and by crook? Come!"
"Why," said Hulot, talking to himself--"why is it that out of
ten
pretty women at least seven are false?"
But the Baron was too much upset to answer his own question.
Beauty is
the greatest of human gifts for power. Every power that has
no
counterpoise, no autocratic control, leads to abuses and
folly.
Despotism is the madness of power; in women the despot is
caprice.
"You have nothing to complain of, my good friend; you have a
beautiful
wife, and she is virtuous."
"I deserve my fate," said Hulot. "I have undervalued my wife
and made
her miserable, and she is an angel! Oh, my poor Adeline! you
are
avenged! She suffers in solitude and silence, and she is worthy
of my
love; I ought--for she is still charming, fair and girlish
even--But
was there ever a woman known more base, more ignoble, more
villainous
than this Valerie?"
"She is a good-for-nothing slut," said Crevel, "a hussy that
deserves
whipping on the Place du Chatelet. But, my dear Canillac, though
we
are such blades, so Marechal de Richelieu, Louis XV.,
Pompadour,
Madame du Barry, gay dogs, and everything that is most
eighteenth
century, there is no longer a lieutenant of police."
"How can we make them love us?" Hulot wondered to himself
without
heeding Crevel.
"It is sheer folly in us to expect to be loved, my dear
fellow," said
Crevel. "We can only be endured; for Madame Marneffe is a
hundred
times more profligate than Josepha."
"And avaricious! she costs me a hundred and ninety-two
thousand francs
a year!" cried Hulot.
"And how many centimes!" sneered Crevel, with the insolence of
a
financier who scorns so small a sum.
"You do not love her, that is very evident," said the Baron dolefully.
"I have had enough of her," replied Crevel, "for she has had
more than
three hundred thousand francs of mine!"
"Where is it? Where does it all go?" said the Baron, clasping
his head
in his hands.
"If we had come to an agreement, like the simple young men who
combine
to maintain a twopenny baggage, she would have cost us
less."
"That is an idea"! replied the Baron. "But she would still be
cheating
us; for, my burly friend, what do you say to this
Brazilian?"
"Ay, old sly fox, you are right, we are swindled
like--like
shareholders!" said Crevel. "All such women are an unlimited
liability, and we the sleeping partners."
"Then it was she who told you about the candle in the window?"
"My good man," replied Crevel, striking an attitude, "she has
fooled
us both. Valerie is a--She told me to keep you here.--Now I see
it
all. She has got her Brazilian!--Oh, I have done with her, for
if you
hold her hands, she would find a way to cheat you with her
feet!
There! she is a minx, a jade!"
"She is lower than a prostitute," said the Baron. "Josepha and
Jenny
Cadine were in their rights when they were false to us; they
make a
trade of their charms."
"But she, who affects the saint--the prude!" said Crevel. "I
tell you
what, Hulot, do you go back to your wife; your money matters are
not
looking well; I have heard talk of certain notes of hand given
to a
low usurer whose special line of business is lending to these
sluts, a
man named Vauvinet. For my part, I am cured of your 'real
ladies.'
And, after all, at our time of life what do we want of these
swindling
hussies, who, to be honest, cannot help playing us false? You
have
white hair and false teeth; I am of the shape of Silenus. I
shall go
in for saving. Money never deceives one. Though the Treasury is
indeed
open to all the world twice a year, it pays you interest, and
this
woman swallows it. With you, my worthy friend, as Gubetta, as
my
partner in the concern, I might have resigned myself to a
shady
bargain--no, a philosophical calm. But with a Brazilian who
has
possibly smuggled in some doubtful colonial produce----"
"Woman is an inexplicable creature!" said Hulot.
"I can explain her," said Crevel. "We are old; the Brazilian
is young
and handsome."
"Yes; that, I own, is true," said Hulot; "we are older than we
were.
But, my dear fellow, how is one to do without these pretty
creatures--
seeing them undress, twist up their hair, smile cunningly
through
their fingers as they screw up their curl-papers, put on all
their
airs and graces, tell all their lies, declare that we don't love
them
when we are worried with business; and they cheer us in spite
of
everything."
"Yes, by the Power! It is the only pleasure in life!" cried
Crevel.
"When a saucy little mug smiles at you and says, 'My old dear,
you
don't know how nice you are! I am not like other women, I
suppose, who
go crazy over mere boys with goats' beards, smelling of smoke,
and as
coarse as serving-men! For in their youth they are so
insolent!--They
come in and they bid you good-morning, and out they go.--I, whom
you
think such a flirt, I prefer a man of fifty to these brats. A
man who
will stick by me, who is devoted, who knows a woman is not to
be
picked up every day, and appreciates us.--That is what I love
you for,
you old monster!'--and they fill up these avowals with little
pettings
and prettinesses and--Faugh! they are as false as the bills on
the
Hotel de Ville."
"A lie is sometimes better than the truth," said Hulot,
remembering
sundry bewitching scenes called up by Crevel, who mimicked
Valerie.
"They are obliged to act upon their lies, to sew spangles on
their
stage frocks--"
"And they are ours, after all, the lying jades!" said Crevel coarsely.
"Valerie is a witch," said the Baron. "She can turn an old man
into a
young one."
"Oh, yes!" said Crevel, "she is an eel that wriggles through
your
hands; but the prettiest eel, as white and sweet as sugar, as
amusing
as Arnal--and ingenious!"
"Yes, she is full of fun," said Hulot, who had now quite
forgotten his
wife.
The colleagues went to bed the best friends in the world,
reminding
each other of Valerie's perfections, the tones of her voice,
her
kittenish way, her movements, her fun, her sallies of wit, and
of
affections; for she was an artist in love, and had charming
impulses,
as tenors may sing a scena better one day than another. And they
fell
asleep, cradled in tempting and diabolical visions lighted by
the
fires of hell.
At nine o'clock next morning Hulot went off to the War Office,
Crevel
had business out of town; they left the house together, and
Crevel
held out his hand to the Baron, saying:
"To show that there is no ill-feeling. For we, neither of us,
will
have anything more to say to Madame Marneffe?"
"Oh, this is the end of everything," replied Hulot with a sort
of
horror.
By half-past ten Crevel was mounting the stairs, four at a
time, up to
Madame Marneffe's apartment. He found the infamous wretch,
the
adorable enchantress, in the most becoming morning wrapper,
enjoying
an elegant little breakfast in the society of the Baron Montes
de
Montejanos and Lisbeth. Though the sight of the Brazilian gave
him a
shock, Crevel begged Madame Marneffe to grant him two minutes'
speech
with her. Valerie led Crevel into the drawing-room.
"Valerie, my angel," said the amorous Mayor, "Monsieur
Marneffe cannot
have long to live. If you will be faithful to me, when he dies
we will
be married. Think it over. I have rid you of Hulot.--So just
consider
whether this Brazilian is to compare with a Mayor of Paris, a
man who,
for your sake, will make his way to the highest dignities, and
who can
already offer you eighty-odd thousand francs a year."
"I will think it over," said she. "You will see me in the Rue
du
Dauphin at two o'clock, and we can discuss the matter. But be a
good
boy--and do not forget the bond you promised to transfer to
me."
She returned to the dining-room, followed by Crevel, who
flattered
himself that he had hit on a plan for keeping Valerie to
himself; but
there he found Baron Hulot, who, during this short colloquy, had
also
arrived with the same end in view. He, like Crevel, begged for a
brief
interview. Madame Marneffe again rose to go to the drawing-room,
with
a smile at the Brazilian that seemed to say, "What fools they
are!
Cannot they see you?"
"Valerie," said the official, "my child, that cousin of yours
is an
American cousin--"
"Oh, that is enough!" she cried, interrupting the Baron.
"Marneffe
never has been, and never will be, never can be my husband! The
first,
the only man I ever loved, has come back quite unexpectedly. It
is no
fault of mine! But look at Henri and look at yourself. Then
ask
yourself whether a woman, and a woman in love, can hesitate for
a
moment. My dear fellow, I am not a kept mistress. From this day
forth
I refuse to play the part of Susannah between the two Elders. If
you
really care for me, you and Crevel, you will be our friends; but
all
else is at an end, for I am six-and-twenty, and henceforth I
mean to
be a saint, an admirable and worthy wife--as yours is."
"Is that what you have to say?" answered Hulot. "Is this the
way you
receive me when I come like a Pope with my hands full of
Indulgences?
--Well, your husband will never be a first-class clerk, nor
be
promoted in the Legion of Honor."
"That remains to be seen," said Madame Marneffe, with a
meaning look
at Hulot.
"Well, well, no temper," said Hulot in despair. "I will call
this
evening, and we will come to an understanding."
"In Lisbeth's rooms then."
"Very good--at Lisbeth's," said the old dotard.
Hulot and Crevel went downstairs together without speaking a
word till
they were in the street; but outside on the sidewalk they looked
at
each other with a dreary laugh.
"We are a couple of old fools," said Crevel.
"I have got rid of them," said Madame Marneffe to Lisbeth, as
she sat
down once more. "I never loved and I never shall love any man
but my
Jaguar," she added, smiling at Henri Montes. "Lisbeth, my dear,
you
don't know. Henri has forgiven me the infamy to which I was
reduced by
poverty."
"It was my own fault," said the Brazilian. "I ought to have
sent you a
hundred thousand francs."
"Poor boy!" said Valerie; "I might have worked for my living,
but my
fingers were not made for that--ask Lisbeth."
The Brazilian went away the happiest man in Paris.
At noon Valerie and Lisbeth were chatting in the splendid
bedroom
where this dangerous woman was giving to her dress those
finishing
touches which a lady alone can give. The doors were bolted,
the
curtains drawn over them, and Valerie related in every detail
all the
events of the evening, the night, the morning.
"What do you think of it all, my darling?" she said to Lisbeth
in
conclusion. "Which shall I be when the time comes--Madame
Crevel, or
Madame Montes?"
"Crevel will not last more than ten years, such a profligate
as he
is," replied Lisbeth. "Montes is young. Crevel will leave you
about
thirty thousand francs a year. Let Montes wait; he will be
happy
enough as Benjamin. And so, by the time you are
three-and-thirty, if
you take care of your looks, you may marry your Brazilian and
make a
fine show with sixty thousand francs a year of your
own--especially
under the wing of a Marechale."
"Yes, but Montes is a Brazilian; he will never make his
mark,"
observed Valerie.
"We live in the day of railways," said Lisbeth, "when
foreigners rise
to high positions in France."
"We shall see," replied Valerie, "when Marneffe is dead. He
has not
much longer to suffer."
"These attacks that return so often are a sort of physical
remorse,"
said Lisbeth. "Well, I am off to see Hortense."
"Yes--go, my angel!" replied Valerie. "And bring me my
artist.--Three
years, and I have not gained an inch of ground! It is a disgrace
to
both of us!--Wenceslas and Henri--these are my two passions--one
for
love, the other for fancy."
"You are lovely this morning," said Lisbeth, putting her arm
round
Valerie's waist and kissing her forehead. "I enjoy all your
pleasures,
your good fortune, your dresses--I never really lived till the
day
when we became sisters."
"Wait a moment, my tiger-cat!" cried Valerie, laughing; "your
shawl is
crooked. You cannot put a shawl on yet in spite of my lessons
for
three years--and you want to be Madame la Marechale Hulot!"
Shod in prunella boots, over gray silk stockings, in a gown
of
handsome corded silk, her hair in smooth bands under a very
pretty
black velvet bonnet, lined with yellow satin, Lisbeth made her
way to
the Rue Saint-Dominique by the Boulevard des Invalides,
wondering
whether sheer dejection would at last break down Hortense's
brave
spirit, and whether Sarmatian instability, taken at a moment
when,
with such a character, everything is possible, would be too much
for
Steinbock's constancy.
Hortense and Wenceslas had the ground floor of a house
situated at the
corner of the Rue Saint-Dominique and the Esplanade des
Invalides.
These rooms, once in harmony with the honeymoon, now had that
half-
new, half-faded look that may be called the autumnal aspect
of
furniture. Newly married folks are as lavish and wasteful,
without
knowing it or intending it, of everything about them as they are
of
their affection. Thinking only of themselves, they reck little
of the
future, which, at a later time, weighs on the mother of a
family.
Lisbeth found Hortense just as she had finished dressing a
baby
Wenceslas, who had been carried into the garden.
"Good-morning, Betty," said Hortense, opening the door herself
to her
cousin. The cook was gone out, and the house-servant, who was
also the
nurse, was doing some washing.
"Good-morning, dear child," replied Lisbeth, kissing her.
"Is
Wenceslas in the studio?" she added in a whisper.
"No; he is in the drawing-room talking to Stidmann and Chanor."
"Can we be alone?" asked Lisbeth.
"Come into my room."
In this room, the hangings of pink-flowered chintz with green
leaves
on a white ground, constantly exposed to the sun, were much
faded, as
was the carpet. The muslin curtains had not been washed for many
a
day. The smell of tobacco hung about the room; for Wenceslas,
now an
artist of repute, and born a fine gentleman, left his cigar-ash
on the
arms of the chairs and the prettiest pieces of furniture, as a
man
does to whom love allows everything--a man rich enough to scorn
vulgar
carefulness.
"Now, then, let us talk over your affairs," said Lisbeth,
seeing her
pretty cousin silent in the armchair into which she had dropped.
"But
what ails you? You look rather pale, my dear."
"Two articles have just come out in which my poor Wenceslas is
pulled
to pieces; I have read them, but I have hidden them from him,
for they
would completely depress him. The marble statue of Marshal
Montcornet
is pronounced utterly bad. The bas-reliefs are allowed to pass
muster,
simply to allow of the most perfidious praise of his talent as
a
decorative artist, and to give the greater emphasis to the
statement
that serious art is quite out of his reach! Stidmann, whom I
besought
to tell me the truth, broke my heart by confessing that his
own
opinion agreed with that of every other artist, of the critics,
and
the public. He said to me in the garden before breakfast,
'If
Wenceslas cannot exhibit a masterpiece next season, he must give
up
heroic sculpture and be content to execute idyllic subjects,
small
figures, pieces of jewelry, and high-class goldsmiths' work!'
This
verdict is dreadful to me, for Wenceslas, I know, will never
accept
it; he feels he has so many fine ideas."
"Ideas will not pay the tradesman's bills," remarked Lisbeth.
"I was
always telling him so--nothing but money. Money is only to be
had for
work done--things that ordinary folks like well enough to buy
them.
When an artist has to live and keep a family, he had far better
have a
design for a candlestick on his counter, or for a fender or a
table,
than for groups or statues. Everybody must have such things,
while he
may wait months for the admirer of the group--and for his
money---"
"You are right, my good Lisbeth. Tell him all that; I have not
the
courage.--Besides, as he was saying to Stidmann, if he goes back
to
ornamental work and small sculpture, he must give up all hope of
the
Institute and grand works of art, and we should not get the
three
hundred thousand francs' worth of work promised at Versailles
and by
the City of Paris and the Ministers. That is what we are robbed
of by
those dreadful articles, written by rivals who want to step into
our
shoes."
"And that is not what you dreamed of, poor little puss!" said
Lisbeth,
kissing Hortense on the brow. "You expected to find a gentleman,
a
leader of Art, the chief of all living sculptors.--But that is
poetry,
you see, a dream requiring fifty thousand francs a year, and you
have
only two thousand four hundred--so long as I live. After my
death
three thousand."
A few tears rose to Hortense's eyes, and Lisbeth drank them
with her
eyes as a cat laps milk.
This is the story of their honeymoon--the tale will perhaps
not be
lost on some artists.
Intellectual work, labor in the upper regions of mental
effort, is one
of the grandest achievements of man. That which deserves real
glory in
Art--for by Art we must understand every creation of the
mind--is
courage above all things--a sort of courage of which the vulgar
have
no conception, and which has never perhaps been described till
now.
Driven by the dreadful stress of poverty, goaded by Lisbeth,
and kept
by her in blinders, as a horse is, to hinder it from seeing to
the
right and left of its road, lashed on by that hard woman,
the
personification of Necessity, a sort of deputy Fate, Wenceslas,
a born
poet and dreamer, had gone on from conception to execution,
and
overleaped, without sounding it, the gulf that divides these
two
hemispheres of Art. To muse, to dream, to conceive of fine
works, is a
delightful occupation. It is like smoking a magic cigar or
leading the
life of a courtesan who follows her own fancy. The work then
floats in
all the grace of infancy, in the mad joy of conception, with
the
fragrant beauty of a flower, and the aromatic juices of a
fruit
enjoyed in anticipation.
The man who can sketch his purpose beforehand in words is
regarded as
a wonder, and every artist and writer possesses that faculty.
But
gestation, fruition, the laborious rearing of the offspring,
putting
it to bed every night full fed with milk, embracing it anew
every
morning with the inexhaustible affection of a mother's heart,
licking
it clean, dressing it a hundred times in the richest garb only
to be
instantly destroyed; then never to be cast down at the
convulsions of
this headlong life till the living masterpiece is perfected
which in
sculpture speaks to every eye, in literature to every intellect,
in
painting to every memory, in music to every heart!--This is the
task
of execution. The hand must be ready at every instant to come
forward
and obey the brain. But the brain has no more a creative power
at
command than love has a perennial spring.
The habit of creativeness, the indefatigable love of
motherhood which
makes a mother--that miracle of nature which Raphael so
perfectly
understood--the maternity of the brain, in short, which is
so
difficult to develop, is lost with prodigious ease. Inspiration
is the
opportunity of genius. She does not indeed dance on the razor's
edge,
she is in the air and flies away with the suspicious swiftness
of a
crow; she wears no scarf by which the poet can clutch her; her
hair is
a flame; she vanishes like the lovely rose and white flamingo,
the
sportsman's despair. And work, again, is a weariful struggle,
alike
dreaded and delighted in by these lofty and powerful natures who
are
often broken by it. A great poet of our day has said in speaking
of
this overwhelming labor, "I sit down to it in despair, but I
leave it
with regret." Be it known to all who are ignorant! If the artist
does
not throw himself into his work as Curtius sprang into the gulf,
as a
soldier leads a forlorn hope without a moment's thought, and if
when
he is in the crater he does not dig on as a miner does when the
earth
has fallen in on him; if he contemplates the difficulties before
him
instead of conquering them one by one, like the lovers in fairy
tales,
who to win their princesses overcome ever new enchantments, the
work
remains incomplete; it perishes in the studio where
creativeness
becomes impossible, and the artist looks on at the suicide of
his own
talent.
Rossini, a brother genius to Raphael, is a striking instance
in his
poverty-stricken youth, compared with his latter years of
opulence.
This is the reason why the same prize, the same triumph, the
same bays
are awarded to great poets and to great generals.
Wenceslas, by nature a dreamer, had expended so much energy
in
production, in study, and in work under Lisbeth's despotic rule,
that
love and happiness resulted in reaction. His real character
reappeared, the weakness, recklessness, and indolence of the
Sarmatian
returned to nestle in the comfortable corners of his soul,
whence the
schoolmaster's rod had routed them.
For the first few months the artist adored his wife. Hortense
and
Wenceslas abandoned themselves to the happy childishness of
a
legitimate and unbounded passion. Hortense was the first to
release
her husband from his labors, proud to triumph over her rival,
his Art.
And, indeed, a woman's caresses scare away the Muse, and break
down
the sturdy, brutal resolution of the worker.
Six or seven months slipped by, and the artist's fingers had
forgotten
the use of the modeling tool. When the need for work began to be
felt,
when the Prince de Wissembourg, president of the committee
of
subscribers, asked to see the statue, Wenceslas spoke the
inevitable
byword of the idler, "I am just going to work on it," and he
lulled
his dear Hortense with fallacious promises and the magnificent
schemes
of the artist as he smokes. Hortense loved her poet more than
ever;
she dreamed of a sublime statue of Marshal Montcornet.
Montcornet
would be the embodied ideal of bravery, the type of the
cavalry
officer, of courage a la Murat. Yes, yes; at the mere
sight of that
statue all the Emperor's victories were to seem a foregone
conclusion.
And then such workmanship! The pencil was accommodating and
answered
to the word.
By way of a statue the result was a delightful little Wenceslas.
When the progress of affairs required that he should go to the
studio
at le Gros-Caillou to mould the clay and set up the life-size
model,
Steinbock found one day that the Prince's clock required his
presence
in the workshop of Florent and Chanor, where the figures were
being
finished; or, again, the light was gray and dull; to-day he
had
business to do, to-morrow they had a family dinner, to say
nothing of
indispositions of mind and body, and the days when he stayed at
home
to toy with his adored wife.
Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg was obliged to be angry to
get the
clay model finished; he declared that he must put the work into
other
hands. It was only by dint of endless complaints and much
strong
language that the committee of subscribers succeeded in seeing
the
plaster-cast. Day after day Steinbock came home, evidently
tired,
complaining of this "hodman's work" and his own physical
weakness.
During that first year the household felt no pinch; the
Countess
Steinbock, desperately in love with her husband cursed the
War
Minister. She went to see him; she told him that great works of
art
were not to be manufactured like cannon; and that the
State--like
Louis XIV., Francis I., and Leo X.--ought to be at the beck and
call
of genius. Poor Hortense, believing she held a Phidias in her
embrace,
had the sort of motherly cowardice for her Wenceslas that is in
every
wife who carries her love to the pitch of idolatry.
"Do not be hurried," said she to her husband, "our whole
future life
is bound up with that statue. Take your time and produce a
masterpiece."
She would go to the studio, and then the enraptured Steinbock
wasted
five hours out of seven in describing the statue instead of
working at
it. He thus spent eighteen months in finishing the design, which
to
him was all-important.
When the plaster was cast and the model complete, poor
Hortense, who
had looked on at her husband's toil, seeing his health really
suffer
from the exertions which exhaust a sculptor's frame and arms and
hands
--Hortense thought the result admirable. Her father, who knew
nothing
of sculpture, and her mother, no less ignorant, lauded it as
a
triumph; the War Minister came with them to see it, and,
overruled by
them, expressed approval of the figure, standing as it did
alone, in a
favorable light, thrown up against a green baize background.
Alas! at the exhibition of 1841, the disapprobation of the
public soon
took the form of abuse and mockery in the mouths of those who
were
indignant with the idol too hastily set up for worship. Stidmann
tried
to advise his friend, but was accused of jealousy. Every article
in a
newspaper was to Hortense an outcry of envy. Stidmann, the best
of
good fellows, got articles written, in which adverse criticism
was
contravened, and it was pointed out that sculptors altered their
works
in translating the plaster into marble, and that the marble
would be
the test.
"In reproducing the plaster sketch in marble," wrote Claude
Vignon, "a
masterpiece may be ruined, or a bad design made beautiful. The
plaster
is the manuscript, the marble is the book."
So in two years and a half Wenceslas had produced a statue and
a son.
The child was a picture of beauty; the statue was execrable.
The clock for the Prince and the price of the statue paid off
the
young couple's debts. Steinbock had acquired fashionable habits;
he
went to the play, to the opera; he talked admirably about art;
and in
the eyes of the world he maintained his reputation as a great
artist
by his powers of conversation and criticism. There are many
clever men
in Paris who spend their lives in talking themselves out, and
are
content with a sort of drawing-room celebrity. Steinbock,
emulating
these emasculated but charming men, grew every day more averse
to hard
work. As soon as he began a thing, he was conscious of all
its
difficulties, and the discouragement that came over him
enervated his
will. Inspiration, the frenzy of intellectual procreation,
flew
swiftly away at the sight of this effete lover.
Sculpture--like dramatic art--is at once the most difficult
and the
easiest of all arts. You have but to copy a model, and the task
is
done; but to give it a soul, to make it typical by creating a
man or a
woman--this is the sin of Prometheus. Such triumphs in the
annals of
sculpture may be counted, as we may count the few poets among
men.
Michael Angelo, Michel Columb, Jean Goujon, Phidias,
Praxiteles,
Polycletes, Puget, Canova, Albert Durer, are the brothers of
Milton,
Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Tasso, Homer, and Moliere. And such
an
achievement is so stupendous that a single statue is enough to
make a
man immortal, as Figaro, Lovelace, and Manon Lescaut have
immortalized
Beaumarchais, Richardson, and the Abbe Prevost.
Superficial thinkers--and there are many in the artist
world--have
asserted that sculpture lives only by the nude, that it died
with the
Greeks, and that modern vesture makes it impossible. But, in the
first
place, the Ancients have left sublime statues entirely
clothed--the
Polyhymnia, the Julia, and others, and we have not
found one-tenth
of all their works; and then, let any lover of art go to
Florence and
see Michael Angelo's Penseroso, or to the Cathedral of
Mainz, and
behold the Virgin by Albert Durer, who has created a
living woman
out of ebony, under her threefold drapery, with the most
flowing, the
softest hair that ever a waiting-maid combed through; let all
the
ignorant flock thither, and they will acknowledge that genius
can give
mind to drapery, to armor, to a robe, and fill it with a body,
just as
a man leaves the stamp of his individuality and habits of life
on the
clothes he wears.
Sculpture is the perpetual realization of the fact which once,
and
never again, was, in painting called Raphael!
The solution of this hard problem is to be found only in
constant
persevering toil; for, merely to overcome the material
difficulties to
such an extent, the hand must be so practised, so dexterous
and
obedient, that the sculptor may be free to struggle soul to soul
with
the elusive moral element that he has to transfigure as he
embodies
it. If Paganini, who uttered his soul through the strings of
his
violin, spent three days without practising, he lost what he
called
the stops of his instrument, meaning the sympathy between
the wooden
frame, the strings, the bow, and himself; if he had lost
this
alliance, he would have been no more than an ordinary
player.
Perpetual work is the law of art, as it is the law of life,
for art is
idealized creation. Hence great artists and perfect poets wait
neither
for commission nor for purchasers. They are constantly
creating--
to-day, to-morrow, always. The result is the habit of work,
the
unfailing apprehension of the difficulties which keep them in
close
intercourse with the Muse and her productive forces. Canova
lived in
his studio, as Voltaire lived in his study; and so must Homer
and
Phidias have lived.
While Lisbeth kept Wenceslas Steinbock in thraldom in his
garret, he
was on the thorny road trodden by all these great men, which
leads to
the Alpine heights of glory. Then happiness, in the person
of
Hortense, had reduced the poet to idleness--the normal condition
of
all artists, since to them idleness is fully occupied. Their joy
is
such as that of the pasha of a seraglio; they revel with ideas,
they
get drunk at the founts of intellect. Great artists, such as
Steinbock, wrapped in reverie, are rightly spoken of as
dreamers.
They, like opium-eaters, all sink into poverty, whereas if they
had
been kept up to the mark by the stern demands of life, they
might have
been great men.
At the same time, these half-artists are delightful; men like
them and
cram them with praise; they even seem superior to the true
artists,
who are taxed with conceit, unsociableness, contempt of the laws
of
society. This is why: Great men are the slaves of their work.
Their
indifference to outer things, their devotion to their work,
make
simpletons regard them as egotists, and they are expected to
wear the
same garb as the dandy who fulfils the trivial evolutions
called
social duties. These men want the lions of the Atlas to be
combed and
scented like a lady's poodle.
These artists, who are too rarely matched to meet their
fellows, fall
into habits of solitary exclusiveness; they are inexplicable to
the
majority, which, as we know, consists mostly of fools--of the
envious,
the ignorant, and the superficial.
Now you may imagine what part a wife should play in the life
of these
glorious and exceptional beings. She ought to be what, for five
years,
Lisbeth had been, but with the added offering of love, humble
and
patient love, always ready and always smiling.
Hortense, enlightened by her anxieties as a mother, and driven
by dire
necessity, had discovered too late the mistakes she had been
involuntarily led into by her excessive love. Still, the
worthy
daughter of her mother, her heart ached at the thought of
worrying
Wenceslas; she loved her dear poet too much to become his
torturer;
and she could foresee the hour when beggary awaited her, her
child,
and her husband.
"Come, come, my child," said Lisbeth, seeing the tears in her
cousin's
lovely eyes, "you must not despair. A glassful of tears will not
buy a
plate of soup. How much do you want?"
"Well, five or six thousand francs."
"I have but three thousand at the most," said Lisbeth. "And
what is
Wenceslas doing now?"
"He has had an offer to work in partnership with Stidmann at a
table
service for the Duc d'Herouville for six thousand francs.
Then
Monsieur Chanor will advance four thousand to repay Monsieur de
Lora
and Bridau--a debt of honor."
"What, you have had the money for the statue and the
bas-reliefs for
Marshal Montcornet's monument, and you have not paid them
yet?"
"For the last three years," said Hortense, "we have spent
twelve
thousand francs a year, and I have but a hundred louis a year of
my
own. The Marshal's monument, when all the expenses were paid,
brought
us no more than sixteen thousand francs. Really and truly,
if
Wenceslas gets no work, I do not know what is to become of us.
Oh, if
only I could learn to make statues, I would handle the clay!"
she
cried, holding up her fine arms.
The woman, it was plain, fulfilled the promise of the girl;
there was
a flash in her eye; impetuous blood, strong with iron, flowed in
her
veins; she felt that she was wasting her energy in carrying
her
infant.
"Ah, my poor little thing! a sensible girl should not marry an
artist
till his fortune is made--not while it is still to make."
At this moment they heard voices; Stidmann and Wenceslas were
seeing
Chanor to the door; then Wenceslas and Stidmann came in
again.
Stidmann, an artist in vogue in the world of journalists,
famous
actresses, and courtesans of the better class, was a young man
of
fashion whom Valerie much wished to see in her rooms; indeed, he
had
already been introduced to her by Claude Vignon. Stidmann had
lately
broken off an intimacy with Madame Schontz, who had married
some
months since and gone to live in the country. Valerie and
Lisbeth,
hearing of this upheaval from Claude Vignon, thought it well to
get
Steinbock's friend to visit in the Rue Vanneau.
Stidmann, out of good feeling, went rarely to the Steinbocks';
and as
it happened that Lisbeth was not present when he was introduced
by
Claude Vignon, she now saw him for the first time. As she
watched this
noted artist, she caught certain glances from his eyes at
Hortense,
which suggested to her the possibility of offering him to the
Countess
Steinbock as a consolation if Wenceslas should be false to her.
In
point of fact, Stidmann was reflecting that if Steinbock were
not his
friend, Hortense, the young and superbly beautiful countess,
would be
an adorable mistress; it was this very notion, controlled by
honor,
that kept him away from the house. Lisbeth was quick to mark
the
significant awkwardness that troubles a man in the presence of a
woman
with whom he will not allow himself to flirt.
"Very good-looking--that young man," said she in a whisper
to
Hortense.
"Oh, do you think so?" she replied. "I never noticed him."
"Stidmann, my good fellow," said Wenceslas, in an undertone to
his
friend, "we are on no ceremony, you and I--we have some business
to
settle with this old girl."
Stidmann bowed to the ladies and went away.
"It is settled," said Wenceslas, when he came in from taking
leave of
Stidmann. "But there are six months' work to be done, and we
must live
meanwhile."
"There are my diamonds," cried the young Countess, with the
impetuous
heroism of a loving woman.
A tear rose in Wenceslas' eye.
"Oh, I am going to work," said he, sitting down by his wife
and
drawing her on to his knee. "I will do odd jobs--a wedding
chest,
bronze groups----"
"But, my children," said Lisbeth; "for, as you know, you will
be my
heirs, and I shall leave you a very comfortable sum, believe
me,
especially if you help me to marry the Marshal; nay, if we
succeed in
that quickly, I will take you all to board with me--you and
Adeline.
We should live very happily together.--But for the moment,
listen to
the voice of my long experience. Do not fly to the
Mont-de-Piete; it
is the ruin of the borrower. I have always found that when
the
interest was due, those who had pledged their things had
nothing
wherewith to pay up, and then all is lost. I can get you a loan
at
five per cent on your note of hand."
"Oh, we are saved!" said Hortense.
"Well, then, child, Wenceslas had better come with me to see
the
lender, who will oblige him at my request. It is Madame
Marneffe. If
you flatter her a little--for she is as vain as a
parvenue--she will
get you out of the scrape in the most obliging way. Come
yourself and
see her, my dear Hortense."
Hortense looked at her husband with the expression a man
condemned to
death must wear on his way to the scaffold.
"Claude Vignon took Stidmann there," said Wenceslas. "He says
it is a
very pleasant house."
Hortense's head fell. What she felt can only be expressed in
one word;
it was not pain; it was illness.
"But, my dear Hortense, you must learn something of life!"
exclaimed
Lisbeth, understanding the eloquence of her cousin's looks.
"Otherwise, like your mother, you will find yourself abandoned
in a
deserted room, where you will weep like Calypso on the departure
of
Ulysses, and at an age when there is no hope of Telemachus--"
she
added, repeating a jest of Madame Marneffe's. "We have to regard
the
people in the world as tools which we can make use of or let
alone,
according as they can serve our turn. Make use of Madame
Marneffe now,
my dears, and let her alone by and by. Are you afraid lest
Wenceslas,
who worships you, should fall in love with a woman four or five
years
older than himself, as yellow as a bundle of field peas,
and----?"
"I would far rather pawn my diamonds," said Hortense. "Oh,
never go
there, Wenceslas!--It is hell!"
"Hortense is right," said Steinbock, kissing his wife.
"Thank you, my dearest," said Hortense, delighted. "My husband
is an
angel, you see, Lisbeth. He does not gamble, he goes nowhere
without
me; if he only could stick to work--oh, I should be too happy.
Why
take us on show to my father's mistress, a woman who is ruining
him
and is the cause of troubles that are killing my heroic
mother?"
"My child, that is not where the cause of your father's ruin
lies. It
was his singer who ruined him, and then your marriage!" replied
her
cousin. "Bless me! why, Madame Marneffe is of the greatest use
to him.
However, I must tell no tales."
"You have a good word for everybody, dear Betty--"
Hortense was called into the garden by hearing the child cry;
Lisbeth
was left alone with Wenceslas.
"You have an angel for your wife, Wenceslas!" said she. "Love
her as
you ought; never give her cause for grief."
"Yes, indeed, I love her so well that I do not tell her all,"
replied
Wenceslas; "but to you, Lisbeth, I may confess the truth.--If I
took
my wife's diamonds to the Monte-de-Piete, we should be no
further
forward."
"Then borrow of Madame Marneffe," said Lisbeth. "Persuade
Hortense,
Wenceslas, to let you go there, or else, bless me! go there
without
telling her."
"That is what I was thinking of," replied Wenceslas, "when I
refused
for fear of grieving Hortense."
"Listen to me; I care too much for you both not to warn you of
your
danger. If you go there, hold your heart tight in both hands,
for the
woman is a witch. All who see her adore her; she is so wicked,
so
inviting! She fascinates men like a masterpiece. Borrow her
money, but
do not leave your soul in pledge. I should never be happy again
if you
were false to Hortense--here she is! not another word! I will
settle
the matter."
"Kiss Lisbeth, my darling," said Wenceslas to his wife. "She
will help
us out of our difficulties by lending us her savings."
And he gave Lisbeth a look which she understood.
"Then, I hope you mean to work, my dear treasure," said Hortense.
"Yes, indeed," said the artist. "I will begin to-morrow."
"To-morrow is our ruin!" said his wife, with a smile.
"Now, my dear child! say yourself whether some hindrance has
not come
in the way every day; some obstacle or business?"
"Yes, very true, my love."
"Here!" cried Steinbock, striking his brow, "here I have
swarms of
ideas! I mean to astonish all my enemies. I am going to design
a
service in the German style of the sixteenth century; the
romantic
style: foliage twined with insects, sleeping children, newly
invented
monsters, chimeras--real chimeras, such as we dream of!--I see
it all!
It will be undercut, light, and yet crowded. Chanor was quite
amazed.
--And I wanted some encouragement, for the last article on
Montcornet's monument had been crushing."
At a moment in the course of the day when Lisbeth and
Wenceslas were
left together, the artist agreed to go on the morrow to see
Madame
Marneffe--he either would win his wife's consent, or he would
go
without telling her.
Valerie, informed the same evening of this success, insisted
that
Hulot should go to invite Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and Steinbock
to
dinner; for she was beginning to tyrannize over him as women of
that
type tyrannize over old men, who trot round town, and go to
make
interest with every one who is necessary to the interests or
the
vanity of their task-mistress.
Next evening Valerie armed herself for conquest by making such
a
toilet as a Frenchwoman can devise when she wishes to make the
most of
herself. She studied her appearance in this great work as a man
going
out to fight a duel practises his feints and lunges. Not a
speck, not
a wrinkle was to be seen. Valerie was at her whitest, her
softest, her
sweetest. And certain little "patches" attracted the eye.
It is commonly supposed that the patch of the eighteenth
century is
out of date or out of fashion; that is a mistake. In these days
women,
more ingenious perhaps than of yore, invite a glance through
the
opera-glass by other audacious devices. One is the first to hit
on a
rosette in her hair with a diamond in the centre, and she
attracts
every eye for a whole evening; another revives the hair-net, or
sticks
a dagger through the twist to suggest a garter; this one wears
velvet
bands round her wrists, that one appears in lace lippets.
These
valiant efforts, an Austerlitz of vanity or of love, then set
the
fashion for lower spheres by the time the inventive creatress
has
originated something new. This evening, which Valerie meant to
be a
success for her, she had placed three patches. She had washed
her hair
with some lye, which changed its hue for a few days from a gold
color
to a duller shade. Madame Steinbock's was almost red, and she
would be
in every point unlike her. This new effect gave her a piquant
and
strange appearance, which puzzled her followers so much, that
Montes
asked her:
"What have you done to yourself this evening?"--Then she put
on a
rather wide black velvet neck-ribbon, which showed off the
whiteness
of her skin. One patch took the place of the assassine of
our
grandmothers. And Valerie pinned the sweetest rosebud into her
bodice,
just in the middle above the stay-busk, and in the daintiest
little
hollow! It was enough to make every man under thirty drop his
eyelids.
"I am as sweet as a sugar-plum," said she to herself, going
through
her attitudes before the glass, exactly as a dancer practises
her
curtesies.
Lisbeth had been to market, and the dinner was to be one of
those
superfine meals which Mathurine had been wont to cook for her
Bishop
when he entertained the prelate of the adjoining diocese.
Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and Count Steinbock arrived almost
together,
just at six. An ordinary, or, if you will, a natural woman would
have
hastened at the announcement of a name so eagerly longed for;
but
Valerie, though ready since five o'clock, remained in her
room,
leaving her three guests together, certain that she was the
subject of
their conversation or of their secret thoughts. She herself
had
arranged the drawing-room, laying out the pretty trifles
produced in
Paris and nowhere else, which reveal the woman and announce
her
presence: albums bound in enamel or embroidered with beads,
saucers
full of pretty rings, marvels of Sevres or Dresden mounted
exquisitely
by Florent and Chanor, statues, books, all the frivolities which
cost
insane sums, and which passion orders of the makers in its
first
delirium--or to patch up its last quarrel.
Besides, Valerie was in the state of intoxication that comes
of
triumph. She had promised to marry Crevel if Marneffe should
die; and
the amorous Crevel had transferred to the name of Valerie Fortin
bonds
bearing ten thousand francs a year, the sum-total of what he had
made
in railway speculations during the past three years, the returns
on
the capital of a hundred thousand crowns which he had at first
offered
to the Baronne Hulot. So Valerie now had an income of
thirty-two
thousand francs.
Crevel had just committed himself to a promise of far
greater
magnitude than this gift of his surplus. In the paroxysm of
rapture
which his Duchess had given him from two to four--he gave
this fine
title to Madame de Marneffe to complete the illusion--for
Valerie
had surpassed herself in the Rue du Dauphin that afternoon, he
had
thought well to encourage her in her promised fidelity by giving
her
the prospect of a certain little mansion, built in the Rue
Barbette by
an imprudent contractor, who now wanted to sell it. Valerie
could
already see herself in this delightful residence, with a
fore-court
and a garden, and keeping a carriage!
"What respectable life can ever procure so much in so short a
time, or
so easily?" said she to Lisbeth as she finished dressing.
Lisbeth was
to dine with Valerie that evening, to tell Steinbock those
things
about the lady which nobody can say about herself.
Madame Marneffe, radiant with satisfaction, came into the
drawing-room
with modest grace, followed by Lisbeth dressed in black and
yellow to
set her off.
"Good-evening, Claude," said she, giving her hand to the
famous old
critic.
Claude Vignon, like many another, had become a political
personage--a
word describing an ambitious man at the first stage of his
career. The
political personage of 1840 represents, in some degree,
the Abbe
of the eighteenth century. No drawing-room circle is complete
without
one.
"My dear, this is my cousin, Count Steinbock," said
Lisbeth,
introducing Wenceslas, whom Valerie seemed to have
overlooked.
"Oh yes, I recognized Monsieur le Comte," replied Valerie with
a
gracious bow to the artist. "I often saw you in the Rue du
Doyenne,
and I had the pleasure of being present at your wedding.--It
would be
difficult, my dear," said she to Lisbeth, "to forget your
adopted son
after once seeing him.--It is most kind of you, Monsieur
Stidmann,"
she went on, "to have accepted my invitation at such short
notice; but
necessity knows no law. I knew you to be the friend of both
these
gentlemen. Nothing is more dreary, more sulky, than a dinner
where all
the guests are strangers, so it was for their sake that I hailed
you
in--but you will come another time for mine, I hope?--Say that
you
will."
And for a few minutes she moved about the room with Stidmann,
wholly
occupied with him.
Crevel and Hulot were announced separately, and then a deputy
named
Beauvisage.
This individual, a provincial Crevel, one of the men created
to make
up the crowd in the world, voted under the banner of Giraud, a
State
Councillor, and Victorin Hulot. These two politicians were
trying to
form a nucleus of progressives in the loose array of the
Conservative
Party. Giraud himself occasionally spent the evening at
Madame
Marneffe's, and she flattered herself that she should also
capture
Victorin Hulot; but the puritanical lawyer had hitherto found
excuses
for refusing to accompany his father and father-in-law. It
seemed to
him criminal to be seen in the house of the woman who cost his
mother
so many tears. Victorin Hulot was to the puritans of political
life
what a pious woman is among bigots.
Beauvisage, formerly a stocking manufacturer at Arcis, was
anxious to
pick up the Paris style. This man, one of the outer
stones of the
Chamber, was forming himself under the auspices of this
delicious and
fascinating Madame Marneffe. Introduced here by Crevel, he
had
accepted him, at her instigation, as his model and master.
He
consulted him on every point, took the address of his tailor,
imitated
him, and tried to strike the same attitudes. In short, Crevel
was his
Great Man.
Valerie, surrounded by these bigwigs and the three artists,
and
supported by Lisbeth, struck Wenceslas as a really superior
woman, all
the more so because Claude Vignon spoke of her like a man in
love.
"She is Madame de Maintenon in Ninon's petticoats!" said the
veteran
critic. "You may please her in an evening if you have the wit;
but as
for making her love you--that would be a triumph to crown a
man's
ambition and fill up his life."
Valerie, while seeming cold and heedless of her former
neighbor,
piqued his vanity, quite unconsciously indeed, for she knew
nothing of
the Polish character. There is in the Slav a childish element,
as
there is in all these primitively wild nations which have
overflowed
into civilization rather than that they have become civilized.
The
race has spread like an inundation, and has covered a large
portion of
the globe. It inhabits deserts whose extent is so vast that it
expands
at its ease; there is no jostling there, as there is in Europe,
and
civilization is impossible without the constant friction of
minds and
interests. The Ukraine, Russia, the plains by the Danube, in
short,
the Slav nations, are a connecting link between Europe and
Asia,
between civilization and barbarism. Thus the Pole, the
wealthiest
member of the Slav family, has in his character all the
childishness
and inconsistency of a beardless race. He has courage, spirit,
and
strength; but, cursed with instability, that courage, strength,
and
energy have neither method nor guidance; for the Pole displays
a
variability resembling that of the winds which blow across that
vast
plain broken with swamps; and though he has the impetuosity of
the
snow squalls that wrench and sweep away buildings, like those
aerial
avalanches he is lost in the first pool and melts into water.
Man
always assimilates something from the surroundings in which he
lives.
Perpetually at strife with the Turk, the Pole has imbibed a
taste for
Oriental splendor; he often sacrifices what is needful for the
sake of
display. The men dress themselves out like women, yet the
climate has
given them the tough constitution of Arabs.
The Pole, sublime in suffering, has tired his oppressors' arms
by
sheer endurance of beating; and, in the nineteenth century,
has
reproduced the spectacle presented by the early Christians.
Infuse
only ten per cent of English cautiousness into the frank and
open
Polish nature, and the magnanimous white eagle would at this day
be
supreme wherever the two-headed eagle has sneaked in. A
little
Machiavelism would have hindered Poland from helping to save
Austria,
who has taken a share of it; from borrowing from Prussia, the
usurer
who had undermined it; and from breaking up as soon as a
division was
first made.
At the christening of Poland, no doubt, the Fairy
Carabosse,
overlooked by the genii who endowed that attractive people with
the
most brilliant gifts, came in to say:
"Keep all the gifts that my sisters have bestowed on you; but
you
shall never know what you wish for!"
If, in its heroic duel with Russia, Poland had won the day,
the Poles
would now be fighting among themselves, as they formerly fought
in
their Diets to hinder each other from being chosen King. When
that
nation, composed entirely of hot-headed dare-devils, has good
sense
enough to seek a Louis XI. among her own offspring, to accept
his
despotism and a dynasty, she will be saved.
What Poland has been politically, almost every Pole is in
private
life, especially under the stress of disaster. Thus
Wenceslas
Steinbock, after worshiping his wife for three years and knowing
that
he was a god to her, was so much nettled at finding himself
barely
noticed by Madame Marneffe, that he made it a point of honor
to
attract her attention. He compared Valerie with his wife and
gave her
the palm. Hortense was beautiful flesh, as Valerie had said
to
Lisbeth; but Madame Marneffe had spirit in her very shape, and
the
savor of vice.
Such devotion as Hortense's is a feeling which a husband takes
as his
due; the sense of the immense preciousness of such perfect love
soon
wears off, as a debtor, in the course of time, begins to fancy
that
the borrowed money is his own. This noble loyalty becomes the
daily
bread of the soul, and an infidelity is as tempting as a dainty.
The
woman who is scornful, and yet more the woman who is reputed
dangerous, excites curiosity, as spices add flavor to good
food.
Indeed, the disdain so cleverly acted by Valerie was a novelty
to
Wenceslas, after three years of too easy enjoyment. Hortense was
a
wife; Valerie a mistress.
Many men desire to have two editions of the same work, though
it is in
fact a proof of inferiority when a man cannot make his mistress
of his
wife. Variety in this particular is a sign of weakness.
Constancy will
always be the real genius of love, the evidence of immense
power--the
power that makes the poet! A man ought to find every woman in
his
wife, as the squalid poets of the seventeenth century made
their
Manons figure as Iris and Chloe.
"Well," said Lisbeth to the Pole, as she beheld him
fascinated, "what
do you think of Valerie?"
"She is too charming," replied Wenceslas.
"You would not listen to me," said Betty. "Oh! my little
Wenceslas, if
you and I had never parted, you would have been that siren's
lover;
you might have married her when she was a widow, and you would
have
had her forty thousand francs a year----"
"Really?"
"Certainly," replied Lisbeth. "Now, take care of yourself; I
warned
you of the danger; do not singe your wings in the candle!--Come,
give
me your arm, dinner is served."
No language could be so thoroughly demoralizing as this; for
if you
show a Pole a precipice, he is bound to leap it. As a nation
they have
the very spirit of cavalry; they fancy they can ride down
every
obstacle and come out victorious. The spur applied by Lisbeth
to
Steinbock's vanity was intensified by the appearance of the
dining-
room, bright with handsome silver plate; the dinner was served
with
every refinement and extravagance of Parisian luxury.
"I should have done better to take Celimene," thought he to himself.
All through the dinner Hulot was charming; pleased to see his
son-in-
law at that table, and yet more happy in the prospect of a
reconciliation with Valerie, whose fidelity he proposed to
secure by
the promise of Coquet's head-clerkship. Stidmann responded to
the
Baron's amiability by shafts of Parisian banter and an artist's
high
spirits. Steinbock would not allow himself to be eclipsed by
his
friend; he too was witty, said amusing things, made his mark,
and was
pleased with himself; Madame Marneffe smiled at him several
times to
show that she quite understood him.
The good meal and heady wines completed the work; Wenceslas
was deep
in what must be called the slough of dissipation. Excited by
just a
glass too much, he stretched himself on a settee after dinner,
sunk in
physical and mental ecstasy, which Madame Marneffe wrought to
the
highest pitch by coming to sit down by him--airy, scented,
pretty
enough to damn an angel. She bent over Wenceslas and almost
touched
his ear as she whispered to him:
"We cannot talk over business matters this evening, unless you
will
remain till the last. Between us--you, Lisbeth, and me--we can
settle
everything to suit you."
"Ah, Madame, you are an angel!" replied Wenceslas, also in a
murmur.
"I was a pretty fool not to listen to Lisbeth--"
"What did she say?"
"She declared, in the Rue du Doyenne, that you loved me!"
Madame Marneffe looked at him, seemed covered with confusion,
and
hastily left her seat. A young and pretty woman never rouses the
hope
of immediate success with impunity. This retreat, the impulse of
a
virtuous woman who is crushing a passion in the depths of her
heart,
was a thousand times more effective than the most reckless
avowal.
Desire was so thoroughly aroused in Wenceslas that he doubled
his
attentions to Valerie. A woman seen by all is a woman wished
for.
Hence the terrible power of actresses. Madame Marneffe, knowing
that
she was watched, behaved like an admired actress. She was
quite
charming, and her success was immense.
"I no longer wonder at my father-in-law's follies," said
Steinbock to
Lisbeth.
"If you say such things, Wenceslas, I shall to my dying day
repent of
having got you the loan of these ten thousand francs. Are you,
like
all these men," and she indicated the guests, "madly in love
with that
creature? Remember, you would be your father-in-law's rival. And
think
of the misery you would bring on Hortense."
"That is true," said Wenceslas. "Hortense is an angel; I
should be a
wretch."
"And one is enough in the family!" said Lisbeth.
"Artists ought never to marry!" exclaimed Steinbock.
"Ah! that is what I always told you in the Rue du Doyenne.
Your
groups, your statues, your great works, ought to be your
children."
"What are you talking about?" Valerie asked, joining
Lisbeth.--"Give
us tea, Cousin."
Steinbock, with Polish vainglory, wanted to appear familiar
with this
drawing-room fairy. After defying Stidmann, Vignon, and Crevel
with a
look, he took Valerie's hand and forced her to sit down by him
on the
settee.
"You are rather too lordly, Count Steinbock," said she,
resisting a
little. But she laughed as she dropped on to the seat, not
without
arranging the rosebud pinned into her bodice.
"Alas! if I were really lordly," said he, "I should not be
here to
borrow money."
"Poor boy! I remember how you worked all night in the Rue du
Doyenne.
You really were rather a spooney; you married as a starving
man
snatches a loaf. You knew nothing of Paris, and you see where
you are
landed. But you turned a deaf ear to Lisbeth's devotion, as you
did to
the love of a woman who knows her Paris by heart."
"Say no more!" cried Steinbock; "I am done for!"
"You shall have your ten thousand francs, my dear Wenceslas;
but on
one condition," she went on, playing with his handsome
curls.
"What is that?"
"I will take no interest----"
"Madame!"
"Oh, you need not be indignant; you shall make it good by
giving me a
bronze group. You began the story of Samson; finish it.--Do a
Delilah
cutting off the Jewish Hercules' hair. And you, who, if you
will
listen to me, will be a great artist, must enter into the
subject.
What you have to show is the power of woman. Samson is a
secondary
consideration. He is the corpse of dead strength. It is
Delilah--
passion--that ruins everything. How far more beautiful is
that
replica--That is what you call it, I think--" She
skilfully
interpolated, as Claude Vignon and Stidmann came up to them on
hearing
her talk of sculpture--"how far more beautiful than the Greek
myth is
that replica of Hercules at Omphale's feet.--Did Greece
copy Judaea,
or did Judaea borrow the symbolism from Greece?"
"There, madame, you raise an important question--that of the
date of
the various writings in the Bible. The great and immortal
Spinoza--
most foolishly ranked as an atheist, whereas he gave
mathematical
proof of the existence of God--asserts that the Book of Genesis
and
all the political history of the Bible are of the time of Moses,
and
he demonstrates the interpolated passages by philological
evidence.
And he was thrice stabbed as he went into the synagogue."
"I had no idea I was so learned," said Valerie, annoyed at
this
interruption to her tete-a-tete.
"Women know everything by instinct," replied Claude Vignon.
"Well, then, you promise me?" she said to Steinbock, taking
his hand
with the timidity of a girl in love.
"You are indeed a happy man, my dear fellow," cried Stidmann,
"if
madame asks a favor of you!"
"What is it?" asked Claude Vignon.
"A small bronze group," replied Steinbock, "Delilah cutting
off
Samson's hair."
"It is difficult," remarked Vignon. "A bed----"
"On the contrary, it is exceedingly easy," replied Valerie, smiling.
"Ah ha! teach us sculpture!" said Stidmann.
"You should take madame for your subject," replied Vignon,
with a keen
glance at Valerie.
"Well," she went on, "this is my notion of the composition.
Samson on
waking finds he has no hair, like many a dandy with a false
top-knot.
The hero is sitting on the bed, so you need only show the foot
of it,
covered with hangings and drapery. There he is, like Marius
among the
ruins of Carthage, his arms folded, his head shaven--Napoleon
at
Saint-Helena--what you will! Delilah is on her knees, a good
deal like
Canova's Magdalen. When a hussy has ruined her man, she adores
him. As
I see it, the Jewess was afraid of Samson in his strength and
terrors,
but she must have loved him when she saw him a child again. So
Delilah
is bewailing her sin, she would like to give her lover his hair
again.
She hardly dares to look at him; but she does look, with a
smile, for
she reads forgiveness in Samson's weakness. Such a group as
this, and
one of the ferocious Judith, would epitomize woman. Virtue cuts
off
your head; vice only cuts off your hair. Take care of your
wigs,
gentlemen!"
And she left the artists quite overpowered, to sing her
praises in
concert with the critic.
"It is impossible to be more bewitching!" cried Stidmann.
"Oh! she is the most intelligent and desirable woman I have
ever met,"
said Claude Vignon. "Such a combination of beauty and cleverness
is so
rare."
"And if you who had the honor of being intimate with Camille
Maupin
can pronounce such a verdict," replied Stidmann, "what are we
to
think?"
"If you will make your Delilah a portrait of Valerie, my dear
Count,"
said Crevel, who had risen for a moment from the card-table, and
who
had heard what had been said, "I will give you a thousand crowns
for
an example--yes, by the Powers! I will shell out to the tune of
a
thousand crowns!"
"Shell out! What does that mean?" asked Beauvisage of Claude Vignon.
"Madame must do me the honor to sit for it then," said
Steinbock to
Crevel. "Ask her--"
At this moment Valerie herself brought Steinbock a cup of tea.
This
was more than a compliment, it was a favor. There is a
complete
language in the manner in which a woman does this little
civility; but
women are fully aware of the fact, and it is a curious thing to
study
their movements, their manner, their look, tone, and accent when
they
perform this apparently simple act of politeness.--From the
question,
"Do you take tea?"--"Will you have some tea?"--"A cup of tea?"
coldly
asked, and followed by instructions to the nymph of the urn to
bring
it, to the eloquent poem of the odalisque coming from the
tea-table,
cup in hand, towards the pasha of her heart, presenting it
submissively, offering it in an insinuating voice, with a look
full of
intoxicating promises, a physiologist could deduce the whole
scale of
feminine emotion, from aversion or indifference to Phaedra's
declaration to Hippolytus. Women can make it, at will,
contemptuous to
the verge of insult, or humble to the expression of Oriental
servility.
And Valerie was more than woman; she was the serpent made woman;
she
crowned her diabolical work by going up to Steinbock, a cup of
tea in
her hand.
"I will drink as many cups of tea as you will give me," said
the
artist, murmuring in her ear as he rose, and touching her
fingers with
his, "to have them given to me thus!"
"What were you saying about sitting?" said she, without
betraying that
this declaration, so frantically desired, had gone straight to
her
heart.
"Old Crevel promises me a thousand crowns for a copy of your group."
"He! a thousand crowns for a bronze group?"
"Yes--if you will sit for Delilah," said Steinbock.
"He will not be there to see, I hope!" replied she. "The group
would
be worth more than all his fortune, for Delilah's costume is
rather
un-dressy."
Just as Crevel loved to strike an attitude, every woman has
a
victorious gesture, a studied movement, which she knows must
win
admiration. You may see in a drawing-room how one spends all her
time
looking down at her tucker or pulling up the shoulder-piece of
her
gown, how another makes play with the brightness of her eyes
by
glancing up at the cornice. Madame Marneffe's triumph, however,
was
not face to face like that of other women. She turned sharply
round to
return to Lisbeth at the tea-table. This ballet-dancer's
pirouette,
whisking her skirts, by which she had overthrown Hulot, now
fascinated
Steinbock.
"Your vengeance is secure," said Valerie to Lisbeth in a
whisper.
"Hortense will cry out all her tears, and curse the day when
she
robbed you of Wenceslas."
"Till I am Madame la Marechale I shall not think myself
successful,"
replied the cousin; "but they are all beginning to wish for
it.--This
morning I went to Victorin's--I forgot to tell you.--The young
Hulots
have bought up their father's notes of hand given to Vauvinet,
and
to-morrow they will endorse a bill for seventy-two thousand
francs at
five per cent, payable in three years, and secured by a mortgage
on
their house. So the young people are in straits for three years;
they
can raise no more money on that property. Victorin is
dreadfully
distressed; he understands his father. And Crevel is capable
of
refusing to see them; he will be so angry at this piece of
self-
sacrifice."
"The Baron cannot have a sou now," said Valerie, and she
smiled at
Hulot.
"I don't see where he can get it. But he will draw his salary
again in
September."
"And he has his policy of insurance; he has renewed it. Come,
it is
high time he should get Marneffe promoted. I will drive it home
this
evening."
"My dear cousin," said Lisbeth to Wenceslas, "go home, I beg.
You are
quite ridiculous. Your eyes are fixed on Valerie in a way that
is
enough to compromise her, and her husband is insanely jealous.
Do not
tread in your father-in-law's footsteps. Go home; I am sure
Hortense
is sitting up for you."
"Madame Marneffe told me to stay till the last to settle my
little
business with you and her," replied Wenceslas.
"No, no," said Lisbeth; "I will bring you the ten thousand
francs, for
her husband has his eye on you. It would be rash to remain.
To-morrow
at eleven o'clock bring your note of hand; at that hour that
mandarin
Marneffe is at his office, Valerie is free.--Have you really
asked her
to sit for your group?--Come up to my rooms first.--Ah! I was
sure of
it," she added, as she caught the look which Steinbock flashed
at
Valerie, "I knew you were a profligate in the bud! Well, Valerie
is
lovely--but try not to bring trouble on Hortense."
Nothing annoys a married man so much as finding his wife
perpetually
interposing between himself and his wishes, however
transient.
Wenceslas got home at about one in the morning; Hortense had
expected
him ever since half-past nine. From half-past nine till ten she
had
listened to the passing carriages, telling herself that never
before
had her husband come in so late from dining with Florent and
Chanor.
She sat sewing by the child's cot, for she had begun to save
a
needlewoman's pay for the day by doing the mending
herself.--From ten
till half-past, a suspicion crossed her mind; she sat
wondering:
"Is he really gone to dinner, as he told me, with Chanor and
Florent?
He put on his best cravat and his handsomest pin when he
dressed. He
took as long over his toilet as a woman when she wants to make
the
best of herself.--I am crazy! He loves me!--And here he is!"
But instead of stopping, the cab she heard went past.
From eleven till midnight Hortense was a victim to terrible
alarms;
the quarter where they lived was now deserted.
"If he has set out on foot, some accident may have happened,"
thought
she. "A man may be killed by tumbling over a curbstone or
failing to
see a gap. Artists are so heedless! Or if he should have been
stopped
by robbers!--It is the first time he has ever left me alone here
for
six hours and a half!--But why should I worry myself? He cares
for no
one but me."
Men ought to be faithful to the wives who love them, were it
only on
account of the perpetual miracles wrought by true love in the
sublime
regions of the spiritual world. The woman who loves is, in
relation to
the man she loves, in the position of a somnambulist to whom
the
magnetizer should give the painful power, when she ceases to be
the
mirror of the world, of being conscious as a woman of what she
has
seen as a somnambulist. Passion raises the nervous tension of a
woman
to the ecstatic pitch at which presentiment is as acute as the
insight
of a clairvoyant. A wife knows she is betrayed; she will not
let
herself say so, she doubts still--she loves so much! She gives
the lie
to the outcry of her own Pythian power. This paroxysm of love
deserves
a special form of worship.
In noble souls, admiration of this divine phenomenon will
always be a
safeguard to protect them from infidelity. How should a man
not
worship a beautiful and intellectual creature whose soul can
soar to
such manifestations?
By one in the morning Hortense was in a state of such intense
anguish,
that she flew to the door as she recognized her husband's ring
at the
bell, and clasped him in her arms like a mother.
"At last--here you are!" cried she, finding her voice again.
"My
dearest, henceforth where you go I go, for I cannot again endure
the
torture of such waiting.--I pictured you stumbling over a
curbstone,
with a fractured skull! Killed by thieves!--No, a second time I
know I
should go mad.--Have you enjoyed yourself so much?--And without
me!--
Bad boy!"
"What can I say, my darling? There was Bixiou, who drew
fresh
caricatures for us; Leon de Lora, as witty as ever; Claude
Vignon, to
whom I owe the only consolatory article that has come out about
the
Montcornet statue. There were--"
"Were there no ladies?" Hortense eagerly inquired.
"Worthy Madame Florent--"
"You said the Rocher de Cancale.--Were you at the Florents'?"
"Yes, at their house; I made a mistake."
"You did not take a coach to come home?"
"No."
"And you have walked from the Rue des Tournelles?"
"Stidmann and Bixiou came back with me along the boulevards as
far as
the Madeleine, talking all the way."
"It is dry then on the boulevards and the Place de la Concorde
and the
Rue de Bourgogne? You are not muddy at all!" said Hortense,
looking at
her husband's patent leather boots.
It had been raining, but between the Rue Vanneau and the Rue
Saint-
Dominique Wenceslas had not got his boots soiled.
"Here--here are five thousand francs Chanor has been so
generous as to
lend me," said Wenceslas, to cut short this lawyer-like
examination.
He had made a division of the ten thousand-franc notes, half
for
Hortense and half for himself, for he had five thousand francs'
worth
of debts of which Hortense knew nothing. He owed money to his
foreman
and his workmen.
"Now your anxieties are relieved," said he, kissing his wife.
"I am
going to work to-morrow morning. So I am going to bed this
minute to
get up early, by your leave, my pet."
The suspicion that had dawned in Hortense's mind vanished; she
was
miles away from the truth. Madame Marneffe! She had never
thought of
her. Her fear for her Wenceslas was that he should fall in with
street
prostitutes. The names of Bixiou and Leon de Lora, two artists
noted
for their wild dissipations, had alarmed her.
Next morning she saw Wenceslas go out at nine o'clock, and was
quite
reassured.
"Now he is at work again," said she to herself, as she
proceeded to
dress her boy. "I see he is quite in the vein! Well, well, if
we
cannot have the glory of Michael Angelo, we may have that of
Benvenuto
Cellini!"
Lulled by her own hopes, Hortense believed in a happy future;
and she
was chattering to her son of twenty months in the language
of
onomatopoeia that amuses babes when, at about eleven o'clock,
the
cook, who had not seen Wenceslas go out, showed in Stidmann.
"I beg pardon, madame," said he. "Is Wenceslas gone out already?"
"He is at the studio."
"I came to talk over the work with him."
"I will send for him," said Hortense, offering Stidmann a chair.
Thanking Heaven for this piece of luck, Hortense was glad to
detain
Stidmann to ask some questions about the evening before.
Stidmann
bowed in acknowledgment of her kindness. The Countess Steinbock
rang;
the cook appeared, and was desired to go at once and fetch her
master
from the studio.
"You had an amusing dinner last night?" said Hortense.
"Wenceslas did
not come in till past one in the morning."
"Amusing? not exactly," replied the artist, who had intended
to
fascinate Madame Marneffe. "Society is not very amusing unless
one is
interested in it. That little Madame Marneffe is clever, but a
great
flirt."
"And what did Wenceslas think of her?" asked poor Hortense,
trying to
keep calm. "He said nothing about her to me."
"I will only say one thing," said Stidmann, "and that is, that
I think
her a very dangerous woman."
Hortense turned as pale as a woman after childbirth.
"So--it was at--at Madame Marneffe's that you dined--and
not--not with
Chanor?" said she, "yesterday--and Wenceslas--and he----"
Stidmann, without knowing what mischief he had done, saw that
he had
blundered.
The Countess did not finish her sentence; she simply fainted
away. The
artist rang, and the maid came in. When Louise tried to get
her
mistress into her bedroom, a serious nervous attack came on,
with
violent hysterics. Stidmann, like any man who by an
involuntary
indiscretion has overthrown the structure built on a husband's
lie to
his wife, could not conceive that his words should produce such
an
effect; he supposed that the Countess was in such delicate
health that
the slightest contradiction was mischievous.
The cook presently returned to say, unfortunately in loud
tones, that
her master was not in the studio. In the midst of her
anguish,
Hortense heard, and the hysterical fit came on again.
"Go and fetch madame's mother," said Louise to the cook. "Quick--run!"
"If I knew where to find Steinbock, I would go and fetch
him!"
exclaimed Stidmann in despair.
"He is with that woman!" cried the unhappy wife. "He was not
dressed
to go to his work!"
Stidmann hurried off to Madame Marneffe's, struck by the truth
of this
conclusion, due to the second-sight of passion.
At that moment Valerie was posed as Delilah. Stidmann, too
sharp to
ask for Madame Marneffe, walked straight in past the lodge, and
ran
quickly up to the second floor, arguing thus: "If I ask for
Madame
Marneffe, she will be out. If I inquire point-blank for
Steinbock, I
shall be laughed at to my face.--Take the bull by the
horns!"
Reine appeared in answer to his ring.
"Tell Monsieur le Comte Steinbock to come at once, his wife
is
dying--"
Reine, quite a match for Stidmann, looked at him with blank surprise.
"But, sir--I don't know--did you suppose----"
"I tell you that my friend Monsieur Steinbock is here; his
wife is
very ill. It is quite serious enough for you to disturb your
mistress." And Stidmann turned on his heel.
"He is there, sure enough!" said he to himself.
And in point of fact, after waiting a few minutes in the Rue
Vanneau,
he saw Wenceslas come out, and beckoned to him to come quickly.
After
telling him of the tragedy enacted in the Rue
Saint-Dominique,
Stidmann scolded Steinbock for not having warned him to keep
the
secret of yesterday's dinner.
"I am done for," said Wenceslas, "but you are forgiven. I had
totally
forgotten that you were to call this morning, and I blundered in
not
telling you that we were to have dined with Florent.--What can I
say?
That Valerie has turned my head; but, my dear fellow, for her
glory is
well lost, misfortune well won! She really is!--Good
Heavens!--But I
am in a dreadful fix. Advise me. What can I say? How can I
excuse
myself?"
"I! advise you! I don't know," replied Stidmann. "But your
wife loves
you, I imagine? Well, then, she will believe anything. Tell her
that
you were on your way to me when I was on my way to you; that, at
any
rate, will set this morning's business right. Good-bye."
Lisbeth, called down by Reine, ran after Wenceslas and caught
him up
at the corner of the Rue Hillerin-Bertin; she was afraid of his
Polish
artlessness. Not wishing to be involved in the matter, she said
a few
words to Wenceslas, who in his joy hugged her then and there.
She had
no doubt pushed out a plank to enable the artist to cross this
awkward
place in his conjugal affairs.
At the sight of her mother, who had flown to her aid, Hortense
burst
into floods of tears. This happily changed the character of
the
hysterical attack.
"Treachery, dear mamma!" cried she. "Wenceslas, after giving
me his
word of honor that he would not go near Madame Marneffe, dined
with
her last night, and did not come in till a quarter-past one in
the
morning.--If you only knew! The day before we had had a
discussion,
not a quarrel, and I had appealed to him so touchingly. I told
him I
was jealous, that I should die if he were unfaithful; that I
was
easily suspicious, but that he ought to have some consideration
for my
weaknesses, as they came of my love for him; that I had my
father's
blood in my veins as well as yours; that at the first moment of
such
discovery I should be mad, and capable of mad deeds--of
avenging
myself--of dishonoring us all, him, his child, and myself; that
I
might even kill him first and myself after--and so on.
"And yet he went there; he is there!--That woman is bent on
breaking
all our hearts! Only yesterday my brother and Celestine pledged
their
all to pay off seventy thousand francs on notes of hand signed
for
that good-for-nothing creature.--Yes, mamma, my father would
have been
arrested and put into prison. Cannot that dreadful woman be
content
with having my father, and with all your tears? Why take my
Wenceslas?
--I will go to see her and stab her!"
Madame Hulot, struck to the heart by the dreadful secrets
Hortense was
unwittingly letting out, controlled her grief by one of the
heroic
efforts which a magnanimous mother can make, and drew her
daughter's
head on to her bosom to cover it with kisses.
"Wait for Wenceslas, my child; all will be explained. The evil
cannot
be so great as you picture it!--I, too, have been deceived, my
dear
Hortense; you think me handsome, I have lived blameless; and yet
I
have been utterly forsaken for three-and-twenty years--for a
Jenny
Cadine, a Josepha, a Madame Marneffe!-- Did you know that?"
"You, mamma, you! You have endured this for twenty----"
She broke off, staggered by her own thoughts.
"Do as I have done, my child," said her mother. "Be gentle and
kind,
and your conscience will be at peace. On his death-bed a man may
say,
'My wife has never cost me a pang!' And God, who hears that
dying
breath, credits it to us. If I had abandoned myself to fury like
you,
what would have happened? Your father would have been
embittered,
perhaps he would have left me altogether, and he would not have
been
withheld by any fear of paining me. Our ruin, utter as it now
is,
would have been complete ten years sooner, and we should have
shown
the world the spectacle of a husband and wife living quite
apart--a
scandal of the most horrible, heart-breaking kind, for it is
the
destruction of the family. Neither your brother nor you could
have
married.
"I sacrificed myself, and that so bravely, that, till this
last
connection of your father's, the world has believed me happy.
My
serviceable and indeed courageous falsehood has, till now,
screened
Hector; he is still respected; but this old man's passion is
taking
him too far, that I see. His own folly, I fear, will break
through the
veil I have kept between the world and our home. However, I have
held
that curtain steady for twenty-three years, and have wept behind
it--
motherless, I, without a friend to trust, with no help but in
religion
--I have for twenty-three years secured the family
honor----"
Hortense listened with a fixed gaze. The calm tone of
resignation and
of such crowning sorrow soothed the smart of her first wound;
the
tears rose again and flowed in torrents. In a frenzy of
filial
affection, overcome by her mother's noble heroism, she fell on
her
knees before Adeline, took up the hem of her dress and kissed
it, as
pious Catholics kiss the holy relics of a martyr.
"Nay, get up, Hortense," said the Baroness. "Such homage from
my
daughter wipes out many sad memories. Come to my heart, and weep
for
no sorrows but your own. It is the despair of my dear little
girl,
whose joy was my only joy, that broke the solemn seal which
nothing
ought to have removed from my lips. Indeed, I meant to have
taken my
woes to the tomb, as a shroud the more. It was to soothe your
anguish
that I spoke.--God will forgive me!
"Oh! if my life were to be your life, what would I not do?
Men, the
world, Fate, Nature, God Himself, I believe, make us pay for
love with
the most cruel grief. I must pay for ten years of happiness
and
twenty-four years of despair, of ceaseless sorrow, of
bitterness--"
"But you had ten years, dear mamma, and I have had but three!"
said
the self-absorbed girl.
"Nothing is lost yet," said Adeline. "Only wait till Wenceslas comes."
"Mother," said she, "he lied, he deceived me. He said, 'I will
not
go,' and he went. And that over his child's cradle."
"For pleasure, my child, men will commit the most cowardly,
the most
infamous actions--even crimes; it lies in their nature, it would
seem.
We wives are set apart for sacrifice. I believed my troubles
were
ended, and they are beginning again, for I never thought to
suffer
doubly by suffering with my child. Courage--and silence!--My
Hortense,
swear that you will never discuss your griefs with anybody but
me,
never let them be suspected by any third person. Oh! be as proud
as
your mother has been."
Hortense started; she had heard her husband's step.
"So it would seem," said Wenceslas, as he came in, "that
Stidmann has
been here while I went to see him."
"Indeed!" said Hortense, with the angry irony of an offended
woman who
uses words to stab.
"Certainly," said Wenceslas, affecting surprise. "We have just met."
"And yesterday?"
"Well, yesterday I deceived you, my darling love; and your
mother
shall judge between us."
This candor unlocked his wife's heart. All really lofty women
like the
truth better than lies. They cannot bear to see their idol
smirched;
they want to be proud of the despotism they bow to.
There is a strain of this feeling in the devotion of the
Russians to
their Czar.
"Now, listen, dear mother," Wenceslas went on. "I so truly
love my
sweet and kind Hortense, that I concealed from her the extent of
our
poverty. What could I do? She was still nursing the boy, and
such
troubles would have done her harm; you know what the risk is for
a
woman. Her beauty, youth, and health are imperiled. Did I do
wrong?--
She believes that we owe five thousand francs; but I owe five
thousand
more. The day before yesterday we were in the depths! No one on
earth
will lend to us artists. Our talents are not less untrustworthy
than
our whims. I knocked in vain at every door. Lisbeth, indeed,
offered
us her savings."
"Poor soul!" said Hortense.
"Poor soul!" said the Baroness.
"But what are Lisbeth's two thousand francs? Everything to
her,
nothing to us.--Then, as you know, Hortense, she spoke to us of
Madame
Marneffe, who, as she owes so much to the Baron, out of a sense
of
honor, will take no interest. Hortense wanted to send her
diamonds to
the Mont-de-Piete; they would have brought in a few thousand
francs,
but we needed ten thousand. Those ten thousand francs were to be
had
free of interest for a year!--I said to myself, 'Hortense will
be none
the wiser; I will go and get them.'
"Then the woman asked me to dinner through my father-in-law,
giving me
to understand that Lisbeth had spoken of the matter, and I
should have
the money. Between Hortense's despair on one hand, and the
dinner on
the other, I could not hesitate.--That is all.
"What! could Hortense, at four-and-twenty, lovely, pure, and
virtuous,
and all my pride and glory, imagine that, when I have never left
her
since we married, I could now prefer--what?--a tawny, painted,
ruddled
creature?" said he, using the vulgar exaggeration of the studio
to
convince his wife by the vehemence that women like.
"Oh! if only your father had ever spoken so----!" cried the Baroness.
Hortense threw her arms round her husband's neck.
"Yes, that is what I should have done," said her mother.
"Wenceslas,
my dear fellow, your wife was near dying of it," she went on
very
seriously. "You see how well she loves you. And, alas--she is
yours!"
She sighed deeply.
"He may make a martyr of her, or a happy woman," thought she
to
herself, as every mother thinks when she sees her daughter
married.--
"It seems to me," she said aloud, "that I am miserable enough to
hope
to see my children happy."
"Be quite easy, dear mamma," said Wenceslas, only too glad to
see this
critical moment end happily. "In two months I shall have repaid
that
dreadful woman. How could I help it," he went on, repeating
this
essentially Polish excuse with a Pole's grace; "there are times
when a
man would borrow of the Devil.--And, after all, the money
belongs to
the family. When once she had invited me, should I have got the
money
at all if I had responded to her civility with a rude
refusal?"
"Oh, mamma, what mischief papa is bringing on us!" cried Hortense.
The Baroness laid her finger on her daughter's lips, aggrieved
by this
complaint, the first blame she had ever uttered of a father
so
heroically screened by her mother's magnanimous silence.
"Now, good-bye, my children," said Madame Hulot. "The storm is
over.
But do not quarrel any more."
When Wenceslas and his wife returned to their room after
letting out
the Baroness, Hortense said to her husband:
"Tell me all about last evening."
And she watched his face all through the narrative,
interrupting him
by the questions that crowd on a wife's mind in such
circumstances.
The story made Hortense reflect; she had a glimpse of the
infernal
dissipation which an artist must find in such vicious
company.
"Be honest, my Wenceslas; Stidmann was there, Claude
Vignon,
Vernisset.--Who else? In short, it was good fun?"
"I, I was thinking of nothing but our ten thousand francs, and
I was
saying to myself, 'My Hortense will be freed from anxiety.'
"
This catechism bored the Livonian excessively; he seized a
gayer
moment to say:
"And you, my dearest, what would you have done if your artist
had
proved guilty?"
"I," said she, with an air of prompt decision, "I should have
taken up
Stidmann--not that I love him, of course!"
"Hortense!" cried Steinbock, starting to his feet with a
sudden and
theatrical emphasis. "You would not have had the chance--I would
have
killed you!"
Hortense threw herself into his arms, clasping him closely
enough to
stifle him, and covered him with kisses, saying:
"Ah, you do love me! I fear nothing!--But no more Marneffe.
Never go
plunging into such horrible bogs."
"I swear to you, my dear Hortense, that I will go there no
more,
excepting to redeem my note of hand."
She pouted at this, but only as a loving woman sulks to get
something
for it. Wenceslas, tired out with such a morning's work, went
off to
his studio to make a clay sketch of the Samson and
Delilah, for
which he had the drawings in his pocket.
Hortense, penitent for her little temper, and fancying that
her
husband was annoyed with her, went to the studio just as the
sculptor
had finished handling the clay with the impetuosity that spurs
an
artist when the mood is on him. On seeing his wife, Wenceslas
hastily
threw the wet wrapper over the group, and putting both arms
round her,
he said:
"We were not really angry, were we, my pretty puss?"
Hortense had caught sight of the group, had seen the linen
thrown over
it, and had said nothing; but as she was leaving, she took off
the
rag, looked at the model, and asked:
"What is that?"
"A group for which I had just had an idea."
"And why did you hide it?"
"I did not mean you to see it till it was finished."
"The woman is very pretty," said Hortense.
And a thousand suspicions cropped up in her mind, as, in
India, tall,
rank plants spring up in a night-time.
By the end of three weeks, Madame Marneffe was intensely
irritated by
Hortense. Women of that stamp have a pride of their own; they
insist
that men shall kiss the devil's hoof; they have no forgiveness
for the
virtue that does not quail before their dominion, or that even
holds
its own against them. Now, in all that time Wenceslas had not
paid one
visit in the Rue Vanneau, not even that which politeness
required to a
woman who had sat for Delilah.
Whenever Lisbeth called on the Steinbocks, there had been
nobody at
home. Monsieur and madame lived in the studio. Lisbeth,
following the
turtle doves to their nest at le Gros-Caillou, found Wenceslas
hard at
work, and was informed by the cook that madame never left
monsieur's
side. Wenceslas was a slave to the autocracy of love. So now
Valerie,
on her own account, took part with Lisbeth in her hatred of
Hortense.
Women cling to a lover that another woman is fighting for,
just as
much as men do to women round whom many coxcombs are buzzing.
Thus any
reflections a propos to Madame Marneffe are equally
applicable to
any lady-killing rake; he is, in fact, a sort of male
courtesan.
Valerie's last fancy was a madness; above all, she was bent on
getting
her group; she was even thinking of going one morning to the
studio to
see Wenceslas, when a serious incident arose of the kind which,
to a
woman of that class, may be called the spoil of war.
This is how Valerie announced this wholly personal event.
She was breakfasting with Lisbeth and her husband.
"I say, Marneffe, what would you say to being a second time a father?"
"You don't mean it--a baby?--Oh, let me kiss you!"
He rose and went round the table; his wife held up her head so
that he
could just kiss her hair.
"If that is so," he went on, "I am head-clerk and officer of
the
Legion of Honor at once. But you must understand, my dear,
Stanislas
is not to be the sufferer, poor little man."
"Poor little man?" Lisbeth put in. "You have not set your eyes
on him
these seven months. I am supposed to be his mother at the
school; I am
the only person in the house who takes any trouble about
him."
"A brat that costs us a hundred crowns a quarter!" said
Valerie. "And
he, at any rate, is your own child, Marneffe. You ought to pay
for his
schooling out of your salary.--The newcomer, far from reminding
us of
butcher's bills, will rescue us from want."
"Valerie," replied Marneffe, assuming an attitude like Crevel,
"I hope
that Monsieur le Baron Hulot will take proper charge of his son,
and
not lay the burden on a poor clerk. I intend to keep him well up
to
the mark. So take the necessary steps, madame! Get him to write
you
letters in which he alludes to his satisfaction, for he is
rather
backward in coming forward in regard to my appointment."
And Marneffe went away to the office, where his chief's
precious
leniency allowed him to come in at about eleven o'clock. And,
indeed,
he did little enough, for his incapacity was notorious, and
he
detested work.
No sooner were they alone than Lisbeth and Valerie looked at
each
other for a moment like Augurs, and both together burst into a
loud
fit of laughter.
"I say, Valerie--is it the fact?" said Lisbeth, "or merely a farce?"
"It is a physical fact!" replied Valerie. "Now, I am sick and
tired of
Hortense; and it occurred to me in the night that I might fire
this
infant, like a bomb, into the Steinbock household."
Valerie went back to her room, followed by Lisbeth, to whom
she showed
the following letter:--
"WENCESLAS MY DEAR,--I still believe in your love, though it is
nearly three weeks since I saw you. Is this scorn? Delilah can
scarcely believe that. Does it not rather result from the tyranny
of a woman whom, as you told me, you can no longer love?
Wenceslas, you are too great an artist to submit to such dominion.
Home is the grave of glory.--Consider now, are you the Wenceslas
of the Rue du Doyenne? You missed fire with my father's statue;
but in you the lover is greater than the artist, and you have had
better luck with his daughter. You are a father, my beloved
Wenceslas."If you do not come to me in the state I am in, your friends would
think very badly of you. But I love you so madly, that I feel I
should never have the strength to curse you. May I sign myself as
ever,"YOUR VALERIE."
"What do you say to my scheme for sending this note to the
studio at a
time when our dear Hortense is there by herself?" asked Valerie.
"Last
evening I heard from Stidmann that Wenceslas is to pick him up
at
eleven this morning to go on business to Chanor's; so that
gawk
Hortense will be there alone."
"But after such a trick as that," replied Lisbeth, "I cannot
continue
to be your friend in the eyes of the world; I shall have to
break with
you, to be supposed never to visit you, or even to speak to
you."
"Evidently," said Valerie; "but--"
"Oh! be quite easy," interrupted Lisbeth; "we shall often meet
when I
am Madame la Marechale. They are all set upon it now. Only the
Baron
is in ignorance of the plan, but you can talk him over."
"Well," said Valerie, "but it is quite likely that the Baron
and I may
be on distant terms before long."
"Madame Olivier is the only person who can make Hortense
demand to see
the letter," said Lisbeth. "And you must send her to the Rue
Saint-
Dominique before she goes on to the studio."
"Our beauty will be at home, no doubt," said Valerie, ringing
for
Reine to call up Madame Olivier.
Ten minutes after the despatch of this fateful letter, Baron
Hulot
arrived. Madame Marneffe threw her arms round the old man's neck
with
kittenish impetuosity.
"Hector, you are a father!" she said in his ear. "That is what
comes
of quarreling and making friends again----"
Perceiving a look of surprise, which the Baron did not at
once
conceal, Valerie assumed a reserve which brought the old man
to
despair. She made him wring the proofs from her one by one.
When
conviction, led on by vanity, had at last entered his mind,
she
enlarged on Monsieur Marneffe's wrath.
"My dear old veteran," said she, "you can hardly avoid getting
your
responsible editor, our representative partner if you like,
appointed
head-clerk and officer of the Legion of Honor, for you really
have
done for the poor man, he adores his Stanislas, the little
monstrosity
who is so like him, that to me he is insufferable. Unless you
prefer
to settle twelve hundred francs a year on Stanislas--the capital
to be
his, and the life-interest payable to me, of course--"
"But if I am to settle securities, I would rather it should be
on my
own son, and not on the monstrosity," said the Baron.
This rash speech, in which the words "my own son" came out as
full as
a river in flood, was, by the end of the hour, ratified as a
formal
promise to settle twelve hundred francs a year on the future
boy. And
this promise became, on Valerie's tongue and in her countenance,
what
a drum is in the hands of a child; for three weeks she played on
it
incessantly.
At the moment when Baron Hulot was leaving the Rue Vanneau, as
happy
as a man who after a year of married life still desires an
heir,
Madame Olivier had yielded to Hortense, and given up the note
she was
instructed to give only into the Count's own hands. The young
wife
paid twenty francs for that letter. The wretch who commits
suicide
must pay for the opium, the pistol, the charcoal.
Hortense read and re-read the note; she saw nothing but this
sheet of
white paper streaked with black lines; the universe held for
her
nothing but that paper; everything was dark around her. The
glare of
the conflagration that was consuming the edifice of her
happiness
lighted up the page, for blackest night enfolded her. The shouts
of
her little Wenceslas at play fell on her ear, as if he had been
in the
depths of a valley and she on a high mountain. Thus insulted at
four-
and-twenty, in all the splendor of her beauty, enhanced by pure
and
devoted love--it was not a stab, it was death. The first shock
had
been merely on the nerves, the physical frame had struggled in
the
grip of jealousy; but now certainty had seized her soul, her
body was
unconscious.
For about ten minutes Hortense sat under the incubus of
this
oppression. Then a vision of her mother appeared before her,
and
revulsion ensued; she was calm and cool, and mistress of her
reason.
She rang.
"Get Louise to help you, child," said she to the cook. "As
quickly as
you can, pack up everything that belongs to me and everything
wanted
for the little boy. I give you an hour. When all is ready, fetch
a
hackney coach from the stand, and call me.
"Make no remarks! I am leaving the house, and shall take
Louise with
me. You must stay here with monsieur; take good care of
him----"
She went into her room, and wrote the following letter:--
"MONSIEUR LE COMTE,--
"The letter I enclose will sufficiently account for the
determination I have come to."When you read this, I shall have left your house and have found
refuge with my mother, taking our child with me."Do not imagine that I shall retrace my steps. Do not imagine that
I am acting with the rash haste of youth, without reflection, with
the anger of offended affection; you will be greatly mistaken."I have been thinking very deeply during the last fortnight of
life, of love, of our marriage, of our duties to each other. I
have known the perfect devotion of my mother; she has told me all
her sorrows! She has been heroical--every day for twenty-three
years. But I have not the strength to imitate her, not because I
love you less than she loves my father, but for reasons of spirit
and nature. Our home would be a hell; I might lose my head so far
as to disgrace you--disgrace myself and our child."I refuse to be a Madame Marneffe; once launched on such a course,
a woman of my temper might not, perhaps, be able to stop. I am,
unfortunately for myself, a Hulot, not a Fischer."Alone, and absent from the scene of your dissipations, I am sure
of myself, especially with my child to occupy me, and by the side
of a strong and noble mother, whose life cannot fail to influence
the vehement impetuousness of my feelings. There, I can be a good
mother, bring our boy up well, and live. Under your roof the wife
would oust the mother; and constant contention would sour my
temper."I can accept a death-blow, but I will not endure for twenty-five
years, like my mother. If, at the end of three years of perfect,
unwavering love, you can be unfaithful to me with your father-in-
law's mistress, what rivals may I expect to have in later years?
Indeed, monsieur, you have begun your career of profligacy much
earlier than my father did, the life of dissipation, which is a
disgrace to the father of a family, which undermines the respect
of his children, and which ends in shame and despair."I am not unforgiving. Unrelenting feelings do not beseem erring
creatures living under the eye of God. If you win fame and fortune
by sustained work, if you have nothing to do with courtesans and
ignoble, defiling ways, you will find me still a wife worthy of
you."I believe you to be too much a gentleman, Monsieur le Comte, to
have recourse to the law. You will respect my wishes, and leave me
under my mother's roof. Above all, never let me see you there. I
have left all the money lent to you by that odious woman.--
Farewell."HORTENSE HULOT."
This letter was written in anguish. Hortense abandoned herself
to the
tears, the outcries of murdered love. She laid down her pen and
took
it up again, to express as simply as possible all that
passion
commonly proclaims in this sort of testamentary letter. Her
heart went
forth in exclamations, wailing and weeping; but reason dictated
the
words.
Informed by Louise that all was ready, the young wife slowly
went
round the little garden, through the bedroom and drawing-room,
looking
at everything for the last time. Then she earnestly enjoined the
cook
to take the greatest care for her master's comfort, promising
to
reward her handsomely if she would be honest. At last she got
into the
hackney coach to drive to her mother's house, her heart quite
broken,
crying so much as to distress the maid, and covering little
Wenceslas
with kisses, which betrayed her still unfailing love for his
father.
The Baroness knew already from Lisbeth that the father-in-law
was
largely to blame for the son-in-law's fault; nor was she
surprised to
see her daughter, whose conduct she approved, and she consented
to
give her shelter. Adeline, perceiving that her own gentleness
and
patience had never checked Hector, for whom her respect was
indeed
fast diminishing, thought her daughter very right to adopt
another
course.
In three weeks the poor mother had suffered two wounds of
which the
pain was greater than any ill-fortune she had hitherto endured.
The
Baron had placed Victorin and his wife in great difficulties;
and
then, by Lisbeth's account, he was the cause of his
son-in-law's
misconduct, and had corrupted Wenceslas. The dignity of the
father of
the family, so long upheld by her really foolish self-sacrifice,
was
now overthrown. Though they did not regret the money the young
Hulots
were full alike of doubts and uneasiness as regarded the Baron.
This
sentiment, which was evidence enough, distressed the Baroness;
she
foresaw a break-up of the family tie.
Hortense was accommodated in the dining-room, arranged as a
bedroom
with the help of the Marshal's money, and the anteroom became
the
dining-room, as it is in many apartments.
When Wenceslas returned home and had read the two letters, he
felt a
kind of gladness mingled with regret. Kept so constantly under
his
wife's eye, so to speak, he had inwardly rebelled against this
fresh
thraldom, a la Lisbeth. Full fed with love for three
years past, he
too had been reflecting during the last fortnight; and he found
a
family heavy on his hands. He had just been congratulated by
Stidmann
on the passion he had inspired in Valerie; for Stidmann, with
an
under-thought that was not unnatural, saw that he might flatter
the
husband's vanity in the hope of consoling the victim. And
Wenceslas
was glad to be able to return to Madame Marneffe.
Still, he remembered the pure and unsullied happiness he had
known,
the perfections of his wife, her judgment, her innocent and
guileless
affection,--and he regretted her acutely. He thought of going at
once
to his mother-in-law's to crave forgiveness; but, in fact, like
Hulot
and Crevel, he went to Madame Marneffe, to whom he carried his
wife's
letter to show her what a disaster she had caused, and to
discount his
misfortune, so to speak, by claiming in return the pleasures
his
mistress could give him.
He found Crevel with Valerie. The mayor, puffed up with pride,
marched
up and down the room, agitated by a storm of feelings. He put
himself
into position as if he were about to speak, but he dared not.
His
countenance was beaming, and he went now and again to the
window,
where he drummed on the pane with his fingers. He kept looking
at
Valerie with a glance of tender pathos. Happily for him,
Lisbeth
presently came in.
"Cousin Betty," he said in her ear, "have you heard the news?
I am a
father! It seems to me I love my poor Celestine the less.--Oh!
what a
thing it is to have a child by the woman one idolizes! It is
the
fatherhood of the heart added to that of the flesh! I
say--tell
Valerie that I will work for that child--it shall be rich. She
tells
me she has some reason for believing that it will be a boy! If
it is a
boy, I shall insist on his being called Crevel. I will consult
my
notary about it."
"I know how much she loves you," said Lisbeth. "But for her
sake in
the future, and for your own, control yourself. Do not rub your
hands
every five minutes."
While Lisbeth was speaking aside on this wise to Crevel,
Valerie had
asked Wenceslas to give her back her letter, and she was saying
things
that dispelled all his griefs.
"So now you are free, my dear," said she. "Ought any great
artist to
marry? You live only by fancy and freedom! There, I shall love
you so
much, beloved poet, that you shall never regret your wife. At
the same
time, if, like so many people, you want to keep up appearances,
I
undertake to bring Hortense back to you in a very short
time."
"Oh, if only that were possible!"
"I am certain of it," said Valerie, nettled. "Your poor
father-in-law
is a man who is in every way utterly done for; who wants to
appear as
though he could be loved, out of conceit, and to make the
world
believe that he has a mistress; and he is so excessively vain on
this
point, that I can do what I please with him. The Baroness is
still so
devoted to her old Hector--I always feel as if I were talking of
the
Iliad--that these two old folks will contrive to patch up
matters
between you and Hortense. Only, if you want to avoid storms at
home
for the future, do not leave me for three weeks without coming
to see
your mistress--I was dying of it. My dear boy, some
consideration is
due from a gentleman to a woman he has so deeply
compromised,
especially when, as in my case, she has to be very careful of
her
reputation.
"Stay to dinner, my darling--and remember that I must treat
you with
all the more apparent coldness because you are guilty of this
too
obvious mishap."
Baron Montes was presently announced; Valerie rose and hurried
forward
to meet him; she spoke a few sentences in his ear, enjoining on
him
the same reserve as she had impressed on Wenceslas; the
Brazilian
assumed a diplomatic reticence suitable to the great news which
filled
him with delight, for he, at any rate was sure of his
paternity.
Thanks to these tactics, based on the vanity of the man in the
lover
stage of his existence, Valerie sat down to table with four men,
all
pleased and eager to please, all charmed, and each believing
himself
adored; called by Marneffe, who included himself, in speaking
to
Lisbeth, the five Fathers of the Church.
Baron Hulot alone at first showed an anxious countenance, and
this was
why. Just as he was leaving the office, the head of the staff
of
clerks had come to his private room--a General with whom he had
served
for thirty years--and Hulot had spoken to him as to
appointing
Marneffe to Coquet's place, Coquet having consented to
retire.
"My dear fellow," said he, "I would not ask this favor of the
Prince
without our having agreed on the matter, and knowing that
you
approved."
"My good friend," replied the other, "you must allow me to
observe
that, for your own sake, you should not insist on this
nomination. I
have already told you my opinion. There would be a scandal in
the
office, where there is a great deal too much talk already about
you
and Madame Marneffe. This, of course, is between ourselves. I
have no
wish to touch you on a sensitive spot, or disoblige you in any
way,
and I will prove it. If you are determined to get Monsieur
Coquet's
place, and he will really be a loss in the War Office, for he
has been
here since 1809, I will go into the country for a fortnight, so
as to
leave the field open between you and the Marshal, who loves you
as a
son. Then I shall take neither part, and shall have nothing on
my
conscience as an administrator."
"Thank you very much," said Hulot. "I will reflect on what you
have
said."
"In allowing myself to say so much, my dear friend, it is
because your
personal interest is far more deeply implicated than any concern
or
vanity of mine. In the first place, the matter lies entirely
with the
Marshal. And then, my good fellow, we are blamed for so many
things,
that one more or less! We are not at the maiden stage in our
experience of fault-finding. Under the Restoration, men were put
in
simply to give them places, without any regard for the
office.--We are
old friends----"
"Yes," the Baron put in; "and it is in order not to impair our
old and
valued friendship that I--"
"Well, well," said the departmental manager, seeing Hulot's
face
clouded with embarrassment, "I will take myself off, old
fellow.--But
I warn you! you have enemies--that is to say, men who covet
your
splendid appointment, and you have but one anchor out. Now if,
like
me, you were a Deputy, you would have nothing to fear; so mind
what
you are about."
This speech, in the most friendly spirit, made a deep
impression on
the Councillor of State.
"But, after all, Roger, what is it that is wrong? Do not make
any
mysteries with me."
The individual addressed as Roger looked at Hulot, took his
hand, and
pressed it.
"We are such old friends, that I am bound to give you warning.
If you
want to keep your place, you must make a bed for yourself, and
instead
of asking the Marshal to give Coquet's place to Marneffe, in
your
place I would beg him to use his influence to reserve a seat for
me on
the General Council of State; there you may die in peace, and,
like
the beaver, abandon all else to the pursuers."
"What, do you think the Marshal would forget--"
"The Marshal has already taken your part so warmly at a
General
Meeting of the Ministers, that you will not now be turned out;
but it
was seriously discussed! So give them no excuse. I can say no
more. At
this moment you may make your own terms; you may sit on the
Council of
State and be made a Peer of the Chamber. If you delay too long,
if you
give any one a hold against you, I can answer for nothing.--Now,
am I
to go?"
"Wait a little. I will see the Marshal," replied Hulot, "and I
will
send my brother to see which way the wind blows at
headquarters."
The humor in which the Baron came back to Madame Marneffe's
may be
imagined; he had almost forgotten his fatherhood, for Roger had
taken
the part of a true and kind friend in explaining the position.
At the
same time Valerie's influence was so great that, by the middle
of
dinner, the Baron was tuned up to the pitch, and was all the
more
cheerful for having unwonted anxieties to conceal; but the
hapless man
was not yet aware that in the course of that evening he would
find
himself in a cleft stick, between his happiness and the danger
pointed
out by his friend--compelled, in short, to choose between
Madame
Marneffe and his official position.
At eleven o'clock, when the evening was at its gayest, for the
room
was full of company, Valerie drew Hector into a corner of her
sofa.
"My dear old boy," said she, "your daughter is so annoyed at
knowing
that Wenceslas comes here, that she has left him 'planted.'
Hortense
is wrong-headed. Ask Wenceslas to show you the letter the little
fool
has written to him.
"This division of two lovers, of which I am reputed to be the
cause,
may do me the greatest harm, for this is how virtuous women
undermine
each other. It is disgraceful to pose as a victim in order to
cast the
blame on a woman whose only crime is that she keeps a pleasant
house.
If you love me, you will clear my character by reconciling the
sweet
turtle-doves.
"I do not in the least care about your son-in-law's visits;
you
brought him here--take him away again! If you have any authority
in
your family, it seems to me that you may very well insist on
your
wife's patching up this squabble. Tell the worthy old lady from
me,
that if I am unjustly charged with having caused a young couple
to
quarrel, with upsetting the unity of a family, and annexing both
the
father and the son-in-law, I will deserve my reputation by
annoying
them in my own way! Why, here is Lisbeth talking of throwing me
over!
She prefers to stick to her family, and I cannot blame her for
it. She
will throw me over, says she, unless the young people make
friends
again. A pretty state of things! Our expenses here will be
trebled!"
"Oh, as for that!" said the Baron, on hearing of his daughter's
strong
measures, "I will have no nonsense of that kind."
"Very well," said Valerie. "And now for the next thing.--What
about
Coquet's place?"
"That," said Hector, looking away, "is more difficult, not to
say
impossible."
"Impossible, my dear Hector?" said Madame Marneffe in the
Baron's ear.
"But you do not know to what lengths Marneffe will go. I am
completely
in his power; he is immoral for his own gratification, like most
men,
but he is excessively vindictive, like all weak and impotent
natures.
In the position to which you have reduced me, I am in his power.
I am
bound to be on terms with him for a few days, and he is quite
capable
of refusing to leave my room any more."
Hulot started with horror.
"He would leave me alone on condition of being head-clerk. It
is
abominable--but logical."
"Valerie, do you love me?"
"In the state in which I am, my dear, the question is the
meanest
insult."
"Well, then--if I were to attempt, merely to attempt, to ask
the
Prince for a place for Marneffe, I should be done for, and
Marneffe
would be turned out."
"I thought that you and the Prince were such intimate friends."
"We are, and he has amply proved it; but, my child, there is
authority
above the Marshal's--for instance, the whole Council of
Ministers.
With time and a little tacking, we shall get there. But, to
succeed, I
must wait till the moment when some service is required of me.
Then I
can say one good turn deserves another--"
"If I tell Marneffe this tale, my poor Hector, he will play us
some
mean trick. You must tell him yourself that he has to wait. I
will not
undertake to do so. Oh! I know what my fate would be. He knows
how to
punish me! He will henceforth share my room----
"Do not forget to settle the twelve hundred francs a year on
the
little one!"
Hulot, seeing his pleasures in danger, took Monsieur Marneffe
aside,
and for the first time derogated from the haughty tone he had
always
assumed towards him, so greatly was he horrified by the thought
of
that half-dead creature in his pretty young wife's bedroom.
"Marneffe, my dear fellow," said he, "I have been talking of
you
to-day. But you cannot be promoted to the first class just yet.
We
must have time."
"I will be, Monsieur le Baron," said Marneffe shortly.
"But, my dear fellow--"
"I will be, Monsieur le Baron," Marneffe coldly
repeated, looking
alternately at the Baron and at Valerie. "You have placed my
wife in a
position that necessitates her making up her differences with
me, and
I mean to keep her; for, my dear fellow, she is a
charming
creature," he added, with crushing irony. "I am master
here--more than
you are at the War Office."
The Baron felt one of those pangs of fury which have the
effect, in
the heart, of a fit of raging toothache, and he could hardly
conceal
the tears in his eyes.
During this little scene, Valerie had been explaining
Marneffe's
imaginary determination to Montes, and thus had rid herself of
him for
a time.
Of her four adherents, Crevel alone was exempted from the
rule--
Crevel, the master of the little "bijou" apartment; and he
displayed
on his countenance an air of really insolent beatitude,
notwithstanding the wordless reproofs administered by Valerie
in
frowns and meaning grimaces. His triumphant paternity beamed in
every
feature.
When Valerie was whispering a word of correction in his ear,
he
snatched her hand, and put in:
"To-morrow, my Duchess, you shall have your own little house!
The
papers are to be signed to-morrow."
"And the furniture?" said she, with a smile.
"I have a thousand shares in the Versailles rive gauche
railway. I
bought them at twenty-five, and they will go up to three hundred
in
consequence of the amalgamation of the two lines, which is a
secret
told to me. You shall have furniture fit for a queen. But then
you
will be mine alone henceforth?"
"Yes, burly Maire," said this middle-class Madame de Merteuil.
"But
behave yourself; respect the future Madame Crevel."
"My dear cousin," Lisbeth was saying to the Baron, "I shall go
to see
Adeline early to-morrow; for, as you must see, I cannot, with
any
decency, remain here. I will go and keep house for your brother
the
Marshal."
"I am going home this evening," said Hulot.
"Very well, you will see me at breakfast to-morrow," said
Lisbeth,
smiling.
She understood that her presence would be necessary at the
family
scene that would take place on the morrow. And the very first
thing in
the morning she went to see Victorin and to tell him that
Hortense and
Wenceslas had parted.
When the Baron went home at half-past ten, Mariette and
Louise, who
had had a hard day, were locking up the apartment. Hulot had not
to
ring.
Very much put out at this compulsory virtue, the husband went
straight
to his wife's room, and through the half-open door he saw her
kneeling
before her Crucifix, absorbed in prayer, in one of those
attitudes
which make the fortune of the painter or the sculptor who is so
happy
to invent and then to express them. Adeline, carried away by
her
enthusiasm, was praying aloud:
"O God, have mercy and enlighten him!"
The Baroness was praying for her Hector.
At this sight, so unlike what he had just left, and on hearing
this
petition founded on the events of the day, the Baron heaved a
sigh of
deep emotion. Adeline looked round, her face drowned in tears.
She was
so convinced that her prayer had been heard, that, with one
spring,
she threw her arms round Hector with the impetuosity of
happy
affection. Adeline had given up all a wife's instincts; sorrow
had
effaced even the memory of them. No feeling survived in her but
those
of motherhood, of the family honor, and the pure attachment of
a
Christian wife for a husband who has gone astray--the
saintly
tenderness which survives all else in a woman's soul.
"Hector!" she said, "are you come back to us? Has God taken
pity on
our family?"
"Dear Adeline," replied the Baron, coming in and seating his
wife by
his side on a couch, "you are the saintliest creature I ever
knew; I
have long known myself to be unworthy of you."
"You would have very little to do, my dear," said she, holding
Hulot's
hand and trembling so violently that it was as though she had a
palsy,
"very little to set things in order--"
She dared not proceed; she felt that every word would be a
reproof,
and she did not wish to mar the happiness with which this
meeting was
inundating her soul.
"It is Hortense who has brought me here," said Hulot. "That
child may
do us far more harm by her hasty proceeding than my absurd
passion for
Valerie has ever done. But we will discuss all this to-morrow
morning.
Hortense is asleep, Mariette tells me; we will not disturb
her."
"Yes," said Madame Hulot, suddenly plunged into the depths of grief.
She understood that the Baron's return was prompted not so
much by the
wish to see his family as by some ulterior interest.
"Leave her in peace till to-morrow," said the mother. "The
poor child
is in a deplorable condition; she has been crying all day."
At nine the next morning, the Baron, awaiting his daughter,
whom he
had sent for, was pacing the large, deserted drawing-room,
trying to
find arguments by which to conquer the most difficult form
of
obstinacy there is to deal with--that of a young wife, offended
and
implacable, as blameless youth ever is, in its ignorance of
the
disgraceful compromises of the world, of its passions and
interests.
"Here I am, papa," said Hortense in a tremulous voice, and
looking
pale from her miseries.
Hulot, sitting down, took his daughter round the waist, and
drew her
down to sit on his knee.
"Well, my child," said he, kissing her forehead, "so there
are
troubles at home, and you have been hasty and headstrong? That
is not
like a well-bred child. My Hortense ought not to have taken such
a
decisive step as that of leaving her house and deserting her
husband
on her own account, and without consulting her parents. If my
darling
girl had come to see her kind and admirable mother, she would
not have
given me this cruel pain I feel!--You do not know the world; it
is
malignantly spiteful. People will perhaps say that your husband
sent
you back to your parents. Children brought up as you were, on
your
mother's lap, remain artless; maidenly passion like yours
for
Wenceslas, unfortunately, makes no allowances; it acts on
every
impulse. The little heart is moved, the head follows suit. You
would
burn down Paris to be revenged, with no thought of the courts
of
justice!
"When your old father tells you that you have outraged the
proprieties, you may take his word for it.--I say nothing of the
cruel
pain you have given me. It is bitter, I assure you, for you
throw all
the blame on a woman of whose heart you know nothing, and
whose
hostility may become disastrous. And you, alas! so full of
guileless
innocence and purity, can have no suspicions; but you may be
vilified
and slandered.--Besides, my darling pet, you have taken a
foolish jest
too seriously. I can assure you, on my honor, that your husband
is
blameless. Madame Marneffe--"
So far the Baron, artistically diplomatic, had formulated
his
remonstrances very judiciously. He had, as may be observed,
worked up
to the mention of this name with superior skill; and yet
Hortense, as
she heard it, winced as if stung to the quick.
"Listen to me; I have had great experience, and I have seen
much," he
went on, stopping his daughter's attempt to speak. "That lady is
very
cold to your husband. Yes, you have been made the victim of
a
practical joke, and I will prove it to you. Yesterday Wenceslas
was
dining with her--"
"Dining with her!" cried the young wife, starting to her feet,
and
looking at her father with horror in every feature. "Yesterday!
After
having had my letter! Oh, great God!--Why did I not take the
veil
rather than marry? But now my life is not my own! I have the
child!"
and she sobbed.
Her weeping went to Madame Hulot's heart. She came out of her
room and
ran to her daughter, taking her in her arms, and asking her
those
questions, stupid with grief, which first rose to her lips.
"Now we have tears," said the Baron to himself, "and all was
going so
well! What is to be done with women who cry?"
"My child," said the Baroness, "listen to your father! He
loves us all
--come, come--"
"Come, Hortense, my dear little girl, cry no more, you make
yourself
too ugly!" said the Baron, "Now, be a little reasonable. Go
sensibly
home, and I promise you that Wenceslas shall never set foot in
that
woman's house. I ask you to make the sacrifice, if it is a
sacrifice
to forgive the husband you love so small a fault. I ask you--for
the
sake of my gray hairs, and of the love you owe your mother. You
do not
want to blight my later years with bitterness and regret?"
Hortense fell at her father's feet like a crazed thing, with
the
vehemence of despair; her hair, loosely pinned up, fell about
her, and
she held out her hands with an expression that painted her
misery.
"Father," she said, "ask my life! Take it if you will, but at
least
take it pure and spotless, and I will yield it up gladly. Do not
ask
me to die in dishonor and crime. I am not at all like my
husband; I
cannot swallow an outrage. If I went back under my husband's
roof, I
should be capable of smothering him in a fit of jealousy--or of
doing
worse! Do no exact from me a thing that is beyond my powers. Do
not
have to mourn for me still living, for the least that can befall
me is
to go mad. I feel madness close upon me!
"Yesterday, yesterday, he could dine with that woman, after
having
read my letter?--Are other men made so? My life I give you, but
do not
let my death be ignominious!--His fault?--A small one! When he
has a
child by that woman!"
"A child!" cried Hulot, starting back a step or two. "Come.
This is
really some fooling."
At this juncture Victorin and Lisbeth arrived, and stood
dumfounded at
the scene. The daughter was prostrate at her father's feet.
The
Baroness, speechless between her maternal feelings and her
conjugal
duty, showed a harassed face bathed in tears.
"Lisbeth," said the Baron, seizing his cousin by the hand and
pointing
to Hortense, "you can help me here. My poor child's brain is
turned;
she believes that her Wenceslas is Madame Marneffe's lover,
while all
that Valerie wanted was to have a group by him."
"Delilah!" cried the young wife. "The only thing he has
done since
our marriage. The man would not work for me or for his son, and
he has
worked with frenzy for that good-for-nothing creature.--Oh,
father,
kill me outright, for every word stabs like a knife!"
Lisbeth turned to the Baroness and Victorin, pointing with a
pitying
shrug to the Baron, who could not see her.
"Listen to me," said she to him. "I had no idea--when you
asked me to
go to lodge over Madame Marneffe and keep house for her--I had
no idea
of what she was; but many things may be learned in three years.
That
creature is a prostitute, and one whose depravity can only be
compared
with that of her infamous and horrible husband. You are the
dupe, my
lord pot-boiler, of those people; you will be led further by
them than
you dream of! I speak plainly, for you are at the bottom of a
pit."
The Baroness and her daughter, hearing Lisbeth speak in this
style,
cast adoring looks at her, such as the devout cast at a Madonna
for
having saved their life.
"That horrible woman was bent on destroying your son-in-law's
home. To
what end?--I know not. My brain is not equal to seeing clearly
into
these dark intrigues--perverse, ignoble, infamous! Your
Madame
Marneffe does not love your son-in-law, but she will have him at
her
feet out of revenge. I have just spoken to the wretched woman as
she
deserves. She is a shameless courtesan; I have told her that I
am
leaving her house, that I would not have my honor smirched in
that
muck-heap.--I owe myself to my family before all else.
"I knew that Hortense had left her husband, so here I am.
Your
Valerie, whom you believe to be a saint, is the cause of
this
miserable separation; can I remain with such a woman? Our poor
little
Hortense," said she, touching the Baron's arm, with peculiar
meaning,
"is perhaps the dupe of a wish of such women as these, who, to
possess
a toy, would sacrifice a family.
"I do not think Wenceslas guilty; but I think him weak, and I
cannot
promise that he will not yield to her refinements of
temptation.--My
mind is made up. The woman is fatal to you; she will bring you
all to
utter ruin. I will not even seem to be concerned in the
destruction of
my own family, after living there for three years solely to
hinder it.
"You are cheated, Baron; say very positively that you will
have
nothing to say to the promotion of that dreadful Marneffe, and
you
will see then! There is a fine rod in pickle for you in that
case."
Lisbeth lifted up Hortense and kissed her enthusiastically.
"My dear Hortense, stand firm," she whispered.
The Baroness embraced Lisbeth with the vehemence of a woman
who sees
herself avenged. The whole family stood in perfect silence round
the
father, who had wit enough to know what that silence implied. A
storm
of fury swept across his brow and face with evident signs; the
veins
swelled, his eyes were bloodshot, his flesh showed patches of
color.
Adeline fell on her knees before him and seized his hands.
"My dear, forgive, my dear!"
"You loathe me!" cried the Baron--the cry of his conscience.
For we all know the secret of our own wrong-doing. We almost
always
ascribe to our victims the hateful feelings which must fill them
with
the hope of revenge; and in spite of every effort of hypocrisy,
our
tongue or our face makes confession under the rack of some
unexpected
anguish, as the criminal of old confessed under the hands of
the
torturer.
"Our children," he went on, to retract the avowal, "turn at
last to be
our enemies--"
"Father!" Victorin began.
"You dare to interrupt your father!" said the Baron in a voice
of
thunder, glaring at his son.
"Father, listen to me," Victorin went on in a clear, firm
voice, the
voice of a puritanical deputy. "I know the respect I owe you too
well
ever to fail in it, and you will always find me the most
respectful
and submissive of sons."
Those who are in the habit of attending the sittings of the
Chamber
will recognize the tactics of parliamentary warfare in these
fine-
drawn phrases, used to calm the factions while gaining time.
"We are far from being your enemies," his son went on. "I
have
quarreled with my father-in-law, Monsieur Crevel, for having
rescued
your notes of hand for sixty thousand francs from Vauvinet, and
that
money is, beyond doubt, in Madame Marneffe's pocket.--I am not
finding
fault with you, father," said he, in reply to an impatient
gesture of
the Baron's; "I simply wish to add my protest to my cousin
Lisbeth's,
and to point out to you that though my devotion to you as a
father is
blind and unlimited, my dear father, our pecuniary
resources,
unfortunately, are very limited."
"Money!" cried the excitable old man, dropping on to a chair,
quite
crushed by this argument. "From my son!--You shall be repaid
your
money, sir," said he, rising, and he went to the door.
"Hector!"
At this cry the Baron turned round, suddenly showing his wife
a face
bathed in tears; she threw her arms round him with the strength
of
despair.
"Do not leave us thus--do not go away in anger. I have not
said a word
--not I!"
At this heart-wrung speech the children fell at their father's feet.
"We all love you," said Hortense.
Lisbeth, as rigid as a statue, watched the group with a
superior smile
on her lips. Just then Marshal Hulot's voice was heard in
the
anteroom. The family all felt the importance of secrecy, and the
scene
suddenly changed. The young people rose, and every one tried to
hide
all traces of emotion.
A discussion was going on at the door between Mariette and a
soldier,
who was so persistent that the cook came in.
"Monsieur, a regimental quartermaster, who says he is just
come from
Algiers, insists on seeing you."
"Tell him to wait."
"Monsieur," said Mariette to her master in an undertone, "he
told me
to tell you privately that it has to do with your uncle
there."
The Baron started; he believed that the funds had been sent at
last
which he had been asking for these two months, to pay up his
bills; he
left the family-party, and hurried out to the anteroom.
"You are Monsieur de Paron Hulot?"
"Yes."
"Your own self?"
"My own self."
The man, who had been fumbling meanwhile in the lining of his
cap,
drew out a letter, of which the Baron hastily broke the seal,
and read
as follows:--
"DEAR NEPHEW,--Far from being able to send you the hundred
thousand francs you ask of me, my present position is not
tenable
unless you can take some decisive steps to save me. We are
saddled
with a public prosecutor who talks goody, and rhodomontades
nonsense about the management. It is impossible to get the
black-
chokered pump to hold his tongue. If the War Minister allows
civilians to feed out of his hand, I am done for. I can trust
the
bearer; try to get him promoted; he has done us good service.
Do
not abandon me to the crows!"
This letter was a thunderbolt; the Baron could read in it
the
intestine warfare between civil and military authorities, which
to
this day hampers the Government, and he was required to invent
on the
spot some palliative for the difficulty that stared him in the
face.
He desired the soldier to come back next day, dismissing him
with
splendid promises of promotion, and he returned to the
drawing-room.
"Good-day and good-bye, brother," said he to the
Marshal.--"Good-bye,
children.--Good-bye, my dear Adeline.--And what are you going to
do,
Lisbeth?" he asked.
"I?--I am going to keep house for the Marshal, for I must end
my days
doing what I can for one or another of you."
"Do not leave Valerie till I have seen you again," said Hulot
in his
cousin's ear.--"Good-bye, Hortense, refractory little puss; try
to be
reasonable. I have important business to be attended to at once;
we
will discuss your reconciliation another time. Now, think it
over, my
child," said he as he kissed her.
And he went away, so evidently uneasy, that his wife and
children felt
the gravest apprehensions.
"Lisbeth," said the Baroness, "I must find out what is wrong
with
Hector; I never saw him in such a state. Stay a day or two
longer with
that woman; he tells her everything, and we can then learn what
has so
suddenly upset him. Be quite easy; we will arrange your marriage
to
the Marshal, for it is really necessary."
"I shall never forget the courage you have shown this
morning," said
Hortense, embracing Lisbeth.
"You have avenged our poor mother," said Victorin.
The Marshal looked on with curiosity at all the display of
affection
lavished on Lisbeth, who went off to report the scene to
Valerie.
This sketch will enable guileless souls to understand what
various
mischief Madame Marneffes may do in a family, and the means by
which
they reach poor virtuous wives apparently so far out of their
ken. And
then, if we only transfer, in fancy, such doings to the upper
class of
society about a throne, and if we consider what kings'
mistresses must
have cost them, we may estimate the debt owed by a nation to
a
sovereign who sets the example of a decent and domestic
life.
In Paris each ministry is a little town by itself, whence
women are
banished; but there is just as much detraction and scandal as
though
the feminine population were admitted there. At the end of
three
years, Monsieur Marneffe's position was perfectly clear and open
to
the day, and in every room one and another asked, "Is Marneffe
to be,
or not to be, Coquet's successor?" Exactly as the question might
have
been put to the Chamber, "Will the estimates pass or not pass?"
The
smallest initiative on the part of the board of Management
was
commented on; everything in Baron Hulot's department was
carefully
noted. The astute State Councillor had enlisted on his side the
victim
of Marneffe's promotion, a hard-working clerk, telling him that
if he
could fill Marneffe's place, he would certainly succeed to it;
he had
told him that the man was dying. So this clerk was scheming
for
Marneffe's advancement.
When Hulot went through his anteroom, full of visitors, he
saw
Marneffe's colorless face in a corner, and sent for him before
any one
else.
"What do you want of me, my dear fellow?" said the Baron,
disguising
his anxiety.
"Monsieur le Directeur, I am the laughing-stock of the office,
for it
has become known that the chief of the clerks has left this
morning
for a holiday, on the ground of his health. He is to be away a
month.
Now, we all know what waiting for a month means. You deliver me
over
to the mockery of my enemies, and it is bad enough to be drummed
upon
one side; drumming on both at once, monsieur, is apt to burst
the
drum."
"My dear Marneffe, it takes long patience to gain an end. You
cannot
be made head-clerk in less than two months, if ever. Just when I
must,
as far as possible, secure my own position, is not the time to
be
applying for your promotion, which would raise a scandal."
"If you are broke, I shall never get it," said Marneffe
coolly. "And
if you get me the place, it will make no difference in the
end."
"Then I am to sacrifice myself for you?" said the Baron.
"If you do not, I shall be much mistaken in you."
"You are too exclusively Marneffe, Monsieur Marneffe," said
Hulot,
rising and showing the clerk the door.
"I have the honor to wish you good-morning, Monsieur le
Baron," said
Marneffe humbly.
"What an infamous rascal!" thought the Baron. "This is
uncommonly like
a summons to pay within twenty-four hours on pain of
distraint."
Two hours later, just when the Baron had been instructing
Claude
Vignon, whom he was sending to the Ministry of Justice to
obtain
information as to the judicial authorities under whose
jurisdiction
Johann Fischer might fall, Reine opened the door of his private
room
and gave him a note, saying she would wait for the answer.
"Valerie is mad!" said the Baron to himself. "To send Reine!
It is
enough to compromise us all, and it certainly compromises
that
dreadful Marneffe's chances of promotion!"
But he dismissed the minister's private secretary, and read
as
follows:--
"Oh, my dear friend, what a scene I have had to endure! Though you
have made me happy for three years, I have paid dearly for it! He
came in from the office in a rage that made me quake. I knew he
was ugly; I have seen him a monster! His four real teeth
chattered, and he threatened me with his odious presence without
respite if I should continue to receive you. My poor, dear old
boy, our door is closed against you henceforth. You see my tears;
they are dropping on the paper and soaking it; can you read what I
write, dear Hector? Oh, to think of never seeing you, of giving
you up when I bear in me some of your life, as I flatter myself I
have your heart--it is enough to kill me. Think of our little
Hector!"Do not forsake me, but do not disgrace yourself for Marneffe's
sake; do not yield to his threats."I love you as I have never loved! I remember all the sacrifices
you have made for your Valerie; she is not, and never will be,
ungrateful; you are, and will ever be, my only husband. Think no
more of the twelve hundred francs a year I asked you to settle on
the dear little Hector who is to come some months hence; I will
not cost you anything more. And besides, my money will always be
yours.
"Oh, if you only loved me as I love you, my Hector, you would
retire on your pension; we should both take leave of our family,
our worries, our surroundings, so full of hatred, and we should go
to live with Lisbeth in some pretty country place--in Brittany, or
wherever you like. There we should see nobody, and we should be
happy away from the world. Your pension and the little property I
can call my own would be enough for us. You say you are jealous;
well, you would then have your Valerie entirely devoted to her
Hector, and you would never have to talk in a loud voice, as you
did the other day. I shall have but one child--ours--you may be
sure, my dearly loved old veteran."You cannot conceive of my fury, for you cannot know how he
treated me, and the foul words he vomited on your Valerie. Such
words would disgrace my paper; a woman such as I am--Montcornet's
daughter--ought never to have heard one of them in her life. I
only wish you had been there, that I might have punished him with
the sight of the mad passion I felt for you. My father would have
killed the wretch; I can only do as women do--love you devotedly!
Indeed, my love, in the state of exasperation in which I am, I
cannot possibly give up seeing you. I must positively see you, in
secret, every day! That is what we are, we women. Your resentment
is mine. If you love me, I implore you, do not let him be
promoted; leave him to die a second-class clerk."At this moment I have lost my head; I still seem to hear him
abusing me. Betty, who had meant to leave me, has pity on me, and
will stay for a few days."My dear kind love, I do not know yet what is to be done. I see
nothing for it but flight. I always delight in the country--
Brittany, Languedoc, what you will, so long as I am free to love
you. Poor dear, how I pity you! Forced now to go back to your old
Adeline, to that lachrymal urn--for, as he no doubt told you, the
monster means to watch me night and day; he spoke of a detective!
Do not come here, he is capable of anything I know, since he could
make use of me for the basest purposes of speculation. I only wish
I could return you all the things I have received from your
generosity."Ah! my kind Hector, I may have flirted, and have seemed to you to
be fickle, but you did not know your Valerie; she liked to tease
you, but she loves you better than any one in the world."He cannot prevent your coming to see your cousin; I will arrange
with her that we have speech with each other. My dear old boy,
write me just a line, pray, to comfort me in the absence of your
dear self. (Oh, I would give one of my hands to have you by me on
our sofa!) A letter will work like a charm; write me something
full of your noble soul; I will return your note to you, for I
must be cautious; I should not know where to hide it, he pokes his
nose in everywhere. In short, comfort your Valerie, your little
wife, the mother of your child.--To think of my having to write to
you, when I used to see you every day. As I say to Lisbeth, 'I did
not know how happy I was.' A thousand kisses, dear boy. Be true to
your"VALERIE."
"And tears!" said Hulot to himself as he finished this letter,
"tears
which have blotted out her name.--How is she?" said he to
Reine.
"Madame is in bed; she has dreadful spasms," replied Reine.
"She had a
fit of hysterics that twisted her like a withy round a faggot.
It came
on after writing. It comes of crying so much. She heard
monsieur's
voice on the stairs."
The Baron in his distress wrote the following note on office
paper
with a printed heading:--
"Be quite easy, my angel, he will die a second-class clerk!--Your
idea is admirable; we will go and live far from Paris, where we
shall be happy with our little Hector; I will retire on my
pension, and I shall be sure to find some good appointment on a
railway."Ah, my sweet friend, I feel so much the younger for your letter!
I shall begin life again and make a fortune, you will see, for our
dear little one. As I read your letter, a thousand times more
ardent than those of the Nouvelle Heloise, it worked a miracle!
I had not believed it possible that I could love you more. This
evening, at Lisbeth's you will see"YOUR HECTOR, FOR LIFE."
Reine carried off this reply, the first letter the Baron had
written
to his "sweet friend." Such emotions to some extent
counterbalanced
the disasters growling in the distance; but the Baron, at this
moment
believing he could certainly avert the blows aimed at his
uncle,
Johann Fischer, thought only of the deficit.
One of the characteristics of the Bonapartist temperament is a
firm
belief in the power of the sword, and confidence in the
superiority of
the military over civilians. Hulot laughed to scorn the
Public
Prosecutor in Algiers, where the War Office is supreme. Man is
always
what he has once been. How can the officers of the Imperial
Guard
forget that time was when the mayors of the largest towns in
the
Empire and the Emperor's prefects, Emperors themselves on a
minute
scale, would come out to meet the Imperial Guard, to pay
their
respects on the borders of the Departments through which it
passed,
and to do it, in short, the homage due to sovereigns?
At half-past four the baron went straight to Madame
Marneffe's; his
heart beat as high as a young man's as he went upstairs, for he
was
asking himself this question, "Shall I see her? or shall I
not?"
How was he now to remember the scene of the morning when his
weeping
children had knelt at his feet? Valerie's note, enshrined for
ever in
a thin pocket-book over his heart, proved to him that she loved
him
more than the most charming of young men.
Having rung, the unhappy visitor heard within the shuffling
slippers
and vexatious scraping cough of the detestable master. Marneffe
opened
the door, but only to put himself into an attitude and point to
the
stairs, exactly as Hulot had shown him the door of his private
room.
"You are too exclusively Hulot, Monsieur Hulot!" said he.
The Baron tried to pass him, Marneffe took a pistol out of his
pocket
and cocked it.
"Monsieur le Baron," said he, "when a man is as vile as I
am--for you
think me very vile, don't you?--he would be the meanest
galley-slave
if he did not get the full benefit of his betrayed honor.--You
are for
war; it will be hot work and no quarter. Come here no more, and
do not
attempt to get past me. I have given the police notice of my
position
with regard to you."
And taking advantage of Hulot's amazement, he pushed him out
and shut
the door.
"What a low scoundrel!" said Hulot to himself, as he went
upstairs to
Lisbeth. "I understand her letter now. Valerie and I will go
away from
Paris. Valerie is wholly mine for the remainder of my days; she
will
close my eyes."
Lisbeth was out. Madame Olivier told the Baron that she had
gone to
his wife's house, thinking that she would find him there.
"Poor thing! I should never have expected her to be so sharp
as she
was this morning," thought Hulot, recalling Lisbeth's behavior
as he
made his way from the Rue Vanneau to the Rue Plumet.
As he turned the corner of the Rue Vanneau and the Rue de
Babylone, he
looked back at the Eden whence Hymen had expelled him with the
sword
of the law. Valerie, at her window, was watching his departure;
as he
glanced up, she waved her handkerchief, but the rascally
Marneffe hit
his wife's cap and dragged her violently away from the window. A
tear
rose to the great official's eye.
"Oh! to be so well loved! To see a woman so ill used, and to
be so
nearly seventy years old!" thought he.
Lisbeth had come to give the family the good news. Adeline
and
Hortense had already heard that the Baron, not choosing to
compromise
himself in the eyes of the whole office by appointing Marneffe
to the
first class, would be turned from the door by the
Hulot-hating
husband. Adeline, very happy, had ordered a dinner that her
Hector was
to like better than any of Valerie's; and Lisbeth, in her
devotion,
was helping Mariette to achieve this difficult result. Cousin
Betty
was the idol of the hour. Mother and daughter kissed her hands,
and
had told her with touching delight that the Marshal consented to
have
her as his housekeeper.
"And from that, my dear, there is but one step to becoming his
wife!"
said Adeline.
"In fact, he did not say no when Victorin mentioned it," added
the
Countess.
The Baron was welcomed home with such charming proofs of
affection, so
pathetically overflowing with love, that he was fain to conceal
his
troubles.
Marshal Hulot came to dinner. After dinner, Hector did not go
out.
Victorin and his wife joined them, and they made up a
rubber.
"It is a long time, Hector, said the Marshal gravely, "since
you gave
us the treat of such an evening."
This speech from the old soldier, who spoiled his brother
though he
thus implicitly blamed him, made a deep impression. It showed
how wide
and deep were the wounds in a heart where all the woes he had
divined
had found an echo. At eight o'clock the Baron insisted on
seeing
Lisbeth home, promising to return.
"Do you know, Lisbeth, he ill-treats her!" said he in the
street. "Oh,
I never loved her so well!"
"I never imagined that Valerie loved you so well," replied
Lisbeth.
"She is frivolous and a coquette, she loves to have attentions
paid
her, and to have the comedy of love-making performed for her, as
she
says; but you are her only real attachment."
"What message did she send me?"
"Why, this," said Lisbeth. "She has, as you know, been on
intimate
terms with Crevel. You must owe her no grudge, for that, in
fact, is
what has raised her above utter poverty for the rest of her
life; but
she detests him, and matters are nearly at an end.--Well, she
has kept
the key of some rooms--"
"Rue du Dauphin!" cried the thrice-blest Baron. "If it were
for that
alone, I would overlook Crevel.--I have been there; I know."
"Here, then, is the key," said Lisbeth. "Have another made
from it in
the course of to-morrow--two if you can."
"And then," said Hulot eagerly.
"Well, I will dine at your house again to-morrow; you must
give me
back Valerie's key, for old Crevel might ask her to return it to
him,
and you can meet her there the day after; then you can decide
what
your facts are to be. You will be quite safe, as there are two
ways
out. If by chance Crevel, who is Regence in his habits,
as he is
fond of saying, should come in by the side street, you could go
out
through the shop, or vice versa.
"You owe all this to me, you old villain; now what will you do
for
me?"
"Whatever you want."
"Then you will not oppose my marrying your brother?"
"You! the Marechale Hulot, the Comtesse de Frozheim?" cried
Hector,
startled.
"Well, Adeline is a Baroness!" retorted Betty in a vicious
and
formidable tone. "Listen to me, you old libertine. You know
how
matters stand; your family may find itself starving in the
gutter--"
"That is what I dread," said Hulot in dismay.
"And if your brother were to die, who would maintain your wife
and
daughter? The widow of a Marshal gets at least six thousand
francs
pension, doesn't she? Well, then, I wish to marry to secure
bread for
your wife and daughter--old dotard!"
"I had not seen it in that light!" said the Baron. "I will
talk to my
brother--for we are sure of you.--Tell my angel that my life is
hers."
And the Baron, having seen Lisbeth go into the house in the
Rue
Vanneau, went back to his whist and stayed at home. The Baroness
was
at the height of happiness; her husband seemed to be returning
to
domestic habits; for about a fortnight he went to his office at
nine
every morning, he came in to dinner at six, and spent the
evening with
his family. He twice took Adeline and Hortense to the play. The
mother
and daughter paid for three thanksgiving masses, and prayed to
God to
suffer them to keep the husband and father He had restored to
them.
One evening Victorin Hulot, seeing his father retire for the
night,
said to his mother:
"Well, we are at any rate so far happy that my father has come
back to
us. My wife and I shall never regret our capital if only this
lasts--"
"Your father is nearly seventy," said the Baroness. "He still
thinks
of Madame Marneffe, that I can see; but he will forget her in
time. A
passion for women is not like gambling, or speculation, or
avarice;
there is an end to it."
But Adeline, still beautiful in spite of her fifty years and
her
sorrows, in this was mistaken. Profligates, men whom Nature has
gifted
with the precious power of loving beyond the limits ordinarily
set to
love, rarely are as old as their age.
During this relapse into virtue Baron Hulot had been three
times to
the Rue du Dauphin, and had certainly not been the man of
seventy. His
rekindled passion made him young again, and he would have
sacrificed
his honor to Valerie, his family, his all, without a regret.
But
Valerie, now completely altered, never mentioned money, not even
the
twelve hundred francs a year to be settled on their son; on
the
contrary, she offered him money, she loved Hulot as a woman of
six-
and-thirty loves a handsome law-student--a poor, poetical,
ardent boy.
And the hapless wife fancied she had reconquered her dear
Hector!
The fourth meeting between this couple had been agreed upon at
the end
of the third, exactly as formerly in Italian theatres the play
was
announced for the next night. The hour fixed was nine in the
morning.
On the next day when the happiness was due for which the amorous
old
man had resigned himself to domestic rules, at about eight in
the
morning, Reine came and asked to see the Baron. Hulot, fearing
some
catastrophe, went out to speak with Reine, who would not come
into the
anteroom. The faithful waiting-maid gave him the following
note:--
"DEAR OLD MAN,--Do not go to the Rue du Dauphin. Our incubus is
ill, and I must nurse him; but be there this evening at nine.
Crevel is at Corbeil with Monsieur Lebas; so I am sure he will
bring no princess to his little palace. I have made arrangements
here to be free for the night and get back before Marneffe is
awake. Answer me as to all this, for perhaps your long elegy of a
wife no longer allows you your liberty as she did. I am told she
is still so handsome that you might play me false, you are such a
gay dog! Burn this note; I am suspicious of every one."
Hulot wrote this scrap in reply:
"MY LOVE,--As I have told you, my wife has not for five-and-twenty
years interfered with my pleasures. For you I would give up a
hundred Adelines.--I will be in the Crevel sanctum at nine this
evening awaiting my divinity. Oh that your clerk might soon die!
We should part no more. And this is the dearest wish of"YOUR HECTOR."
That evening the Baron told his wife that he had business with
the
Minister at Saint-Cloud, that he would come home at about four
or five
in the morning; and he went to the Rue du Dauphin. It was
towards the
end of the month of June.
Few men have in the course of their life known really the
dreadful
sensation of going to their death; those who have returned from
the
foot of the scaffold may be easily counted. But some have had a
vivid
experience of it in dreams; they have gone through it all, to
the
sensation of the knife at their throat, at the moment when
waking and
daylight come to release them.--Well, the sensation to which
the
Councillor of State was a victim at five in the morning in
Crevel's
handsome and elegant bed, was immeasurably worse than that of
feeling
himself bound to the fatal block in the presence of ten
thousand
spectators looking at you with twenty thousand sparks of
fire.
Valerie was asleep in a graceful attitude. She was lovely, as
a woman
is who is lovely enough to look so even in sleep. It is art
invading
nature; in short, a living picture.
In his horizontal position the Baron's eyes were but three
feet above
the floor. His gaze, wandering idly, as that of a man who is
just
awake and collecting his ideas, fell on a door painted with
flowers by
Jan, an artist disdainful of fame. The Baron did not indeed see
twenty
thousand flaming eyes, like the man condemned to death; he saw
but
one, of which the shaft was really more piercing than the
thousands on
the Public Square.
Now this sensation, far rarer in the midst of enjoyment even
than that
of a man condemned to death, was one for which many a
splenetic
Englishman would certainly pay a high price. The Baron lay
there,
horizontal still, and literally bathed in cold sweat. He tried
to
doubt the fact; but this murderous eye had a voice. A sound
of
whispering was heard through the door.
"So long as it is nobody but Crevel playing a trick on me!"
said the
Baron to himself, only too certain of an intruder in the
temple.
The door was opened. The Majesty of the French Law, which in
all
documents follows next to the King, became visible in the person
of a
worthy little police-officer supported by a tall Justice of the
Peace,
both shown in by Monsieur Marneffe. The police functionary,
rooted in
shoes of which the straps were tied together with flapping bows,
ended
at top in a yellow skull almost bare of hair, and a face
betraying him
as a wide-awake, cheerful, and cunning dog, from whom Paris life
had
no secrets. His eyes, though garnished with spectacles, pierced
the
glasses with a keen mocking glance. The Justice of the Peace,
a
retired attorney, and an old admirer of the fair sex, envied
the
delinquent.
"Pray excuse the strong measures required by our office,
Monsieur le
Baron!" said the constable; "we are acting for the plaintiff.
The
Justice of the Peace is here to authorize the visitation of
the
premises.--I know who you are, and who the lady is who is
accused."
Valerie opened her astonished eyes, gave such a shriek as
actresses
use to depict madness on the stage, writhed in convulsions on
the bed,
like a witch of the Middle Ages in her sulphur-colored frock on
a bed
of faggots.
"Death, and I am ready! my dear Hector--but a police
court?--Oh!
never."
With one bound she passed the three spectators and crouched
under the
little writing-table, hiding her face in her hands.
"Ruin! Death!" she cried.
"Monsieur," said Marneffe to Hulot, "if Madame Marneffe goes
mad, you
are worse than a profligate; you will be a murderer."
What can a man do, what can he say, when he is discovered in a
bed
which is not his, even on the score of hiring, with a woman who
is no
more his than the bed is?--Well, this:
"Monsieur the Justice of the Peace, Monsieur the Police
Officer," said
the Baron with some dignity, "be good enough to take proper care
of
that unhappy woman, whose reason seems to me to be in
danger.--You can
harangue me afterwards. The doors are locked, no doubt; you need
not
fear that she will get away, or I either, seeing the costume we
wear."
The two functionaries bowed to the magnate's injunctions.
"You, come here, miserable cur!" said Hulot in a low voice
to
Marneffe, taking him by the arm and drawing him closer. "It is
not I,
but you, who will be the murderer! You want to be head-clerk of
your
room and officer of the Legion of Honor?"
"That in the first place, Chief!" replied Marneffe, with a bow.
"You shall be all that, only soothe your wife and dismiss
these
fellows."
"Nay, nay!" said Marneffe knowingly. "These gentlemen must
draw up
their report as eyewitnesses to the fact; without that, the
chief
evidence in my case, where should I be? The higher official
ranks are
chokeful of rascalities. You have done me out of my wife, and
you have
not promoted me, Monsieur le Baron; I give you only two days to
get
out of the scrape. Here are some letters--"
"Some letters!" interrupted Hulot.
"Yes; letters which prove that you are the father of the child
my wife
expects to give birth to.--You understand? And you ought to
settle on
my son a sum equal to what he will lose through this bastard.
But I
will be reasonable; this does not distress me, I have no mania
for
paternity myself. A hundred louis a year will satisfy me. By
to-morrow
I must be Monsieur Coquet's successor and see my name on the
list for
promotion in the Legion of Honor at the July fetes, or
else--the
documentary evidence and my charge against you will be laid
before the
Bench. I am not so hard to deal with after all, you see."
"Bless me, and such a pretty woman!" said the Justice of the
Peace to
the police constable. "What a loss to the world if she should go
mad!"
"She is not mad," said the constable sententiously. The police
is
always the incarnation of scepticism.--"Monsieur le Baron Hulot
has
been caught by a trick," he added, loud enough for Valerie to
hear
him.
Valerie shot a flash from her eye which would have killed him
on the
spot if looks could effect the vengeance they express. The
police-
officer smiled; he had laid a snare, and the woman had fallen
into it.
Marneffe desired his wife to go into the other room and clothe
herself
decently, for he and the Baron had come to an agreement on all
points,
and Hulot fetched his dressing-gown and came out again.
"Gentlemen," said he to the two officials, "I need not impress
on you
to be secret."
The functionaries bowed.
The police-officer rapped twice on the door; his clerk came
in, sat
down at the "bonheur-du-jour," and wrote what the constable
dictated
to him in an undertone. Valerie still wept vehemently. When she
was
dressed, Hulot went into the other room and put on his
clothes.
Meanwhile the report was written.
Marneffe then wanted to take his wife home; but Hulot,
believing that
he saw her for the last time, begged the favor of being allowed
to
speak with her.
"Monsieur, your wife has cost me dear enough for me to be
allowed to
say good-bye to her--in the presence of you all, of course."
Valerie went up to Hulot, and he whispered in her ear:
"There is nothing left for us but to fly, but how can we
correspond?
We have been betrayed--"
"Through Reine," she answered. "But my dear friend, after this
scandal
we can never meet again. I am disgraced. Besides, you will
hear
dreadful things about me--you will believe them--"
The Baron made a gesture of denial.
"You will believe them, and I can thank God for that, for then
perhaps
you will not regret me."
"He will not die a second-class clerk!" said Marneffe
to Hulot, as
he led his wife away, saying roughly, "Come, madame; if I am
foolish
to you, I do not choose to be a fool to others."
Valerie left the house, Crevel's Eden, with a last glance at
the
Baron, so cunning that he thought she adored him. The Justice of
the
Peace gave Madame Marneffe his arm to the hackney coach with
a
flourish of gallantry. The Baron, who was required to witness
the
report, remained quite bewildered, alone with the
police-officer. When
the Baron had signed, the officer looked at him keenly, over
his
glasses.
"You are very sweet on the little lady, Monsieur le Baron?"
"To my sorrow, as you see."
"Suppose that she does not care for you?" the man went on,
"that she
is deceiving you?"
"I have long known that, monsieur--here, in this very spot,
Monsieur
Crevel and I told each other----"
"Oh! Then you knew that you were in Monsieur le Maire's
private
snuggery?"
"Perfectly."
The constable lightly touched his hat with a respectful gesture.
"You are very much in love," said he. "I say no more. I
respect an
inveterate passion, as a doctor respects an inveterate
complaint.--I
saw Monsieur de Nucingen, the banker, attacked in the same
way--"
"He is a friend of mine," said the Baron. "Many a time have I
supped
with his handsome Esther. She was worth the two million francs
she
cost him."
"And more," said the officer. "That caprice of the old Baron's
cost
four persons their lives. Oh! such passions as these are like
the
cholera!"
"What had you to say to me?" asked the Baron, who took this
indirect
warning very ill.
"Oh! why should I deprive you of your illusions?" replied the
officer.
"Men rarely have any left at your age!"
"Rid me of them!" cried the Councillor.
"You will curse the physician later," replied the officer, smiling.
"I beg of you, monsieur."
"Well, then, that woman was in collusion with her husband."
"Oh!----"
"Yes, sir, and so it is in two cases out of every ten. Oh! we
know it
well."
"What proof have you of such a conspiracy?"
"In the first place, the husband!" said the other, with the
calm
acumen of a surgeon practised in unbinding wounds. "Mean
speculation
is stamped in every line of that villainous face. But you, no
doubt,
set great store by a certain letter written by that woman with
regard
to the child?"
"So much so, that I always have it about me," replied Hulot,
feeling
in his breast-pocket for the little pocketbook which he always
kept
there.
"Leave your pocketbook where it is," said the man, as crushing
as a
thunder-clap. "Here is the letter.--I now know all I want to
know.
Madame Marneffe, of course, was aware of what that
pocketbook
contained?"
"She alone in the world."
"So I supposed.--Now for the proof you asked for of her
collusion with
her husband."
"Let us hear!" said the Baron, still incredulous.
"When we came in here, Monsieur le Baron, that wretched
creature
Marneffe led the way, and he took up this letter, which his
wife, no
doubt, had placed on this writing-table," and he pointed to
the
bonheur-du-jour. "That evidently was the spot agreed upon
by the
couple, in case she should succeed in stealing the letter while
you
were asleep; for this letter, as written to you by the lady,
is,
combined with those you wrote to her, decisive evidence in a
police-
court."
He showed Hulot the note that Reine had delivered to him in
his
private room at the office.
"It is one of the documents in the case," said the
police-agent;
"return it to me, monsieur."
"Well, monsieur," replied Hulot with bitter expression, "that
woman is
profligacy itself in fixed ratios. I am certain at this moment
that
she has three lovers."
"That is perfectly evident," said the officer. "Oh, they are
not all
on the streets! When a woman follows that trade in a carriage
and a
drawing-room, and her own house, it is not a case for francs
and
centimes, Monsieur le Baron. Mademoiselle Esther, of whom you
spoke,
and who poisoned herself, made away with millions.--If you will
take
my advice, you will get out of it, monsieur. This last little
game
will have cost you dear. That scoundrel of a husband has the law
on
his side. And indeed, but for me, that little woman would have
caught
you again!"
"Thank you, monsieur," said the Baron, trying to maintain his dignity.
"Now we will lock up; the farce is played out, and you can
send your
key to Monsieur the Mayor."
Hulot went home in a state of dejection bordering on
helplessness, and
sunk in the gloomiest thoughts. He woke his noble and saintly
wife,
and poured into her heart the history of the past three years,
sobbing
like a child deprived of a toy. This confession from an old man
young
in feeling, this frightful and heart-rending narrative, while
it
filled Adeline with pity, also gave her the greatest joy; she
thanked
Heaven for this last catastrophe, for in fancy she saw the
husband
settled at last in the bosom of his family.
"Lisbeth was right," said Madame Hulot gently and without any
useless
recrimination, "she told us how it would be."
"Yes. If only I had listened to her, instead of flying into a
rage,
that day when I wanted poor Hortense to go home rather than
compromise
the reputation of that--Oh! my dear Adeline, we must save
Wenceslas.
He is up to his chin in that mire!"
"My poor old man, the respectable middle-classes have turned
out no
better than the actresses," said Adeline, with a smile.
The Baroness was alarmed at the change in her Hector; when she
saw him
so unhappy, ailing, crushed under his weight of woes, she was
all
heart, all pity, all love; she would have shed her blood to make
Hulot
happy.
"Stay with us, my dear Hector. Tell me what is it that such
women do
to attract you so powerfully. I too will try. Why have you not
taught
me to be what you want? Am I deficient in intelligence? Men
still
think me handsome enough to court my favor."
Many a married woman, attached to her duty and to her husband,
may
here pause to ask herself why strong and affectionate men, so
tender-
hearted to the Madame Marneffes, do not take their wives for
the
object of their fancies and passions, especially wives like
the
Baronne Adeline Hulot.
This is, indeed, one of the most recondite mysteries of human
nature.
Love, which is debauch of reason, the strong and austere joy of
a
lofty soul, and pleasure, the vulgar counterfeit sold in the
market-
place, are two aspects of the same thing. The woman who can
satisfy
both these devouring appetites is as rare in her sex as a
great
general, a great writer, a great artist, a great inventor in a
nation.
A man of superior intellect or an idiot--a Hulot or a
Crevel--equally
crave for the ideal and for enjoyment; all alike go in search of
the
mysterious compound, so rare that at last it is usually found to
be a
work in two volumes. This craving is a depraved impulse due
to
society.
Marriage, no doubt, must be accepted as a tie; it is life,
with its
duties and its stern sacrifices on both parts equally.
Libertines, who
seek for hidden treasure, are as guilty as other evil-doers who
are
more hardly dealt with than they. These reflections are not a
mere
veneer of moralizing; they show the reason of many
unexplained
misfortunes. But, indeed, this drama points its own moral--or
morals,
for they are of many kinds.
The Baron presently went to call on the Marshal Prince de
Wissembourg,
whose powerful patronage was now his only chance. Having dwelt
under
his protection for five-and-thirty years, he was a visitor at
all
hours, and would be admitted to his rooms as soon as he was
up.
"Ah! How are you, my dear Hector?" said the great and worthy
leader.
"What is the matter? You look anxious. And yet the session is
ended.
One more over! I speak of that now as I used to speak of a
campaign.
And indeed I believe the newspapers nowadays speak of the
sessions as
parliamentary campaigns."
"We have been in difficulties, I must confess, Marshal; but
the times
are hard!" said Hulot. "It cannot be helped; the world was made
so.
Every phase has its own drawbacks. The worst misfortunes in the
year
1841 is that neither the King nor the ministers are free to act
as
Napoleon was."
The Marshal gave Hulot one of those eagle flashes which in its
pride,
clearness, and perspicacity showed that, in spite of years, that
lofty
soul was still upright and vigorous.
"You want me to so something for you?" said he, in a hearty tone.
"I find myself under the necessity of applying to you for
the
promotion of one of my second clerks to the head of a room--as
a
personal favor to myself--and his advancement to be officer of
the
Legion of Honor."
"What is his name?" said the Marshal, with a look like a
lightning
flash.
"Marneffe."
"He has a pretty wife; I saw her on the occasion of your
daughter's
marriage.--If Roger--but Roger is away!--Hector, my boy, this
is
concerned with your pleasures. What, you still indulge--? Well,
you
are a credit to the old Guard. That is what comes of having been
in
the Commissariat; you have reserves!--But have nothing to do
with this
little job, my dear boy; it is too strong of the petticoat to be
good
business."
"No, Marshal; it is bad business, for the police courts have a
finger
in it. Would you like to see me go there?"
"The devil!" said the Prince uneasily. "Go on!"
"Well, I am in the predicament of a trapped fox. You have
always been
so kind to me, that you will, I am sure, condescend to help me
out of
the shameful position in which I am placed."
Hulot related his misadventures, as wittily and as lightly as
he
could.
"And you, Prince, will you allow my brother to die of grief, a
man you
love so well; or leave one of your staff in the War Office,
a
Councillor of State, to live in disgrace. This Marneffe is a
wretched
creature; he can be shelved in two or three years."
"How you talk of two or three years, my dear fellow!" said
the
Marshal.
"But, Prince, the Imperial Guard is immortal."
"I am the last of the first batch of Marshals," said the
Prince.
"Listen, Hector. You do not know the extent of my attachment to
you;
you shall see. On the day when I retire from office, we will
go
together. But you are not a Deputy, my friend. Many men want
your
place; but for me, you would be out of it by this time. Yes, I
have
fought many a pitched battle to keep you in it.--Well, I grant
you
your two requests; it would be too bad to see you riding the bar
at
your age and in the position you hold. But you stretch your
credit a
little too far. If this appointment gives rise to discussion, we
shall
not be held blameless. I can laugh at such things; but you will
find
it a thorn under your feet. And the next session will see
your
dismissal. Your place is held out as a bait to five or six
influential
men, and you have been enabled to keep it solely by the force of
my
arguments. I tell you, on the day when you retire, there will be
five
malcontents to one happy man; whereas, by keeping you hanging on
by a
thread for two or three years, we shall secure all six votes.
There
was a great laugh at the Council meeting; the Veteran of the
Old
Guard, as they say, was becoming desperately wide awake in
parliamentary tactics! I am frank with you.--And you are growing
gray;
you are a happy man to be able to get into such difficulties as
these!
How long is it since I--Lieutenant Cottin--had a mistress?"
He rang the bell.
"That police report must be destroyed," he added.
"Monseigneur, you are as a father to me! I dared not mention
my
anxiety on that point."
"I still wish I had Roger here," cried the Prince, as
Mitouflet, his
groom of the chambers, came in. "I was just going to send for
him!--
You may go, Mitouflet.--Go you, my dear old fellow, go and have
the
nomination made out; I will sign it. At the same time, that
low
schemer will not long enjoy the fruit of his crimes. He will
be
sharply watched, and drummed out of the regiment for the
smallest
fault.--You are saved this time, my dear Hector; take care for
the
future. Do not exhaust your friends' patience. You shall have
the
nomination this morning, and your man shall get his promotion in
the
Legion of Honor.--How old are you now?"
"Within three months of seventy."
"What a scapegrace!" said the Prince, laughing. "It is you who
deserve
a promotion, but, by thunder! we are not under Louis XV.!"
Such is the sense of comradeship that binds the glorious
survivors of
the Napoleonic phalanx, that they always feel as if they were in
camp
together, and bound to stand together through thick and
thin.
"One more favor such as this," Hulot reflected as he crossed
the
courtyard, "and I am done for!"
The luckless official went to Baron de Nucingen, to whom he
now owed a
mere trifle, and succeeded in borrowing forty thousand francs,
on his
salary pledged for two years more; the banker stipulated that in
the
event of Hulot's retirement on his pension, the whole of it
should be
devoted to the repayment of the sum borrowed till the capital
and
interest were all cleared off.
This new bargain, like the first, was made in the name of
Vauvinet, to
whom the Baron signed notes of hand to the amount of twelve
thousand
francs.
On the following day, the fateful police report, the husband's
charge,
the letters--all the papers--were destroyed. The scandalous
promotion
of Monsieur Marneffe, hardly heeded in the midst of the July
fetes,
was not commented on in any newspaper.
Lisbeth, to all appearance at war with Madame Marneffe, had
taken up
her abode with Marshal Hulot. Ten days after these events, the
banns
of marriage were published between the old maid and the
distinguished
old officer, to whom, to win his consent, Adeline had related
the
financial disaster that had befallen her Hector, begging him
never to
mention it to the Baron, who was, as she said, much saddened,
quite
depressed and crushed.
"Alas! he is as old as his years," she added.
So Lisbeth had triumphed. She was achieving the object of
her
ambition, she would see the success of her scheme, and her
hatred
gratified. She delighted in the anticipated joy of reigning
supreme
over the family who had so long looked down upon her. Yes, she
would
patronize her patrons, she would be the rescuing angel who would
dole
out a livelihood to the ruined family; she addressed herself
as
"Madame la Comtesse" and "Madame la Marechale," courtesying in
front
of a glass. Adeline and Hortense should end their days in
struggling
with poverty, while she, a visitor at the Tuileries, would lord
it in
the fashionable world.
A terrible disaster overthrew the old maid from the social
heights
where she so proudly enthroned herself.
On the very day when the banns were first published, the
Baron
received a second message from Africa. Another Alsatian
arrived,
handed him a letter, after assuring himself that he spoke to
Baron
Hulot, and after giving the Baron the address of his lodgings,
bowed
himself out, leaving the great man stricken by the opening lines
of
this letter:--
"DEAR NEPHEW,--You will receive this letter, by my calculations,
on the 7th of August. Supposing it takes you three days to send us
the help we need, and that it is a fortnight on the way here, that
brings us to the 1st of September."If you can act decisively within that time, you will have saved
the honor and the life of yours sincerely, Johann Fischer."This is what I am required to demand by the clerk you have made
my accomplice; for I am amenable, it would seem, to the law, at
the Assizes, or before a council of war. Of course, you understand
that Johann Fischer will never be brought to the bar of any
tribunal; he will go of his own act to appear at that of God.
"Your clerk seems to me a bad lot, quite capable of getting you
into hot water; but he is as clever as any rogue. He says the line
for you to take is to call out louder than any one, and to send
out an inspector, a special commissioner, to discover who is
really guilty, rake up abuses, and make a fuss, in short; but if
we stir up the struggle, who will stand between us and the law?"If your commissioner arrives here by the 1st of September, and
you have given him your orders, sending by him two hundred
thousand francs to place in our storehouses the supplies we
profess to have secured in remote country places, we shall be
absolutely solvent and regarded as blameless. You can trust the
soldier who is the bearer of this letter with a draft in my name
on a house in Algiers. He is a trustworthy fellow, a relation of
mine, incapable of trying to find out what he is the bearer of. I
have taken measures to guarantee the fellow's safe return. If you
can do nothing, I am ready and willing to die for the man to whom
we owe our Adeline's happiness!"
The anguish and raptures of passion and the catastrophe which
had
checked his career of profligacy had prevented Baron Hulot's
ever
thinking of poor Johann Fischer, though his first letter had
given
warning of the danger now become so pressing. The Baron went out
of
the dining-room in such agitation that he literally dropped on
to a
sofa in the drawing-room. He was stunned, sunk in the dull
numbness of
a heavy fall. He stared at a flower on the carpet, quite
unconscious
that he still held in his hand Johann's fatal letter.
Adeline, in her room, heard her husband throw himself on the
sofa,
like a lifeless mass; the noise was so peculiar that she fancied
he
had an apoplectic attack. She looked through the door at the
mirror,
in such dread as stops the breath and hinders motion, and she
saw her
Hector in the attitude of a man crushed. The Baroness stole in
on
tiptoe; Hector heard nothing; she went close up to him, saw
the
letter, took it, read it, trembling in every limb. She went
through
one of those violent nervous shocks that leave their traces for
ever
on the sufferer. Within a few days she became subject to a
constant
trembling, for after the first instant the need for action gave
her
such strength as can only be drawn from the very wellspring of
the
vital powers.
"Hector, come into my room," said she, in a voice that was no
more
than a breath. "Do not let your daughter see you in this state!
Come,
my dear, come!"
"Two hundred thousand francs? Where can I find them? I can get
Claude
Vignon sent out there as commissioner. He is a clever,
intelligent
fellow.--That is a matter of a couple of days.--But two
hundred
thousand francs! My son has not so much; his house is loaded
with
mortgages for three hundred thousand. My brother has saved
thirty
thousand francs at most. Nucingen would simply laugh at
me!--Vauvinet?
--he was not very ready to lend me the ten thousand francs I
wanted to
make up the sum for that villain Marneffe's boy. No, it is all
up with
me; I must throw myself at the Prince's feet, confess how
matters
stand, hear myself told that I am a low scoundrel, and take
his
broadside so as to go decently to the bottom."
"But, Hector, this is not merely ruin, it is disgrace," said
Adeline.
"My poor uncle will kill himself. Only kill us--yourself and me;
you
have a right to do that, but do not be a murderer! Come, take
courage;
there must be some way out of it."
"Not one," said Hulot. "No one in the Government could find
two
hundred thousand francs, not if it were to save an
Administration!--
Oh, Napoleon! where art thou?"
"My uncle! poor man! Hector, he must not be allowed to kill
himself in
disgrace."
"There is one more chance," said he, "but a very remote
one.--Yes,
Crevel is at daggers drawn with his daughter.--He has plenty of
money,
he alone could--"
"Listen, Hector it will be better for your wife to perish than
to
leave our uncle to perish--and your brother--the honor of the
family!"
cried the Baroness, struck by a flash of light. "Yes, I can save
you
all.--Good God! what a degrading thought! How could it have
occurred
to me?"
She clasped her hands, dropped on her knees, and put up a
prayer. On
rising, she saw such a crazy expression of joy on her husband's
face,
that the diabolical suggestion returned, and then Adeline sank
into a
sort of idiotic melancholy.
"Go, my dear, at once to the War Office," said she, rousing
herself
from this torpor; "try to send out a commission; it must be
done. Get
round the Marshal. And on your return, at five o'clock, you will
find
--perhaps--yes! you shall find two hundred thousand francs.
Your
family, your honor as a man, as a State official, a Councillor
of
State, your honesty--your son--all shall be saved;--but your
Adeline
will be lost, and you will see her no more. Hector, my dear,"
said
she, kneeling before him, clasping and kissing his hand, "give
me your
blessing! Say farewell."
It was so heart-rending that Hulot put his arms round his
wife, raised
her and kissed her, saying:
"I do not understand."
"If you did," said she, "I should die of shame, or I should
not have
the strength to carry out this last sacrifice."
"Breakfast is served," said Mariette.
Hortense came in to wish her parents good-morning. They had to
go to
breakfast and assume a false face.
"Begin without me; I will join you," said the Baroness.
She sat down to her desk and wrote as follows:
"MY DEAR MONSIEUR CREVEL,--I have to ask a service of you; I shall
expect you this morning, and I count on your gallantry, which is
well known to me, to save me from having too long to wait for you.
--Your faithful servant,"ADELINE HULOT."
"Louise," said she to her daughter's maid, who waited on her,
"take
this note down to the porter and desire him to carry it at once
to
this address and wait for an answer."
The Baron, who was reading the news, held out a Republican paper
to
his wife, pointing to an article, and saying:
"Is there time?"
This was the paragraph, one of the terrible "notes" with which
the
papers spice their political bread and butter:--
"A correspondent in Algiers writes that such abuses have been
discovered in the commissariate transactions of the province of
Oran, that the Law is making inquiries. The peculation is self-
evident, and the guilty persons are known. If severe measures are
not taken, we shall continue to lose more men through the
extortion that limits their rations than by Arab steel or the
fierce heat of the climate. We await further information before
enlarging on this deplorable business. We need no longer wonder at
the terror caused by the establishment of the Press in Africa, as
was contemplated by the Charter of 1830."
"I will dress and go to the Minister," said the Baron, as they
rose
from table. "Time is precious; a man's life hangs on every
minute."
"Oh, mamma, there is no hope for me!" cried Hortense. And
unable to
check her tears, she handed to her mother a number of the
Revue des
Beaux Arts.
Madame Hulot's eye fell on a print of the group of "Delilah" by
Count
Steinbock, under which were the words, "The property of
Madame
Marneffe."
The very first lines of the article, signed V., showed the
talent and
friendliness of Claude Vignon.
"Poor child!" said the Baroness.
Alarmed by her mother's tone of indifference, Hortense looked
up, saw
the expression of a sorrow before which her own paled, and rose
to
kiss her mother, saying:
"What is the matter, mamma? What is happening? Can we be more
wretched
than we are already?"
"My child, it seems to me that in what I am going through
to-day my
past dreadful sorrows are as nothing. When shall I have ceased
to
suffer?"
"In heaven, mother," said Hortense solemnly.
"Come, my angel, help me to dress.--No, no; I will not have
you help
me in this! Send me Louise."
Adeline, in her room, went to study herself in the glass. She
looked
at herself closely and sadly, wondering to herself:
"Am I still handsome? Can I still be desirable? Am I not wrinkled?"
She lifted up her fine golden hair, uncovering her temples;
they were
as fresh as a girl's. She went further; she uncovered her
shoulders,
and was satisfied; nay, she had a little feeling of pride. The
beauty
of really handsome shoulders is one of the last charms a woman
loses,
especially if she has lived chastely.
Adeline chose her dress carefully, but the pious and blameless
woman
is decent to the end, in spite of her little coquettish graces.
Of
what use were brand-new gray silk stockings and high heeled
satin
shoes when she was absolutely ignorant of the art of displaying
a
pretty foot at a critical moment, by obtruding it an inch or
two
beyond a half-lifted skirt, opening horizons to desire? She put
on,
indeed, her prettiest flowered muslin dress, with a low body and
short
sleeves; but horrified at so much bareness, she covered her fine
arms
with clear gauze sleeves and hid her shoulders under an
embroidered
cape. Her curls, a l'Anglaise, struck her as too
fly-away; she
subdued their airy lightness by putting on a very pretty cap;
but,
with or without the cap, would she have known how to twist the
golden
ringlets so as to show off her taper fingers to admiration?
As to rouge--the consciousness of guilt, the preparations for
a
deliberate fall, threw this saintly woman into a state of high
fever,
which, for the time, revived the brilliant coloring of youth.
Her eyes
were bright, her cheeks glowed. Instead of assuming a seductive
air,
she saw in herself a look of barefaced audacity which shocked
her.
Lisbeth, at Adeline's request, had told her all the
circumstances of
Wenceslas' infidelity; and the Baroness had learned to her
utter
amazement, that in one evening in one moment, Madame Marneffe
had made
herself the mistress of the bewitched artist.
"How do these women do it?" the Baroness had asked Lisbeth.
There is no curiosity so great as that of virtuous women on
such
subjects; they would like to know the arts of vice and
remain
immaculate.
"Why, they are seductive; it is their business," said Cousin
Betty.
"Valerie that evening, my dear, was, I declare, enough to bring
an
angel to perdition."
"But tell me how she set to work."
"There is no principle, only practice in that walk of life,"
said
Lisbeth ironically.
The Baroness, recalling this conversation, would have liked to
consult
Cousin Betty; but there was no time for that. Poor Adeline,
incapable
of imagining a patch, of pinning a rosebud in the very middle of
her
bosom, of devising the tricks of the toilet intended to
resuscitate
the ardors of exhausted nature, was merely well dressed. A woman
is
not a courtesan for the wishing!
"Woman is soup for man," as Moliere says by the mouth of the
judicious
Gros-Rene. This comparison suggests a sort of culinary art in
love.
Then the virtuous wife would be a Homeric meal, flesh laid on
hot
cinders. The courtesan, on the contrary, is a dish by Careme,
with its
condiments, spices, and elegant arrangement. The Baroness could
not--
did not know how to serve up her fair bosom in a lordly dish of
lace,
after the manner of Madame Marneffe. She knew nothing of the
secrets
of certain attitudes. This high-souled woman might have turned
round
and round a hundred times, and she would have betrayed nothing
to the
keen glance of a profligate.
To be a good woman and a prude to all the world, and a
courtesan to
her husband, is the gift of a woman of genius, and they are few.
This
is the secret of long fidelity, inexplicable to the women who
are not
blessed with the double and splendid faculty. Imagine Madame
Marneffe
virtuous, and you have the Marchesa di Pescara. But such lofty
and
illustrious women, beautiful as Diane de Poitiers, but virtuous,
may
be easily counted.
So the scene with which this serious and terrible drama of
Paris
manners opened was about to be repeated, with this singular
difference
--that the calamities prophesied then by the captain of the
municipal
Militia had reversed the parts. Madame Hulot was awaiting Crevel
with
the same intentions as had brought him to her, smiling down at
the
Paris crowd from his milord, three years ago. And,
strangest thing
of all, the Baroness was true to herself and to her love,
while
preparing to yield to the grossest infidelity, such as the storm
of
passion even does not justify in the eyes of some judges.
"What can I do to become a Madame Marneffe?" she asked herself
as she
heard the door-bell.
She restrained her tears, fever gave brilliancy to her face,
and she
meant to be quite the courtesan, poor, noble soul.
"What the devil can that worthy Baronne Hulot want of me?"
Crevel
wondered as he mounted the stairs. "She is going to discuss my
quarrel
with Celestine and Victorin, no doubt; but I will not give
way!"
As he went into the drawing-room, shown in by Louise, he said
to
himself as he noted the bareness of the place (Crevel's
word):
"Poor woman! She lives here like some fine picture stowed in a
loft by
a man who knows nothing of painting."
Crevel, seeing Comte Popinot, the Minister of Commerce, buy
pictures
and statues, wanted also to figure as a Maecenas of Paris, whose
love
of Art consists in making good investments.
Adeline smiled graciously at Crevel, pointing to a chair facing her.
"Here I am, fair lady, at your command," said Crevel.
Monsieur the Mayor, a political personage, now wore black
broadcloth.
His face, at the top of this solemn suit, shone like a full
moon
rising above a mass of dark clouds. His shirt, buttoned with
three
large pearls worth five hundred francs apiece, gave a great idea
of
his thoracic capacity, and he was apt to say, "In me you see
the
coming athlete of the tribune!" His enormous vulgar hands were
encased
in yellow gloves even in the morning; his patent leather boots
spoke
of the chocolate-colored coupe with one horse in which he
drove.
In the course of three years ambition had altered Crevel's
pretensions. Like all great artists, he had come to his second
manner.
In the great world, when he went to the Prince de Wissembourg's,
to
the Prefecture, to Comte Popinot's, and the like, he held his
hat in
his hand in an airy manner taught him by Valerie, and he
inserted the
thumb of the other hand in the armhole of his waistcoat with a
knowing
air, and a simpering face and expression. This new grace of
attitude
was due to the satirical inventiveness of Valerie, who, under
pretence
of rejuvenating her mayor, had given him an added touch of
the
ridiculous.
"I begged you to come, my dear kind Monsieur Crevel," said
the
Baroness in a husky voice, "on a matter of the greatest
importance--"
"I can guess what it is, madame," said Crevel, with a knowing
air,
"but what you would ask is impossible.--Oh, I am not a brutal
father,
a man--to use Napoleon's words--set hard and fast on sheer
avarice.
Listen to me, fair lady. If my children were ruining themselves
for
their own benefit, I would help them out of the scrape; but as
for
backing your husband, madame? It is like trying to fill the vat
of the
Danaides! Their house is mortgaged for three hundred thousand
francs
for an incorrigible father! Why, they have nothing left,
poor
wretches! And they have no fun for their money. All they have to
live
upon is what Victorin may make in Court. He must wag his tongue
more,
must monsieur your son! And he was to have been a Minister,
that
learned youth! Our hope and pride. A pretty pilot, who runs
aground
like a land-lubber; for if he had borrowed to enable him to get
on, if
he had run into debt for feasting Deputies, winning votes,
and
increasing his influence, I should be the first to say, 'Here is
my
purse--dip your hand in, my friend!' But when it comes of paying
for
papa's folly--folly I warned you of!--Ah! his father has
deprived him
of every chance of power.--It is I who shall be Minister!"
"Alas, my dear Crevel, it has nothing to do with the children,
poor
devoted souls!--If your heart is closed to Victorin and
Celestine, I
shall love them so much that perhaps I may soften the bitterness
of
their souls caused by your anger. You are punishing your
children for
a good action!"
"Yes, for a good action badly done! That is half a crime,"
said
Crevel, much pleased with his epigram.
"Doing good, my dear Crevel, does not mean sparing money out
of a
purse that is bursting with it; it means enduring privations to
be
generous, suffering for liberality! It is being prepared for
ingratitude! Heaven does not see the charity that costs us
nothing--"
"Saints, madame, may if they please go to the workhouse; they
know
that it is for them the door of heaven. For my part, I am
worldly-
minded; I fear God, but yet more I fear the hell of poverty. To
be
destitute is the last depth of misfortune in society as now
constituted. I am a man of my time; I respect money."
"And you are right," said Adeline, "from the worldly point of view."
She was a thousand miles from her point, and she felt herself
on a
gridiron, like Saint Laurence, as she thought of her uncle, for
she
could see him blowing his brains out.
She looked down; then she raised her eyes to gaze at Crevel
with
angelic sweetness--not with the inviting suggestiveness which
was part
of Valerie's wit. Three years ago she could have bewitched
Crevel by
that beautiful look.
"I have known the time," said she, "when you were more
generous--you
used to talk of three hundred thousand francs like a grand
gentleman--"
Crevel looked at Madame Hulot; he beheld her like a lily in
the last
of its bloom, vague sensations rose within him, but he felt
such
respect for this saintly creature that he spurned all suspicions
and
buried them in the most profligate corner of his heart.
"I, madame, am still the same; but a retired merchant, if he
is a
grand gentleman, plays, and must play, the part with method
and
economy; he carries his ideas of order into everything. He opens
an
account for his little amusements, and devotes certain profits
to that
head of expenditure; but as to touching his capital! it would
be
folly. My children will have their fortune intact, mine and my
wife's;
but I do not suppose that they wish their father to be dull, a
monk
and a mummy! My life is a very jolly one; I float gaily down
the
stream. I fulfil all the duties imposed on me by law, by my
affections, and by family ties, just as I always used to be
punctual
in paying my bills when they fell due. If only my children
conduct
themselves in their domestic life as I do, I shall be satisfied;
and
for the present, so long as my follies--for I have committed
follies--
are no loss to any one but the gulls--excuse me, you do not
perhaps
understand the slang word--they will have nothing to blame me
for, and
will find a tidy little sum still left when I die. Your
children
cannot say as much of their father, who is ruining his son and
my
daughter by his pranks--"
The Baroness was getting further from her object as he went
on.
"You are very unkind about my husband, my dear Crevel--and
yet, if you
had found his wife obliging, you would have been his best
friend----"
She shot a burning glance at Crevel; but, like Dubois, who
gave the
Regent three kicks, she affected too much, and the rakish
perfumer's
thoughts jumped at such profligate suggestions, that he said
to
himself, "Does she want to turn the tables on Hulot?--Does she
think
me more attractive as a Mayor than as a National Guardsman?
Women are
strange creatures!"
And he assumed the position of his second manner, looking at
the
Baroness with his Regency leer.
"I could almost fancy," she went on, "that you want to visit
on him
your resentment against the virtue that resisted you--in a woman
whom
you loved well enough--to--to buy her," she added in a low
voice.
"In a divine woman," Crevel replied, with a meaning smile at
the
Baroness, who looked down while tears rose to her eyes. "For you
have
swallowed not a few bitter pills!--in these three years--hey,
my
beauty?"
"Do not talk of my troubles, dear Crevel; they are too much
for the
endurance of a mere human being. Ah! if you still love me, you
may
drag me out of the pit in which I lie. Yes, I am in hell
torment! The
regicides who were racked and nipped and torn into quarters by
four
horses were on roses compared with me, for their bodies only
were
dismembered, and my heart is torn in quarters----"
Crevel's thumb moved from his armhole, he placed his hand on
the work-
table, he abandoned his attitude, he smiled! The smile was so
vacuous
that it misled the Baroness; she took it for an expression
of
kindness.
"You see a woman, not indeed in despair, but with her honor at
the
point of death, and prepared for everything, my dear friend, to
hinder
a crime."
Fearing that Hortense might come in, she bolted the door; then
with
equal impetuosity she fell at Crevel's feet, took his hand and
kissed
it.
"Be my deliverer!" she cried.
She thought there was some generous fibre in this mercantile
soul, and
full of sudden hope that she might get the two hundred thousand
francs
without degrading herself:
"Buy a soul--you were once ready to buy virtue!" she went on,
with a
frenzied gaze. "Trust to my honesty as a woman, to my honor, of
which
you know the worth! Be my friend! Save a whole family from
ruin,
shame, despair; keep it from falling into a bog where the
quicksands
are mingled with blood! Oh! ask for no explanations," she
exclaimed,
at a movement on Crevel's part, who was about to speak. "Above
all, do
not say to me, 'I told you so!' like a friend who is glad at
a
misfortune. Come now, yield to her whom you used to love, to the
woman
whose humiliation at your feet is perhaps the crowning moment of
her
glory; ask nothing of her, expect what you will from her
gratitude!--
No, no. Give me nothing, but lend--lend to me whom you used to
call
Adeline----"
At this point her tears flowed so fast, Adeline was sobbing
so
passionately, that Crevel's gloves were wet. The words, "I need
two
hundred thousand francs," were scarcely articulate in the
torrent of
weeping, as stones, however large, are invisible in Alpine
cataracts
swollen by the melting of the snows.
This is the inexperience of virtue. Vice asks for nothing, as
we have
seen in Madame Marneffe; it gets everything offered to it. Women
of
that stamp are never exacting till they have made themselves
indispensable, or when a man has to be worked as a quarry is
worked
where the lime is rather scarce--going to ruin, as the
quarry-men say.
On hearing these words, "Two hundred thousand francs,"
Crevel
understood all. He cheerfully raised the Baroness, saying
insolently:
"Come, come, bear up, mother," which Adeline, in her
distraction,
failed to hear. The scene was changing its character. Crevel
was
becoming "master of the situation," to use his own words. The
vastness
of the sum startled Crevel so greatly that his emotion at seeing
this
handsome woman in tears at his feet was forgotten. Besides,
however
angelical and saintly a woman may be, when she is crying
bitterly her
beauty disappears. A Madame Marneffe, as has been seen, whimpers
now
and then, a tear trickles down her cheek; but as to melting into
tears
and making her eyes and nose red!--never would she commit such
a
blunder.
"Come, child, compose yourself.--Deuce take it!" Crevel went
on,
taking Madame Hulot's hands in his own and patting them. "Why do
you
apply to me for two hundred thousand francs? What do you want
with
them? Whom are they for?"
"Do not," said she, "insist on any explanations. Give me the
money!--
You will save three lives and the honor of our children."
"And do you suppose, my good mother, that in all Paris you
will find a
man who at a word from a half-crazy woman will go off hic et
nunc,
and bring out of some drawer, Heaven knows where, two hundred
thousand
francs that have been lying simmering there till she is pleased
to
scoop them up? Is that all you know of life and of business,
my
beauty? Your folks are in a bad way; you may send them the
last
sacraments; for no one in Paris but her Divine Highness Madame
la
Banque, or the great Nucingen, or some miserable miser who is in
love
with gold as we other folks are with a woman, could produce such
a
miracle! The civil list, civil as it may be, would beg you to
call
again tomorrow. Every one invests his money, and turns it over
to the
best of his powers.
"You are quite mistaken, my angel, if you suppose that King
Louis-
Philippe rules us; he himself knows better than that. He knows
as well
as we do that supreme above the Charter reigns the holy,
venerated,
substantial, delightful, obliging, beautiful, noble,
ever-youthful,
and all-powerful five-franc piece! But money, my beauty, insists
on
interest, and is always engaged in seeking it! 'God of the Jews,
thou
art supreme!' says Racine. The perennial parable of the golden
calf,
you see!--In the days of Moses there was stock-jobbing in the
desert!
"We have reverted to Biblical traditions; the Golden Calf was
the
first State ledger," he went on. "You, my Adeline, have not
gone
beyond the Rue Plumet. The Egyptians had lent enormous sums to
the
Hebrews, and what they ran after was not God's people, but
their
capital."
He looked at the Baroness with an expression which said, "How
clever I
am!"
"You know nothing of the devotion of every city man to his
sacred
hoard!" he went on, after a pause. "Excuse me. Listen to me. Get
this
well into your head.--You want two hundred thousand francs? No
one can
produce the sum without selling some security. Now consider! To
have
two hundred thousand francs in hard cash it would be needful to
sell
about seven hundred thousand francs' worth of stock at three per
cent.
Well; and then you would only get the money on the third day.
That is
the quickest way. To persuade a man to part with a fortune--for
two
hundred thousand francs is the whole fortune of many a man--he
ought
at least to know where it is all going to, and for what
purpose--"
"It is going, my dear kind Crevel, to save the lives of two
men, one
of whom will die of grief and the other will kill himself! And
to save
me too from going mad! Am I not a little mad already?"
"Not so mad!" said he, taking Madame Hulot round the knees;
"old
Crevel has his price, since you thought of applying to him, my
angel."
"They submit to have a man's arms round their knees, it would
seem!"
thought the saintly woman, covering her face with her hands.
"Once you offered me a fortune!" said she, turning red.
"Ay, mother! but that was three years ago!" replied Crevel.
"Well, you
are handsomer now than ever I saw you!" he went on, taking
the
Baroness' arm and pressing it to his heart. "You have a good
memory,
my dear, by Jove!--And now you see how wrong you were to be
so
prudish, for those three hundred thousand francs that you
refused so
magnanimously are in another woman's pocket. I loved you then, I
love
you still; but just look back these three years.
"When I said to you, 'You shall be mine,' what object had I in
view? I
meant to be revenged on that rascal Hulot. But your husband,
my
beauty, found himself a mistress--a jewel of a woman, a pearl,
a
cunning hussy then aged three-and-twenty, for she is
six-and-twenty
now. It struck me as more amusing, more complete, more Louis
XV., more
Marechal de Richelieu, more first-class altogether, to filch
away that
charmer, who, in point of fact, never cared for Hulot, and who
for
these three years has been madly in love with your humble
servant."
As he spoke, Crevel, from whose hands the Baroness had
released her
own, had resumed his favorite attitude; both thumbs were stuck
into
his armholes, and he was patting his ribs with his fingers, like
two
flapping wings, fancying that he was thus making himself
very
attractive and charming. It was as much as to say, "And this is
the
man you would have nothing to say to!"
"There you are my dear; I had my revenge, and your husband
knows it. I
proved to him clearly that he was basketed--just where he was
before,
as we say. Madame Marneffe is my mistress, and when her
precious
Marneffe kicks the bucket, she will be my wife."
Madame Hulot stared at Crevel with a fixed and almost dazed look.
"Hector knew it?" she said.
"And went back to her," replied Crevel. "And I allowed it,
because
Valerie wished to be the wife of a head-clerk; but she promised
me
that she would manage things so that our Baron should be so
effectually bowled over that he can never interfere any more.
And my
little duchess--for that woman is a born duchess, on my
soul!--kept
her word. She restores you your Hector, madame, virtuous in
perpetuity, as she says--she is so witty! He has had a good
lesson, I
can tell you! The Baron has had some hard knocks; he will help
no more
actresses or fine ladies; he is radically cured; cleaned out
like a
beer-glass.
"If you had listened to Crevel in the first instance, instead
of
scorning him and turning him out of the house, you might have
had four
hundred thousand francs, for my revenge has cost me all of
that.--But
I shall get my change back, I hope, when Marneffe dies--I
have
invested in a wife, you see; that is the secret of my
extravagance. I
have solved the problem of playing the lord on easy terms."
"Would you give your daughter such a mother-in-law? cried
Madame
Hulot.
"You do not know Valerie, madame," replied Crevel gravely,
striking
the attitude of his first manner. "She is a woman with good
blood in
her veins, a lady, and a woman who enjoys the highest
consideration.
Why, only yesterday the vicar of the parish was dining with her.
She
is pious, and we have presented a splendid monstrance to the
church.
"Oh! she is clever, she is witty, she is delightful, well
informed--
she has everything in her favor. For my part, my dear Adeline, I
owe
everything to that charming woman; she has opened my mind,
polished my
speech, as you may have noticed; she corrects my impetuosity,
and
gives me words and ideas. I never say anything now that I ought
not. I
have greatly improved; you must have noticed it. And then she
has
encouraged my ambition. I shall be a Deputy; and I shall make
no
blunders, for I shall consult my Egeria. Every great politician,
from
Numa to our present Prime Minister, has had his Sibyl of the
fountain.
A score of deputies visit Valerie; she is acquiring
considerable
influence; and now that she is about to be established in a
charming
house, with a carriage, she will be one of the occult rulers of
Paris.
"A fine locomotive! That is what such a woman is. Oh, I have
blessed
you many a time for your stern virtue."
"It is enough to make one doubt the goodness of God!" cried
Adeline,
whose indignation had dried her tears. "But, no! Divine justice
must
be hanging over her head."
"You know nothing of the world, my beauty," said the great
politician,
deeply offended. "The world, my Adeline, loves success! Say,
now, has
it come to seek out your sublime virtue, priced at two
hundred
thousand francs?"
The words made Madame Hulot shudder; the nervous trembling
attacked
her once more. She saw that the ex-perfumer was taking a mean
revenge
on her as he had on Hulot; she felt sick with disgust, and a
spasm
rose to her throat, hindering speech.
"Money!" she said at last. "Always money!"
"You touched me deeply," said Crevel, reminded by these words
of the
woman's humiliation, "when I beheld you there, weeping at my
feet!--
You perhaps will not believe me, but if I had my pocket-book
about me,
it would have been yours.--Come, do you really want such a
sum?"
As she heard this question, big with two hundred thousand
francs,
Adeline forgot the odious insults heaped on her by this
cheap-jack
fine gentleman, before the tempting picture of success described
by
Machiavelli-Crevel, who only wanted to find out her secrets and
laugh
over them with Valerie.
"Oh! I will do anything, everything," cried the unhappy
woman.
"Monsieur, I will sell myself--I will be a Valerie, if I
must."
"You will find that difficult," replied Crevel. "Valerie is
a
masterpiece in her way. My good mother, twenty-five years of
virtue
are always repellent, like a badly treated disease. And your
virtue
has grown very mouldy, my dear child. But you shall see how much
I
love you. I will manage to get you your two hundred thousand
francs."
Adeline, incapable of uttering a word, seized his hand and
laid it on
her heart; a tear of joy trembled in her eyes.
"Oh! don't be in a hurry; there will be some hard pulling. I
am a
jolly good fellow, a good soul with no prejudices, and I will
put
things plainly to you. You want to do as Valerie does--very
good. But
that is not all; you must have a gull, a stockholder, a
Hulot.--Well,
I know a retired tradesman--in fact, a hosier. He is heavy,
dull, has
not an idea, I am licking him into shape, but I don't know when
he
will do me credit. My man is a deputy, stupid and conceited;
the
tyranny of a turbaned wife, in the depths of the country,
has
preserved him in a state of utter virginity as to the luxury
and
pleasures of Paris life. But Beauvisage--his name is
Beauvisage--is a
millionaire, and, like me, my dear, three years ago, he will
give a
hundred thousand crowns to be the lover of a real lady.--Yes,
you
see," he went on, misunderstanding a gesture on Adeline's part,
"he is
jealous of me, you understand; jealous of my happiness with
Madame
Marneffe, and he is a fellow quite capable of selling an estate
to
purchase a--"
"Enough, Monsieur Crevel!" said Madame Hulot, no longer
controlling
her disgust, and showing all her shame in her face. "I am
punished
beyond my deserts. My conscience, so sternly repressed by the
iron
hand of necessity, tells me, at this final insult, that such
sacrifices are impossible.--My pride is gone; I do not say now,
as I
did the first time, 'Go!' after receiving this mortal thrust. I
have
lost the right to do so. I have flung myself before you like
a
prostitute.
"Yes," she went on, in reply to a negative on Crevel's part,
"I have
fouled my life, till now so pure, by a degrading thought; and I
am
inexcusable!--I know it!--I deserve every insult you can offer
me!
God's will be done! If, indeed, He desires the death of two
creatures
worthy to appear before Him, they must die! I shall mourn them,
and
pray for them! If it is His will that my family should be
humbled to
the dust, we must bow to His avenging sword, nay, and kiss it,
since
we are Christians.--I know how to expiate this disgrace, which
will be
the torment of all my remaining days.
"I who speak to you, monsieur, am not Madame Hulot, but a
wretched,
humble sinner, a Christian whose heart henceforth will know but
one
feeling, and that is repentance, all my time given up to prayer
and
charity. With such a sin on my soul, I am the last of women, the
first
only of penitents.--You have been the means of bringing me to a
right
mind; I can hear the Voice of God speaking within me, and I can
thank
you!"
She was shaking with the nervous trembling which from that
hour never
left her. Her low, sweet tones were quite unlike the fevered
accents
of the woman who was ready for dishonor to save her family. The
blood
faded from her cheeks, her face was colorless, and her eyes were
dry.
"And I played my part very badly, did I not?" she went on,
looking at
Crevel with the sweetness that martyrs must have shown in their
eyes
as they looked up at the Proconsul. "True love, the sacred love
of a
devoted woman, gives other pleasures, no doubt, than those that
are
bought in the open market!--But why so many words?" said she,
suddenly
bethinking herself, and advancing a step further in the way
to
perfection. "They sound like irony, but I am not ironical!
Forgive me.
Besides, monsieur, I did not want to hurt any one but
myself--"
The dignity of virtue and its holy flame had expelled the
transient
impurity of the woman who, splendid in her own peculiar beauty,
looked
taller in Crevel's eyes. Adeline had, at this moment, the
majesty of
the figures of Religion clinging to the Cross, as painted by the
old
Venetians; but she expressed, too, the immensity of her love and
the
grandeur of the Catholic Church, to which she flew like a
wounded
dove.
Crevel was dazzled, astounded.
"Madame, I am your slave, without conditions," said he, in
an
inspiration of generosity. "We will look into this
matter--and--
whatever you want--the impossible even--I will do. I will pledge
my
securities at the Bank, and in two hours you shall have the
money."
"Good God! a miracle!" said poor Adeline, falling on her knees.
She prayed to Heaven with such fervor as touched Crevel
deeply; Madame
Hulot saw that he had tears in his eyes when, having ended her
prayer,
she rose to her feet.
"Be a friend to me, monsieur," said she. "Your heart is better
than
your words and conduct. God gave you your soul; your passions
and the
world have given you your ideas. Oh, I will love you truly,"
she
exclaimed, with an angelic tenderness in strange contrast with
her
attempts at coquettish trickery.
"But cease to tremble so," said Crevel.
"Am I trembling?" said the Baroness, unconscious of the
infirmity that
had so suddenly come upon her.
"Yes; why, look," said Crevel, taking Adeline by the arm and
showing
her that she was shaking with nervousness. "Come, madame," he
added
respectfully, "compose yourself; I am going to the Bank at
once."
"And come back quickly! Remember," she added, betraying all
her
secrets, "that the first point is to prevent the suicide of our
poor
Uncle Fischer involved by my husband--for I trust you now, and I
am
telling you everything. Oh, if we should not be on time, I know
my
brother-in-law, the Marshal, and he has such a delicate soul,
that he
would die of it in a few days."
"I am off, then," said Crevel, kissing the Baroness' hand.
"But what
has that unhappy Hulot done?"
"He has swindled the Government."
"Good Heavens! I fly, madame; I understand, I admire you!"
Crevel bent one knee, kissed Madame Hulot's skirt, and
vanished,
saying, "You will see me soon."
Unluckily, on his way from the Rue Plumet to his own house, to
fetch
the securities, Crevel went along the Rue Vanneau, and he could
not
resist going in to see his little Duchess. His face still bore
an
agitated expression.
He went straight into Valerie's room, who was having her hair
dressed.
She looked at Crevel in her glass, and, like every woman of that
sort,
was annoyed, before she knew anything about it, to see that he
was
moved by some strong feeling of which she was not the cause.
"What is the matter, my dear?" said she. "Is that a face to
bring in
to your little Duchess? I will not be your Duchess any more,
monsieur,
no more than I will be your 'little duck,' you old monster."
Crevel replied by a melancholy smile and a glance at the maid.
"Reine, child, that will do for to-day; I can finish my hair
myself.
Give me my Chinese wrapper; my gentleman seems to me out of
sorts."
Reine, whose face was pitted like a colander, and who seemed
to have
been made on purpose to wait on Valerie, smiled meaningly in
reply,
and brought the dressing-gown. Valerie took off her
combing-wrapper;
she was in her shift, and she wriggled into the dressing-gown
like a
snake into a clump of grass.
"Madame is not at home?"
"What a question!" said Valerie.--"Come, tell me, my big puss,
have
Rives Gauches gone down?"
"No."
"They have raised the price of the house?"
"No."
"You fancy that you are not the father of our little Crevel?"
"What nonsense!" replied he, sure of his paternity.
"On my honor, I give it up!" said Madame Marneffe. "If I am
expected
to extract my friend's woes as you pull the cork out of a bottle
of
Bordeaux, I let it alone.--Go away, you bore me."
"It is nothing," said Crevel. "I must find two hundred
thousand francs
in two hours."
"Oh, you can easily get them.--I have not spent the fifty
thousand
francs we got out of Hulot for that report, and I can ask Henri
for
fifty thousand--"
"Henri--it is always Henri!" exclaimed Crevel.
"And do you suppose, you great baby of a Machiavelli, that I
will cast
off Henri? Would France disarm her fleet?--Henri! why, he is a
dagger
in a sheath hanging on a nail. That boy serves as a
weather-glass to
show me if you love me--and you don't love me this morning."
"I don't love you, Valerie?" cried Crevel. "I love you as much
as a
million."
"That is not nearly enough!" cried she, jumping on to Crevel's
knee,
and throwing both arms round his neck as if it were a peg to
hang on
by. "I want to be loved as much as ten millions, as much as all
the
gold in the world, and more to that. Henri would never wait a
minute
before telling me all he had on his mind. What is it, my great
pet?
Have it out. Make a clean breast of it to your own little
duck!"
And she swept her hair over Crevel's face, while she jestingly
pulled
his nose.
"Can a man with a nose like that," she went on, "have any
secrets from
his Vava--lele--ririe?"
And at the Vava she tweaked his nose to the right; at
lele it went
to the left; at ririe she nipped it straight again.
"Well, I have just seen--" Crevel stopped and looked at
Madame
Marneffe.
"Valerie, my treasure, promise me on your honor--ours, you
know?--not
to repeat a single word of what I tell you."
"Of course, Mayor, we know all about that. One hand
up--so--and one
foot--so!" And she put herself in an attitude which, to use
Rabelais'
phrase, stripped Crevel bare from his brain to his heels, so
quaint
and delicious was the nudity revealed through the light film of
lawn.
"I have just seen virtue in despair."
"Can despair possess virtue?" said she, nodding gravely and
crossing
her arms like Napoleon.
"It is poor Madame Hulot. She wants two hundred thousand
francs, or
else Marshal Hulot and old Johann Fischer will blow their brains
out;
and as you, my little Duchess, are partly at the bottom of
the
mischief, I am going to patch matters up. She is a saintly
creature, I
know her well; she will repay you every penny."
At the name of Hulot, at the words two hundred thousand
francs, a
gleam from Valerie's eyes flashed from between her long eyelids
like
the flame of a cannon through the smoke.
"What did the old thing do to move you to compassion? Did she
show you
--what?--her--her religion?"
"Do not make game of her, sweetheart; she is a very saintly, a
very
noble and pious woman, worthy of all respect."
"Am I not worthy of respect then, heh?" answered Valerie, with
a
threatening gaze at Crevel.
"I never said so," replied he, understanding that the praise
of virtue
might not be gratifying to Madame Marneffe.
"I am pious too," Valerie went on, taking her seat in an
armchair;
"but I do not make a trade of my religion. I go to church in
secret."
She sat in silence, and paid no further heed to Crevel. He,
extremely
ill at ease, came to stand in front of the chair into which
Valerie
had thrown herself, and saw her lost in the reflections he had
been so
foolish as to suggest.
"Valerie, my little Angel!"
Utter silence. A highly problematical tear was furtively dashed away.
"One word, my little duck?"
"Monsieur!"
"What are you thinking of, my darling?"
"Oh, Monsieur Crevel, I was thinking of the day of my first
communion!
How pretty I was! How pure, how saintly!--immaculate!--Oh! if
any one
had come to my mother and said, 'Your daughter will be a hussy,
and
unfaithful to her husband; one day a police-officer will find
her in a
disreputable house; she will sell herself to a Crevel to cheat a
Hulot
--two horrible old men--' Poof! horrible--she would have died
before
the end of the sentence, she was so fond of me, poor
dear!--"
"Nay, be calm."
"You cannot think how well a woman must love a man before she
can
silence the remorse that gnaws at the heart of an adulterous
wife. I
am quite sorry that Reine is not here; she would have told you
that
she found me this morning praying with tears in my eyes. I,
Monsieur
Crevel, for my part, do not make a mockery of religion. Have you
ever
heard me say a word I ought not on such a subject?"
Crevel shook his head in negation.
"I will never allow it to be mentioned in my presence. I can
make fun
of anything under the sun: Kings, politics, finance, everything
that
is sacred in the eyes of the world--judges, matrimony, and
love--old
men and maidens. But the Church and God!--There I draw the
line.--I
know I am wicked; I am sacrificing my future life to you. And
you have
no conception of the immensity of my love."
Crevel clasped his hands.
"No, unless you could see into my heart, and fathom the depth
of my
conviction so as to know the extent of my sacrifice! I feel in
me the
making of a Magdalen.--And see how respectfully I treat the
priests;
think of the gifts I make to the Church! My mother brought me up
in
the Catholic Faith, and I know what is meant by God! It is to
sinners
like us that His voice is most awful."
Valerie wiped away two tears that trickled down her cheeks.
Crevel was
in dismay. Madame Marneffe stood up in her excitement.
"Be calm, my darling--you alarm me!"
Madame Marneffe fell on her knees.
"Dear Heaven! I am not bad all through!" she cried, clasping
her
hands. "Vouchsafe to rescue Thy wandering lamb, strike her,
crush her,
snatch her from foul and adulterous hands, and how gladly she
will
nestle on Thy shoulder! How willingly she will return to the
fold!"
She got up and looked at Crevel; her colorless eyes frightened him.
"Yes, Crevel, and, do you know? I, too, am frightened
sometimes. The
justice of God is exerted in this nether world as well as in the
next.
What mercy can I expect at God's hands? His vengeance overtakes
the
guilty in many ways; it assumes every aspect of disaster. That
is what
my mother told me on her death-bed, speaking of her own old
age.--But
if I should lose you, she added, hugging Crevel with a sort of
savage
frenzy--"oh! I should die!"
Madame Marneffe released Crevel, knelt down again at the
armchair,
folded her hands--and in what a bewitching attitude!--and
with
incredible fervor poured out the following prayer:--
"And thou, Saint Valerie, my patron saint, why dost thou so
rarely
visit the pillow of her who was intrusted to thy care? Oh, come
this
evening, as thou didst this morning, to inspire me with holy
thoughts,
and I will quit the path of sin; like the Magdalen, I will give
up
deluding joys and the false glitter of the world, even the man I
love
so well--"
"My precious duck!"
"No more of the 'precious duck,' monsieur!" said she, turning
round
like a virtuous wife, her eyes full of tears, but dignified,
cold, and
indifferent.
"Leave me," she went on, pushing him from her. "What is my
duty? To
belong wholly to my husband.--He is a dying man, and what am I
doing?
Deceiving him on the edge of the grave. He believes your child
to be
his. I will tell him the truth, and begin by securing his
pardon
before I ask for God's.--We must part. Good-bye, Monsieur
Crevel," and
she stood up to offer him an icy cold hand. "Good-bye, my
friend; we
shall meet no more till we meet in a better world.--You have to
thank
me for some enjoyment, criminal indeed; now I want--oh yes, I
shall
have your esteem."
Crevel was weeping bitter tears.
"You great pumpkin!" she exclaimed, with an infernal peal of
laughter.
"That is how your pious women go about it to drag from you a
plum of
two hundred thousand francs. And you, who talk of the Marechal
de
Richelieu, the prototype of Lovelace, you could be taken in by
such a
stale trick as that! I could get hundreds of thousands of francs
out
of you any day, if I chose, you old ninny!--Keep your money! If
you
have more than you know what to do with, it is mine. If you give
two
sous to that 'respectable' woman, who is pious forsooth, because
she
is fifty-six years of age, we shall never meet again, and you
may take
her for your mistress! You could come back to me next day
bruised all
over from her bony caresses and sodden with her tears, and sick
of her
little barmaid's caps and her whimpering, which must turn her
favors
into showers--"
"In point of fact," said Crevel, "two hundred thousand francs
is a
round sum of money."
"They have fine appetites, have the goody sort! By the poker!
they
sell their sermons dearer than we sell the rarest and realest
thing on
earth--pleasure.--And they can spin a yarn! There, I know them.
I have
seen plenty in my mother's house. They think everything is
allowable
for the Church and for--Really, my dear love, you ought to be
ashamed
of yourself--for you are not so open-handed! You have not given
me two
hundred thousand francs all told!"
"Oh yes," said Crevel, "your little house will cost as much as that."
"Then you have four hundred thousand francs?" said she thoughtfully.
"No."
"Then, sir, you meant to lend that old horror the two hundred
thousand
francs due for my hotel? What a crime, what high treason!"
"Only listen to me."
"If you were giving the money to some idiotic philanthropic
scheme,
you would be regarded as a coming man," she went on, with
increasing
eagerness, "and I should be the first to advise it; for you are
too
simple to write a big political book that might make you famous;
as
for style, you have not enough to butter a pamphlet; but you
might do
as other men do who are in your predicament, and who get a halo
of
glory about their name by putting it at the top of some social,
or
moral, or general, or national enterprise. Benevolence is out of
date,
quite vulgar. Providing for old offenders, and making them
more
comfortable than the poor devils who are honest, is played out.
What I
should like to see is some invention of your own with an
endowment of
two hundred thousand francs--something difficult and really
useful.
Then you would be talked about as a man of mark, a Montyon, and
I
should be very proud of you!
"But as to throwing two hundred thousand francs into a
holy-water
shell, or lending them to a bigot--cast off by her husband, and
who
knows why? there is always some reason: does any one cast me
off, I
ask you?--is a piece of idiocy which in our days could only come
into
the head of a retired perfumer. It reeks of the counter. You
would not
dare look at yourself in the glass two days after.
"Go and pay the money in where it will be safe--run, fly; I
will not
admit you again without the receipt in your hand. Go, as fast
and soon
as you can!"
She pushed Crevel out of the room by the shoulders, seeing
avarice
blossoming in his face once more. When she heard the outer door
shut,
she exclaimed:
"Then Lisbeth is revenged over and over again! What a pity
that she is
at her old Marshal's now! We would have had a good laugh! So
that old
woman wants to take the bread out of my mouth. I will startle
her a
little!"
Marshal Hulot, being obliged to live in a style suited to the
highest
military rank, had taken a handsome house in the Rue du
Mont-Parnasse,
where there are three or four princely residences. Though he
rented
the whole house, he inhabited only the ground floor. When
Lisbeth went
to keep house for him, she at once wished to let the first
floor,
which, as she said, would pay the whole rent, so that the Count
would
live almost rent-free; but the old soldier would not hear of
it.
For some months past the Marshal had had many sad thoughts. He
had
guessed how miserably poor his sister-in-law was, and suspected
her
griefs without understanding their cause. The old man, so
cheerful in
his deafness, became taciturn; he could not help thinking that
his
house would one day be a refuge for the Baroness and her
daughter; and
it was for them that he kept the first floor. The smallness of
his
fortune was so well known at headquarters, that the War
Minister, the
Prince de Wissembourg, begged his old comrade to accept a sum of
money
for his household expenses. This sum the Marshal spent in
furnishing
the ground floor, which was in every way suitable; for, as he
said, he
would not accept the Marshal's baton to walk the streets
with.
The house had belonged to a senator under the Empire, and the
ground
floor drawing-rooms had been very magnificently fitted with
carved
wood, white-and-gold, still in very good preservation. The
Marshal had
found some good old furniture in the same style; in the
coach-house he
had a carriage with two batons in saltire on the panels; and
when he
was expected to appear in full fig, at the Minister's, at
the
Tuileries, for some ceremony or high festival, he hired horses
for the
job.
His servant for more than thirty years was an old soldier of
sixty,
whose sister was the cook, so he had saved ten thousand francs,
adding
it by degrees to a little hoard he intended for Hortense. Every
day
the old man walked along the boulevard, from the Rue du
Mont-Parnasse
to the Rue Plumet; and every pensioner as he passed stood at
attention, without fail, to salute him: then the Marshal
rewarded the
veteran with a smile.
"Who is the man you always stand at attention to salute?" said
a young
workman one day to an old captain and pensioner.
"I will tell you, boy," replied the officer.
The "boy" stood resigned, as a man does to listen to an old gossip.
"In 1809," said the captain, "we were covering the flank of
the main
army, marching on Vienna under the Emperor's command. We came to
a
bridge defended by three batteries of cannon, one above another,
on a
sort of cliff; three redoubts like three shelves, and commanding
the
bridge. We were under Marshal Massena. That man whom you see
there was
Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, and I was one of them. Our
columns
held one bank of the river, the batteries were on the other.
Three
times they tried for the bridge, and three times they were
driven
back. 'Go and find Hulot!' said the Marshal; 'nobody but he and
his
men can bolt that morsel.' So we came. The General, who was
just
retiring from the bridge, stopped Hulot under fire, to tell him
how to
do it, and he was in the way. 'I don't want advice, but room to
pass,'
said our General coolly, marching across at the head of his men.
And
then, rattle, thirty guns raking us at once."
"By Heaven!" cried the workman, "that accounts for some of
these
crutches!"
"And if you, like me, my boy, had heard those words so quietly
spoken,
you would bow before that man down to the ground! It is not so
famous
as Arcole, but perhaps it was finer. We followed Hulot at the
double,
right up to those batteries. All honor to those we left there!"
and
the old man lifted his hat. "The Austrians were amazed at the
dash of
it.--The Emperor made the man you saw a Count; he honored us all
by
honoring our leader; and the King of to-day was very right to
make him
a Marshal."
"Hurrah for the Marshal!" cried the workman.
"Oh, you may shout--shout away! The Marshal is as deaf as a
post from
the roar of cannon."
This anecdote may give some idea of the respect with which
the
Invalides regarded Marshal Hulot, whose Republican
proclivities
secured him the popular sympathy of the whole quarter of the
town.
Sorrow taking hold on a spirit so calm and strict and noble,
was a
heart-breaking spectacle. The Baroness could only tell lies,
with a
woman's ingenuity, to conceal the whole dreadful truth from
her
brother-in-law.
In the course of this miserable morning, the Marshal, who,
like all
old men, slept but little, had extracted from Lisbeth full
particulars
as to his brother's situation, promising to marry her as the
reward of
her revelations. Any one can imagine with what glee the old
maid
allowed the secrets to be dragged from her which she had been
dying to
tell ever since she had come into the house; for by this means
she
made her marriage more certain.
"Your brother is incorrigible!" Lisbeth shouted into the
Marshal's
best ear.
Her strong, clear tones enabled her to talk to him, but she
wore out
her lungs, so anxious was she to prove to her future husband
that to
her he would never be deaf.
"He has had three mistresses," said the old man, "and his wife
was an
Adeline! Poor Adeline!"
"If you will take my advice," shrieked Lisbeth, "you will use
your
influence with the Prince de Wissembourg to secure her some
suitable
appointment. She will need it, for the Baron's pay is pledged
for
three years."
"I will go to the War Office," said he, "and see the Prince,
to find
out what he thinks of my brother, and ask for his interest to
help my
sister. Think of some place that is fit for her."
"The charitable ladies of Paris, in concert with the
Archbishop, have
formed various beneficent associations; they employ
superintendents,
very decently paid, whose business it is to seek out cases of
real
want. Such an occupation would exactly suit dear Adeline; it
would be
work after her own heart."
"Send to order the horses," said the Marshal. "I will go and
dress. I
will drive to Neuilly if necessary."
"How fond he is of her! She will always cross my path wherever
I
turn!" said Lisbeth to herself.
Lisbeth was already supreme in the house, but not with the
Marshal's
cognizance. She had struck terror into the three servants--for
she had
allowed herself a housemaid, and she exerted her old-maidish
energy in
taking stock of everything, examining everything, and arranging
in
every respect for the comfort of her dear Marshal. Lisbeth,
quite as
Republican as he could be, pleased him by her democratic
opinions, and
she flattered him with amazing dexterity; for the last fortnight
the
old man, whose house was better kept, and who was cared for as a
child
by its mother, had begun to regard Lisbeth as a part of what he
had
dreamed of.
"My dear Marshal," she shouted, following him out on to the
steps,
"pull up the windows, do not sit in a draught, to oblige
me!"
The Marshal, who had never been so cosseted in his life, went
off
smiling at Lisbeth, though his heart was aching.
At the same hour Baron Hulot was quitting the War Office to
call on
his chief, Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg, who had sent for
him.
Though there was nothing extraordinary in one of the Generals on
the
Board being sent for, Hulot's conscience was so uneasy that he
fancied
he saw a cold and sinister expression in Mitouflet's face.
"Mitouflet, how is the Prince?" he asked, locking the door of
his
private room and following the messenger who led the way.
"He must have a crow to pluck with you, Monsieur le Baron,"
replied
the man, "for his face is set at stormy."
Hulot turned pale, and said no more; he crossed the anteroom
and
reception rooms, and, with a violently beating heart, found
himself at
the door of the Prince's private study.
The chief, at this time seventy years old, with perfectly
white hair,
and the tanned complexion of a soldier of that age,
commanded
attention by a brow so vast that imagination saw in it a field
of
battle. Under this dome, crowned with snow, sparkled a pair of
eyes,
of the Napoleon blue, usually sad-looking and full of bitter
thoughts
and regrets, their fire overshadowed by the penthouse of the
strongly
projecting brow. This man, Bernadotte's rival, had hoped to find
his
seat on a throne. But those eyes could flash formidable
lightnings
when they expressed strong feelings.
Then, his voice, always somewhat hollow, rang with strident
tones.
When he was angry, the Prince was a soldier once more; he spoke
the
language of Lieutenant Cottin; he spared nothing--nobody. Hulot
d'Ervy
found the old lion, his hair shaggy like a mane, standing by
the
fireplace, his brows knit, his back against the mantel-shelf,
and his
eyes apparently fixed on vacancy.
"Here! At your orders, Prince!" said Hulot, affecting a
graceful ease
of manner.
The Marshal looked hard at the Baron, without saying a word,
during
the time it took him to come from the door to within a few steps
of
where the chief stood. This leaden stare was like the eye of
God;
Hulot could not meet it; he looked down in confusion.
"He knows everything!" said he to himself.
"Does your conscience tell you nothing?" asked the Marshal, in
his
deep, hollow tones.
"It tells me, sir, that I have been wrong, no doubt, in
ordering
razzias in Algeria without referring the matter to you.
At my age,
and with my tastes, after forty-five years of service, I have
no
fortune.--You know the principles of the four hundred elect
representatives of France. Those gentlemen are envious of
every
distinction; they have pared down even the Ministers' pay--that
says
everything! Ask them for money for an old servant!--What can
you
expect of men who pay a whole class so badly as they pay the
Government legal officials?--who give thirty sous a day to
the
laborers on the works at Toulon, when it is a physical
impossibility
to live there and keep a family on less than forty sous?--who
never
think of the atrocity of giving salaries of six hundred francs,
up to
a thousand or twelve hundred perhaps, to clerks living in Paris;
and
who want to secure our places for themselves as soon as the pay
rises
to forty thousand?--who, finally, refuse to restore to the Crown
a
piece of Crown property confiscated from the Crown in
1830--property
acquired, too, by Louis XVI. out of his privy purse!--If you had
no
private fortune, Prince, you would be left high and dry, like
my
brother, with your pay and not another sou, and no thought of
your
having saved the army, and me with it, in the boggy plains of
Poland."
"You have robbed the State! You have made yourself liable to
be
brought before the bench at Assizes," said the Marshal, "like
that
clerk of the Treasury! And you take this, monsieur, with such
levity."
"But there is a great difference, monseigneur!" cried the
baron. "Have
I dipped my hands into a cash box intrusted to my care?"
"When a man of your rank commits such an infamous crime," said
the
Marshal, "he is doubly guilty if he does it clumsily. You
have
compromised the honor of our official administration, which
hitherto
has been the purest in Europe!--And all for two hundred
thousand
francs and a hussy!" said the Marshal, in a terrible voice. "You
are a
Councillor of State--and a private soldier who sells
anything
belonging to his regiment is punished with death! Here is a
story told
to me one day by Colonel Pourin of the Second Lancers. At
Saverne, one
of his men fell in love with a little Alsatian girl who had a
fancy
for a shawl. The jade teased this poor devil of a lancer so
effectually, that though he could show twenty years' service,
and was
about to be promoted to be quartermaster--the pride of the
regiment--
to buy this shawl he sold some of his company's kit.--Do you
know what
this lancer did, Baron d'Ervy? He swallowed some window-glass
after
pounding it down, and died in eleven hours, of an illness,
in
hospital.--Try, if you please, to die of apoplexy, that we may
not see
you dishonored."
Hulot looked with haggard eyes at the old warrior; and the
Prince,
reading the look which betrayed the coward, felt a flush rise to
his
cheeks; his eyes flamed.
"Will you, sir, abandon me?" Hulot stammered.
Marshal Hulot, hearing that only his brother was with the
Minister,
ventured at this juncture to come in, and, like all deaf people,
went
straight up to the Prince.
"Oh," cried the hero of Poland, "I know what you are here for,
my old
friend! But we can do nothing."
"Do nothing!" echoed Marshal Hulot, who had heard only the last word.
"Nothing; you have come to intercede for your brother. But do
you know
what your brother is?"
"My brother?" asked the deaf man.
"Yes, he is a damned infernal blackguard, and unworthy of you."
The Marshal in his rage shot from his eyes those fulminating
fires
which, like Napoleon's, broke a man's will and judgment.
"You lie, Cottin!" said Marshal Hulot, turning white. "Throw
down your
baton as I throw mine! I am ready."
The Prince went up to his old comrade, looked him in the face,
and
shouted in his ear as he grasped his hand:
"Are you a man?"
"You will see that I am."
"Well, then, pull yourself together! You must face the
worst
misfortune that can befall you."
The Prince turned round, took some papers from the table, and
placed
them in the Marshal's hands, saying, "Read that."
The Comte de Forzheim read the following letter, which lay
uppermost:--
"To his Excellency the President of the Council.
"Private and Confidential.
"ALGIERS.
"MY DEAR PRINCE,--We have a very ugly business on our hands, as
you will see by the accompanying documents."The story, briefly told, is this: Baron Hulot d'Ervy sent out to
the province of Oran an uncle of his as a broker in grain and
forage, and gave him an accomplice in the person of a storekeeper.
This storekeeper, to curry favor, has made a confession, and
finally made his escape. The Public Prosecutor took the matter up
very thoroughly, seeing, as he supposed, that only two inferior
agents were implicated; but Johann Fischer, uncle to your Chief of
the Commissariat Department, finding that he was to be brought up
at the Assizes, stabbed himself in prison with a nail."That would have been the end of the matter if this worthy and
honest man, deceived, it would seem, by his agent and by his
nephew, had not thought proper to write to Baron Hulot. This
letter, seized as a document, so greatly surprised the Public
Prosecutor, that he came to see me. Now, the arrest and public
trial of a Councillor of State would be such a terrible thing--of
a man high in office too, who has a good record for loyal service
--for after the Beresina, it was he who saved us all by
reorganizing the administration--that I desired to have all the
papers sent to me."Is the matter to take its course? Now that the principal agent is
dead, will it not be better to smother up the affair and sentence
the storekeeper in default?"The Public Prosecutor has consented to my forwarding the
documents for your perusal; the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, being resident
in Paris, the proceedings will lie with your Supreme Court. We
have hit on this rather shabby way of ridding ourselves of the
difficulty for the moment."Only, my dear Marshal, decide quickly. This miserable business is
too much talked about already, and it will do as much harm to us
as to you all if the name of the principal culprit--known at
present only to the Public Prosecutor, the examining judge, and
myself--should happen to leak out."
At this point the letter fell from Marshal Hulot's hands; he
looked at
his brother; he saw that there was no need to examine the
evidence.
But he looked for Johann Fischer's letter, and after reading it
at a
glance, held it out to Hector:--
"FROM THE PRISON AT ORAN.
"DEAR NEPHEW,--When you read this letter, I shall have ceased to
live."Be quite easy, no proof can be found to incriminate you. When I
am dead and your Jesuit of a Chardin fled, the trial must
collapse. The face of our Adeline, made so happy by you, makes
death easy to me. Now you need not send the two hundred thousand
francs. Good-bye."This letter will be delivered by a prisoner for a short term whom
I can trust, I believe."JOHANN FISCHER."
"I beg your pardon," said Marshal Hulot to the Prince de
Wissembourg
with pathetic pride.
"Come, come, say tu, not the formal vous,"
replied the Minister,
clasping his old friend's hand. "The poor lancer killed no one
but
himself," he added, with a thunderous look at Hulot d'Ervy.
"How much have you had?" said the Comte de Forzheim to his
brother.
"Two hundred thousand francs."
"My dear friend," said the Count, addressing the Minister,
"you shall
have the two hundred thousand francs within forty-eight hours.
It
shall never be said that a man bearing the name of Hulot has
wronged
the public treasury of a single sou."
"What nonsense!" said the Prince. "I know where the money is,
and I
can get it back.--Send in your resignation and ask for your
pension!"
he went on, sending a double sheet of foolscap flying across to
where
the Councillor of State had sat down by the table, for his legs
gave
way under him. "To bring you to trial would disgrace us all. I
have
already obtained from the superior Board their sanction to this
line
of action. Since you can accept life with dishonor--in my
opinion the
last degradation--you will get the pension you have earned. Only
take
care to be forgotten."
The Minister rang.
"Is Marneffe, the head-clerk, out there?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Show him in!"
"You," said the Minister as Marneffe came in, "you and your
wife have
wittingly and intentionally ruined the Baron d'Ervy whom you
see."
"Monsieur le Ministre, I beg your pardon. We are very poor. I
have
nothing to live on but my pay, and I have two children, and the
one
that is coming will have been brought into the family by
Monsieur le
Baron."
"What a villain he looks!" said the Prince, pointing to
Marneffe and
addressing Marshal Hulot.--"No more of Sganarelle speeches," he
went
on; "you will disgorge two hundred thousand francs, or be packed
off
to Algiers."
"But, Monsieur le Ministre, you do not know my wife. She has
spent it
all. Monsieur le Baron asked six persons to dinner every
evening.--
Fifty thousand francs a year are spent in my house."
"Leave the room!" said the Minister, in the formidable tones
that had
given the word to charge in battle. "You will have notice of
your
transfer within two hours. Go!"
"I prefer to send in my resignation," said Marneffe
insolently. "For
it is too much to be what I am already, and thrashed into the
bargain.
That would not satisfy me at all."
And he left the room.
"What an impudent scoundrel!" said the Prince.
Marshal Hulot, who had stood up throughout this scene, as pale
as a
corpse, studying his brother out of the corner of his eye, went
up to
the Prince, and took his hand, repeating:
"In forty-eight hours the pecuniary mischief shall be
repaired; but
honor!--Good-bye, Marshal. It is the last shot that kills. Yes,
I
shall die of it!" he said in his ear.
"What the devil brought you here this morning?" said the
Prince, much
moved.
"I came to see what can be done for his wife," replied the
Count,
pointing to his brother. "She is wanting bread--especially
now!"
"He has his pension."
"It is pledged!"
"The Devil must possess such a man," said the Prince, with a
shrug.
"What philtre do those baggages give you to rob you of your
wits?" he
went on to Hulot d'Ervy. "How could you--you, who know the
precise
details with which in French offices everything is written down
at
full length, consuming reams of paper to certify to the receipt
or
outlay of a few centimes--you, who have so often complained that
a
hundred signatures are needed for a mere trifle, to discharge
a
soldier, to buy a curry-comb--how could you hope to conceal a
theft
for any length of time? To say nothing of the newspapers, and
the
envious, and the people who would like to steal!--those women
must rob
you of your common-sense! Do they cover your eyes with
walnut-shells?
or are you yourself made of different stuff from us?--You ought
to
have left the office as soon as you found that you were no
longer a
man, but a temperament. If you have complicated your crime with
such
gross folly, you will end--I will not say where----"
"Promise me, Cottin, that you will do what you can for her,"
said the
Marshal, who heard nothing, and was still thinking of his
sister-in-
law.
"Depend on me,!" said the Minister.
"Thank you, and good-bye then!--Come, monsieur," he said to
his
brother.
The Prince looked with apparent calmness at the two brothers,
so
different in their demeanor, conduct, and character--the brave
man and
the coward, the ascetic and the profligate, the honest man and
the
peculator--and he said to himself:
"That mean creature will not have courage to die! And my poor
Hulot,
such an honest fellow! has death in his knapsack, I know!"
He sat down again in his big chair and went on reading the
despatches
from Africa with a look characteristic at once of the coolness
of a
leader and of the pity roused by the sight of a battle-field!
For in
reality no one is so humane as a soldier, stern as he may seem
in the
icy determination acquired by the habit of fighting, and so
absolutely
essential in the battle-field.
Next morning some of the newspapers contained, under various
headings,
the following paragraphs:--
"Monsieur le Baron Hulot d'Ervy has applied for his retiring
pension. The unsatisfactory state of the Algerian exchequer, which
has come out in consequence of the death and disappearance of two
employes, has had some share in this distinguished official's
decision. On hearing of the delinquencies of the agents whom he
had unfortunately trusted, Monsieur le Baron Hulot had a paralytic
stroke in the War Minister's private room."Monsieur Hulot d'Ervy, brother to the Marshal Comte de Forzheim,
has been forty-five years in the service. His determination has
been vainly opposed, and is greatly regretted by all who know
Monsieur Hulot, whose private virtues are as conspicuous as his
administrative capacity. No one can have forgotten the devoted
conduct of the Commissary General of the Imperial Guard at Warsaw,
or the marvelous promptitude with which he organized supplies for
the various sections of the army so suddenly required by Napoleon
in 1815."One more of the heroes of the Empire is retiring from the stage.
Monsieur le Baron Hulot has never ceased, since 1830, to be one of
the guiding lights of the State Council and of the War Office.""ALGIERS.--The case known as the forage supply case, to which some
of our contemporaries have given absurd prominence, has been
closed by the death of the chief culprit. Johann Wisch has
committed suicide in his cell; his accomplice, who had absconded,
will be sentenced in default."Wisch, formerly an army contractor, was an honest man and highly
respected, who could not survive the idea of having been the dupe
of Chardin, the storekeeper who has disappeared."
And in the Paris News the following paragraph appeared:
"Monsieur le Marechal the Minister of War, to prevent the
recurrence of such scandals for the future, has arranged for a
regular Commissariat office in Africa. A head-clerk in the War
Office, Monsieur Marneffe, is spoken of as likely to be appointed
to the post of director."
"The office vacated by Baron Hulot is the object of much ambition.
The appointment is promised, it is said, to Monsieur le Comte
Martial de la Roche-Hugon, Deputy, brother-in-law to Monsieur le
Comte de Rastignac. Monsieur Massol, Master of Appeals, will fill
his seat on the Council of State, and Monsieur Claude Vignon
becomes Master of Appeals."
Of all kinds of false gossip, the most dangerous for the
Opposition
newspapers is the official bogus paragraph. However keen
journalists
may be, they are sometimes the voluntary or involuntary dupes of
the
cleverness of those who have risen from the ranks of the Press,
like
Claude Vignon, to the higher realms of power. The newspaper can
only
be circumvented by the journalist. It may be said, as a parody
on a
line by Voltaire:
"The Paris news is never what the foolish folk believe."
Marshal Hulot drove home with his brother, who took the front
seat,
respectfully leaving the whole of the back of the carriage to
his
senior. The two men spoke not a word. Hector was helpless. The
Marshal
was lost in thought, like a man who is collecting all his
strength,
and bracing himself to bear a crushing weight. On arriving at
his own
house, still without speaking, but by an imperious gesture,
he
beckoned his brother into his study. The Count had received from
the
Emperor Napoleon a splendid pair of pistols from the
Versailles
factory; he took the box, with its inscription. "Given by the
Emperor
Napoleon to General Hulot," out of his desk, and placing it
on the
top, he showed it to his brother, saying, "There is your
remedy."
Lisbeth, peeping through the chink of the door, flew down to
the
carriage and ordered the coachman to go as fast as he could
gallop to
the Rue Plumet. Within about twenty minutes she had brought
back
Adeline, whom she had told of the Marshal's threat to his
brother.
The Marshal, without looking at Hector, rang the bell for
his
factotum, the old soldier who had served him for thirty
years.
"Beau-Pied," said he, "fetch my notary, and Count Steinbock,
and my
niece Hortense, and the stockbroker to the Treasury. It is now
half-
past ten; they must all be here by twelve. Take hackney
cabs--and go
faster than that!" he added, a republican allusion which
in past
days had been often on his lips. And he put on the scowl that
had
brought his soldiers to attention when he was beating the broom
on the
heaths of Brittany in 1799. (See Les Chouans.)
"You shall be obeyed, Marechal," said Beau-Pied, with a
military
salute.
Still paying no heed to his brother, the old man came back
into his
study, took a key out of his desk, and opened a little malachite
box
mounted in steel, the gift of the Emperor Alexander.
By Napoleon's orders he had gone to restore to the Russian
Emperor the
private property seized at the battle of Dresden, in exchange
for
which Napoleon hoped to get back Vandamme. The Czar rewarded
General
Hulot very handsomely, giving him this casket, and saying that
he
hoped one day to show the same courtesy to the Emperor of the
French;
but he kept Vandamme. The Imperial arms of Russia were displayed
in
gold on the lid of the box, which was inlaid with gold.
The Marshal counted the bank-notes it contained; he had a
hundred and
fifty-two thousand francs. He saw this with satisfaction. At the
same
moment Madame Hulot came into the room in a state to touch the
heart
of the sternest judge. She flew into Hector's arms, looking
alternately with a crazy eye at the Marshal and at the case
of
pistols.
"What have you to say against your brother? What has my
husband done
to you?" said she, in such a voice that the Marshal heard
her.
"He has disgraced us all!" replied the Republican veteran, who
spoke
with a vehemence that reopened one of his old wounds. "He has
robbed
the Government! He has cast odium on my name, he makes me wish I
were
dead--he has killed me!--I have only strength enough left to
make
restitution!
"I have been abased before the Conde of the Republic, the man
I esteem
above all others, and to whom I unjustifiably gave the lie--the
Prince
of Wissembourg!--Is that nothing? That is the score his country
has
against him!"
He wiped away a tear.
"Now, as to his family," he went on. "He is robbing you of the
bread I
had saved for you, the fruit of thirty years' economy, of
the
privations of an old soldier! Here is what was intended for
you," and
he held up the bank-notes. "He has killed his Uncle Fischer, a
noble
and worthy son of Alsace who could not--as he can--endure the
thought
of a stain on his peasant's honor.
"To crown all, God, in His adorable clemency, had allowed him
to
choose an angel among women; he has had the unspeakable
happiness of
having an Adeline for his wife! And he has deceived her, he has
soaked
her in sorrows, he has neglected her for prostitutes, for
street-
hussies, for ballet-girls, actresses--Cadine, Josepha,
Marneffe!--And
that is the brother I treated as a son and made my pride!
"Go, wretched man; if you can accept the life of degradation
you have
made for yourself, leave my house! I have not the heart to curse
a
brother I have loved so well--I am as foolish about him as you
are,
Adeline--but never let me see him again. I forbid his attending
my
funeral or following me to the grave. Let him show the decency
of a
criminal if he can feel no remorse."
The Marshal, as pale as death, fell back on the settee,
exhausted by
his solemn speech. And, for the first time in his life perhaps,
tears
gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
"My poor uncle!" cried Lisbeth, putting a handkerchief to her eyes.
"Brother!" said Adeline, kneeling down by the Marshal, "live
for my
sake. Help me in the task of reconciling Hector to the world
and
making him redeem the past."
"He!" cried the Marshal. "If he lives, he is not at the end of
his
crimes. A man who has misprized an Adeline, who has smothered in
his
own soul the feelings of a true Republican which I tried to
instill
into him, the love of his country, of his family, and of the
poor--
that man is a monster, a swine!--Take him away if you still care
for
him, for a voice within me cries to me to load my pistols and
blow his
brains out. By killing him I should save you all, and I should
save
him too from himself."
The old man started to his feet with such a terrifying gesture
that
poor Adeline exclaimed:
"Hector--come!"
She seized her husband's arm, dragged him away, and out of the
house;
but the Baron was so broken down, that she was obliged to call a
coach
to take him to the Rue Plumet, where he went to bed. The man
remained
there for several days in a sort of half-dissolution, refusing
all
nourishment without a word. By floods of tears, Adeline
persuaded him
to swallow a little broth; she nursed him, sitting by his bed,
and
feeling only, of all the emotions that once had filled her
heart, the
deepest pity for him.
At half-past twelve, Lisbeth showed into her dear Marshal's
room--for
she would not leave him, so much was she alarmed at the evident
change
in him--Count Steinbock and the notary.
"Monsieur le Comte," said the Marshal, "I would beg you to be
so good
as to put your signature to a document authorizing my niece,
your
wife, to sell a bond for certain funds of which she at present
holds
only the reversion.--You, Mademoiselle Fischer, will agree to
this
sale, thus losing your life interest in the securities."
"Yes, dear Count," said Lisbeth without hesitation.
"Good, my dear," said the old soldier. "I hope I may live to
reward
you. But I did not doubt you; you are a true Republican, a
daughter of
the people." He took the old maid's hand and kissed it.
"Monsieur Hannequin," he went on, speaking to the notary,
"draw up the
necessary document in the form of a power of attorney, and let
me have
it within two hours, so that I may sell the stock on the
Bourse
to-day. My niece, the Countess, holds the security; she will be
here
to sign the power of attorney when you bring it, and so will
mademoiselle. Monsieur le Comte will be good enough to go with
you and
sign it at your office."
The artist, at a nod from Lisbeth, bowed respectfully to the
Marshal
and went away.
Next morning, at ten o'clock, the Comte de Forzheim sent in
to
announce himself to the Prince, and was at once admitted.
"Well, my dear Hulot," said the Prince, holding out the
newspapers to
his old friend, "we have saved appearances, you see.--Read."
Marshal Hulot laid the papers on his comrade's table, and held
out to
him the two hundred thousand francs.
"Here is the money of which my brother robbed the State," said he.
"What madness!" cried the Minister. "It is impossible," he
said into
the speaking-trumpet handed to him by the Marshal, "to manage
this
restitution. We should be obliged to declare your brother's
dishonest
dealings, and we have done everything to hide them."
"Do what you like with the money; but the family shall not owe
one sou
of its fortune to a robbery on the funds of the State," said
the
Count.
"I will take the King's commands in the matter. We will
discuss it no
further," replied the Prince, perceiving that it would be
impossible
to conquer the old man's sublime obstinacy on the point.
"Good-bye, Cottin," said the old soldier, taking the Prince's
hand. "I
feel as if my soul were frozen--"
Then, after going a step towards the door, he turned round,
looked at
the Prince, and seeing that he was deeply moved, he opened his
arms to
clasp him in them; the two old soldiers embraced each other.
"I feel as if I were taking leave of the whole of the old army
in
you," said the Count.
"Good-bye, my good old comrade!" said the Minister.
"Yes, it is good-bye; for I am going where all our brave men
are for
whom we have mourned--"
Just then Claude Vignon was shown in. The two relics of the
Napoleonic
phalanx bowed gravely to each other, effacing every trace of
emotion.
"You have, I hope, been satisfied by the papers," said the
Master of
Appeals-elect. "I contrived to let the Opposition papers believe
that
they were letting out our secrets."
"Unfortunately, it is all in vain," replied the Minister,
watching
Hulot as he left the room. "I have just gone through a
leave-taking
that has been a great grief to me. For, indeed, Marshal Hulot
has not
three days to live; I saw that plainly enough yesterday. That
man, one
of those honest souls that are above proof, a soldier respected
by the
bullets in spite of his valor, received his death-blow--there,
in that
armchair--and dealt by my hand, in a letter!--Ring and order
my
carriage. I must go to Neuilly," said he, putting the two
hundred
thousand francs into his official portfolio.
Notwithstanding Lisbeth's nursing, Marshal Hulot three days
later was
a dead man. Such men are the glory of the party they support.
To
Republicans, the Marshal was the ideal of patriotism; and they
all
attended his funeral, which was followed by an immense crowd.
The
army, the State officials, the Court, and the populace all came
to do
homage to this lofty virtue, this spotless honesty, this
immaculate
glory. Such a last tribute of the people is not a thing to be
had for
the asking.
This funeral was distinguished by one of those tributes of
delicate
feeling, of good taste, and sincere respect which from time to
time
remind us of the virtues and dignity of the old French
nobility.
Following the Marshal's bier came the old Marquis de Montauran,
the
brother of him who, in the great rising of the Chouans in 1799,
had
been the foe, the luckless foe, of Hulot. That Marquis, killed
by the
balls of the "Blues," had confided the interests of his young
brother
to the Republican soldier. (See Les Chouans.) Hulot had
so
faithfully acted on the noble Royalist's verbal will, that
he
succeeded in saving the young man's estates, though he himself
was at
the time an emigre. And so the homage of the old French nobility
was
not wanting to the leader who, nine years since, had conquered
MADAME.
This death, happening just four days before the banns were
cried for
the last time, came upon Lisbeth like the thunderbolt that burns
the
garnered harvest with the barn. The peasant of Lorraine, as
often
happens, had succeeded too well. The Marshal had died of the
blows
dealt to the family by herself and Madame Marneffe.
The old maid's vindictiveness, which success seemed to have
somewhat
mollified, was aggravated by this disappointment of her hopes.
Lisbeth
went, crying with rage, to Madame Marneffe; for she was
homeless, the
Marshal having agreed that his lease was at any time to
terminate with
his life. Crevel, to console Valerie's friend, took charge of
her
savings, added to them considerably, and invested the capital in
five
per cents, giving her the life interest, and putting the
securities
into Celestine's name. Thanks to this stroke of business,
Lisbeth had
an income of about two thousand francs.
When the Marshal's property was examined and valued, a note was
found,
addressed to his sister-in-law, to his niece Hortense, and to
his
nephew Victorin, desiring that they would pay among them an
annuity of
twelve hundred francs to Mademoiselle Lisbeth Fischer, who was
to have
been his wife.
Adeline, seeing her husband between life and death, succeeded
for some
days in hiding from him the fact of his brother's death; but
Lisbeth
came, in mourning, and the terrible truth was told him eleven
days
after the funeral.
The crushing blow revived the sick man's energies. He got up,
found
his family collected in the drawing-room, all in black, and
suddenly
silent as he came in. In a fortnight, Hulot, as lean as a
spectre,
looked to his family the mere shadow of himself.
"I must decide on something," said he in a husky voice, as he
seated
himself in an easy-chair, and looked round at the party, of
whom
Crevel and Steinbock were absent.
"We cannot stay here, the rent is too high," Hortense was
saying just
as her father came in.
"As to a home," said Victorin, breaking the painful silence,
"I can
offer my mother----"
As he heard these words, which excluded him, the Baron raised
his
head, which was sunk on his breast as though he were studying
the
pattern of the carpet, though he did not even see it, and he
gave the
young lawyer an appealing look. The rights of a father are
so
indefeasibly sacred, even when he is a villain and devoid of
honor,
that Victorin paused.
"To your mother," the Baron repeated. "You are right, my son."
"The rooms over ours in our wing," said Celestine, finishing
her
husband's sentence.
"I am in your way, my dears?" said the Baron, with the
mildness of a
man who has judged himself. "But do not be uneasy as to the
future;
you will have no further cause for complaint of your father; you
will
not see him till the time when you need no longer blush for
him."
He went up to Hortense and kissed her brow. He opened his arms
to his
son, who rushed into his embrace, guessing his father's purpose.
The
Baron signed to Lisbeth, who came to him, and he kissed her
forehead.
Then he went to his room, whither Adeline followed him in an
agony of
dread.
"My brother was quite right, Adeline," he said, holding her
hand. "I
am unworthy of my home life. I dared not bless my children, who
have
behaved so nobly, but in my heart; tell them that I could only
venture
to kiss them; for the blessing of a bad man, a father who has
been an
assassin and the scourge of his family instead of its protector
and
its glory, might bring evil on them; but assure them that I
shall
bless them every day.--As to you, God alone, for He is Almighty,
can
ever reward you according to your merits!--I can only ask
your
forgiveness!" and he knelt at her feet, taking her hands and
wetting
them with his tears.
"Hector, Hector! Your sins have been great, but Divine Mercy
is
infinite, and you may repair all by staying with me.--Rise up
in
Christian charity, my dear--I am your wife, and not your judge.
I am
your possession; do what you will with me; take me wherever you
go, I
feel strong enough comfort you, to make life endurable to you,
by the
strength of my love, my care, and respect.--Our children are
settled
in life; they need me no more. Let me try to be an amusement to
you,
an occupation. Let me share the pain of your banishment and of
your
poverty, and help to mitigate it. I could always be of some use,
if it
were only to save the expense of a servant."
"Can you forgive, my dearly-beloved Adeline?"
"Yes, only get up, my dear!"
"Well, with that forgiveness I can live," said he, rising to
his feet.
"I came back into this room that my children should not see
their
father's humiliation. Oh! the sight constantly before their eyes
of a
father so guilty as I am is a terrible thing; it must
undermine
parental influence and break every family tie. So I cannot
remain
among you, and I must go to spare you the odious spectacle of a
father
bereft of dignity. Do not oppose my departure Adeline. It would
only
be to load with your own hand the pistol to blow my brains out.
Above
all, do not seek me in my hiding-place; you would deprive me of
the
only strong motive remaining in me, that of remorse."
Hector's decisiveness silenced his dejected wife. Adeline,
lofty in
the midst of all this ruin, had derived her courage from her
perfect
union with her husband; for she had dreamed of having him for
her own,
of the beautiful task of comforting him, of leading him back to
family
life, and reconciling him to himself.
"But, Hector, would you leave me to die of despair, anxiety,
and
alarms!" said she, seeing herself bereft of the mainspring of
her
strength.
"I will come back to you, dear angel--sent from Heaven
expressly for
me, I believe. I will come back, if not rich, at least with
enough to
live in ease.--Listen, my sweet Adeline, I cannot stay here for
many
reasons. In the first place, my pension of six thousand francs
is
pledged for four years, so I have nothing. That is not all. I
shall be
committed to prison within a few days in consequence of the
bills held
by Vauvinet. So I must keep out of the way until my son, to whom
I
will give full instructions, shall have bought in the bills.
My
disappearance will facilitate that. As soon as my pension is my
own,
and Vauvinet is paid off, I will return to you.--You would be
sure to
let out the secret of my hiding-place. Be calm; do not cry,
Adeline--
it is only for a month--"
"Where will you go? What will you do? What will become of you?
Who
will take care of you now that you are no longer young? Let me
go with
you--we will go abroad--" said she.
"Well, well, we will see," he replied.
The Baron rang and ordered Mariette to collect all his things
and pack
them quickly and secretly. Then, after embracing his wife with
a
warmth of affection to which she was unaccustomed, he begged her
to
leave him alone for a few minutes while he wrote his
instructions for
Victorin, promising that he would not leave the house till dark,
or
without her.
As soon as the Baroness was in the drawing-room, the cunning
old man
stole out through the dressing-closet to the anteroom, and went
away,
giving Mariette a slip of paper, on which was written, "Address
my
trunks to go by railway to Corbeil--to Monsieur Hector,
cloak-room,
Corbeil."
The Baron jumped into a hackney coach, and was rushing across
Paris by
the time Mariette came to give the Baroness this note, and say
that
her master had gone out. Adeline flew back into her room,
trembling
more violently than ever; her children followed on hearing her
give a
piercing cry. They found her in a dead faint; and they put her
to bed,
for she was seized by a nervous fever which held her for a
month
between life and death.
"Where is he?" was the only thing she would say.
Victorin sought for him in vain.
And this is why. The Baron had driven to the Place du Palais
Royal.
There this man, who had recovered all his wits to work out a
scheme
which he had premeditated during the days he had spent crushed
with
pain and grief, crossed the Palais Royal on foot, and took a
handsome
carriage from a livery-stable in the Rue Joquelet. In obedience
to his
orders, the coachman went to the Rue de la Ville l'Eveque, and
into
the courtyard of Josepha's mansion, the gates opening at once at
the
call of the driver of such a splendid vehicle. Josepha came
out,
prompted by curiosity, for her man-servant had told her that
a
helpless old gentleman, unable to get out of his carriage,
begged her
to come to him for a moment.
"Josepha!--it is I----"
The singer recognized her Hulot only by his voice.
"What? you, poor old man?--On my honor, you look like a
twenty-franc
piece that the Jews have sweated and the money-changers
refuse."
"Alas, yes," replied Hulot; "I am snatched from the jaws of
death! But
you are as lovely as ever. Will you be kind?"
"That depends," said she; "everything is relative."
"Listen," said Hulot; "can you put me up for a few days in a
servant's
room under the roof? I have nothing--not a farthing, not a hope;
no
food, no pension, no wife, no children, no roof over my head;
without
honor, without courage, without a friend; and worse than all
that,
liable to imprisonment for not meeting a bill."
"Poor old fellow! you are without most things.--Are you also
sans
culotte?"
"You laugh at me! I am done for," cried the Baron. "And I
counted on
you as Gourville did on Ninon."
"And it was a 'real lady,' I am told who brought you to this,"
said
Josepha. "Those precious sluts know how to pluck a goose even
better
than we do!--Why, you are like a corpse that the crows have done
with
--I can see daylight through!"
"Time is short, Josepha!"
"Come in, old boy, I am alone, as it happens, and my people
don't know
you. Send away your trap. Is it paid for?"
"Yes," said the Baron, getting out with the help of Josepha's arm.
"You may call yourself my father if you like," said the
singer, moved
to pity.
She made Hulot sit down in the splendid drawing-room where he
had last
seen her.
"And is it the fact, old man," she went on, "that you have
killed your
brother and your uncle, ruined your family, mortgaged your
children's
house over and over again, and robbed the Government till in
Africa,
all for your princess?"
Hulot sadly bent his head.
"Well, I admire that!" cried Josepha, starting up in her
enthusiasm.
"It is a general flare-up! It is Sardanapalus! Splendid,
thoroughly
complete! I may be a hussy, but I have a soul! I tell you, I
like a
spendthrift, like you, crazy over a woman, a thousand times
better
than those torpid, heartless bankers, who are supposed to be so
good,
and who ruin no end of families with their rails--gold for them,
and
iron for their gulls! You have only ruined those who belong to
you,
you have sold no one but yourself; and then you have excuses,
physical
and moral."
She struck a tragic attitude, and spouted:
" 'Tis Venus whose grasp never parts from her prey.
And there you are!" and she pirouetted on her toe.
Vice, Hulot found, could forgive him; vice smiled on him from
the
midst of unbridled luxury. Here, as before a jury, the magnitude
of a
crime was an extenuating circumstance. "And is your lady pretty
at any
rate?" asked Josepha, trying as a preliminary act of charity,
to
divert Hulot's thoughts, for his depression grieved her.
"On my word, almost as pretty as you are," said the Baron
artfully.
"And monstrously droll? So I have been told. What does she do,
I say?
Is she better fun than I am?"
"I don't want to talk about her," said Hulot.
"And I hear she has come round my Crevel, and little
Steinbock, and a
gorgeous Brazilian?"
"Very likely."
"And that she has got a house as good as this, that Crevel has
given
her. The baggage! She is my provost-marshal, and finishes off
those I
have spoiled. I tell you why I am so curious to know what she is
like,
old boy; I just caught sight of her in the Bois, in an open
carriage--
but a long way off. She is a most accomplished harpy, Carabine
says.
She is trying to eat up Crevel, but he only lets her nibble.
Crevel is
a knowing hand, good-natured but hard-headed, who will always
say Yes,
and then go his own way. He is vain and passionate; but his cash
is
cold. You can never get anything out of such fellows beyond a
thousand
to three thousand francs a month; they jib at any serious
outlay, as a
donkey does at a running stream.
"Not like you, old boy. You are a man of passions; you would
sell your
country for a woman. And, look here, I am ready to do anything
for
you! You are my father; you started me in life; it is a sacred
duty.
What do you want? Do you want a hundred thousand francs? I will
wear
myself to a rag to gain them. As to giving you bed and
board--that is
nothing. A place will be laid for you here every day; you can
have a
good room on the second floor, and a hundred crowns a month
for
pocket-money."
The Baron, deeply touched by such a welcome, had a last qualm
of
honor.
"No, my dear child, no; I did not come here for you to keep
me," said
he.
"At your age it is something to be proud of," said she.
"This is what I wish, my child. Your Duc d'Herouville has
immense
estates in Normandy, and I want to be his steward, under the
name of
Thoul. I have the capacity, and I am honest. A man may borrow of
the
Government, and yet not steal from a cash-box----"
"H'm, h'm," said Josepha. "Once drunk, drinks again."
"In short, I only want to live out of sight for three years--"
"Well, it is soon done," said Josepha. "This evening, after
dinner, I
have only to speak. The Duke would marry me if I wished it, but
I have
his fortune, and I want something better--his esteem. He is a
Duke of
the first water. He is high-minded, as noble and great as Louis
XIV.
and Napoleon rolled into one, though he is a dwarf. Besides, I
have
done for him what la Schontz did for Rochefide; by taking my
advice he
has made two millions.
"Now, listen to me, old popgun. I know you; you are always
after the
women, and you would be dancing attendance on the Normandy
girls, who
are splendid creatures, and getting your ribs cracked by their
lovers
and fathers, and the Duke would have to get you out of the
scrape.
Why, can't I see by the way you look at me that the young
man is not
dead in you--as Fenelon put it.--No, this stewardship is not the
thing
for you. A man cannot be off with his Paris and with us, old
boy, for
the saying! You would die of weariness at Herouville."
"What is to become of me?" said the Baron, "for I will only
stay here
till I see my way."
"Well, shall I find a pigeon-hole for you? Listen, you old
pirate.
Women are what you want. They are consolation in all
circumstances.
Attend now.--At the end of the Alley, Rue Saint-Maur-du-Temple,
there
is a poor family I know of where there is a jewel of a little
girl,
prettier than I was at sixteen.--Ah! there is a twinkle in your
eye
already!--The child works sixteen hours a day at embroidering
costly
pieces for the silk merchants, and earns sixteen sous a day--one
sou
an hour!--and feeds like the Irish, on potatoes fried in
rats'
dripping, with bread five times a week--and drinks canal water
out of
the town pipes, because the Seine water costs too much; and she
cannot
set up on her own account for lack of six or seven thousand
francs.
Your wife and children bore you to death, don't they?--Besides,
one
cannot submit to be nobody where one has been a little Almighty.
A
father who has neither money nor honor can only be stuffed and
kept in
a glass case."
The Baron could not help smiling at these abominable jests.
"Well, now, Bijou is to come to-morrow morning to bring me
an
embroidered wrapper, a gem! It has taken six months to make; no
one
else will have any stuff like it! Bijou is very fond of me; I
give her
tidbits and my old gowns. And I send orders for bread and meat
and
wood to the family, who would break the shin-bones of the first
comer
if I bid them.--I try to do a little good. Ah! I know what I
endured
from hunger myself!--Bijou has confided to me all her little
sorrows.
There is the making of a super at the Ambigu-Comique in that
child.
Her dream is to wear fine dresses like mine; above all, to ride
in a
carriage. I shall say to her, 'Look here, little one, would you
like
to have a friend of--' How old are you?" she asked,
interrupting
herself. "Seventy-two?"
"I have given up counting."
" 'Would you like an old gentleman of seventy-two?' I shall
say. 'Very
clean and neat, and who does not take snuff, who is as sound as
a
bell, and as good as a young man? He will marry you (in the
Thirteenth
Arrondissement) and be very kind to you; he will place seven
thousand
francs in your account, and furnish you a room all in mahogany,
and if
you are good, he will sometimes take you to the play. He will
give you
a hundred francs a month for pocket-money, and fifty francs
for
housekeeping.'--I know Bijou; she is myself at fourteen. I
jumped for
joy when that horrible Crevel made me his atrocious offers.
Well, and
you, old man, will be disposed of for three years. She is a
good
child, well behaved; for three or four years she will have
her
illusions--not for longer."
Hulot did not hesitate; he had made up his mind to refuse; but
to seem
grateful to the kind-hearted singer, who was benevolent after
her
lights, he affected to hesitate between vice and virtue.
"Why, you are as cold as a paving-stone in winter!" she
exclaimed in
amazement. "Come, now. You will make a whole family happy--a
grandfather who runs all the errands, a mother who is being worn
out
with work, and two sisters--one of them very plain--who make
thirty-
two sous a day while putting their eyes out. It will make up for
the
misery you have caused at home, and you will expiate your sin
while
you are having as much fun as a minx at Mabille."
Hulot, to put an end to this temptation, moved his fingers as
if he
were counting out money.
"Oh! be quite easy as to ways and means," replied Josepha. "My
Duke
will lend you ten thousand francs; seven thousand to start
an
embroidery shop in Bijou's name, and three thousand for
furnishing;
and every three months you will find a cheque here for six
hundred and
fifty francs. When you get your pension paid you, you can repay
the
seventeen thousand francs. Meanwhile you will be as happy as a
cow in
clover, and hidden in a hole where the police will never find
you. You
must wear a loose serge coat, and you will look like a
comfortable
householder. Call yourself Thoul, if that is your fancy. I will
tell
Bijou that you are an uncle of mine come from Germany, having
failed
in business, and you will be cosseted like a divinity.--There
now,
Daddy!--And who knows! you may have no regrets. In case you
should be
bored, keep one Sunday rig-out, and you can come and ask me for
a
dinner and spend the evening here."
"I!--and I meant to settle down and behave myself!--Look here,
borrow
twenty thousand francs for me, and I will set out to make my
fortune
in America, like my friend d'Aiglemont when Nucingen cleaned him
out."
"You!" cried Josepha. "Nay, leave morals to work-a-day folks,
to raw
recruits, to the worrrthy citizens who have nothing to
boast of but
their virtue. You! You were born to be something better than
a
nincompoop; you are as a man what I am as a woman--a spendthrift
of
genius."
"We will sleep on it and discuss it all to-morrow morning."
"You will dine with the Duke. My d'Herouville will receive you
as
civilly as if you were the saviour of the State; and to-morrow
you can
decide. Come, be jolly, old boy! Life is a garment; when it is
dirty,
we must brush it; when it is ragged, it must be patched; but we
keep
it on as long as we can."
This philosophy of life, and her high spirits, postponed
Hulot's
keenest pangs.
At noon next day, after a capital breakfast, Hulot saw the
arrival of
one of those living masterpieces which Paris alone of all the
cities
in the world can produce, by means of the constant concubinage
of
luxury and poverty, of vice and decent honesty, of suppressed
desire
and renewed temptation, which makes the French capital the
daughter of
Ninevah, of Babylon, and of Imperial Rome.
Mademoiselle Olympe Bijou, a child of sixteen, had the
exquisite face
which Raphael drew for his Virgins; eyes of pathetic innocence,
weary
with overwork--black eyes, with long lashes, their moisture
parched
with the heat of laborious nights, and darkened with fatigue;
a
complexion like porcelain, almost too delicate; a mouth like a
partly
opened pomegranate; a heaving bosom, a full figure, pretty
hands, the
whitest teeth, and a mass of black hair; and the whole meagrely
set
off by a cotton frock at seventy-five centimes the metre,
leather
shoes without heels, and the cheapest gloves. The girl, all
unconscious of her charms, had put on her best frock to wait on
the
fine lady.
The Baron, gripped again by the clutch of profligacy, felt all
his
life concentrated in his eyes. He forgot everything on beholding
this
delightful creature. He was like a sportsman in sight of the
game; if
an emperor were present, he must take aim!
"And warranted sound," said Josepha in his ear. "An honest
child, and
wanting bread. This is Paris--I have been there!"
"It is a bargain," replied the old man, getting up and rubbing
his
hands.
When Olympe Bijou was gone, Josepha looked mischievously at the Baron.
"If you want things to keep straight, Daddy," said she, "be as
firm as
the Public Prosecutor on the bench. Keep a tight hand on her, be
a
Bartholo! Ware Auguste, Hippolyte, Nestor, Victor--or,
that is gold,
in every form. When once the child is fed and dressed, if she
gets the
upper hand, she will drive you like a serf.--I will see to
settling
you comfortably. The Duke does the handsome; he will lend--that
is,
give--you ten thousand francs; and he deposits eight thousand
with his
notary, who will pay you six hundred francs every quarter, for
I
cannot trust you.--Now, am I nice?"
"Adorable."
Ten days after deserting his family, when they were gathered
round
Adeline, who seemed to be dying, as she said again and again, in
a
weak voice, "Where is he?" Hector, under the name of Thoul,
was
established in the Rue Saint-Maur, at the head of a business
as
embroiderer, under the name of Thoul and Bijou.
Victorin Hulot, under the overwhelming disasters of his
family, had
received the finishing touch which makes or mars the man. He
was
perfection. In the great storms of life we act like the captain
of a
ship who, under the stress of a hurricane, lightens the ship of
its
heaviest cargo. The young lawyer lost his self-conscious pride,
his
too evident assertiveness, his arrogance as an orator and
his
political pretensions. He was as a man what his wife was as a
woman.
He made up his mind to make the best of his Celestine--who
certainly
did not realize his dreams--and was wise enough to estimate life
at
its true value by contenting himself in all things with the
second
best. He vowed to fulfil his duties, so much had he been shocked
by
his father's example.
These feelings were confirmed as he stood by his mother's bed
on the
day when she was out of danger. Nor did this happiness come
single.
Claude Vignon, who called every day from the Prince de
Wissembourg to
inquire as to Madame Hulot's progress, desired the re-elected
deputy
to go with him to see the Minister.
"His Excellency," said he, "wants to talk over your family
affairs
with you."
The Prince had long known Victorin Hulot, and received him
with a
friendliness that promised well.
"My dear fellow," said the old soldier, "I promised your
uncle, in
this room, that I would take care of your mother. That saintly
woman,
I am told, is getting well again; now is the time to pour oil
into
your wounds. I have for you here two hundred thousand francs; I
will
give them to you----"
The lawyer's gesture was worthy of his uncle the Marshal.
"Be quite easy," said the Prince, smiling; "it is money in
trust. My
days are numbered; I shall not always be here; so take this sum,
and
fill my place towards your family. You may use this money to pay
off
the mortgage on your house. These two hundred thousand francs
are the
property of your mother and your sister. If I gave the money to
Madame
Hulot, I fear that, in her devotion to her husband, she would
be
tempted to waste it. And the intention of those who restore it
to you
is, that it should produce bread for Madame Hulot and her
daughter,
the Countess Steinbock. You are a steady man, the worthy son of
your
noble mother, the true nephew of my friend the Marshal; you
are
appreciated here, you see--and elsewhere. So be the guardian
angel of
your family, and take this as a legacy from your uncle and
me."
"Monseigneur," said Hulot, taking the Minister's hand and
pressing it,
"such men as you know that thanks in words mean nothing;
gratitude
must be proven."
"Prove yours--" said the old man.
"In what way?"
"By accepting what I have to offer you," said the Minister.
"We
propose to appoint you to be attorney to the War Office, which
just
now is involved in litigations in consequence of the plan
for
fortifying Paris; consulting clerk also to the Prefecture of
Police;
and a member of the Board of the Civil List. These three
appointments
will secure you salaries amounting to eighteen thousand francs,
and
will leave you politically free. You can vote in the Chamber
in
obedience to your opinions and your conscience. Act in perfect
freedom
on that score. It would be a bad thing for us if there were
no
national opposition!
"Also, a few lines from your uncle, written a day or two
before he
breathed his last, suggested what I could do for your mother,
whom he
loved very truly.--Mesdames Popinot, de Rastignac, de
Navarreins,
d'Espard, de Grandlieu, de Carigliano, de Lenoncourt, and de la
Batie
have made a place for your mother as a Lady Superintendent of
their
charities. These ladies, presidents of various branches of
benevolent
work, cannot do everything themselves; they need a lady of
character
who can act for them by going to see the objects of their
beneficence,
ascertaining that charity is not imposed upon, and whether the
help
given really reaches those who applied for it, finding out that
the
poor who are ashamed to beg, and so forth. Your mother will
fulfil an
angelic function; she will be thrown in with none but priests
and
these charitable ladies; she will be paid six thousand francs
and the
cost of her hackney coaches.
"You see, young man, that a pure and nobly virtuous man can
still
assist his family, even from the grave. Such a name as your
uncle's
is, and ought to be, a buckler against misfortune in a
well-organized
scheme of society. Follow in his path; you have started in it, I
know;
continue in it."
"Such delicate kindness cannot surprise me in my mother's
friend,"
said Victorin. "I will try to come up to all your hopes."
"Go at once, and take comfort to your family.--By the way,"
added the
Prince, as he shook hands with Victorin, "your father has
disappeared?"
"Alas! yes."
"So much the better. That unhappy man has shown his wit, in
which,
indeed, he is not lacking."
"There are bills of his to be met."
"Well, you shall have six months' pay of your three
appointments in
advance. This pre-payment will help you, perhaps, to get the
notes out
of the hands of the money-lender. And I will see Nucingen, and
perhaps
may succeed in releasing your father's pension, pledged to
him,
without its costing you or our office a sou. The peer has not
killed
the banker in Nucingen; he is insatiable; he wants some
concession.--I
know not what----"
So on his return to the Rue Plumet, Victorin could carry out
his plan
of lodging his mother and sister under his roof.
The young lawyer, already famous, had, for his sole fortune,
one of
the handsomest houses in Paris, purchased in 1834 in preparation
for
his marriage, situated on the boulevard between the Rue de la
Paix and
the Rue Louis-le-Grand. A speculator had built two houses
between the
boulevard and the street; and between these, with the gardens
and
courtyards to the front and back, there remained still standing
a
splendid wing, the remains of the magnificent mansion of the
Verneuils. The younger Hulot had purchased this fine property,
on the
strength of Mademoiselle Crevel's marriage-portion, for one
million
francs, when it was put up to auction, paying five hundred
thousand
down. He lived on the ground floor, expecting to pay the
remainder out
of letting the rest; but though it is safe to speculate in
house-
property in Paris, such investments are capricious or hang
fire,
depending on unforeseen circumstances.
As the Parisian lounger may have observed, the boulevard
between the
Rue de la Paix and the Rue Louis-le-Grand prospered but slowly;
it
took so long to furbish and beautify itself, that trade did not
set up
its display there till 1840--the gold of the money-changers,
the
fairy-work of fashion, and the luxurious splendor of
shop-fronts.
In spite of two hundred thousand francs given by Crevel to
his
daughter at the time when his vanity was flattered by this
marriage,
before the Baron had robbed him of Josepha; in spite of the
two
hundred thousand francs paid off by Victorin in the course of
seven
years, the property was still burdened with a debt of five
hundred
thousand francs, in consequence of Victorin's devotion to his
father.
Happily, a rise in rents and the advantages of the situation had
at
this time improved the value of the houses. The speculation
was
justifying itself after eight years' patience, during which the
lawyer
had strained every nerve to pay the interest and some trifling
amounts
of the capital borrowed.
The tradespeople were ready to offer good rents for the shops,
on
condition of being granted leases for eighteen years. The
dwelling
apartments rose in value by the shifting of the centre in Paris
life--
henceforth transferred to the region between the Bourse and
the
Madeleine, now the seat of the political power and financial
authority
in Paris. The money paid to him by the Minister, added to a
year's
rent in advance and the premiums paid by his tenants, would
finally
reduce the outstanding debt to two hundred thousand francs. The
two
houses, if entirely let, would bring in a hundred thousand
francs a
year. Within two years more, during which the Hulots could live
on his
salaries, added to by the Marshal's investments, Victorin would
be in
a splendid position.
This was manna from heaven. Victorin could give up the first
floor of
his own house to his mother, and the second to Hortense,
excepting two
rooms reserved for Lisbeth. With Cousin Betty as the
housekeeper, this
compound household could bear all these charges, and yet keep up
a
good appearance, as beseemed a pleader of note. The great stars
of the
law-courts were rapidly disappearing; and Victorin Hulot, gifted
with
a shrewd tongue and strict honesty, was listened to by the Bench
and
Councillors; he studied his cases thoroughly, and advanced
nothing
that he could not prove. He would not hold every brief that
offered;
in fact, he was a credit to the bar.
The Baroness' home in the Rue Plumet had become so odious to
her, that
she allowed herself to be taken to the Rue Louis-le-Grand. Thus,
by
her son's care, Adeline occupied a fine apartment; she was
spared all
the daily worries of life; for Lisbeth consented to begin
again,
working wonders of domestic economy, such as she had achieved
for
Madame Marneffe, seeing here a way of exerting her silent
vengeance on
those three noble lives, the object, each, of her hatred, which
was
kept growing by the overthrow of all her hopes.
Once a month she went to see Valerie, sent, indeed, by
Hortense, who
wanted news of Wenceslas, and by Celestine, who was seriously
uneasy
at the acknowledged and well-known connection between her father
and a
woman to whom her mother-in-law and sister-in-law owed their
ruin and
their sorrows. As may be supposed, Lisbeth took advantage of
this to
see Valerie as often as possible.
Thus, about twenty months passed by, during which the
Baroness
recovered her health, though her palsied trembling never left
her. She
made herself familiar with her duties, which afforded her a
noble
distraction from her sorrow and constant food for the divine
goodness
of her heart. She also regarded it as an opportunity for finding
her
husband in the course of one of those expeditions which took her
into
every part of Paris.
During this time, Vauvinet had been paid, and the pension of
six
thousand francs was almost redeemed. Victorin could maintain
his
mother as well as Hortense out of the ten thousand francs
interest on
the money left by Marshal Hulot in trust for them. Adeline's
salary
amounted to six thousand francs a year; and this, added to the
Baron's
pension when it was freed, would presently secure an income of
twelve
thousand francs a year to the mother and daughter.
Thus, the poor woman would have been almost happy but for
her
perpetual anxieties as to the Baron's fate; for she longed to
have him
with her to share the improved fortunes that smiled on the
family; and
but for the constant sight of her forsaken daughter; and but for
the
terrible thrusts constantly and unconsciously dealt her
by Lisbeth,
whose diabolical character had free course.
A scene which took place at the beginning of the month of
March 1843
will show the results of Lisbeth's latent and persistent hatred,
still
seconded, as she always was, by Madame Marneffe.
Two great events had occurred in the Marneffe household. In
the first
place, Valerie had given birth to a still-born child, whose
little
coffin had cost her two thousand francs a year. And then, as
to
Marneffe himself, eleven months since, this is the report given
by
Lisbeth to the Hulot family one day on her return from a visit
of
discovery at the hotel Marneffe.
"This morning," said she, "that dreadful Valerie sent for
Doctor
Bianchon to ask whether the medical men who had condemned her
husband
yesterday had made no mistake. Bianchon pronounced that to-night
at
the latest that horrible creature will depart to the torments
that
await him. Old Crevel and Madame Marneffe saw the doctor out;
and your
father, my dear Celestine, gave him five gold pieces for his
good
news.
"When he came back into the drawing-room, Crevel cut capers
like a
dancer; he embraced that woman, exclaiming, 'Then, at last, you
will
be Madame Crevel!'--And to me, when she had gone back to her
husband's
bedside, for he was at his last gasp, your noble father said to
me,
'With Valerie as my wife, I can become a peer of France! I shall
buy
an estate I have my eye on--Presles, which Madame de Serizy
wants to
sell. I shall be Crevel de Presles, member of the Common Council
of
Seine-et-Oise, and Deputy. I shall have a son! I shall be
everything I
have ever wished to be.'--'Heh!' said I, 'and what about
your
daughter?'--'Bah!' says he, 'she is only a woman! And she is
quite too
much of a Hulot. Valerie has a horror of them all.--My
son-in-law has
never chosen to come to this house; why has he given himself
such airs
as a Mentor, a Spartan, a Puritan, a philanthropist? Besides, I
have
squared accounts with my daughter; she has had all her
mother's
fortune, and two hundred thousand francs to that. So I am free
to act
as I please.--I shall judge of my son-in-law and Celestine by
their
conduct on my marriage; as they behave, so shall I. If they are
nice
to their stepmother, I will receive them. I am a man, after
all!'--In
short, all this rhodomontade! And an attitude like Napoleon on
the
column."
The ten months' widowhood insisted on by the law had now
elapsed some
few days since. The estate of Presles was purchased. Victorin
and
Celestine had that very morning sent Lisbeth to make inquiries
as to
the marriage of the fascinating widow to the Mayor of Paris, now
a
member of the Common Council of the Department of
Seine-et-Oise.
Celestine and Hortense, in whom the ties of affection had been
drawn
closer since they had lived under the same roof, were almost
inseparable. The Baroness, carried away by a sense of honesty
which
led her to exaggerate the duties of her place, devoted herself
to the
work of charity of which she was the agent; she was out almost
every
day from eleven till five. The sisters-in-law, united in their
cares
for the children whom they kept together, sat at home and
worked. They
had arrived at the intimacy which thinks aloud, and were a
touching
picture of two sisters, one cheerful and the other sad. The less
happy
of the two, handsome, lively, high-spirited, and clever, seemed
by her
manner to defy her painful situation; while the melancholy
Celestine,
sweet and calm, and as equable as reason itself, might have
been
supposed to have some secret grief. It was this
contradiction,
perhaps, that added to their warm friendship. Each supplied the
other
with what she lacked.
Seated in a little summer-house in the garden, which the
speculator's
trowel had spared by some fancy of the builder's, who believed
that he
was preserving these hundred feet square of earth for his
own
pleasure, they were admiring the first green shoots of the
lilac-
trees, a spring festival which can only be fully appreciated in
Paris
when the inhabitants have lived for six months oblivious of
what
vegetation means, among the cliffs of stone where the ocean
of
humanity tosses to and fro.
"Celestine," said Hortense to her sister-in-law, who had
complained
that in such fine weather her husband should be kept at the
Chamber,
"I think you do not fully appreciate your happiness. Victorin is
a
perfect angel, and you sometimes torment him."
"My dear, men like to be tormented! Certain ways of teasing
are a
proof of affection. If your poor mother had only been--I will
not say
exacting, but always prepared to be exacting, you would not have
had
so much to grieve over."
"Lisbeth is not come back. I shall have to sing the song
of
Malbrouck," said Hortense. "I do long for some news of
Wenceslas!--
What does he live on? He has not done a thing these two
years."
"Victorin saw him, he told me, with that horrible woman not
long ago;
and he fancied that she maintains him in idleness.--If you only
would,
dear soul, you might bring your husband back to you yet."
Hortense shook her head.
"Believe me," Celestine went on, "the position will ere long
be
intolerable. In the first instance, rage, despair, indignation,
gave
you strength. The awful disasters that have come upon us
since--two
deaths, ruin, and the disappearance of Baron Hulot--have
occupied your
mind and heart; but now you live in peace and silence, you will
find
it hard to bear the void in your life; and as you cannot, and
will
never leave the path of virtue, you will have to be reconciled
to
Wenceslas. Victorin, who loves you so much, is of that opinion.
There
is something stronger than one's feelings even, and that is
Nature!"
"But such a mean creature!" cried the proud Hortense. "He
cares for
that woman because she feeds him.--And has she paid his debts,
do you
suppose?--Good Heaven! I think of that man's position day and
night!
He is the father of my child, and he is degrading himself."
"But look at your mother, my dear," said Celestine.
Celestine was one of those women who, when you have given them
reasons
enough to convince a Breton peasant, still go back for the
hundredth
time to their original argument. The character of her face,
somewhat
flat, dull, and common, her light-brown hair in stiff, neat
bands, her
very complexion spoke of a sensible woman, devoid of charm, but
also
devoid of weakness.
"The Baroness would willingly go to join her husband in his
disgrace,
to comfort him and hide him in her heart from every eye,"
Celestine
went on. "Why, she has a room made ready upstairs for Monsieur
Hulot,
as if she expected to find him and bring him home from one day
to the
next."
"Oh yes, my mother is sublime!" replied Hortense. "She has
been so
every minute of every day for six-and-twenty years; but I am not
like
her, it is not my nature.--How can I help it? I am angry with
myself
sometimes; but you do not know, Celestine, what it would be to
make
terms with infamy."
"There is my father!" said Celestine placidly. "He has
certainly
started on the road that ruined yours. He is ten years younger
than
the Baron, to be sure, and was only a tradesman; but how can it
end?
This Madame Marneffe has made a slave of my father; he is her
dog; she
is mistress of his fortune and his opinions, and nothing can
open his
eyes. I tremble when I remember that their banns of marriage
are
already published!--My husband means to make a last attempt; he
thinks
it a duty to try to avenge society and the family, and bring
that
woman to account for all her crimes. Alas! my dear Hortense,
such
lofty souls as Victorin and hearts like ours come too late to
a
comprehension of the world and its ways!--This is a secret,
dear, and
I have told you because you are interested in it, but never by a
word
or a look betray it to Lisbeth, or your mother, or anybody,
for--"
"Here is Lisbeth!" said Hortense. "Well, cousin, and how is
the
Inferno of the Rue Barbet going on?"
"Badly for you, my children.--Your husband, my dear Hortense,
is more
crazy about that woman than ever, and she, I must own, is madly
in
love with him.--Your father, dear Celestine, is gloriously
blind.
That, to be sure, is nothing; I have had occasion to see it once
a
fortnight; really, I am lucky never to have had anything to do
with
men, they are besotted creatures.--Five days hence you, dear
child,
and Victorin will have lost your father's fortune."
"Then the banns are cried?" said Celestine.
"Yes," said Lisbeth, "and I have just been arguing your case.
I
pointed out to that monster, who is going the way of the other,
that
if he would only get you out of the difficulties you are in by
paying
off the mortgage on the house, you would show your gratitude
and
receive your stepmother--"
Hortense started in horror.
"Victorin will see about that," said Celestine coldly.
"But do you know what Monsieur le Maire's answer was?" said
Lisbeth.
" 'I mean to leave them where they are. Horses can only be
broken in
by lack of food, sleep, and sugar.'--Why, Baron Hulot was not so
bad
as Monsieur Crevel.
"So, my poor dears, you may say good-bye to the money. And
such a fine
fortune! Your father paid three million francs for the Presles
estate,
and he has thirty thousand francs a year in stocks! Oh!--he has
no
secrets from me. He talks of buying the Hotel de Navarreins, in
the
Rue du Bac. Madame Marneffe herself has forty thousand francs a
year.
--Ah!--here is our guardian angel, here comes your mother!"
she
exclaimed, hearing the rumble of wheels.
And presently the Baroness came down the garden steps and
joined the
party. At fifty-five, though crushed by so many troubles,
and
constantly trembling as if shivering with ague, Adeline, whose
face
was indeed pale and wrinkled, still had a fine figure, a
noble
outline, and natural dignity. Those who saw her said, "She must
have
been beautiful!" Worn with the grief of not knowing her
husband's
fate, of being unable to share with him this oasis in the heart
of
Paris, this peace and seclusion and the better fortune that
was
dawning on the family, her beauty was the beauty of a ruin. As
each
gleam of hope died out, each day of search proved vain, Adeline
sank
into fits of deep melancholy that drove her children to
despair.
The Baroness had gone out that morning with fresh hopes, and
was
anxiously expected. An official, who was under obligations to
Hulot,
to whom he owed his position and advancement, declared that he
had
seen the Baron in a box at the Ambigu-Comique theatre with a
woman of
extraordinary beauty. So Adeline had gone to call on the
Baron
Verneuil. This important personage, while asserting that he
had
positively seen his old patron, and that his behaviour to the
woman
indicated an illicit establishment, told Madame Hulot that to
avoid
meeting him the Baron had left long before the end of the
play.
"He looked like a man at home with the damsel, but his dress
betrayed
some lack of means," said he in conclusion.
"Well?" said the three women as the Baroness came towards them.
"Well, Monsieur Hulot is in Paris; and to me," said Adeline,
"it is a
gleam of happiness only to know that he is within reach of
us."
"But he does not seem to have mended his ways," Lisbeth
remarked when
Adeline had finished her report of her visit to Baron Verneuil.
"He
has taken up some little work-girl. But where can he get the
money
from? I could bet that he begs of his former
mistresses--Mademoiselle
Jenny Cadine or Josepha."
The Baroness trembled more severely than ever; every nerve
quivered;
she wiped away the tears that rose to her eyes and looked
mournfully
up to heaven.
"I cannot think that a Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor
will
have fallen so low," said she.
"For his pleasure what would he not do?" said Lisbeth. "He
robbed the
State, he will rob private persons, commit murder--who
knows?"
"Oh, Lisbeth!" cried the Baroness, "keep such thoughts to yourself."
At this moment Louise came up to the family group, now
increased by
the arrival of the two Hulot children and little Wenceslas to
see if
their grandmother's pockets did not contain some sweetmeats.
"What is it, Louise?" asked one and another.
"A man who wants to see Mademoiselle Fischer."
"Who is the man?" asked Lisbeth.
"He is in rags, mademoiselle, and covered with flue like a
mattress-
picker; his nose is red, and he smells of brandy.--He is one of
those
men who work half of the week at most."
This uninviting picture had the effect of making Lisbeth hurry
into
the courtyard of the house in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, where she
found
a man smoking a pipe colored in a style that showed him an
artist in
tobacco.
"Why have you come here, Pere Chardin?" she asked. "It is
understood
that you go, on the first Saturday in every month, to the gate
of the
Hotel Marneffe, Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. I have just come back
after
waiting there for five hours, and you did not come."
"I did go there, good and charitable lady!" replied the
mattress-
picker. "But there was a game at pool going on at the Cafe
des
Savants, Rue du Cerf-Volant, and every man has his fancy. Now,
mine is
billiards. If it wasn't for billiards, I might be eating off
silver
plate. For, I tell you this," and he fumbled for a scrap of
paper in
his ragged trousers pocket, "it is billiards that leads on to a
dram
and plum-brandy.--It is ruinous, like all fine things, in the
things
it leads to. I know your orders, but the old 'un is in such a
quandary
that I came on to forbidden grounds.--If the hair was all hair,
we
might sleep sound on it; but it is mixed. God is not for all, as
the
saying goes. He has His favorites--well, He has the right. Now,
here
is the writing of your estimable relative and my very good
friend--his
political opinion."
Chardin attempted to trace some zigzag lines in the air with
the
forefinger of his right hand.
Lisbeth, not listening to him, read these few words:
"DEAR COUSIN,--Be my Providence; give me three hundred francs this
day."HECTOR."
"What does he want so much money for?"
"The lan'lord!" said Chardin, still trying to sketch
arabesques. "And
then my son, you see, has come back from Algiers through Spain
and
Bayonee, and, and--he has found nothing--against his
rule, for a
sharp cove is my son, saving your presence. How can he help it,
he is
in want of food; but he will repay all we lend him, for he is
going to
get up a company. He has ideas, he has, that will carry
him--"
"To the police court," Lisbeth put in. "He murdered my uncle; I
shall
not forget that."
"He--why, he could not bleed a chicken, honorable lady."
"Here are the three hundred francs," said Lisbeth, taking
fifteen gold
pieces out of her purse. "Now, go, and never come here
again."
She saw the father of the Oran storekeeper off the premises,
and
pointed out the drunken old creature to the porter.
"At any time when that man comes here, if by chance he should
come
again, do not let him in. If he should ask whether Monsieur
Hulot
junior or Madame la Baronne Hulot lives here, tell him you know
of no
such persons."
"Very good, mademoiselle."
"Your place depends on it if you make any mistake, even
without
intending it," said Lisbeth, in the woman's ear.--"Cousin," she
went
on to Victorin, who just now came in, "a great misfortune is
hanging
over your head."
"What is that?" said Victorin.
"Within a few days Madame Marneffe will be your wife's stepmother."
"That remains to be seen," replied Victorin.
For six months past Lisbeth had very regularly paid a little
allowance
to Baron Hulot, her former protector, whom she now protected;
she knew
the secret of his dwelling-place, and relished Adeline's tears,
saying
to her, as we have seen, when she saw her cheerful and hopeful,
"You
may expect to find my poor cousin's name in the papers some day
under
the heading 'Police Report.' "
But in this, as on a former occasion, she let her vengeance
carry her
too far. She had aroused the prudent suspicions of Victorin. He
had
resolved to be rid of this Damocles' sword so constantly
flourished
over them by Lisbeth, and of the female demon to whom his mother
and
the family owed so many woes. The Prince de Wissembourg, knowing
all
about Madame Marneffe's conduct, approved of the young lawyer's
secret
project; he had promised him, as a President of the Council
can
promise, the secret assistance of the police, to enlighten
Crevel and
rescue a fine fortune from the clutches of the diabolical
courtesan,
whom he could not forgive either for causing the death of
Marshal
Hulot or for the Baron's utter ruin.
The words spoken by Lisbeth, "He begs of his former
mistresses,"
haunted the Baroness all night. Like sick men given over by
the
physicians, who have recourse to quacks, like men who have
fallen into
the lowest Dantesque circle of despair, or drowning creatures
who
mistake a floating stick for a hawser, she ended by believing in
the
baseness of which the mere idea had horrified her; and it
occurred to
her that she might apply for help to one of those terrible
women.
Next morning, without consulting her children or saying a word
to
anybody, she went to see Mademoiselle Josepha Mirah, prima donna
of
the Royal Academy of Music, to find or to lose the hope that
had
gleamed before her like a will-o'-the-wisp. At midday, the
great
singer's waiting-maid brought her in the card of the Baronne
Hulot,
saying that this person was waiting at the door, having asked
whether
Mademoiselle could receive her.
"Are the rooms done?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"And the flowers fresh?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Just tell Jean to look round and see that everything is as it
should
be before showing the lady in, and treat her with the
greatest
respect. Go, and come back to dress me--I must look my very
best."
She went to study herself in the long glass.
"Now, to put our best foot foremost!" said she to herself.
"Vice under
arms to meet virtue!--Poor woman, what can she want of me? I
cannot
bear to see.
"The noble victim of outrageous fortune!"
And she sang through the famous aria as the maid came in again.
"Madame," said the girl, "the lady has a nervous
trembling--"
"Offer her some orange-water, some rum, some broth--"
"I did, mademoiselle; but she declines everything, and says it
is an
infirmity, a nervous complaint--"
"Where is she?"
"In the big drawing-room."
"Well, make haste, child. Give me my smartest slippers, the
dressing-
gown embroidered by Bijou, and no end of lace frills. Do my hair
in a
way to astonish a woman.--This woman plays a part against mine;
and
tell the lady--for she is a real, great lady, my girl, nay,
more, she
is what you will never be, a woman whose prayers can rescue
souls from
your purgatory--tell her I was in bed, as I was playing last
night,
and that I am just getting up."
The Baroness, shown into Josepha's handsome drawing-room, did
not note
how long she was kept waiting there, though it was a long half
hour.
This room, entirely redecorated even since Josepha had had the
house,
was hung with silk in purple and gold color. The luxury which
fine
gentlemen were wont to lavish on their petites maisons,
the scenes
of their profligacy, of which the remains still bear witness to
the
follies from which they were so aptly named, was displayed
to
perfection, thanks to modern inventiveness, in the four rooms
opening
into each other, where the warm temperature was maintained by a
system
of hot-air pipes with invisible openings.
The Baroness, quite bewildered, examined each work of art with
the
greatest amazement. Here she found fortunes accounted for that
melt in
the crucible under which pleasure and vanity feed the
devouring
flames. This woman, who for twenty-six years had lived among the
dead
relics of imperial magnificence, whose eyes were accustomed to
carpets
patterned with faded flowers, rubbed gilding, silks as forlorn
as her
heart, half understood the powerful fascinations of vice as
she
studied its results. It was impossible not to wish to possess
these
beautiful things, these admirable works of art, the creation of
the
unknown talent which abounds in Paris in our day and
produces
treasures for all Europe. Each thing had the novel charm of
unique
perfection. The models being destroyed, every vase, every
figure,
every piece of sculpture was the original. This is the crowning
grace
of modern luxury. To own the thing which is not vulgarized by
the two
thousand wealthy citizens whose notion of luxury is the lavish
display
of the splendors that shops can supply, is the stamp of true
luxury--
the luxury of the fine gentlemen of the day, the shooting stars
of the
Paris firmament.
As she examined the flower-stands, filled with the choicest
exotic
plants, mounted in chased brass and inlaid in the style of
Boulle, the
Baroness was scared by the idea of the wealth in this apartment.
And
this impression naturally shed a glamour over the person round
whom
all this profusion was heaped. Adeline imagined that Josepha
Mirah--
whose portrait by Joseph Bridau was the glory of the adjoining
boudoir
--must be a singer of genius, a Malibran, and she expected to
see a
real star. She was sorry she had come. But she had been prompted
by a
strong and so natural a feeling, by such purely
disinterested
devotion, that she collected all her courage for the
interview.
Besides, she was about to satisfy her urgent curiosity, to see
for
herself what was the charm of this kind of women, that they
could
extract so much gold from the miserly ore of Paris mud.
The Baroness looked at herself to see if she were not a blot
on all
this splendor; but she was well dressed in her velvet gown, with
a
little cape trimmed with beautiful lace, and her velvet bonnet
of the
same shade was becoming. Seeing herself still as imposing as
any
queen, always a queen even in her fall, she reflected that the
dignity
of sorrow was a match for the dignity of talent.
At last, after much opening and shutting of doors, she saw
Josepha.
The singer bore a strong resemblance to Allori's Judith,
which
dwells in the memory of all who have ever seen it in the Pitti
palace,
near the door of one of the great rooms. She had the same
haughty
mien, the same fine features, black hair simply knotted, and a
yellow
wrapper with little embroidered flowers, exactly like the
brocade worn
by the immortal homicide conceived of by Bronzino's nephew.
"Madame la Baronne, I am quite overwhelmed by the honor you do
me in
coming here," said the singer, resolved to play her part as a
great
lady with a grace.
She pushed forward an easy-chair for the Baroness and seated
herself
on a stool. She discerned the faded beauty of the woman before
her,
and was filled with pity as she saw her shaken by the nervous
palsy
that, on the least excitement, became convulsive. She could read
at a
glance the saintly life described to her of old by Hulot and
Crevel;
and she not only ceased to think of a contest with her, she
humiliated
herself before a superiority she appreciated. The great artist
could
admire what the courtesan laughed to scorn.
"Mademoiselle, despair brought me here. It reduces us to any means--"
A look in Josepha's face made the Baroness feel that she had
wounded
the woman from whom she hoped for so much, and she looked at
her. Her
beseeching eyes extinguished the flash in Josepha's; the
singer
smiled. It was a wordless dialogue of pathetic eloquence.
"It is now two years and a half since Monsieur Hulot left his
family,
and I do not know where to find him, though I know that he lives
in
Paris," said the Baroness with emotion. "A dream suggested to me
the
idea--an absurd one perhaps--that you may have interested
yourself in
Monsieur Hulot. If you could enable me to see him--oh!
mademoiselle, I
would pray Heaven for you every day as long as I live in this
world--"
Two large tears in the singer's eyes told what her reply would be.
"Madame," said she, "I have done you an injury without knowing
you;
but, now that I have the happiness of seeing in you the most
perfect
virtue on earth, believe me I am sensible of the extent of my
fault; I
repent sincerely, and believe me, I will do all in my power to
remedy
it!"
She took Madame Hulot's hand and before the lady could do
anything to
hinder her, she kissed it respectfully, even humbling herself to
bend
one knee. Then she rose, as proud as when she stood on the stage
in
the part of Mathilde, and rang the bell.
"Go on horseback," said she to the man-servant, "and kill the
horse if
you must, to find little Bijou, Rue Saint-Maur-du-Temple, and
bring
her here. Put her into a coach and pay the coachman to come at
a
gallop. Do not lose a moment--or you lose your place.
"Madame," she went on, coming back to the Baroness, and
speaking to
her in respectful tones, "you must forgive me. As soon as the
Duc
d'Herouville became my protector, I dismissed the Baron, having
heard
that he was ruining his family for me. What more could I do? In
an
actress' career a protector is indispensable from the first day
of her
appearance on the boards. Our salaries do not pay half our
expenses;
we must have a temporary husband. I did not value Monsieur
Hulot, who
took me away from a rich man, a conceited idiot. Old Crevel
would
undoubtedly have married me--"
"So he told me," said the Baroness, interrupting her.
"Well, then, you see, madame, I might at this day have been an
honest
woman, with only one legitimate husband!"
"You have many excuses, mademoiselle," said Adeline, "and God
will
take them into account. But, for my part, far from reproaching
you, I
came, on the contrary, to make myself your debtor in
gratitude--"
"Madame, for nearly three years I have provided for Monsieur
le
Baron's necessities--"
"You?" interrupted the Baroness, with tears in her eyes. "Oh,
what can
I do for you? I can only pray--"
"I and Monsieur le Duc d'Herouville," the singer said, "a
noble soul,
a true gentleman--" and Josepha related the settling and
marriage of
Monsieur Thoul.
"And so, thanks to you, mademoiselle, the Baron has wanted nothing?"
"We have done our best to that end, madame."
"And where is he now?"
"About six months ago, Monsieur le Duc told me that the Baron,
known
to the notary by the name of Thoul, had drawn all the eight
thousand
francs that were to have been paid to him in fixed sums once
a
quarter," replied Josepha. "We have heard no more of the
Baron,
neither I nor Monsieur d'Herouville. Our lives are so full, we
artists
are so busy, that I really have not time to run after old Thoul.
As it
happens, for the last six months, Bijou, who works for
me--his--what
shall I say--?"
"His mistress," said Madame Hulot.
"His mistress," repeated Josepha, "has not been here.
Mademoiselle
Olympe Bijou is perhaps divorced. Divorce is common in the
thirteenth
arrondissement."
Josepha rose, and foraging among the rare plants in her
stands, made a
charming bouquet for Madame Hulot, whose expectations, it may be
said,
were by no means fulfilled. Like those worthy fold, who take men
of
genius to be a sort of monsters, eating, drinking, walking,
and
speaking unlike other people, the Baroness had hoped to see
Josepha
the opera singer, the witch, the amorous and amusing courtesan;
she
saw a calm and well-mannered woman, with the dignity of talent,
the
simplicity of an actress who knows herself to be at night a
queen, and
also, better than all, a woman of the town whose eyes, attitude,
and
demeanor paid full and ungrudging homage to the virtuous wife,
the
Mater dolorosa of the sacred hymn, and who was crowning
her sorrows
with flowers, as the Madonna is crowned in Italy.
"Madame," said the man-servant, reappearing at the end of half
an
hour, "Madame Bijou is on her way, but you are not to expect
little
Olympe. Your needle-woman, madame, is settled in life; she
is
married--"
"More or less?" said Josepha.
"No, madame, really married. She is at the head of a very
fine
business; she has married the owner of a large and fashionable
shop,
on which they have spent millions of francs, on the Boulevard
des
Italiens; and she has left the embroidery business to her sister
and
mother. She is Madame Grenouville. The fat tradesman--"
"A Crevel?"
"Yes, madame," said the man. "Well, he has settled thirty
thousand
francs a year on Mademoiselle Bijou by the marriage articles.
And her
elder sister, they say, is going to be married to a rich
butcher."
"Your business looks rather hopeless, I am afraid," said
Josepha to
the Baroness. "Monsieur le Baron is no longer where I lodged
him."
Ten minutes later Madame Bijou was announced. Josepha very
prudently
placed the Baroness in the boudoir, and drew the curtain over
the
door.
"You would scare her," said she to Madame Hulot. "She would
let
nothing out if she suspected that you were interested in the
information. Leave me to catechise her. Hide there, and you will
hear
everything. It is a scene that is played quite as often in real
life
as on the stage--"
"Well, Mother Bijou," she said to an old woman dressed in
tartan
stuff, and who looked like a porter's wife in her Sunday best,
"so you
are all very happy? Your daughter is in luck."
"Oh, happy? As for that!--My daughter gives us a hundred
francs a
month, while she rides in a carriage and eats off silver
plate--she is
a millionary, is my daughter! Olympe might have lifted me above
labor.
To have to work at my age? Is that being good to me?"
"She ought not to be ungrateful, for she owes her beauty to
you,"
replied Josepha; "but why did she not come to see me? It was I
who
placed her in ease by settling her with my uncle."
"Yes, madame, with old Monsieur Thoul, but he is very old
and
broken--"
"But what have you done with him? Is he with you? She was very
foolish
to leave him; he is worth millions now."
"Heaven above us!" cried the mother. "What did I tell her when
she
behaved so badly to him, and he as mild as milk, poor old
fellow? Oh!
didn't she just give it him hot?--Olympe was perverted,
madame?"
"But how?"
"She got to know a claqueur, madame, saving your
presence, a man
paid to clap, you know, the grand nephew of an old
mattress-picker of
the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. This good-for-naught, as all your
good-
looking fellows are, paid to make a piece go, is the cock of the
walk
out on the Boulevard du Temple, where he works up the new plays,
and
takes care that the actresses get a reception, as he calls it.
First,
he has a good breakfast in the morning; then, before the play,
he
dines, to be 'up to the mark,' as he says; in short, he is a
born
lover of billiards and drams. 'But that is not following a
trade,' as
I said to Olympe."
"It is a trade men follow, unfortunately," said Josepha.
"Well, the rascal turned Olympe's head, and he, madame, did
not keep
good company--when I tell you he was very near being nabbed by
the
police in a tavern where thieves meet. 'Wever, Monsieur
Braulard, the
leader of the claque, got him out of that. He wears gold
earrings, and
he lives by doing nothing, hanging on to women, who are fools
about
these good-looking scamps. He spent all the money Monsieur Thoul
used
to give the child.
"Then the business was going to grief; what embroidery brought
in went
out across the billiard table. 'Wever, the young fellow had a
pretty
sister, madame, who, like her brother, lived by hook and by
crook, and
no better than she should be neither, over in the students'
quarter."
"One of the sluts at the Chaumiere," said Josepha.
"So, madame," said the old woman. "So Idamore, his name is
Idamore,
leastways that is what he calls himself, for his real name is
Chardin
--Idamore fancied that your uncle had a deal more money than he
owned
to, and he managed to send his sister Elodie--and that was a
stage
name he gave her--to send her to be a workwoman at our place,
without
my daughter's knowing who she was; and, gracious goodness! but
that
girl turned the whole place topsy-turvy; she got all those poor
girls
into mischief--impossible to whitewash them, saving your
presence----
"And she was so sharp, she won over poor old Thoul, and took
him away,
and we don't know where, and left us in a pretty fix, with a lot
of
bills coming in. To this day as ever is we have not been able
to
settle up; but my daughter, who knows all about such things,
keeps an
eye on them as they fall due.--Then, when Idamore saw he had got
hold
of the old man, through his sister, you understand, he threw
over my
daughter, and now he has got hold of a little actress at the
Funambules.--And that was how my daughter came to get
married, as
you will see--"
"But you must know where the mattress-picker lives?" said
Josepha.
"What! old Chardin? As if he lived anywhere at all!--He is
drunk by
six in the morning; he makes a mattress once a month; he hangs
about
the wineshops all day; he plays at pools--"
"He plays at pools?" said Josepha.
"You do not understand, madame, pools of billiards, I mean,
and he
wins three or four a day, and then he drinks."
"Water out of the pools, I suppose?" said Josepha. "But if
Idamore
haunts the Boulevard, by inquiring through my friend Vraulard,
we
could find him."
"I don't know, madame; all this was six months ago. Idamore
was one of
the sort who are bound to find their way into the police courts,
and
from that to Melun--and the--who knows--?"
"To the prison yard!" said Josepha.
"Well, madame, you know everything," said the old woman,
smiling.
"Well, if my girl had never known that scamp, she would now
be--Still,
she was in luck, all the same, you will say, for Monsieur
Grenouville
fell so much in love with her that he married her--"
"And what brought that about?"
"Olympe was desperate, madame. When she found herself left in
the
lurch for that little actress--and she took a rod out of pickle
for
her, I can tell you; my word, but she gave her a dressing!--and
when
she had lost poor old Thoul, who worshiped her, she would have
nothing
more to say to the men. 'Wever, Monsieur Grenouville, who had
been
dealing largely with us--to the tune of two hundred embroidered
China-
crape shawls every quarter--he wanted to console her; but
whether or
no, she would not listen to anything without the mayor and the
priest.
'I mean to be respectable,' said she, 'or perish!' and she stuck
to
it. Monsieur Grenouville consented to marry her, on condition of
her
giving us all up, and we agreed--"
"For a handsome consideration?" said Josepha, with her
usual
perspicacity.
"Yes, madame, ten thousand francs, and an allowance to my
father, who
is past work."
"I begged your daughter to make old Thoul happy, and she has
thrown me
over. That is not fair. I will take no interest in any one for
the
future! That is what comes of trying to do good! Benevolence
certainly
does not answer as a speculation!--Olympe ought, at least, to
have
given me notice of this jobbing. Now, if you find the old man
Thoul
within a fortnight, I will give you a thousand francs."
"It will be a hard task, my good lady; still, there are a good
many
five-franc pieces in a thousand francs, and I will try to earn
your
money."
"Good-morning, then, Madame Bijou."
On going into the boudoir, the singer found that Madame Hulot
had
fainted; but in spite of having lost consciousness, her
nervous
trembling kept her still perpetually shaking, as the pieces of a
snake
that has been cut up still wriggle and move. Strong salts, cold
water,
and all the ordinary remedies were applied to recall the
Baroness to
her senses, or rather, to the apprehension of her sorrows.
"Ah! mademoiselle, how far has he fallen!" cried she,
recognizing
Josepha, and finding that she was alone with her.
"Take heart, madame," replied the actress, who had seated
herself on a
cushion at Adeline's feet, and was kissing her hands. "We shall
find
him; and if he is in the mire, well, he must wash himself.
Believe me,
with people of good breeding it is a matter of clothes.--Allow
me to
make up for you the harm I have done you, for I see how much you
are
attached to your husband, in spite of his misconduct--or you
should
not have come here.--Well, you see, the poor man is so fond of
women.
If you had had a little of our dash, you would have kept him
from
running about the world; for you would have been what we can
never be
--all the women man wants.
"The State ought to subsidize a school of manners for honest
women!
But governments are so prudish! Still, they are guided by men,
whom we
privately guide. My word, I pity nations!
"But the matter in question is how you can be helped, and not
to laugh
at the world.--Well, madame, be easy, go home again, and do not
worry.
I will bring your Hector back to you as he was as a man of
thirty."
"Ah, mademoiselle, let us go to see that Madame Grenouville,"
said the
Baroness. "She surely knows something! Perhaps I may see the
Baron
this very day, and be able to snatch him at once from poverty
and
disgrace."
"Madame, I will show you the deep gratitude I feel towards you
by not
displaying the stage-singer Josepha, the Duc d'Herouville's
mistress,
in the company of the noblest, saintliest image of virtue. I
respect
you too much to be seen by your side. This is not acted
humility; it
is sincere homage. You make me sorry, madame, that I cannot
tread in
your footsteps, in spite of the thorns that tear your feet and
hands.
--But it cannot be helped! I am one with art, as you are one
with
virtue."
"Poor child!" said the Baroness, moved amid her own sorrows by
a
strange sense of compassionate sympathy; "I will pray to God for
you;
for you are the victim of society, which must have theatres.
When you
are old, repent--you will be heard if God vouchsafes to hear
the
prayers of a--"
"Of a martyr, madame," Josepha put in, and she respectfully
kissed the
Baroness' skirt.
But Adeline took the actress' hand, and drawing her towards
her,
kissed her on the forehead. Coloring with pleasure Josepha saw
the
Baroness into the hackney coach with the humblest
politeness.
"It must be some visiting Lady of Charity," said the
man-servant to
the maid, "for she does not do so much for any one, not even for
her
dear friend Madame Jenny Cadine."
"Wait a few days," said she, "and you will see him, madame, or
I
renounce the God of my fathers--and that from a Jewess, you
know, is a
promise of success."
At the very time when Madame Hulot was calling on Josepha,
Victorin,
in his study, was receiving an old woman of about seventy-five,
who,
to gain admission to the lawyer, had used the terrible name of
the
head of the detective force. The man in waiting announced:
"Madame de Saint-Esteve."
"I have assumed one of my business names," said she, taking a seat.
Victorin felt a sort of internal chill at the sight of this
dreadful
old woman. Though handsomely dressed, she was terrible to look
upon,
for her flat, colorless, strongly-marked face, furrowed with
wrinkles,
expressed a sort of cold malignity. Marat, as a woman of that
age,
might have been like this creature, a living embodiment of the
Reign
of Terror.
This sinister old woman's small, pale eyes twinkled with a
tiger's
bloodthirsty greed. Her broad, flat nose, with nostrils expanded
into
oval cavities, breathed the fires of hell, and resembled the
beak of
some evil bird of prey. The spirit of intrigue lurked behind her
low,
cruel brow. Long hairs had grown from her wrinkled chin,
betraying the
masculine character of her schemes. Any one seeing that woman's
face
would have said that artists had failed in their conceptions
of
Mephistopheles.
"My dear sir," she began, with a patronizing air, "I have long
since
given up active business of any kind. What I have come to you to
do, I
have undertaken, for the sake of my dear nephew, whom I love
more than
I could love a son of my own.--Now, the Head of the Police--to
whom
the President of the Council said a few words in his ear as
regards
yourself, in talking to Monsieur Chapuzot--thinks as the police
ought
not to appear in a matter of this description, you understand.
They
gave my nephew a free hand, but my nephew will have nothing to
say to
it, except as before the Council; he will not be seen in
it."
"Then your nephew is--"
"You have hit it, and I am rather proud of him," said she,
interrupting the lawyer, "for he is my pupil, and he soon could
teach
his teacher.--We have considered this case, and have come to our
own
conclusions. Will you hand over thirty thousand francs to have
the
whole thing taken off your hands? I will make a clean sweep of
all,
and you need not pay till the job is done."
"Do you know the persons concerned?"
"No, my dear sir; I look for information from you. What we are
told
is, that a certain old idiot has fallen into the clutches of a
widow.
This widow, of nine-and-twenty, has played her cards so well,
that she
has forty thousand francs a year, of which she has robbed two
fathers
of families. She is now about to swallow down eighty thousand
francs a
year by marrying an old boy of sixty-one. She will thus ruin
a
respectable family, and hand over this vast fortune to the child
of
some lover by getting rid at once of the old husband.--That is
the
case as stated."
"Quite correct," said Victorin. "My father-in-law, Monsieur Crevel--"
"Formerly a perfumer, a mayor--yes, I live in his district
under the
name of Ma'ame Nourrisson," said the woman.
"The other person is Madame Marneffe."
"I do not know," said Madame de Saint-Esteve. "But within
three days I
will be in a position to count her shifts."
"Can you hinder the marriage?" asked Victorin.
"How far have they got?"
"To the second time of asking."
"We must carry off the woman.--To-day is Sunday--there are but
three
days, for they will be married on Wednesday, no doubt; it is
impossible.--But she may be killed--"
Victorin Hulot started with an honest man's horror at hearing
these
five words uttered in cold blood.
"Murder?" said he. "And how could you do it?"
"For forty years, now, monsieur, we have played the part of
fate,"
replied she, with terrible pride, "and do just what we will in
Paris.
More than one family--even in the Faubourg Saint-Germain--has
told me
all its secrets, I can tell you. I have made and spoiled many a
match,
I have destroyed many a will and saved many a man's honor. I
have in
there," and she tapped her forehead, "a store of secrets which
are
worth thirty-six thousand francs a year to me; and you--you will
be
one of my lambs, hoh! Could such a woman as I am be what I am if
she
revealed her ways and means? I act.
"Whatever I may do, sir, will be the result of an accident;
you need
feel no remorse. You will be like a man cured by a clairvoyant;
by the
end of a month, it seems all the work of Nature."
Victorin broke out in a cold sweat. The sight of an
executioner would
have shocked him less than this prolix and pretentious Sister of
the
Hulks. As he looked at her purple-red gown, she seemed to him
dyed in
blood.
"Madame, I do not accept the help of your experience and skill
if
success is to cost anybody's life, or the least criminal act is
to
come of it."
"You are a great baby, monsieur," replied the woman; "you wish
to
remain blameless in your own eyes, while you want your enemy to
be
overthrown."
Victorin shook his head in denial.
"Yes," she went on, "you want this Madame Marneffe to drop the
prey
she has between her teeth. But how do you expect to make a tiger
drop
his piece of beef? Can you do it by patting his back and saying,
'Poor
Puss'? You are illogical. You want a battle fought, but you
object to
blows.--Well, I grant you the innocence you are so careful over.
I
have always found that there was material for hypocrisy in
honesty!
One day, three months hence, a poor priest will come to beg of
you
forty thousand francs for a pious work--a convent to be rebuilt
in the
Levant--in the desert.--If you are satisfied with your lot, give
the
good man the money. You will pay more than that into the
treasury. It
will be a mere trifle in comparison with what you will get, I
can tell
you."
She rose, standing on the broad feet that seemed to overflow
her satin
shoes; she smiled, bowed, and vanished.
"The Devil has a sister," said Victorin, rising.
He saw the hideous stranger to the door, a creature called up
from the
dens of the police, as on the stage a monster comes up from the
third
cellar at the touch of a fairy's wand in a
ballet-extravaganza.
After finishing what he had to do at the Courts, Victorin went
to call
on Monsieur Chapuzot, the head of one of the most important
branches
of the Central Police, to make some inquiries about the
stranger.
Finding Monsieur Chapuzot alone in his office, Victorin thanked
him
for his help.
"You sent me an old woman who might stand for the incarnation
of the
criminal side of Paris."
Monsieur Chapuzot laid his spectacles on his papers and looked
at the
lawyer with astonishment.
"I should not have taken the liberty of sending anybody to see
you
without giving you notice beforehand, or a line of
introduction," said
he.
"Then it was Monsieur le Prefet--?"
"I think not," said Chapuzot. "The last time that the Prince
de
Wissembourg dined with the Minister of the Interior, he spoke to
the
Prefet of the position in which you find yourself--a
deplorable
position--and asked him if you could be helped in any friendly
way.
The Prefet, who was interested by the regrets his Excellency
expressed
as to this family affair, did me the honor to consult me about
it.
"Ever since the present Prefet has held the reins of this
department--
so useful and so vilified--he has made it a rule that family
matters
are never to be interfered in. He is right in principle and
in
morality; but in practice he is wrong. In the forty-five years
that I
have served in the police, it did, from 1799 till 1815, great
services
in family concerns. Since 1820 a constitutional government and
the
press have completely altered the conditions of existence. So
my
advice, indeed, was not to intervene in such a case, and the
Prefet
did me the honor to agree with my remarks. The Head of the
detective
branch has orders, in my presence, to take no steps; so if you
have
had any one sent to you by him, he will be reprimanded. It might
cost
him his place. 'The Police will do this or that,' is easily
said; the
Police, the Police! But, my dear sir, the Marshal and the
Ministerial
Council do not know what the Police is. The Police alone knows
the
Police; but as for ours, only Fouche, Monsieur Lenoir, and
Monsieur de
Sartines have had any notion of it.--Everything is changed now;
we are
reduced and disarmed! I have seen many private disasters
develop,
which I could have checked with five grains of despotic
power.--We
shall be regretted by the very men who have crippled us when
they,
like you, stand face to face with some moral monstrosities,
which
ought to be swept away as we sweep away mud! In public affairs
the
Police is expected to foresee everything, or when the safety of
the
public is involved--but the family?--It is sacred! I would do
my
utmost to discover and hinder a plot against the King's life, I
would
see through the walls of a house; but as to laying a finger on
a
household, or peeping into private interests--never, so long as
I sit
in this office. I should be afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of the Press, Monsieur le Depute, of the left centre."
"What, then, can I do?" said Hulot, after a pause.
"Well, you are the Family," said the official. "That settles
it; you
can do what you please. But as to helping you, as to using the
Police
as an instrument of private feelings, and interests, how is
it
possible? There lies, you see, the secret of the
persecution,
necessary, but pronounced illegal, by the Bench, which was
brought to
bear against the predecessor of our present chief detective.
Bibi-
Lupin undertook investigations for the benefit of private
persons.
This might have led to great social dangers. With the means at
his
command, the man would have been formidable, an underlying
fate--"
"But in my place?" said Hulot.
"Why, you ask my advice? You who sell it!" replied Monsieur
Chapuzot.
"Come, come, my dear sir, you are making fun of me."
Hulot bowed to the functionary, and went away without seeing
that
gentleman's almost imperceptible shrug as he rose to open the
door.
"And he wants to be a statesman!" said Chapuzot to himself as
he
returned to his reports.
Victorin went home, still full of perplexities which he could
confide
to no one.
At dinner the Baroness joyfully announced to her children that
within
a month their father might be sharing their comforts, and end
his days
in peace among his family.
"Oh, I would gladly give my three thousand six hundred francs
a year
to see the Baron here!" cried Lisbeth. "But, my dear Adeline, do
not
dream beforehand of such happiness, I entreat you!"
"Lisbeth is right," said Celestine. "My dear mother, wait till
the
end."
The Baroness, all feeling and all hope, related her visit to
Josepha,
expressed her sense of the misery of such women in the midst of
good
fortune, and mentioned Chardin the mattress-picker, the father
of the
Oran storekeeper, thus showing that her hopes were not
groundless.
By seven next morning Lisbeth had driven in a hackney coach to
the
Quai de la Tournelle, and stopped the vehicle at the corner of
the Rue
de Poissy.
"Go to the Rue des Bernardins," said she to the driver, "No.
7, a
house with an entry and no porter. Go up to the fourth floor,
ring at
the door to the left, on which you will see 'Mademoiselle
Chardin--
Lace and shawls mended.' She will answer the door. Ask for
the
Chevalier. She will say he is out. Say in reply, 'Yes, I know,
but
find him, for his bonne is out on the quay in a coach,
and wants to
see him.' "
Twenty minutes later, an old man, who looked about eighty,
with
perfectly white hair, and a nose reddened by the cold, and a
pale,
wrinkled face like an old woman's, came shuffling slowly along
in list
slippers, a shiny alpaca overcoat hanging on his stooping
shoulders,
no ribbon at his buttonhole, the sleeves of an under-vest
showing
below his coat-cuffs, and his shirt-front unpleasantly dingy.
He
approached timidly, looked at the coach, recognized Lisbeth, and
came
to the window.
"Why, my dear cousin, what a state you are in!"
"Elodie keeps everything for herself," said Baron Hulot.
"Those
Chardins are a blackguard crew."
"Will you come home to us?"
"Oh, no, no!" cried the old man. "I would rather go to America."
"Adeline is on the scent."
"Oh, if only some one would pay my debts!" said the Baron,
with a
suspicious look, "for Samanon is after me."
"We have not paid up the arrears yet; your son still owes a
hundred
thousand francs."
"Poor boy!"
"And your pension will not be free before seven or eight
months.--If
you will wait a minute, I have two thousand francs here."
The Baron held out his hand with fearful avidity.
"Give it me, Lisbeth, and may God reward you! Give it me; I
know where
to go."
"But you will tell me, old wretch?"
"Yes, yes. Then I can wait eight months, for I have discovered
a
little angel, a good child, an innocent thing not old enough to
be
depraved."
"Do not forget the police-court," said Lisbeth, who flattered
herself
that she would some day see Hulot there.
"No.--It is in the Rue de Charonne," said the Baron, "a part
of the
town where no fuss is made about anything. No one will ever find
me
there. I am called Pere Thorec, Lisbeth, and I shall be taken
for a
retired cabinet-maker; the girl is fond of me, and I will not
allow my
back to be shorn any more."
"No, that has been done," said Lisbeth, looking at his
coat.
"Supposing I take you there."
Baron Hulot got into the coach, deserting Mademoiselle Elodie
without
taking leave of her, as he might have tossed aside a novel he
had
finished.
In half an hour, during which Baron Hulot talked to Lisbeth of
nothing
but little Atala Judici--for he had fallen by degrees to those
base
passions that ruin old men--she set him down with two thousand
francs
in his pocket, in the Rue de Charonne, Faubourg Saint-Antoine,
at the
door of a doubtful and sinister-looking house.
"Good-day, cousin; so now you are to be called Thorec, I
suppose? Send
none but commissionaires if you need me, and always take them
from
different parts."
"Trust me! Oh, I am really very lucky!" said the Baron, his
face
beaming with the prospect of new and future happiness.
"No one can find him there," said Lisbeth; and she paid the
coach at
the Boulevard Beaumarchais, and returned to the Rue
Louis-le-Grand in
the omnibus.
On the following day Crevel was announced at the hour when all
the
family were together in the drawing-room, just after
breakfast.
Celestine flew to throw her arms round her father's neck, and
behaved
as if she had seen him only the day before, though in fact he
had not
called there for more than two years.
"Good-morning, father," said Victorin, offering his hand.
"Good-morning, children," said the pompous Crevel. "Madame la
Baronne,
I throw myself at your feet! Good Heavens, how the children
grow! they
are pushing us off the perch--'Grand-pa,' they say, 'we want our
turn
in the sunshine.'--Madame la Comtesse, you are as lovely as
ever," he
went on, addressing Hortense.--"Ah, ha! and here is the best of
good
money: Cousin Betty, the Wise Virgin."
"Why, you are really very comfortable here," said he, after
scattering
these greetings with a cackle of loud laughter that hardly moved
the
rubicund muscles of his broad face.
He looked at his daughter with some contempt.
"My dear Celestine, I will make you a present of all my
furniture out
of the Rue des Saussayes; it will just do here. Your
drawing-room
wants furnishing up.--Ha! there is that little rogue Wenceslas.
Well,
and are we very good children, I wonder? You must have pretty
manners,
you know."
"To make up for those who have none," said Lisbeth.
"That sarcasm, my dear Lisbeth, has lost its sting. I am
going, my
dear children, to put an end to the false position in which I
have so
long been placed; I have come, like a good father, to announce
my
approaching marriage without any circumlocution."
"You have a perfect right to marry," said Victorin. "And for
my part,
I give you back the promise you made me when you gave me the
hand of
my dear Celestine--"
"What promise?" said Crevel.
"Not to marry," replied the lawyer. "You will do me the
justice to
allow that I did not ask you to pledge yourself, that you gave
your
word quite voluntarily and in spite of my desire, for I pointed
out to
you at the time that you were unwise to bind yourself."
"Yes, I do remember, my dear fellow," said Crevel, ashamed of
himself.
"But, on my honor, if you will but live with Madame Crevel,
my
children, you will find no reason to repent.--Your good
feeling
touches me, Victorin, and you will find that generosity to me is
not
unrewarded.--Come, by the Poker! welcome your stepmother and
come to
the wedding."
"But you have not told us the lady's name, papa," said Celestine.
"Why, it is an open secret," replied Crevel. "Do not let us
play at
guess who can! Lisbeth must have told you."
"My dear Monsieur Crevel," replied Lisbeth, "there are certain
names
we never utter here--"
"Well, then, it is Madame Marneffe."
"Monsieur Crevel," said the lawyer very sternly, "neither my
wife nor
I can be present at that marriage; not out of interest, for I
spoke in
all sincerity just now. Yes, I am most happy to think that you
may
find happiness in this union; but I act on considerations of
honor and
good feeling which you must understand, and which I cannot speak
of
here, as they reopen wounds still ready to bleed----"
The Baroness telegraphed a signal to Hortense, who tucked her
little
one under her arm, saying, "Come Wenceslas, and have your
bath!--Good-
bye, Monsieur Crevel."
The Baroness also bowed to Crevel without a word; and Crevel
could not
help smiling at the child's astonishment when threatened with
this
impromptu tubbing.
"You, monsieur," said Victorin, when he found himself alone
with
Lisbeth, his wife, and his father-in-law, "are about to marry a
woman
loaded with the spoils of my father; it was she who, in cold
blood,
brought him down to such depths; a woman who is the
son-in-law's
mistress after ruining the father-in-law; who is the cause of
constant
grief to my sister!--And you fancy that I shall seem to sanction
your
madness by my presence? I deeply pity you, dear Monsieur Crevel;
you
have no family feeling; you do not understand the unity of the
honor
which binds the members of it together. There is no arguing
with
passion--as I have too much reason to know. The slaves of
their
passions are as deaf as they are blind. Your daughter Celestine
has
too strong a sense of her duty to proffer a word of
reproach."
"That would, indeed, be a pretty thing!" cried Crevel, trying
to cut
short this harangue.
"Celestine would not be my wife if she made the slightest
remonstrance," the lawyer went on. "But I, at least, may try to
stop
you before you step over the precipice, especially after giving
you
ample proof of my disinterestedness. It is not your fortune, it
is you
that I care about. Nay, to make it quite plain to you, I may
add, if
it were only to set your mind at ease with regard to your
marriage
contract, that I am now in a position which leaves me with
nothing to
wish for--"
"Thanks to me!" exclaimed Crevel, whose face was purple.
"Thanks to Celestine's fortune," replied Victorin. "And if you
regret
having given to your daughter as a present from yourself, a sum
which
is not half what her mother left her, I can only say that we
are
prepared to give it back."
"And do you not know, my respected son-in-law," said Crevel,
striking
an attitude, "that under the shelter of my name Madame Marneffe
is not
called upon to answer for her conduct excepting as my wife--as
Madame
Crevel?"
"That is, no doubt, quite the correct thing," said the lawyer;
"very
generous so far as the affections are concerned and the vagaries
of
passion; but I know of no name, nor law, nor title that can
shelter
the theft of three hundred thousand francs so meanly wrung from
my
father!--I tell you plainly, my dear father-in-law, your future
wife
is unworthy of you, she is false to you, and is madly in love
with my
brother-in-law, Steinbock, whose debts she had paid."
"It is I who paid them!"
"Very good," said Hulot; "I am glad for Count Steinbock's
sake; he may
some day repay the money. But he is loved, much loved, and
often--"
"Loved!" cried Crevel, whose face showed his utter
bewilderment. "It
is cowardly, and dirty, and mean, and cheap, to calumniate a
woman!--
When a man says such things, monsieur, he must bring proof."
"I will bring proof."
"I shall expect it."
"By the day after to-morrow, my dear Monsieur Crevel, I shall
be able
to tell you the day, the hour, the very minute when I can expose
the
horrible depravity of your future wife."
"Very well; I shall be delighted," said Crevel, who had
recovered
himself.
"Good-bye, my children, for the present; good-bye, Lisbeth."
"See him out, Lisbeth," said Celestine in an undertone.
"And is this the way you take yourself off?" cried Lisbeth to Crevel.
"Ah, ha!" said Crevel, "my son-in-law is too clever by half;
he is
getting on. The Courts and the Chamber, judicial trickery
and
political dodges, are making a man of him with a vengeance!--So
he
knows I am to be married on Wednesday, and on a Sunday my
gentleman
proposes to fix the hour, within three days, when he can prove
that my
wife is unworthy of me. That is a good story!--Well, I am going
back
to sign the contract. Come with me, Lisbeth--yes, come. They
will
never know. I meant to have left Celestine forty thousand francs
a
year; but Hulot has just behaved in a way to alienate my
affection for
ever."
"Give me ten minutes, Pere Crevel; wait for me in your
carriage at the
gate. I will make some excuse for going out."
"Very well--all right."
"My dears," said Lisbeth, who found all the family reassembled
in the
drawing-room, "I am going with Crevel: the marriage contract is
to be
signed this afternoon, and I shall hear what he has settled. It
will
probably be my last visit to that woman. Your father is furious;
he
will disinherit you--"
"His vanity will prevent that," said the son-in-law. "He was
bent on
owning the estate of Presles, and he will keep it; I know him.
Even if
he were to have children, Celestine would still have half of
what he
might leave; the law forbids his giving away all his
fortune.--Still,
these questions are nothing to me; I am only thinking of our
honor.--
Go then, cousin," and he pressed Lisbeth's hand, "and listen
carefully
to the contract."
Twenty minutes after, Lisbeth and Crevel reached the house in
the Rue
Barbet, where Madame Marneffe was awaiting, in mild impatience,
the
result of a step taken by her commands. Valerie had in the end
fallen
a prey to the absorbing love which, once in her life, masters
a
woman's heart. Wenceslas was its object, and, a failure as an
artist,
he became in Madame Marneffe's hands a lover so perfect that he
was to
her what she had been to Baron Hulot.
Valerie was holding a slipper in one hand, and Steinbock
clasped the
other, while her head rested on his shoulder. The rambling
conversation in which they had been engaged ever since Crevel
went out
may be ticketed, like certain lengthy literary efforts of our
day,
"All rights reserved," for it cannot be reproduced. This
masterpiece
of personal poetry naturally brought a regret to the artist's
lips,
and he said, not without some bitterness:
"What a pity it is that I married; for if I had but waited, as
Lisbeth
told me, I might now have married you."
"Who but a Pole would wish to make a wife of a devoted
mistress?"
cried Valerie. "To change love into duty, and pleasure into a
bore."
"I know you to be so fickle," replied Steinbock. "Did I not
hear you
talking to Lisbeth of that Brazilian, Baron Montes?"
"Do you want to rid me of him?"
"It would be the only way to hinder his seeing you," said the
ex-
sculptor.
"Let me tell you, my darling--for I tell you everything," said
Valerie
--"I was saving him up for a husband.--The promises I have made
to
that man!--Oh, long before I knew you," said she, in reply to
a
movement from Wenceslas. "And those promises, of which he
avails
himself to plague me, oblige me to get married almost secretly;
for if
he should hear that I am marrying Crevel, he is the sort of man
that--
that would kill me."
"Oh, as to that!" said Steinbock, with a scornful expression,
which
conveyed that such a danger was small indeed for a woman beloved
by a
Pole.
And in the matter of valor there is no brag or bravado in a
Pole, so
thoroughly and seriously brave are they all.
"And that idiot Crevel," she went on, "who wants to make a
great
display and indulge his taste for inexpensive magnificence in
honor of
the wedding, places me in difficulties from which I see no
escape."
Could Valerie confess to this man, whom she adored, that since
the
discomfiture of Baron Hulot, this Baron Henri Montes had
inherited the
privilege of calling on her at all hours of the day or night;
and
that, notwithstanding her cleverness, she was still puzzled to
find a
cause of quarrel in which the Brazilian might seem to be solely
in the
wrong? She knew the Baron's almost savage temper--not unlike
Lisbeth's
--too well not to quake as she thought of this Othello of Rio
de
Janeiro.
As the carriage drove up, Steinbock released Valerie, for his
arm was
round her waist, and took up a newspaper, in which he was
found
absorbed. Valerie was stitching with elaborate care at the
slippers
she was working for Crevel.
"How they slander her!" whispered Lisbeth to Crevel, pointing
to this
picture as they opened the door. "Look at her hair--not in the
least
tumbled. To hear Victorin, you might have expected to find two
turtle-
doves in a nest."
"My dear Lisbeth," cried Crevel, in his favorite position,
"you see
that to turn Lucretia into Aspasia, you have only to inspire
a
passion!"
"And have I not always told you," said Lisbeth, "that women
like a
burly profligate like you?"
"And she would be most ungrateful, too," said Crevel; "for as
to the
money I have spent here, Grindot and I alone can tell!"
And he waved a hand at the staircase.
In decorating this house, which Crevel regarded as his own,
Grindot
had tried to compete with Cleretti, in whose hands the Duc
d'Herouville had placed Josepha's villa. But Crevel, incapable
of
understanding art, had, like all sordid souls, wanted to spend
a
certain sum fixed beforehand. Grindot, fettered by a contract,
had
found it impossible to embody his architectural dream.
The difference between Josepha's house and that in the Rue
Barbet was
just that between the individual stamp on things and commonness.
The
objects you admired at Crevel's were to be bought in any shop.
These
two types of luxury are divided by the river Million. A mirror,
if
unique, is worth six thousand francs; a mirror designed by a
manufacturer who turns them out by the dozen costs five hundred.
A
genuine lustre by Boulle will sell at a public auction for
three
thousand francs; the same thing reproduced by casting may be
made for
a thousand or twelve hundred; one is archaeologically what a
picture
by Raphael is in painting, the other is a copy. At what would
you
value a copy of a Raphael? Thus Crevel's mansion was a
splendid
example of the luxury of idiots, while Josepha's was a perfect
model
of an artist's home.
"War is declared," said Crevel, going up to Madame Marneffe.
She rang the bell.
"Go and find Monsieur Berthier," said she to the man-servant,
"and do
not return without him. If you had succeeded," said she,
embracing
Crevel, "we would have postponed our happiness, my dear Daddy,
and
have given a really splendid entertainment; but when a whole
family is
set against a match, my dear, decency requires that the wedding
shall
be a quiet one, especially when the lady is a widow."
"On the contrary, I intend to make a display of magnificence
a la
Louis XIV.," said Crevel, who of late had held the eighteenth
century
rather cheap. "I have ordered new carriages; there is one for
monsieur
and one for madame, two neat coupes; and a chaise, a
handsome
traveling carriage with a splendid hammercloth, on springs
that
tremble like Madame Hulot."
"Oh, ho! You intend?--Then you have ceased to be my
lamb?--No, no,
my friend, you will do what I intend. We will sign the
contract
quietly--just ourselves--this afternoon. Then, on Wednesday, we
will
be regularly married, really married, in mufti, as my poor
mother
would have said. We will walk to church, plainly dressed, and
have
only a low mass. Our witnesses are Stidmann, Steinbock, Vignon,
and
Massol, all wide-awake men, who will be at the mairie by chance,
and
who will so far sacrifice themselves as to attend mass.
"Your colleague will perform the civil marriage, for once in a
way, as
early as half-past nine. Mass is at ten; we shall be at home
to
breakfast by half-past eleven.
"I have promised our guests that we will sit at table till
the
evening. There will be Bixiou, your old official chum du
Tillet,
Lousteau, Vernisset, Leon de Lora, Vernou, all the wittiest men
in
Paris, who will not know that we are married. We will play them
a
little trick, we will get just a little tipsy, and Lisbeth must
join
us. I want her to study matrimony; Bixiou shall make love to
her, and
--and enlighten her darkness."
For two hours Madame Marneffe went on talking nonsense, and
Crevel
made this judicious reflection:
"How can so light-hearted a creature be utterly depraved?
Feather-
brained, yes! but wicked? Nonsense!"
"Well, and what did the young people say about me?" said
Valerie to
Crevel at a moment when he sat down by her on the sofa. "All
sorts of
horrors?"
"They will have it that you have a criminal passion for
Wenceslas--
you, who are virtue itself."
"I love him!--I should think so, my little Wenceslas!" cried
Valerie,
calling the artist to her, taking his face in her hands, and
kissing
his forehead. "A poor boy with no fortune, and no one to depend
on!
Cast off by a carrotty giraffe! What do you expect, Crevel?
Wenceslas
is my poet, and I love him as if he were my own child, and make
no
secret of it. Bah! your virtuous women see evil everywhere and
in
everything. Bless me, could they not sit by a man without doing
wrong?
I am a spoilt child who has had all it ever wanted, and bonbons
no
longer excite me.--Poor things! I am sorry for them!
"And who slandered me so?"
"Victorin," said Crevel.
"Then why did you not stop his mouth, the odious legal macaw!
with the
story of the two hundred thousand francs and his mamma?"
"Oh, the Baroness had fled," said Lisbeth.
"They had better take care, Lisbeth," said Madame Marneffe,
with a
frown. "Either they will receive me and do it handsomely, and
come to
their stepmother's house--all the party!--or I will see them in
lower
depths than the Baron has reached, and you may tell them I said
so!--
At last I shall turn nasty. On my honor, I believe that evil is
the
scythe with which to cut down the good."
At three o'clock Monsieur Berthier, Cardot's successor, read
the
marriage-contract, after a short conference with Crevel, for
some of
the articles were made conditional on the action taken by
Monsieur and
Madame Victorin Hulot.
Crevel settled on his wife a fortune consisting, in the first
place,
of forty thousand francs in dividends on specified
securities;
secondly, of the house and all its contents; and thirdly, of
three
million francs not invested. He also assigned to his wife
every
benefit allowed by law; he left all the property free of duty;
and in
the event of their dying without issue, each devised to the
survivor
the whole of their property and real estate.
By this arrangement the fortune left to Celestine and her
husband was
reduced to two millions of francs in capital. If Crevel and his
second
wife should have children, Celestine's share was limited to
five
hundred thousand francs, as the life-interest in the rest was
to
accrue to Valerie. This would be about the ninth part of his
whole
real and personal estate.
Lisbeth returned to dine in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, despair
written on
her face. She explained and bewailed the terms of the
marriage-
contract, but found Celestine and her husband insensible to
the
disastrous news.
"You have provoked your father, my children. Madame Marneffe
swears
that you shall receive Monsieur Crevel's wife and go to her
house,"
said she.
"Never!" said Victorin.
"Never!" said Celestine.
"Never!" said Hortense.
Lisbeth was possessed by the wish to crush the haughty
attitude
assumed by all the Hulots.
"She seems to have arms that she can turn against you," she
replied.
"I do not know all about it, but I shall find out. She spoke
vaguely
of some history of two hundred thousand francs in which Adeline
is
implicated."
The Baroness fell gently backward on the sofa she was sitting
on in a
fit of hysterical sobbing.
"Go there, go, my children!" she cried. "Receive the woman!
Monsieur
Crevel is an infamous wretch. He deserves the worst
punishment
imaginable.--Do as the woman desires you! She is a monster--she
knows
all!"
After gasping out these words with tears and sobs, Madame
Hulot
collected her strength to go to her room, leaning on her
daughter and
Celestine.
"What is the meaning of all this?" cried Lisbeth, left alone
with
Victorin.
The lawyer stood rigid, in very natural dismay, and did not hear her.
"What is the matter, my dear Victorin?"
"I am horrified!" said he, and his face scowled darkly. "Woe
to
anybody who hurts my mother! I have no scruples then. I would
crush
that woman like a viper if I could!--What, does she attack my
mother's
life, my mother's honor?"
"She said, but do not repeat it, my dear Victorin--she said
you should
all fall lower even than your father. And she scolded Crevel
roundly
for not having shut your mouths with this secret that seems to
be such
a terror to Adeline."
A doctor was sent for, for the Baroness was evidently worse.
He gave
her a draught containing a large dose of opium, and Adeline,
having
swallowed it, fell into a deep sleep; but the whole family
were
greatly alarmed.
Early next morning Victorin went out, and on his way to the
Courts
called at the Prefecture of the Police, where he begged Vautrin,
the
head of the detective department, to send him Madame de
Saint-Esteve.
"We are forbidden, monsieur, to meddle in your affairs; but
Madame de
Saint-Esteve is in business, and will attend to your orders,"
replied
this famous police officer.
On his return home, the unhappy lawyer was told that his
mother's
reason was in danger. Doctor Bianchon, Doctor Larabit, and
Professor
Angard had met in consultation, and were prepared to apply
heroic
remedies to hinder the rush of blood to the head. At the moment
when
Victorin was listening to Doctor Bianchon, who was giving him,
at some
length, his reasons for hoping that the crisis might be got
over, the
man-servant announced that a client, Madame de Saint-Esteve,
was
waiting to see him. Victorin left Bianchon in the middle of a
sentence
and flew downstairs like a madman.
"Is there any hereditary lunacy in the family?" said
Bianchon,
addressing Larabit.
The doctors departed, leaving a hospital attendant, instructed
by
them, to watch Madame Hulot.
"A whole life of virtue!----" was the only sentence the
sufferer had
spoken since the attack.
Lisbeth never left Adeline's bedside; she sat up all night,
and was
much admired by the two younger women.
"Well, my dear Madame de Saint-Esteve," said Victorin, showing
the
dreadful old woman into his study and carefully shutting the
doors,
"how are we getting on?"
"Ah, ha! my dear friend," said she, looking at Victorin with
cold
irony. "So you have thought things over?"
"Have you done anything?"
"Will you pay fifty thousand francs?"
"Yes," replied Victorin, "for we must get on. Do you know that
by one
single phrase that woman has endangered my mother's life and
reason?
So, I say, get on."
"We have got on!" replied the old woman.
"Well?" cried Victorin, with a gulp.
"Well, you do not cry off the expenses?"
"On the contrary."
"They run up to twenty-three thousand francs already."
Victorin looked helplessly at the woman.
"Well, could we hoodwink you, you, one of the shining lights
of the
law?" said she. "For that sum we have secured a maid's
conscience and
a picture by Raphael.--It is not dear."
Hulot, still bewildered, sat with wide open eyes.
"Well, then," his visitor went on, "we have purchased the
honesty of
Mademoiselle Reine Tousard, a damsel from whom Madame Marneffe
has no
secrets--"
"I understand!"
"But if you shy, say so."
"I will play blindfold," he replied. "My mother has told me
that that
couple deserve the worst torments--"
"The rack is out of date," said the old woman.
"You answer for the result?"
"Leave it all to me," said the woman; "your vengeance is simmering."
She looked at the clock; it was six.
"Your avenger is dressing; the fires are lighted at the
Rocher de
Cancale; the horses are pawing the ground; my irons are
getting hot.
--Oh, I know your Madame Marneffe by heart!-- Everything is
ready. And
there are some boluses in the rat-trap; I will tell you
to-morrow
morning if the mouse is poisoned. I believe she will be; good
evening,
my son."
"Good-bye, madame."
"Do you know English?"
"Yes."
"Well, my son, thou shalt be King. That is to say, you shall
come into
your inheritance," said the dreadful old witch, foreseen by
Shakespeare, and who seemed to know her Shakespeare.
She left Hulot amazed at the door of his study.
"The consultation is for to-morrow!" said she, with the
gracious air
of a regular client.
She saw two persons coming, and wished to pass in their eyes
a
pinchbeck countess.
"What impudence!" thought Hulot, bowing to his pretended client.
Baron Montes de Montejanos was a lion, but a lion not
accounted for.
Fashionable Paris, Paris of the turf and of the town, admired
the
ineffable waistcoats of this foreign gentleman, his spotless
patent-
leather boots, his incomparable sticks, his much-coveted horses,
and
the negro servants who rode the horses and who were entirely
slaves
and most consumedly thrashed.
His fortune was well known; he had a credit account up to
seven
hundred thousand francs in the great banking house of du Tillet;
but
he was always seen alone. When he went to "first nights," he was
in a
stall. He frequented no drawing-rooms. He had never given his
arm to a
girl on the streets. His name would not be coupled with that of
any
pretty woman of the world. To pass his time he played whist at
the
Jockey-Club. The world was reduced to calumny, or, which it
thought
funnier, to laughing at his peculiarities; he went by the name
of
Combabus.
Bixiou, Leon de Lora, Lousteau, Florine, Mademoiselle
Heloise
Brisetout, and Nathan, supping one evening with the
notorious
Carabine, with a large party of lions and
lionesses, had invented
this name with an excessively burlesque explanation. Massol, as
being
on the Council of State, and Claude Vignon, erewhile Professor
of
Greek, had related to the ignorant damsels the famous
anecdote,
preserved in Rollin's Ancient History, concerning
Combabus, that
voluntary Abelard who was placed in charge of the wife of a King
of
Assyria, Persia, Bactria, Mesopotamia, and other
geographical
divisions peculiar to old Professor du Bocage, who continued the
work
of d'Anville, the creator of the East of antiquity. This
nickname,
which gave Carabine's guests laughter for a quarter of an hour,
gave
rise to a series of over-free jests, to which the Academy could
not
award the Montyon prize; but among which the name was taken up,
to
rest thenceforth on the curly mane of the handsome Baron, called
by
Josepha the splendid Brazilian--as one might say a splendid
Catoxantha.
Carabine, the loveliest of her tribe, whose delicate beauty
and
amusing wit had snatched the sceptre of the Thirteenth
Arrondissement
from the hands of Mademoiselle Turquet, better known by the name
of
Malaga--Mademoiselle Seraphine Sinet (this was her real name)
was to
du Tillet the banker what Josepha Mirah was to the Duc
d'Herouville.
Now, on the morning of the very day when Madame de
Saint-Esteve had
prophesied success to Victorin, Carabine had said to du Tillet
at
about seven o'clock:
"If you want to be very nice, you will give me a dinner at the
Rocher
de Cancale and bring Combabus. We want to know, once for
all, whether
he has a mistress.--I bet that he has, and I should like to
win."
"He is still at the Hotel des Princes; I will call," replied
du
Tillet. "We will have some fun. Ask all the youngsters--the
youngster
Bixiou, the youngster Lora, in short, all the clan."
At half-past seven that evening, in the handsomest room of
the
restaurant where all Europe has dined, a splendid silver service
was
spread, made on purpose for entertainments where vanity pays the
bill
in bank-notes. A flood of light fell in ripples on the chased
rims;
waiters, whom a provincial might have taken for diplomatists but
for
their age, stood solemnly, as knowing themselves to be
overpaid.
Five guests had arrived, and were waiting for nine more. These
were
first and foremost Bixiou, still flourishing in 1843, the salt
of
every intellectual dish, always supplied with fresh wit--a
phenomenon
as rare in Paris as virtue is; Leon de Lora, the greatest
living
painter of landscape and the sea who has this great advantage
over all
his rivals, that he has never fallen below his first successes.
The
courtesans could never dispense with these two kings of ready
wit. No
supper, no dinner, was possible without them.
Seraphine Sinet, dite Carabine, as the mistress en
titre of the
Amphitryon, was one of the first to arrive; and the brilliant
lighting
showed off her shoulders, unrivaled in Paris, her throat, as
round as
if turned in a lathe, without a crease, her saucy face, and
dress of
satin brocade in two shades of blue, trimmed with Honiton lace
enough
to have fed a whole village for a month.
Pretty Jenny Cadine, not acting that evening, came in a dress
of
incredible splendor; her portrait is too well known to need
any
description. A party is always a Longchamps of evening dress for
these
ladies, each anxious to win the prize for her millionaire by
thus
announcing to her rivals:
"This is the price I am worth!"
A third woman, evidently at the initial stage of her career,
gazed,
almost shamefaced, at the luxury of her two established and
wealthy
companions. Simply dressed in white cashmere trimmed with blue,
her
head had been dressed with real flowers by a coiffeur of the
old-
fashioned school, whose awkward hands had unconsciously given
the
charm of ineptitude to her fair hair. Still unaccustomed to
any
finery, she showed the timidity--to use a hackneyed phrase--
inseparable from a first appearance. She had come from Valognes
to
find in Paris some use for her distracting youthfulness, her
innocence
that might have stirred the senses of a dying man, and her
beauty,
worthy to hold its own with any that Normandy has ever supplied
to the
theatres of the capital. The lines of that unblemished face were
the
ideal of angelic purity. Her milk-white skin reflected the light
like
a mirror. The delicate pink in her cheeks might have been laid
on with
a brush. She was called Cydalise, and, as will be seen, she was
an
important pawn in the game played by Ma'ame Nourrisson to
defeat
Madame Marneffe.
"Your arm is not a match for your name, my child," said Jenny
Cadine,
to whom Carabine had introduced this masterpiece of sixteen,
having
brought her with her.
And, in fact, Cydalise displayed to public admiration a fine
pair of
arms, smooth and satiny, but red with healthy young blood.
"What do you want for her?" said Jenny Cadine, in an undertone
to
Carabine.
"A fortune."
"What are you going to do with her?"
"Well--Madame Combabus!"
"And what are you to get for such a job?"
"Guess."
"A service of plate?"
"I have three."
"Diamonds?"
"I am selling them."
"A green monkey?"
"No. A picture by Raphael."
"What maggot is that in your brain?"
"Josepha makes me sick with her pictures," said Carabine. "I
want some
better than hers."
Du Tillet came with the Brazilian, the hero of the feast; the
Duc
d'Herouville followed with Josepha. The singer wore a plain
velvet
gown, but she had on a necklace worth a hundred and twenty
thousand
francs, pearls hardly distinguishable from her skin like
white
camellia petals. She had stuck one scarlet camellia in her black
hair
--a patch--the effect was dazzling, and she had amused herself
by
putting eleven rows of pearls on each arm. As she shook hands
with
Jenny Cadine, the actress said, "Lend me your mittens!"
Josepha unclasped them one by one and handed them to her
friend on a
plate.
"There's style!" said Carabine. "Quite the Duchess! You have
robbed
the ocean to dress the nymph, Monsieur le Duc," she added
turning to
the little Duc d'Herouville.
The actress took two of the bracelets; she clasped the other
twenty on
the singer's beautiful arms, which she kissed.
Lousteau, the literary cadger, la Palferine and Malaga,
Massol,
Vauvinet, and Theodore Gaillard, a proprietor of one of the
most
important political newspapers, completed the party. The Duc
d'Herouville, polite to everybody, as a fine gentleman knows how
to
be, greeted the Comte de la Palferine with the particular nod
which,
while it does not imply either esteem or intimacy, conveys to
all the
world, "We are of the same race, the same blood--equals!"--And
this
greeting, the shibboleth of the aristocracy, was invented to be
the
despair of the upper citizen class.
Carabine placed Combabus on her left, and the Duc d'Herouville
on her
right. Cydalise was next to the Brazilian, and beyond her was
Bixiou.
Malaga sat by the Duke.
Oysters appeared at seven o'clock; at eight they were drinking
iced
punch. Every one is familiar with the bill of fare of such a
banquet.
By nine o'clock they were talking as people talk after
forty-two
bottles of various wines, drunk by fourteen persons. Dessert was
on
the table, the odious dessert of the month of April. Of all the
party,
the only one affected by the heady atmosphere was Cydalise, who
was
humming a tune. None of the party, with the exception of the
poor
country girl, had lost their reason; the drinkers and the women
were
the experienced elite of the society that sups. Their
wits were
bright, their eyes glistened, but with no loss of intelligence,
though
the talk drifted into satire, anecdote, and gossip.
Conversation,
hitherto confined to the inevitable circle of racing,
horses,
hammerings on the Bourse, the different occupations of the
lions
themselves, and the scandals of the town, showed a tendency to
break
up into intimate tete-a-tete, the dialogues of two
hearts.
And at this stage, at a signal from Carabine to Leon de Lora,
Bixiou,
la Palferine, and du Tillet, love came under discussion.
"A doctor in good society never talks of medicine, true nobles
never
speak of their ancestors, men of genius do not discuss their
works,"
said Josepha; "why should we talk business? If I got the opera
put off
in order to dine here, it was assuredly not to work.--So let us
change
the subject, dear children."
"But we are speaking of real love, my beauty," said Malaga,
"of the
love that makes a man fling all to the dogs--father, mother,
wife,
children--and retire to Clichy."
"Talk away, then, 'don't know yer,' " said the singer.
The slang words, borrowed from the Street Arab, and spoken by
these
women, may be a poem on their lips, helped by the expression of
the
eyes and face.
"What, do not I love you, Josepha?" said the Duke in a low voice.
"You, perhaps, may love me truly," said she in his ear, and
she
smiled. "But I do not love you in the way they describe, with
such
love as makes the world dark in the absence of the man beloved.
You
are delightful to me, useful--but not indispensable; and if you
were
to throw me over to-morrow, I could have three dukes for
one."
"Is true love to be found in Paris?" asked Leon de Lora. "Men
have not
even time to make a fortune; how can they give themselves over
to true
love, which swamps a man as water melts sugar? A man must be
enormously rich to indulge in it, for love annihilates
him--for
instance, like our Brazilian friend over there. As I said long
ago,
'Extremes defeat--themselves.' A true lover is like an eunuch;
women
have ceased to exist for him. He is mystical; he is like the
true
Christian, an anchorite of the desert!--See our noble
Brazilian."
Every one at table looked at Henri Montes de Montejanos, who
was shy
at finding every eye centred on him.
"He has been feeding there for an hour without discovering,
any more
than an ox at pasture, that he is sitting next to--I will not
say, in
such company, the loveliest--but the freshest woman in all
Paris."
"Everything is fresh here, even the fish; it is what the house
is
famous for," said Carabine.
Baron Montes looked good-naturedly at the painter, and said:
"Very good! I drink to your very good health," and bowing to
Leon de
Lora, he lifted his glass of port wine and drank it with much
dignity.
"Are you then truly in love?" asked Malaga of her neighbor,
thus
interpreting his toast.
The Brazilian refilled his glass, bowed to Carabine, and drank again.
"To the lady's health then!" said the courtesan, in such a
droll tone
that Lora, du Tillet, and Bixiou burst out laughing.
The Brazilian sat like a bronze statue. This impassibility
provoked
Carabine. She knew perfectly well that Montes was devoted to
Madame
Marneffe, but she had not expected this dogged fidelity,
this
obstinate silence of conviction.
A woman is as often gauged by the attitude of her lover as a
man is
judged from the tone of his mistress. The Baron was proud of
his
attachment to Valerie, and of hers to him; his smile had, to
these
experienced connoisseurs, a touch of irony; he was really grand
to
look upon; wine had not flushed him; and his eyes, with their
peculiar
lustre as of tarnished gold, kept the secrets of his soul.
Even
Carabine said to herself:
"What a woman she must be! How she has sealed up that heart!"
"He is a rock!" said Bixiou in an undertone, imagining that
the whole
thing was a practical joke, and never suspecting the importance
to
Carabine of reducing this fortress.
While this conversation, apparently so frivolous, was going on
at
Carabine's right, the discussion of love was continued on her
left
between the Duc d'Herouville, Lousteau, Josepha, Jenny Cadine,
and
Massol. They were wondering whether such rare phenomena were
the
result of passion, obstinacy, or affection. Josepha, bored to
death by
it all, tried to change the subject.
"You are talking of what you know nothing about. Is there a
man among
you who ever loved a woman--a woman beneath him--enough to
squander
his fortune and his children's, to sacrifice his future and
blight his
past, to risk going to the hulks for robbing the Government, to
kill
an uncle and a brother, to let his eye be so effectually blinded
that
he did not even perceive that it was done to hinder his seeing
the
abyss into which, as a crowning jest, he was being driven? Du
Tillet
has a cash-box under his left breast; Leon de Lora has his wit;
Bixiou
would laugh at himself for a fool if he loved any one but
himself;
Massol has a minister's portfolio in the place of a heart;
Lousteau
can have nothing but viscera, since he could endure to be thrown
over
by Madame de Baudraye; Monsieur le Duc is too rich to prove his
love
by his ruin; Vauvinet is not in it--I do not regard a
bill-broker as
one of the human race; and you have never loved, nor I, nor
Jenny
Cadine, nor Malaga. For my part, I never but once even saw
the
phenomenon I have described. It was," and she turned to Jenny
Cadine,
"that poor Baron Hulot, whom I am going to advertise for like a
lost
dog, for I want to find him."
"Oh, ho!" said Carabine to herself, and looking keenly at
Josepha,
"then Madame Nourrisson has two pictures by Raphael, since
Josepha is
playing my hand!"
"Poor fellow," said Vauvinet, "he was a great man!
Magnificent! And
what a figure, what a style, the air of Francis I.! What a
volcano!
and how full of ingenious ways of getting money! He must be
looking
for it now, wherever he is, and I make no doubt he extracts it
even
from the walls built of bones that you may see in the suburbs of
Paris
near the city gates--"
"And all that," said Bixiou, "for that little Madame Marneffe!
There
is a precious hussy for you!"
"She is just going to marry my friend Crevel," said du Tillet.
"And she is madly in love with my friend Steinbock," Leon de
Lora put
in.
These three phrases were like so many pistol-shots fired
point-blank
at Montes. He turned white, and the shock was so painful that he
rose
with difficulty.
"You are a set of blackguards!" cried he. "You have no right
to speak
the name of an honest woman in the same breath with those
fallen
creatures--above all, not to make it a mark for your
slander!"
He was interrupted by unanimous bravos and applause. Bixiou,
Leon de
Lora, Vauvinet, du Tillet, and Massol set the example, and there
was a
chorus.
"Hurrah for the Emperor!" said Bixiou.
"Crown him! crown him!" cried Vauvinet.
"Three groans for such a good dog! Hurrah for Brazil!" cried Lousteau.
"So, my copper-colored Baron, it is our Valerie that you love;
and you
are not disgusted?" said Leon de Lora.
"His remark is not parliamentary, but it is grand!" observed Massol.
"But, my most delightful customer," said du Tillet, "you
were
recommended to me; I am your banker; your innocence reflects on
my
credit."
"Yes, tell me, you are a reasonable creature----" said the
Brazilian
to the banker.
"Thanks on behalf of the company," said Bixiou with a bow.
"Tell me the real facts," Montes went on, heedless of
Bixiou's
interjection.
"Well, then," replied du Tillet, "I have the honor to tell you
that I
am asked to the Crevel wedding."
"Ah, ha! Combabus holds a brief for Madame Marneffe!" said
Josepha,
rising solemnly.
She went round to Montes with a tragic look, patted him kindly
on the
head, looked at him for a moment with comical admiration, and
nodded
sagely.
"Hulot was the first instance of love through fire and water,"
said
she; "this is the second. But it ought not to count, as it comes
from
the Tropics."
Montes had dropped into his chair again, when Josepha gently
touched
his forehead, and looked at du Tillet as he said:
"If I am the victim of a Paris jest, if you only wanted to get
at my
secret----" and he sent a flashing look round the table,
embracing all
the guests in a flaming glance that blazed with the sun of
Brazil,--"I
beg of you as a favor to tell me so," he went on, in a tone of
almost
childlike entreaty; "but do not vilify the woman I love."
"Nay, indeed," said Carabine in a low voice; "but if, on the
contrary,
you are shamefully betrayed, cheated, tricked by Valerie, if I
should
give you the proof in an hour, in my own house, what then?"
"I cannot tell you before all these Iagos," said the Brazilian.
Carabine understood him to say magots (baboons).
"Well, well, say no more!" she replied, smiling. "Do not make
yourself
a laughing-stock for all the wittiest men in Paris; come to my
house,
we will talk it over."
Montes was crushed. "Proofs," he stammered, "consider--"
"Only too many," replied Carabine; "and if the mere suspicion
hits you
so hard, I fear for your reason."
"Is this creature obstinate, I ask you? He is worse than the
late
lamented King of Holland!--I say, Lousteau, Bixiou, Massol, all
the
crew of you, are you not invited to breakfast with Madame
Marneffe the
day after to-morrow?" said Leon de Lora.
"Ya," said du Tillet; "I have the honor of assuring
you, Baron, that
if you had by any chance thought of marrying Madame Marneffe,
you are
thrown out like a bill in Parliament, beaten by a blackball
called
Crevel. My friend, my old comrade Crevel, has eighty thousand
francs a
year; and you, I suppose, did not show such a good hand, for if
you
had, you, I imagine, would have been preferred."
Montes listened with a half-absent, half-smiling expression,
which
struck them all with terror.
At this moment the head-waiter came to whisper to Carabine
that a
lady, a relation of hers, was in the drawing-room and wished to
speak
to her.
Carabine rose and went out to find Madame Nourrisson, decently
veiled
with black lace.
"Well, child, am I to go to your house? Has he taken the hook?"
"Yes, mother; and the pistol is so fully loaded, that my only
fear is
that it will burst," said Carabine.
About an hour later, Montes, Cydalise, and Carabine, returning
from
the Rocher de Cancale, entered Carabine's little
sitting-room in the
Rue Saint-Georges. Madame Nourrisson was sitting in an armchair
by the
fire.
"Here is my worthy old aunt," said Carabine.
"Yes, child, I came in person to fetch my little allowance.
You would
have forgotten me, though you are kind-hearted, and I have some
bills
to pay to-morrow. Buying and selling clothes, I am always short
of
cash. Who is this at your heels? The gentleman looks very much
put out
about something."
The dreadful Madame Nourrisson, at this moment so completely
disguised
as to look like a respectable old body, rose to embrace
Carabine, one
of the hundred and odd courtesans she had launched on their
horrible
career of vice.
"He is an Othello who is not to be taken in, whom I have the
honor of
introducing to you--Monsieur le Baron Montes de Montejanos."
"Oh! I have heard him talked about, and know his name.--You
are
nicknamed Combabus, because you love but one woman, and in
Paris, that
is the same as loving no one at all. And is it by chance the
object of
your affections who is fretting you? Madame Marneffe, Crevel's
woman?
I tell you what, my dear sir, you may bless your stars instead
of
cursing them. She is a good-for-nothing baggage, is that little
woman.
I know her tricks!"
"Get along," said Carabine, into whose hand Madame Nourrisson
had
slipped a note while embracing her, "you do not know your
Brazilians.
They are wrong-headed creatures that insist on being impaled
through
the heart. The more jealous they are, the more jealous they want
to
be. Monsieur talks of dealing death all round, but he will kill
nobody
because he is in love.--However, I have brought him here to give
him
the proofs of his discomfiture, which I have got from that
little
Steinbock."
Montes was drunk; he listened as if the women were talking
about
somebody else.
Carabine went to take off her velvet wrap, and read a
facsimile of a
note, as follows:--
"DEAR PUSS.--He dines with Popinot this evening, and will come to
fetch me from the Opera at eleven. I shall go out at about half-
past five and count on finding you at our paradise. Order dinner
to be sent in from the Maison d'or. Dress, so as to be able to
take me to the Opera. We shall have four hours to ourselves.
Return this note to me; not that your Valerie doubts you--I would
give you my life, my fortune, and my honor, but I am afraid of the
tricks of chance."
"Here, Baron, this is the note sent to Count Steinbock this
morning;
read the address. The original document is burnt."
Montes turned the note over and over, recognized the writing,
and was
struck by a rational idea, which is sufficient evidence of
the
disorder of his brain.
"And, pray," said he, looking at Carabine, "what object have
you in
torturing my heart, for you must have paid very dear for the
privilege
of having the note in your possession long enough to get it
lithographed?"
"Foolish man!" said Carabine, at a nod from Madame Nourrisson,
"don't
you see that poor child Cydalise--a girl of sixteen, who has
been
pining for you these three months, till she has lost her
appetite for
food or drink, and who is heart-broken because you have never
even
glanced at her?"
Cydalise put her handkerchief to her eyes with an appearance
of
emotion--"She is furious," Carabine went on, "though she looks
as if
butter would not melt in her mouth, furious to see the man she
adores
duped by a villainous hussy; she would kill Valerie--"
"Oh, as for that," said the Brazilian, "that is my business!"
"What, killing?" said old Nourrisson. "No, my son, we don't do
that
here nowadays."
"Oh!" said Montes, "I am not a native of this country. I live
in a
parish where I can laugh at your laws; and if you give me
proof--"
"Well, that note. Is that nothing?"
"No," said the Brazilian. "I do not believe in the writing. I
must see
for myself."
"See!" cried Carabine, taking the hint at once from a gesture
of her
supposed aunt. "You shall see, my dear Tiger, all you wish to
see--on
one condition."
"And that is?"
"Look at Cydalise."
At a wink from Madame Nourrisson, Cydalise cast a tender look
at the
Baron.
"Will you be good to her? Will you make her a home?" asked
Carabine.
"A girl of such beauty is well worth a house and a carriage! It
would
be a monstrous shame to leave her to walk the streets. And
besides--
she is in debt.--How much do you owe?" asked Carabine,
nipping
Cydalise's arm.
"She is worth all she can get," said the old woman. "The point
is that
she can find a buyer."
"Listen!" cried Montes, fully aware at last of this
masterpiece of
womankind "you will show me Valerie--"
"And Count Steinbock.--Certainly!" said Madame Nourrisson.
For the past ten minutes the old woman had been watching
the
Brazilian; she saw that he was an instrument tuned up to the
murderous
pitch she needed; and, above all, so effectually blinded, that
he
would never heed who had led him on to it, and she spoke:--
"Cydalise, my Brazilian jewel, is my niece, so her concerns
are partly
mine. All this catastrophe will be the work of a few minutes,
for a
friend of mine lets the furnished room to Count Steinbock
where
Valerie is at this moment taking coffee--a queer sort of coffee,
but
she calls it her coffee. So let us understand each other,
Brazil!--I
like Brazil, it is a hot country.--What is to become of my
niece?"
"You old ostrich," said Montes, the plumes in the woman's
bonnet
catching his eye, "you interrupted me.--If you show me--if I
see
Valerie and that artist together--"
"As you would wish to be--" said Carabine; "that is understood."
"Then I will take this girl and carry her away--"
"Where?" asked Carabine.
"To Brazil," replied the Baron. "I will make her my wife. My
uncle
left me ten leagues square of entailed estate; that is how I
still
have that house and home. I have a hundred negroes--nothing
but
negroes and negresses and negro brats, all bought by my
uncle--"
"Nephew to a nigger-driver," said Carabine, with a grimace.
"That
needs some consideration.--Cydalise, child, are you fond of
the
blacks?"
"Pooh! Carabine, no nonsense," said the old woman. "The deuce
is in
it! Monsieur and I are doing business."
"If I take up another Frenchwoman, I mean to have her to
myself," the
Brazilian went on. "I warn you, mademoiselle, I am king there,
and not
a constitutional king. I am Czar; my subjects are mine by
purchase,
and no one can escape from my kingdom, which is a hundred
leagues from
any human settlement, hemmed in by savages on the interior,
and
divided from the sea by a wilderness as wide as France."
"I should prefer a garret here."
"So thought I," said Montes, "since I sold all my land and
possessions
at Rio to come back to Madame Marneffe."
"A man does not make such a voyage for nothing," remarked
Madame
Nourrisson. "You have a right to look for love for your own
sake,
particularly being so good-looking.--Oh, he is very handsome!"
said
she to Carabine.
"Very handsome, handsomer than the Postillon de
Longjumeau," replied
the courtesan.
Cydalise took the Brazilian's hand, but he released it as
politely as
he could.
"I came back for Madame Marneffe," the man went on where he
had left
off, "but you do not know why I was three years thinking about
it."
"No, savage!" said Carabine.
"Well, she had so repeatedly told me that she longed to live
with me
alone in a desert--"
"Oh, ho! he is not a savage after all," cried Carabine, with a
shout
of laughter. "He is of the highly-civilized tribe of Flats!"
"She had told me this so often," Montes went on, regardless of
the
courtesan's mockery, "that I had a lovely house fitted up in the
heart
of that vast estate. I came back to France to fetch Valerie, and
the
first evening I saw her--"
"Saw her is very proper!" said Carabine. "I will remember it."
"She told me to wait till that wretched Marneffe was dead; and
I
agreed, and forgave her for having admitted the attentions of
Hulot.
Whether the devil had her in hand I don't know, but from that
instant
that woman has humored my every whim, complied with all my
demands--
never for one moment has she given me cause to suspect
her!--"
"That is supremely clever!" said Carabine to Madame
Nourrisson, who
nodded in sign of assent.
"My faith in that woman," said Montes, and he shed a tear,
"was a
match for my love. Just now, I was ready to fight everybody
at
table--"
"So I saw," said Carabine.
"And if I am cheated, if she is going to be married, if she is
at this
moment in Steinbock's arms, she deserves a thousand deaths! I
will
kill her as I would smash a fly--"
"And how about the gendarmes, my son?" said Madame Nourrisson,
with a
smile that made your flesh creep.
"And the police agents, and the judges, and the assizes, and
all the
set-out?" added Carabine.
"You are bragging, my dear fellow," said the old woman, who
wanted to
know all the Brazilian's schemes of vengeance.
"I will kill her," he calmly repeated. "You called me a
savage.--Do
you imagine that I am fool enough to go, like a Frenchman, and
buy
poison at the chemist's shop?--During the time while we were
driving
her, I thought out my means of revenge, if you should prove to
be
right as concerns Valerie. One of my negroes has the most deadly
of
animal poisons, and incurable anywhere but in Brazil. I will
administer it to Cydalise, who will give it to me; then by the
time
when death is a certainty to Crevel and his wife, I shall be
beyond
the Azores with your cousin, who will be cured, and I will marry
her.
We have our own little tricks, we savages!--Cydalise," said
he,
looking at the country girl, "is the animal I need.--How much
does she
owe?"
"A hundred thousand francs," said Cydalise.
"She says little--but to the purpose," said Carabine, in a low
tone to
Madame Nourrisson.
"I am going mad!" cried the Brazilian, in a husky voice,
dropping on
to a sofa. "I shall die of this! But I must see, for it is
impossible!
--A lithographed note! What is to assure me that it is not a
forgery?
--Baron Hulot was in love with Valerie?" said he, recalling
Josepha's
harangue. "Nay; the proof that he did not love is that she is
still
alive--I will not leave her living for anybody else, if she is
not
wholly mine."
Montes was terrible to behold. He bellowed, he stormed; he
broke
everything he touched; rosewood was as brittle as glass.
"How he destroys things!" said Carabine, looking at the old
woman. "My
good boy," said she, giving the Brazilian a little slap, "Roland
the
Furious is very fine in a poem; but in a drawing-room he is
prosaic
and expensive."
"My son," said old Nourrisson, rising to stand in front of
the
crestfallen Baron, "I am of your way of thinking. When you love
in
that way, and are joined 'till death does you part,' life must
answer
for love. The one who first goes, carries everything away; it is
a
general wreck. You command my esteem, my admiration, my
consent,
especially for your inoculation, which will make me a Friend of
the
Negro.--But you love her! You will hark back?"
"I?--If she is so infamous, I--"
"Well, come now, you are talking too much, it strikes me. A
man who
means to be avenged, and who says he has the ways and means of
a
savage, doesn't do that.--If you want to see your 'object' in
her
paradise, you must take Cydalise and walk straight in with her
on your
arm, as if the servant had made a mistake. But no scandal! If
you mean
to be revenged, you must eat the leek, seem to be in despair,
and
allow her to bully you.--Do you see?" said Madame Nourrisson,
finding
the Brazilian quite amazed by so subtle a scheme.
"All right, old ostrich," he replied. "Come along: I understand."
"Good-bye, little one!" said the old woman to Carabine.
She signed to Cydalise to go on with Montes, and remained a
minute
with Carabine.
"Now, child, I have but one fear, and that is that he will
strangle
her! I should be in a very tight place; we must do everything
gently.
I believe you have won your picture by Raphael; but they tell me
it is
only a Mignard. Never mind, it is much prettier; all the
Raphaels are
gone black, I am told, whereas this one is as bright as a
Girodet."
"All I want is to crow over Josepha; and it is all the same to
me
whether I have a Mignard or a Raphael!--That thief had on such
pearls
this evening!--you would sell your soul for them."
Cydalise, Montes, and Madame Nourrisson got into a hackney
coach that
was waiting at the door. Madame Nourrisson whispered to the
driver the
address of a house in the same block as the Italian Opera House,
which
they could have reached in five or six minutes from the Rue
Saint-
Georges; but Madame Nourrisson desired the man to drive along
the Rue
le Peletier, and to go very slowly, so as to be able to examine
the
carriages in waiting.
"Brazilian," said the old woman, "look out for your angel's
carriage
and servants."
The Baron pointed out Valerie's carriage as they passed it.
"She has told them to come for her at ten o'clock, and she is
gone in
a cab to the house where she visits Count Steinbock. She has
dined
there, and will come to the Opera in half an hour.--It is
well
contrived!" said Madame Nourrisson. "Thus you see how she has
kept you
so long in the dark."
The Brazilian made no reply. He had become the tiger, and
had
recovered the imperturbable cool ferocity that had been so
striking at
dinner. He was as calm as a bankrupt the day after he has
stopped
payment.
At the door of the house stood a hackney coach with two
horses, of the
kind known as a Compagnie Generale, from the Company that
runs them.
"Stay here in the box," said the old woman to Montes. "This is
not an
open house like a tavern. I will send for you."
The paradise of Madame Marneffe and Wenceslas was not at all
like that
of Crevel--who, finding it useless now, had just sold his to the
Comte
Maxime de Trailles. This paradise, the paradise of all
comers,
consisted of a room on the fourth floor opening to the landing,
in a
house close to the Italian Opera. On each floor of this house
there
was a room which had originally served as the kitchen to the
apartments on that floor. But the house having become a sort of
inn,
let out for clandestine love affairs at an exorbitant price,
the
owner, the real Madame Nourrisson, an old-clothes buyer in the
Rue
Nueve Saint-Marc, had wisely appreciated the great value of
these
kitchens, and had turned them into a sort of dining-rooms. Each
of
these rooms, built between thick party-walls and with windows to
the
street, was entirely shut in by very thick double doors on
the
landing. Thus the most important secrets could be discussed over
a
dinner, with no risk of being overheard. For greater security,
the
windows had shutters inside and out. These rooms, in consequence
of
this peculiarity, were let for twelve hundred francs a month.
The
whole house, full of such paradises and mysteries was rented by
Madame
Nourrisson the First for twenty-eight thousand francs of clear
profit,
after paying her housekeeper, Madame Nourrisson the Second, for
she
did not manage it herself.
The paradise let to Count Steinbock had been hung with chintz;
the
cold, hard floor, of common tiles reddened with encaustic, was
not
felt through a soft thick carpet. The furniture consisted of
two
pretty chairs and a bed in an alcove, just now half hidden by a
table
loaded with the remains of an elegant dinner, while two bottles
with
long necks and an empty champagne-bottle in ice strewed the
field of
bacchus cultivated by Venus.
There were also--the property, no doubt, of Valerie--a low
easy-chair
and a man's smoking-chair, and a pretty toilet chest of drawers
in
rosewood, the mirror handsomely framed a la Pompadour. A
lamp
hanging from the ceiling gave a subdued light, increased by
wax
candles on the table and on the chimney-shelf.
This sketch will suffice to give an idea, urbi et orbi,
of
clandestine passion in the squalid style stamped on it in Paris
in
1840. How far, alas! from the adulterous love, symbolized by
Vulcan's
nets, three thousand years ago.
When Montes and Cydalise came upstairs, Valerie, standing
before the
fire, where a log was blazing, was allowing Wenceslas to lace
her
stays.
This is a moment when a woman who is neither too fat nor too
thin, but
like Valerie, elegant and slender, displays divine beauty. The
rosy
skin, mostly soft, invites the sleepiest eye. The lines of her
figure,
so little hidden, are so charmingly outlined by the white pleats
of
the shift and the support of the stays, that she is
irresistible--like
everything that must be parted from.
With a happy face smiling at the glass, a foot impatiently
marking
time, a hand put up to restore order among the tumbled curls,
and eyes
expressive of gratitude; with the glow of satisfaction which,
like a
sunset, warms the least details of the countenance--everything
makes
such a moment a mine of memories.
Any man who dares look back on the early errors of his life
may,
perhaps, recall some such reminiscences, and understand, though
not
excuse, the follies of Hulot and Crevel. Women are so well aware
of
their power at such a moment, that they find in it what may be
called
the aftermath of the meeting.
"Come, come; after two years' practice, you do not yet know
how to
lace a woman's stays! You are too much a Pole!--There, it is
ten
o'clock, my Wenceslas!" said Valerie, laughing at him.
At this very moment, a mischievous waiting-woman, by inserting
a
knife, pushed up the hook of the double doors that formed the
whole
security of Adam and Eve. She hastily pulled the door open--for
the
servants of these dens have little time to waste--and discovered
one
of the bewitching tableaux de genre which Gavarni has so
often shown
at the Salon.
"In here, madame," said the girl; and Cydalise went in,
followed by
Montes.
"But there is some one here.--Excuse me, madame," said the
country
girl, in alarm.
"What?--Why! it is Valerie!" cried Montes, violently slamming
the
door.
Madame Marneffe, too genuinely agitated to dissemble her
feelings,
dropped on to the chair by the fireplace. Two tears rose to her
eyes,
and at once dried away. She looked at Montes, saw the girl, and
burst
into a cackle of forced laughter. The dignity of the insulted
woman
redeemed the scantiness of her attire; she walked close up to
the
Brazilian, and looked at him so defiantly that her eyes
glittered like
knives.
"So that," said she, standing face to face with the Baron,
and
pointing to Cydalise--"that is the other side of your fidelity?
You,
who have made me promises that might convert a disbeliever in
love!
You, for whom I have done so much--have even committed
crimes!--You
are right, monsieur, I am not to compare with a child of her age
and
of such beauty!
"I know what you are going to say," she went on, looking at
Wenceslas,
whose undress was proof too clear to be denied. "This is my
concern.
If I could love you after such gross treachery--for you have
spied
upon me, you have paid for every step up these stairs, paid
the
mistress of the house, and the servant, perhaps even Reine--a
noble
deed!--If I had any remnant of affection for such a mean wretch,
I
could give him reasons that would renew his passion!--But I
leave you,
monsieur, to your doubts, which will become remorse.--Wenceslas,
my
gown!"
She took her dress and put it on, looked at herself in the
glass, and
finished dressing without heeding the Baron, as calmly as if she
had
been alone in the room.
"Wenceslas, are you ready?--Go first."
She had been watching Montes in the glass and out of the
corner of her
eye, and fancied she could see in his pallor an indication of
the
weakness which delivers a strong man over to a woman's
fascinations;
she now took his hand, going so close to him that he could not
help
inhaling the terrible perfumes which men love, and by which
they
intoxicate themselves; then, feeling his pulses beat high, she
looked
at him reproachfully.
"You have my full permission to go and tell your history to
Monsieur
Crevel; he will never believe you. I have a perfect right to
marry
him, and he becomes my husband the day after to-morrow.--I shall
make
him very happy.--Good-bye; try to forget me."
"Oh! Valerie," cried Henri Montes, clasping her in his arms,
"that is
impossible!--Come to Brazil!"
Valerie looked in his face, and saw him her slave.
"Well, if you still love me, Henri, two years hence I will be
your
wife; but your expression at this moment strikes me as very
suspicious."
"I swear to you that they made me drink, that false friends
threw this
girl on my hands, and that the whole thing is the outcome of
chance!"
said Montes.
"Then I am to forgive you?" she asked, with a smile.
"But you will marry, all the same?" asked the Baron, in an
agony of
jealousy.
"Eighty thousand francs a year!" said she, with almost
comical
enthusiasm. "And Crevel loves me so much that he will die of
it!"
"Ah! I understand," said Montes.
"Well, then, in a few days we will come to an understanding,"
said
she.
And she departed triumphant.
"I have no scruples," thought the Baron, standing transfixed
for a few
minutes. "What! That woman believes she can make use of his
passion to
be quit of that dolt, as she counted on Marneffe's decease!--I
shall
be the instrument of divine wrath."
Two days later those of du Tillet's guests who had demolished
Madame
Marneffe tooth and nail, were seated round her table an hour
after she
has shed her skin and changed her name for the illustrious name
of a
Paris mayor. This verbal treason is one of the commonest forms
of
Parisian levity.
Valerie had had the satisfaction of seeing the Brazilian in
the
church; for Crevel, now so entirely the husband, had invited him
out
of bravado. And the Baron's presence at the breakfast astonished
no
one. All these men of wit and of the world were familiar with
the
meanness of passion, the compromises of pleasure.
Steinbock's deep melancholy--for he was beginning to despise
the woman
whom he had adored as an angel--was considered to be in
excellent
taste. The Pole thus seemed to convey that all was at an end
between
Valerie and himself. Lisbeth came to embrace her dear Madame
Crevel,
and to excuse herself for not staying to the breakfast on the
score of
Adeline's sad state of health.
"Be quite easy," said she to Valerie, "they will call on you,
and you
will call on them. Simply hearing the words two hundred
thousand
francs has brought the Baroness to death's door. Oh, you
have them
all hard and fast by that tale!--But you must tell it to
me."
Within a month of her marriage, Valerie was at her tenth
quarrel with
Steinbock; he insisted on explanations as to Henri Montes,
reminding
her of the words spoken in their paradise; and, not content
with
speaking to her in terms of scorn, he watched her so closely
that she
never had a moment of liberty, so much was she fettered by
his
jealousy on one side and Crevel's devotion on the other.
Bereft now of Lisbeth, whose advice had always been so
valuable she
flew into such a rage as to reproach Wenceslas for the money she
had
lent him. This so effectually roused Steinbock's pride, that he
came
no more to the Crevels' house. So Valerie had gained her point,
which
was to be rid of him for a time, and enjoy some freedom. She
waited
till Crevel should make a little journey into the country to see
Comte
Popinot, with a view to arranging for her introduction to
the
Countess, and was then able to make an appointment to meet the
Baron,
whom she wanted to have at her command for a whole day to give
him
those "reasons" which were to make him love her more than
ever.
On the morning of that day, Reine, who estimated the magnitude
of her
crime by that of the bribe she received, tried to warn her
mistress,
in whom she naturally took more interest than in strangers.
Still, as
she had been threatened with madness, and ending her days in
the
Salpetriere in case of indiscretion, she was cautious.
"Madame, you are so well off now," said she. "Why take on
again with
that Brazilian?--I do not trust him at all."
"You are very right, Reine, and I mean to be rid of him."
"Oh, madame, I am glad to hear it; he frightens me, does that
big
Moor! I believe him to be capable of anything."
"Silly child! you have more reason to be afraid for him when
he is
with me."
At this moment Lisbeth came in.
"My dear little pet Nanny, what an age since we met!" cried
Valerie.
"I am so unhappy! Crevel bores me to death; and Wenceslas is
gone--we
quarreled."
"I know," said Lisbeth, "and that is what brings me here.
Victorin met
him at about five in the afternoon going into an eating-house at
five-
and-twenty sous, and he brought him home, hungry, by working on
his
feelings, to the Rue Louis-le-Grand.--Hortense, seeing Wenceslas
lean
and ill and badly dressed, held out her hand. This is how you
throw me
over--"
"Monsieur Henri, madame," the man-servant announced in a low
voice to
Valerie.
"Leave me now, Lisbeth; I will explain it all to-morrow." But,
as will
be seen, Valerie was ere long not in a state to explain anything
to
anybody.
Towards the end of May, Baron Hulot's pension was released
by
Victorin's regular payment to Baron Nucingen. As everybody
knows,
pensions are paid half-yearly, and only on the presentation of
a
certificate that the recipient is alive: and as Hulot's
residence was
unknown, the arrears unpaid on Vauvinet's demand remained to
his
credit in the Treasury. Vauvinet now signed his renunciation of
any
further claims, and it was still indispensable to find the
pensioner
before the arrears could be drawn.
Thanks to Bianchon's care, the Baroness had recovered her
health; and
to this Josepha's good heart had contributed by a letter, of
which the
orthography betrayed the collaboration of the Duc d'Herouville.
This
was what the singer wrote to the Baroness, after twenty days
of
anxious search:--
"MADAME LA BARONNE,--Monsieur Hulot was living, two months since,
in the Rue des Bernardins, with Elodie Chardin, a lace-mender, for
whom he had left Mademoiselle Bijou; but he went away without a
word, leaving everything behind him, and no one knows where he
went. I am not without hope, however, and I have put a man on this
track who believes he has already seen him in the Boulevard
Bourdon."The poor Jewess means to keep the promise she made to the
Christian. Will the angel pray for the devil? That must sometimes
happen in heaven.--I remain, with the deepest respect, always your
humble servant,
"JOSEPHA MIRAH."
The lawyer, Maitre Hulot d'Ervy, hearing no more of the
dreadful
Madame Nourrisson, seeing his father-in-law married, having
brought
back his brother-in-law to the family fold, suffering from
no
importunity on the part of his new stepmother, and seeing his
mother's
health improve daily, gave himself up to his political and
judicial
duties, swept along by the tide of Paris life, in which the
hours
count for days.
One night, towards the end of the session, having occasion to
write up
a report to the Chamber of Deputies, he was obliged to sit at
work
till late at night. He had gone into his study at nine o'clock,
and,
while waiting till the man-servant should bring in the candles
with
green shades, his thoughts turned to his father. He was
blaming
himself for leaving the inquiry so much to the singer, and
had
resolved to see Monsieur Chapuzot himself on the morrow, when he
saw
in the twilight, outside the window, a handsome old head, bald
and
yellow, with a fringe of white hair.
"Would you please to give orders, sir, that a poor hermit is
to be
admitted, just come from the Desert, and who is instructed to
beg for
contributions towards rebuilding a holy house."
This apparition, which suddenly reminded the lawyer of a
prophecy
uttered by the terrible Nourrisson, gave him a shock.
"Let in that old man," said he to the servant.
"He will poison the place, sir," replied the man. "He has on a
brown
gown which he has never changed since he left Syria, and he has
no
shirt--"
"Show him in," repeated the master.
The old man came in. Victorin's keen eye examined this
so-called
pilgrim hermit, and he saw a fine specimen of the Neapolitan
friars,
whose frocks are akin to the rags of the lazzaroni, whose
sandals
are tatters of leather, as the friars are tatters of humanity.
The
get-up was so perfect that the lawyer, though still on his
guard, was
vexed with himself for having believed it to be one of
Madame
Nourrisson's tricks.
"How much to you want of me?"
"Whatever you feel that you ought to give me."
Victorin took a five-franc piece from a little pile on his
table, and
handed it to the stranger.
"That is not much on account of fifty thousand francs," said
the
pilgrim of the desert.
This speech removed all Victorin's doubts.
"And has Heaven kept its word?" he said, with a frown.
"The question is an offence, my son," said the hermit. "If you
do not
choose to pay till after the funeral, you are in your rights. I
will
return in a week's time."
"The funeral!" cried the lawyer, starting up.
"The world moves on," said the old man, as he withdrew, "and
the dead
move quickly in Paris!"
When Hulot, who stood looking down, was about to reply, the
stalwart
old man had vanished.
"I don't understand one word of all this," said Victorin to
himself.
"But at the end of the week I will ask him again about my
father, if
we have not yet found him. Where does Madame Nourrisson--yes,
that was
her name--pick up such actors?"
On the following day, Doctor Bianchon allowed the Baroness to
go down
into the garden, after examining Lisbeth, who had been obliged
to keep
to her room for a month by a slight bronchial attack. The
learned
doctor, who dared not pronounce a definite opinion on Lisbeth's
case
till he had seen some decisive symptoms, went into the garden
with
Adeline to observe the effect of the fresh air on her
nervous
trembling after two months of seclusion. He was interested and
allured
by the hope of curing this nervous complaint. On seeing the
great
physician sitting with them and sparing them a few minutes,
the
Baroness and her family conversed with him on general
subjects.
"You life is a very full and a very sad one," said Madame
Hulot. "I
know what it is to spend one's days in seeing poverty and
physical
suffering."
"I know, madame," replied the doctor, "all the scenes of which
charity
compels you to be a spectator; but you will get used to it in
time, as
we all do. It is the law of existence. The confessor, the
magistrate,
the lawyer would find life unendurable if the spirit of the
State did
not assert itself above the feelings of the individual. Could we
live
at all but for that? Is not the soldier in time of war brought
face to
face with spectacles even more dreadful than those we see? And
every
soldier that has been under fire is kind-hearted. We medical men
have
the pleasure now and again of a successful cure, as you have
that of
saving a family from the horrors of hunger, depravity, or
misery, and
of restoring it to social respectability. But what comfort can
the
magistrate find, the police agent, or the attorney, who spend
their
lives in investigating the basest schemes of self-interest, the
social
monster whose only regret is when it fails, but on whom
repentance
never dawns?
"One-half of society spends its life in watching the other
half. A
very old friend of mine is an attorney, now retired, who told me
that
for fifteen years past notaries and lawyers have distrusted
their
clients quite as much as their adversaries. Your son is a
pleader; has
he never found himself compromised by the client for whom he
held a
brief?"
"Very often," said Victorin, with a smile.
"And what is the cause of this deep-seated evil?" asked the Baroness.
"The decay of religion," said Bianchon, "and the pre-eminence
of
finance, which is simply solidified selfishness. Money used not
to be
everything; there were some kinds of superiority that ranked
above it
--nobility, genius, service done to the State. But nowadays the
law
takes wealth as the universal standard, and regards it as the
measure
of public capacity. Certain magistrates are ineligible to the
Chamber;
Jean-Jacques Rousseau would be ineligible! The perpetual
subdivision
of estate compels every man to take care of himself from the age
of
twenty.
"Well, then, between the necessity for making a fortune and
the
depravity of speculation there is no check or hindrance; for
the
religious sense is wholly lacking in France, in spite of the
laudable
endeavors of those who are working for a Catholic revival. And
this is
the opinion of every man who, like me, studies society at the
core."
"And you have few pleasures?" said Hortense.
"The true physician, madame, is in love with his science,"
replied the
doctor. "He is sustained by that passion as much as by the sense
of
his usefulness to society.
"At this very time you see in me a sort of scientific rapture,
and
many superficial judges would regard me as a man devoid of
feeling. I
have to announce a discovery to-morrow to the College of
Medicine, for
I am studying a disease that had disappeared--a mortal disease
for
which no cure is known in temperate climates, though it is
curable in
the West Indies--a malady known here in the Middle Ages. A noble
fight
is that of the physician against such a disease. For the last
ten days
I have thought of nothing but these cases--for there are two,
a
husband and wife.--Are they not connections of yours? For you,
madame,
are surely Monsieur Crevel's daughter?" said he, addressing
Celestine.
"What, is my father your patient?" asked Celestine. "Living in
the Rue
Barbet-de-Jouy?"
"Precisely so," said Bianchon.
"And the disease is inevitably fatal?" said Victorin in dismay.
"I will go to see him," said Celestine, rising.
"I positively forbid it, madame," Bianchon quietly said. "The
disease
is contagious."
"But you go there, monsieur," replied the young woman. "Do you
think
that a daughter's duty is less binding than a doctor's?"
"Madame, a physician knows how to protect himself against
infection,
and the rashness of your devotion proves to me that you would
probably
be less prudent than I."
Celestine, however, got up and went to her room, where she
dressed to
go out.
"Monsieur," said Victorin to Bianchon, "have you any hope of
saving
Monsieur and Madame Crevel?"
"I hope, but I do not believe that I may," said Bianchon. "The
case is
to me quite inexplicable. The disease is peculiar to negroes and
the
American tribes, whose skin is differently constituted to that
of the
white races. Now I can trace no connection with the
copper-colored
tribes, with negroes or half-castes, in Monsieur or Madame
Crevel.
"And though it is a very interesting disease to us, it is a
terrible
thing for the sufferers. The poor woman, who is said to have
been very
pretty, is punished for her sins, for she is now squalidly
hideous if
she is still anything at all. She is losing her hair and teeth,
her
skin is like a leper's, she is a horror to herself; her hands
are
horrible, covered with greenish pustules, her nails are loose,
and the
flesh is eaten away by the poisoned humors."
"And the cause of such a disease?" asked the lawyer.
"Oh!" said the doctor, "the cause lies in a form of rapid
blood-
poisoning; it degenerates with terrific rapidity. I hope to act
on the
blood; I am having it analyzed; and I am now going home to
ascertain
the result of the labors of my friend Professor Duval, the
famous
chemist, with a view to trying one of those desperate measures
by
which we sometimes attempt to defeat death."
"The hand of God is there!" said Adeline, in a voice husky
with
emotion. "Though that woman has brought sorrows on me which have
led
me in moments of madness to invoke the vengeance of Heaven, I
hope--
God knows I hope--you may succeed, doctor."
Victorin felt dizzy. He looked at his mother, his sister, and
the
physician by turns, quaking lest they should read his thoughts.
He
felt himself a murderer.
Hortense, for her part, thought God was just.
Celestine came back to beg her husband to accompany her.
"If you insist on going, madame, and you too, monsieur, keep
at least
a foot between you and the bed of the sufferer, that is the
chief
precaution. Neither you nor your wife must dream of kissing the
dying
man. And, indeed, you ought to go with your wife, Monsieur
Hulot, to
hinder her from disobeying my injunctions."
Adeline and Hortense, when they were left alone, went to sit
with
Lisbeth. Hortense had such a virulent hatred of Valerie that she
could
not contain the expression of it.
"Cousin Lisbeth," she exclaimed, "my mother and I are avenged!
that
venomous snake is herself bitten--she is rotting in her
bed!"
"Hortense, at this moment you are not a Christian. You ought
to pray
to God to vouchsafe repentance to this wretched woman."
"What are you talking about?" said Betty, rising from her
couch. "Are
you speaking of Valerie?"
"Yes," replied Adeline; "she is past hope--dying of some
horrible
disease of which the mere description makes one shudder----"
Lisbeth's teeth chattered, a cold sweat broke out all over
her; the
violence of the shock showed how passionate her attachment to
Valerie
had been.
"I must go there," said she.
"But the doctor forbids your going out."
"I do not care--I must go!--Poor Crevel! what a state he must
be in;
for he loves that woman."
"He is dying too," replied Countess Steinbock. "Ah! all our
enemies
are in the devil's clutches--"
"In God's hands, my child--"
Lisbeth dressed in the famous yellow Indian shawl and her
black velvet
bonnet, and put on her boots; in spite of her relations'
remonstrances, she set out as if driven by some irresistible
power.
She arrived in the Rue Barbet a few minutes after Monsieur and
Madame
Hulot, and found seven physicians there, brought by Bianchon to
study
this unique case; he had just joined them. The physicians,
assembled
in the drawing-room, were discussing the disease; now one and
now
another went into Valerie's room or Crevel's to take a note,
and
returned with an opinion based on this rapid study.
These princes of science were divided in their opinions. One,
who
stood alone in his views, considered it a case of poisoning,
of
private revenge, and denied its identity with the disease known
in the
Middle Ages. Three others regarded it as a specific
deterioration of
the blood and the humors. The rest, agreeing with Bianchon,
maintained
that the blood was poisoned by some hitherto unknown morbid
infection.
Bianchon produced Professor Duval's analysis of the blood.
The
remedies to be applied, though absolutely empirical and without
hope,
depended on the verdict in this medical dilemma.
Lisbeth stood as if petrified three yards away from the bed
where
Valerie lay dying, as she saw a priest from Saint-Thomas
d'Aquin
standing by her friend's pillow, and a sister of charity in
attendance. Religion could find a soul to save in a mass of
rottenness
which, of the five senses of man, had now only that of sight.
The
sister of charity who alone had been found to nurse Valerie
stood
apart. Thus the Catholic religion, that divine institution,
always
actuated by the spirit of self-sacrifice, under its twofold
aspect of
the Spirit and the Flesh, was tending this horrible and
atrocious
creature, soothing her death-bed by its infinite benevolence
and
inexhaustible stores of mercy.
The servants, in horror, refused to go into the room of either
their
master or mistress; they thought only of themselves, and judged
their
betters as righteously stricken. The smell was so foul that in
spite
of open windows and strong perfumes, no one could remain long
in
Valerie's room. Religion alone kept guard there.
How could a woman so clever as Valerie fail to ask herself to
what end
these two representatives of the Church remained with her? The
dying
woman had listened to the words of the priest. Repentance had
risen on
her darkened soul as the devouring malady had consumed her
beauty. The
fragile Valerie had been less able to resist the inroads of
the
disease than Crevel; she would be the first to succumb, and,
indeed,
had been the first attacked.
"If I had not been ill myself, I would have come to nurse
you," said
Lisbeth at last, after a glance at her friend's sunken eyes. "I
have
kept my room this fortnight or three weeks; but when I heard of
your
state from the doctor, I came at once."
"Poor Lisbeth, you at least love me still, I see!" said
Valerie.
"Listen. I have only a day or two left to think, for I cannot
say to
live. You see, there is nothing left of me--I am a heap of mud!
They
will not let me see myself in a glass.--Well, it is no more than
I
deserve. Oh, if I might only win mercy, I would gladly undo all
the
mischief I have done."
"Oh!" said Lisbeth, "if you can talk like that, you are indeed
a dead
woman."
"Do not hinder this woman's repentance, leave her in her
Christian
mind," said the priest.
"There is nothing left!" said Lisbeth in consternation. "I
cannot
recognize her eyes or her mouth! Not a feature of her is there!
And
her wit has deserted her! Oh, it is awful!"
"You don't know," said Valerie, "what death is; what it is to
be
obliged to think of the morrow of your last day on earth, and of
what
is to be found in the grave.--Worms for the body--and for the
soul,
what?--Lisbeth, I know there is another life! And I am given
over to
terrors which prevent my feeling the pangs of my decomposing
body.--I,
who could laugh at a saint, and say to Crevel that the vengeance
of
God took every form of disaster.-- Well, I was a true
prophet.--Do not
trifle with sacred things, Lisbeth; if you love me, repent as I
do."
"I!" said Lisbeth. "I see vengeance wherever I turn in nature;
insects
even die to satisfy the craving for revenge when they are
attacked.
And do not these gentlemen tell us"--and she looked at the
priest--
"that God is revenged, and that His vengeance lasts through
all
eternity?"
The priest looked mildly at Lisbeth and said:
"You, madame, are an atheist!"
"But look what I have come to," said Valerie.
"And where did you get this gangrene?" asked the old maid,
unmoved
from her peasant incredulity.
"I had a letter from Henri which leaves me in no doubt as to
my fate.
He has murdered me. And--just when I meant to live honestly--to
die an
object of disgust!
"Lisbeth, give up all notions of revenge. Be kind to that
family to
whom I have left by my will everything I can dispose of. Go,
child,
though you are the only creature who, at this hour, does not
avoid me
with horror--go, I beseech you, and leave me.--I have only time
to
make my peace with God!"
"She is wandering in her wits," said Lisbeth to herself, as
she left
the room.
The strongest affection known, that of a woman for a woman,
had not
such heroic constancy as the Church. Lisbeth, stifled by the
miasma,
went away. She found the physicians still in consultation.
But
Bianchon's opinion carried the day, and the only question now
was how
to try the remedies.
"At any rate, we shall have a splendid post-mortem,"
said one of his
opponents, "and there will be two cases to enable us to make
comparisons."
Lisbeth went in again with Bianchon, who went up to the sick
woman
without seeming aware of the malodorous atmosphere.
"Madame," said he, "we intend to try a powerful remedy which
may save
you--"
"And if you save my life," said she, "shall I be as
good-looking as
ever?"
"Possibly," said the judicious physician.
"I know your possibly," said Valerie. "I shall look
like a woman who
has fallen into the fire! No, leave me to the Church. I can
please no
one now but God. I will try to be reconciled to Him, and that
will be
my last flirtation; yes, I must try to come round God!"
"That is my poor Valerie's last jest; that is all herself!"
said
Lisbeth in tears.
Lisbeth thought it her duty to go into Crevel's room, where
she found
Victorin and his wife sitting about a yard away from the
stricken
man's bed.
"Lisbeth," said he, "they will not tell me what state my wife
is in;
you have just seen her--how is she?"
"She is better; she says she is saved," replied Lisbeth,
allowing
herself this play on the word to soothe Crevel's mind.
"That is well," said the Mayor. "I feared lest I had been the
cause of
her illness. A man is not a traveler in perfumery for nothing; I
had
blamed myself.--If I should lose her, what would become of me?
On my
honor, my children, I worship that woman."
He sat up in bed and tried to assume his favorite position.
"Oh, Papa!" cried Celestine, "if only you could be well again,
I would
make friends with my stepmother--I make a vow!"
"Poor little Celestine!" said Crevel, "come and kiss me."
Victorin held back his wife, who was rushing forward.
"You do not know, perhaps," said the lawyer gently, "that your
disease
is contagious, monsieur."
"To be sure," replied Crevel. "And the doctors are quite proud
of
having rediscovered in me some long lost plague of the Middle
Ages,
which the Faculty has had cried like lost property--it is very
funny!"
"Papa," said Celestine, "be brave, and you will get the better
of this
disease."
"Be quite easy, my children; Death thinks twice of it before
carrying
off a Mayor of Paris," said he, with monstrous composure. "And
if,
after all, my district is so unfortunate as to lose a man it has
twice
honored with its suffrages--you see, what a flow of words I
have!--
Well, I shall know how to pack up and go. I have been a
commercial
traveler; I am experienced in such matters. Ah! my children, I
am a
man of strong mind."
"Papa, promise me to admit the Church--"
"Never," replied Crevel. "What is to be said? I drank the milk
of
Revolution; I have not Baron Holbach's wit, but I have his
strength of
mind. I am more Regence than ever, more Musketeer, Abbe
Dubois, and
Marechal de Richelieu! By the Holy Poker!--My wife, who is
wandering
in her head, has just sent me a man in a gown--to me! the
admirer of
Beranger, the friend of Lisette, the son of Voltaire and
Rousseau.--
The doctor, to feel my pulse, as it were, and see if sickness
had
subdued me--'You saw Monsieur l'Abbe?' said he.--Well, I
imitated the
great Montesquieu. Yes, I looked at the doctor--see, like this,"
and
he turned to show three-quarters face, like his portrait, and
extended
his hand authoritatively--"and I said:
"The slave was here,
He showed his order, but he nothing gained.
"His order is a pretty jest, showing that even in death
Monsieur le
President de Montesquieu preserved his elegant wit, for they had
sent
him a Jesuit. I admire that passage--I cannot say of his life,
but of
his death--the passage--another joke!--The passage from life to
death
--the Passage Montesquieu!"
Victorin gazed sadly at his father-in-law, wondering whether
folly and
vanity were not forces on a par with true greatness of soul.
The
causes that act on the springs of the soul seem to be quite
independent of the results. Can it be that the fortitude which
upholds
a great criminal is the same as that which a Champcenetz so
proudly
walks to the scaffold?
By the end of the week Madame Crevel was buried, after
dreadful
sufferings; and Crevel followed her within two days. Thus
the
marriage-contract was annulled. Crevel was heir to Valerie.
On the very day after the funeral, the friar called again on
the
lawyer, who received him in perfect silence. The monk held out
his
hand without a word, and without a word Victorin Hulot gave him
eighty
thousand-franc notes, taken from a sum of money found in
Crevel's
desk.
Young Madame Hulot inherited the estate of Presles and thirty
thousand
francs a year.
Madame Crevel had bequeathed a sum of three hundred thousand
francs to
Baron Hulot. Her scrofulous boy Stanislas was to inherit, at
his
majority, the Hotel Crevel and eighty thousand francs a
year.
Among the many noble associations founded in Paris by
Catholic
charity, there is one, originated by Madame de la Chanterie,
for
promoting civil and religious marriages between persons who
have
formed a voluntary but illicit union. Legislators, who draw
large
revenues from the registration fees, and the Bourgeois dynasty,
which
benefits by the notary's profits, affect to overlook the fact
that
three-fourths of the poorer class cannot afford fifteen francs
for the
marriage-contract. The pleaders, a sufficiently vilified
body,
gratuitously defend the cases of the indigent, while the
notaries have
not as yet agreed to charge nothing for the marriage-contract of
the
poor. As to the revenue collectors, the whole machinery of
Government
would have to be dislocated to induce the authorities to relax
their
demands. The registrar's office is deaf and dumb.
Then the Church, too, receives a duty on marriages. In France
the
Church depends largely on such revenues; even in the House of
God it
traffics in chairs and kneeling stools in a way that offends
foreigners; though it cannot have forgotten the anger of the
Saviour
who drove the money-changers out of the Temple. If the Church is
so
loath to relinquish its dues, it must be supposed that these
dues,
known as Vestry dues, are one of its sources of maintenance, and
then
the fault of the Church is the fault of the State.
The co-operation of these conditions, at a time when charity
is too
greatly concerned with the negroes and the petty offenders
discharged
from prison to trouble itself about honest folks in
difficulties,
results in the existence of a number of decent couples who have
never
been legally married for lack of thirty francs, the lowest
figure for
which the Notary, the Registrar, the Mayor and the Church will
unite
two citizens of Paris. Madame de la Chanterie's fund, founded
to
restore poor households to their religious and legal status,
hunts up
such couples, and with all the more success because it helps
them in
their poverty before attacking their unlawful union.
As soon as Madame Hulot had recovered, she returned to her
occupations. And then it was that the admirable Madame de la
Chanterie
came to beg that Adeline would add the legalization of these
voluntary
unions to the other good works of which she was the
instrument.
One of the Baroness' first efforts in this cause was made in
the
ominous-looking district, formerly known as la Petite
Pologne--Little
Poland--bounded by the Rue du Rocher, Rue de la Pepiniere, and
Rue de
Miromenil. There exists there a sort of offshoot of the
Faubourg
Saint-Marceau. To give an idea of this part of the town, it is
enough
to say that the landlords of some of the houses tenanted by
working
men without work, by dangerous characters, and by the very
poor
employed in unhealthy toil, dare not demand their rents, and can
find
no bailiffs bold enough to evict insolvent lodgers. At the
present
time speculating builders, who are fast changing the aspect of
this
corner of Paris, and covering the waste ground lying between the
Rue
d'Amsterdam and the Rue Faubourg-du-Roule, will no doubt alter
the
character of the inhabitants; for the trowel is a more
civilizing
agent than is generally supposed. By erecting substantial and
handsome
houses, with porters at the doors, by bordering the streets
with
footwalks and shops, speculation, while raising the rents,
disperses
the squalid class, families bereft of furniture, and lodgers
that
cannot pay. And so these districts are cleared of such
objectionable
residents, and the dens vanish into which the police never
venture but
under the sanction of the law.
In June 1844, the purlieus of the Place de Laborde were still
far from
inviting. The genteel pedestrian, who by chance should turn out
of the
Rue de la Pepiniere into one of those dreadful side-streets,
would
have been dismayed to see how vile a bohemia dwelt cheek by jowl
with
the aristocracy. In such places as these, haunted by ignorant
poverty
and misery driven to bay, flourish the last public
letter-writers who
are to be found in Paris. Wherever you see the two words
"Ecrivain
Public" written in a fine copy hand on a sheet of letter-paper
stuck
to the window pane of some low entresol or mud-splashed
ground-floor
room, you may safely conclude that the neighborhood is the
lurking
place of many unlettered folks, and of much vice and crime,
the
outcome of misery; for ignorance is the mother of all sorts of
crime.
A crime is, in the first instance, a defect of reasoning
powers.
While the Baroness had been ill, this quarter, to which she
was a
minor Providence, had seen the advent of a public writer who
settled
in the Passage du Soleil--Sun Alley--a spot of which the name is
one
of the antitheses dear to the Parisian, for the passage is
especially
dark. This writer, supposed to be a German, was named Vyder, and
he
lived on matrimonial terms with a young creature of whom he was
so
jealous that he never allowed her to go anywhere excepting to
some
honest stove and flue-fitters, in the Rue Saint-Lazare,
Italians, as
such fitters always are, but long since established in Paris.
These
people had been saved from a bankruptcy, which would have
reduced them
to misery, by the Baroness, acting in behalf of Madame de la
Chanterie. In a few months comfort had taken the place of
poverty, and
Religion had found a home in hearts which once had cursed Heaven
with
the energy peculiar to Italian stove-fitters. So one of Madame
Hulot's
first visits was to this family.
She was pleased at the scene that presented itself to her eyes
at the
back of the house where these worthy folks lived in the Rue
Saint-
Lazare, not far from the Rue du Rocher. High above the stores
and
workshops, now well filled, where toiled a swarm of apprentices
and
workmen--all Italians from the valley of Domo d'Ossola--the
master's
family occupied a set of rooms, which hard work had blessed
with
abundance. The Baroness was hailed like the Virgin Mary in
person.
After a quarter of an hour's questioning, Adeline, having to
wait for
the father to inquire how his business was prospering, pursued
her
saintly calling as a spy by asking whether they knew of any
families
needing help.
"Ah, dear lady, you who could save the damned from hell!" said
the
Italian wife, "there is a girl quite near here to be saved
from
perdition."
"A girl well known to you?" asked the Baroness.
"She is the granddaughter of a master my husband formerly
worked for,
who came to France in 1798, after the Revolution, by name
Judici. Old
Judici, in Napoleon's time, was one of the principal
stove-fitters in
Paris; he died in 1819, leaving his son a fine fortune. But
the
younger Judici wasted all his money on bad women; till, at last,
he
married one who was sharper than the rest, and she had this
poor
little girl, who is just turned fifteen."
"And what is wrong with her?" asked Adeline, struck by the
resemblance
between this Judici and her husband.
"Well, madame, this child, named Atala, ran away from her
father, and
came to live close by here with an old German of eighty at
least,
named Vyder, who does odd jobs for people who cannot read and
write.
Now, if this old sinner, who bought the child of her mother,
they say
for fifteen hundred francs, would but marry her, as he certainly
has
not long to live, and as he is said to have some few thousand
of
francs a year--well, the poor thing, who is a sweet little
angel,
would be out of mischief, and above want, which must be the ruin
of
her."
"Thank you very much for the information. I may do some good,
but I
must act with caution.--Who is the old man?"
"Oh! madame, he is a good old fellow; he makes the child very
happy,
and he has some sense too, for he left the part of town where
the
Judicis live, as I believe, to snatch the child from her
mother's
clutches. The mother was jealous of her, and I dare say she
thought
she could make money out of her beauty and make a
mademoiselle of
the girl.
"Atala remembered us, and advised her gentleman to settle near
us; and
as the good man sees how decent we are, he allows her to come
here.
But get them married, madame, and you will do an action worthy
of you.
Once married, the child will be independent and free from her
mother,
who keeps an eye on her, and who, if she could make money by
her,
would like to see her on the stage, or successful in the wicked
life
she meant her to lead."
"Why doesn't the old man marry her?"
"There was no necessity for it, you see," said the Italian.
"And
though old Vyder is not a bad old fellow, I fancy he is sharp
enough
to wish to remain the master, while if he once got married--why,
the
poor man is afraid of the stone that hangs round every old
man's
neck."
"Could you send for the girl to come here?" said Madame Hulot.
"I
should see her quietly, and find out what could be done--"
The stove-fitter's wife signed to her eldest girl, who ran
off. Ten
minutes later she returned, leading by the hand a child of
fifteen and
a half, a beauty of the Italian type. Mademoiselle Judici
inherited
from her father that ivory skin which, rather yellow by day, is
by
artificial light of lily-whiteness; eyes of Oriental beauty,
form, and
brilliancy, close curling lashes like black feathers, hair of
ebony
hue, and that native dignity of the Lombard race which makes
the
foreigner, as he walks through Milan on a Sunday, fancy that
every
porter's daughter is a princess.
Atala, told by the stove-fitter's daughter that she was to
meet the
great lady of whom she had heard so much, had hastily dressed in
a
black silk gown, a smart little cape, and neat boots. A cap with
a
cherry-colored bow added to the brilliant effect of her
coloring. The
child stood in an attitude of artless curiosity, studying the
Baroness
out of the corner of her eye, for her palsied trembling puzzled
her
greatly.
Adeline sighed deeply as she saw this jewel of womanhood in
the mire
of prostitution, and determined to rescue her to virtue.
"What is your name, my dear?"
"Atala, madame."
"And can you read and write?"
"No, madame; but that does not matter, as monsieur can."
"Did your parents ever take you to church? Have you been to
your first
Communion? Do you know your Catechism?"
"Madame, papa wanted to make me do something of the kind you
speak of,
but mamma would not have it--"
"Your mother?" exclaimed the Baroness. "Is she bad to you, then?"
"She was always beating me. I don't know why, but I was always
being
quarreled over by my father and mother--"
"Did you ever hear of God?" cried the Baroness.
The girl looked up wide-eyed.
"Oh, yes, papa and mamma often said 'Good God,' and 'In God's
name,'
and 'God's thunder,' " said she, with perfect simplicity.
"Then you never saw a church? Did you never think of going into one?"
"A church?--Notre-Dame, the Pantheon?--I have seen them from
a
distance, when papa took me into town; but that was not very
often.
There are no churches like those in the Faubourg."
"Which Faubourg did you live in?"
"In the Faubourg."
"Yes, but which?"
"In the Rue de Charonne, madame."
The inhabitants of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine never call
that
notorious district other than the Faubourg. To them it is
the one
and only Faubourg; and manufacturers generally understand the
words as
meaning the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
"Did no one ever tell you what was right or wrong?"
"Mamma used to beat me when I did not do what pleased her."
"But did you not know that it was very wicked to run away from
your
father and mother to go to live with an old man?"
Atala Judici gazed at the Baroness with a haughty stare, but
made no
reply.
"She is a perfect little savage," murmured Adeline.
"There are a great many like her in the Faubourg, madame,"
said the
stove-fitter's wife.
"But she knows nothing--not even what is wrong. Good
Heavens!--Why do
you not answer me?" said Madame Hulot, putting out her hand to
take
Atala's.
Atala indignantly withdrew a step.
"You are an old fool!" said she. "Why, my father and mother
had had
nothing to eat for a week. My mother wanted me to do much worse
than
that, I think, for my father thrashed her and called her a
thief!
However, Monsieur Vyder paid all their debts, and gave them some
money
--oh, a bagful! And he brought me away, and poor papa was
crying. But
we had to part!--Was it wicked?" she asked.
"And are you very fond of Monsieur Vyder?"
"Fond of him?" said she. "I should think so! He tells me
beautiful
stories, madame, every evening; and he has given me nice gowns,
and
linen, and a shawl. Why, I am figged out like a princess, and I
never
wear sabots now. And then, I have not known what it is to be
hungry
these two months past. And I don't live on potatoes now. He
brings me
bonbons and burnt almonds, and chocolate almonds.--Aren't they
good?--
I do anything he pleases for a bag of chocolate.--Then my old
Daddy is
very kind; he takes such care of me, and is so nice; I know now
what
my mother ought to have been.--He is going to get an old woman
to help
me, for he doesn't like me to dirty my hands with cooking. For
the
past month, too, he has been making a little money, and he gives
me
three francs every evening that I put into a money-box. Only he
will
never let me out except to come here--and he calls me his
little
kitten! Mamma never called me anything but bad names--and thief,
and
vermin!"
"Well, then, my child, why should not Daddy Vyder be your
husband?"
"But he is, madame," said the girl, looking at Adeline with
calm
pride, without a blush, her brow smooth, her eyes steady. "He
told me
that I was his little wife; but it is a horrid bore to be a
man's wife
--if it were not for the burnt almonds!"
"Good Heaven!" said the Baroness to herself, "what monster can
have
had the heart to betray such perfect, such holy innocence? To
restore
this child to the ways of virtue would surely atone for many
sins.--I
knew what I was doing." thought she, remembering the scene
with
Crevel. "But she--she knows nothing."
"Do you know Monsieur Samanon?" asked Atala, with an insinuating look.
"No, my child; but why do you ask?"
"Really and truly?" said the artless girl.
"You have nothing to fear from this lady," said the Italian
woman.
"She is an angel."
"It is because my good old boy is afraid of being caught by
Samanon.
He is hiding, and I wish he could be free--"
"Why?"
"On! then he would take me to Bobino, perhaps to the Ambigu."
"What a delightful creature!" said the Baroness, kissing the girl.
"Are you rich?" asked Atala, who was fingering the Baroness'
lace
ruffles.
"Yes, and No," replied Madame Hulot. "I am rich for dear
little girls
like you when they are willing to be taught their duties as
Christians
by a priest, and to walk in the right way."
"What way is that?" said Atala; "I walk on my two feet."
"The way of virtue."
Atala looked at the Baroness with a crafty smile.
"Look at madame," said the Baroness, pointing to the
stove-fitter's
wife, "she has been quite happy because she was received into
the
bosom of the Church. You married like the beasts that
perish."
"I?" said Atala. "Why, if you will give me as much as Daddy
Vyder
gives me, I shall be quite happy unmarried again. It is a
grind.--Do
you know what it is to--?"
"But when once you are united to a man as you are," the
Baroness put
in, "virtue requires you to remain faithful to him."
"Till he dies," said Atala, with a knowing flash. "I shall not
have to
wait long. If you only knew how Daddy Vyder coughs and
blows.--Poof,
poof," and she imitated the old man.
"Virtue and morality require that the Church, representing
God, and
the Mayor, representing the law, should consecrate your
marriage,"
Madame Hulot went on. "Look at madame; she is legally
married--"
"Will it make it more amusing?" asked the girl.
"You will be happier," said the Baroness, "for no one could
then blame
you. You would satisfy God! Ask her if she was married without
the
sacrament of marriage!"
Atala looked at the Italian.
"How is she any better than I am?" she asked. "I am prettier
than she
is."
"Yes, but I am an honest woman," said the wife, "and you may
be called
by a bad name."
"How can you expect God to protect you if you trample every
law, human
and divine, under foot?" said the Baroness. "Don't you know that
God
has Paradise in store for those who obey the injunctions of
His
Church?"
"What is there in Paradise? Are there playhouses?"
"Paradise!" said Adeline, "is every joy you can conceive of.
It is
full of angels with white wings. You see God in all His glory,
you
share His power, you are happy for every minute of
eternity!"
Atala listened to the lady as she might have listened to
music; but
Adeline, seeing that she was incapable of understanding her,
thought
she had better take another line of action and speak to the old
man.
"Go home, then, my child, and I will go to see Monsieur Vyder.
Is he a
Frenchman?"
"He is an Alsatian, madame. But he will be quite rich soon. If
you
would pay what he owes to that vile Samanon, he would give you
back
your money, for in a few months he will be getting six thousand
francs
a year, he says, and we are to go to live in the country a long
way
off, in the Vosges."
At the word Vosges the Baroness sat lost in reverie. It
called up
the vision of her native village. She was roused from her
melancholy
meditation by the entrance of the stove-fitter, who came to
assure her
of his prosperity.
"In a year's time, madame, I can repay the money you lent us,
for it
is God's money, the money of the poor and wretched. If ever I
make a
fortune, come to me for what you want, and I will render through
you
the help to others which you first brought us."
"Just now," said Madame Hulot, "I do not need your money, but
I ask
your assistance in a good work. I have just seen that little
Judici,
who is living with an old man, and I mean to see them regularly
and
legally married."
"Ah! old Vyder; he is a very worthy old fellow, with plenty of
good
sense. The poor old man has already made friends in the
neighborhood,
though he has been here but two months. He keeps my accounts for
me.
He is, I believe, a brave Colonel who served the Emperor well.
And how
he adores Napoleon!--He has some orders, but he never wears
them. He
is waiting till he is straight again, for he is in debt, poor
old boy!
In fact, I believe he is hiding, threatened by the law--"
"Tell him that I will pay his debts if he will marry the child."
"Oh, that will soon be settled.--Suppose you were to see him,
madame;
it is not two steps away, in the Passage du Soleil."
So the lady and the stove-fitter went out.
"This way, madame," said the man, turning down the Rue de
la
Pepiniere.
The alley runs, in fact, from the bottom of this street
through to the
Rue du Rocher. Halfway down this passage, recently opened
through,
where the shops let at a very low rent, the Baroness saw on a
window,
screened up to a height with a green, gauze curtain, which
excluded
the prying eyes of the passer-by, the words:
"ECRIVAIN PUBLIC";
and on the door the announcement:
BUSINESS TRANSACTED.
Petitions Drawn Up, Accounts Audited, Etc.
With Secrecy and Dispatch.
The shop was like one of those little offices where travelers
by
omnibus wait the vehicles to take them on to their destination.
A
private staircase led up, no doubt, to the living-rooms on
the
entresol which were let with the shop. Madame Hulot saw a
dirty
writing-table of some light wood, some letter-boxes, and a
wretched
second-hand chair. A cap with a peak and a greasy green shade
for the
eyes suggested either precautions for disguise, or weak eyes,
which
was not unlikely in an old man.
"He is upstairs," said the stove-fitter. "I will go up and
tell him to
come down."
Adeline lowered her veil and took a seat. A heavy step made
the narrow
stairs creak, and Adeline could not restrain a piercing cry when
she
saw her husband, Baron Hulot, in a gray knitted jersey, old
gray
flannel trousers, and slippers.
"What is your business, madame?" said Hulot, with a flourish.
She rose, seized Hulot by the arm, and said in a voice hoarse
with
emotion:
"At last--I have found you!"
"Adeline!" exclaimed the Baron in bewilderment, and he locked
the shop
door. "Joseph, go out the back way," he added to the
stove-fitter.
"My dear!" she said, forgetting everything in her excessive
joy, "you
can come home to us all; we are rich. Your son draws a hundred
and
sixty thousand francs a year! Your pension is released; there
are
fifteen thousand francs of arrears you can get on showing that
you are
alive. Valerie is dead, and left you three hundred thousand
francs.
"Your name is quite forgotten by this time; you may reappear
in the
world, and you will find a fortune awaiting you at your son's
house.
Come; our happiness will be complete. For nearly three years I
have
been seeking you, and I felt so sure of finding you that a room
is
ready waiting for you. Oh! come away from this, come away from
the
dreadful state I see you in!"
"I am very willing," said the bewildered Baron, "but can I
take the
girl?"
"Hector, give her up! Do that much for your Adeline, who has
never
before asked you to make the smallest sacrifice. I promise you I
will
give the child a marriage portion; I will see that she marries
well,
and has some education. Let it be said of one of the women who
have
given you happiness that she too is happy; and do not relapse
into
vice, into the mire."
"So it was you," said the Baron, with a smile, "who wanted to
see me
married?--Wait a few minutes," he added; "I will go upstairs
and
dress; I have some decent clothes in a trunk."
Adeline, left alone, and looking round the squalid shop,
melted into
tears.
"He has been living here, and we rolling in wealth!" said she
to
herself. "Poor man, he has indeed been punished--he who was
elegance
itself."
The stove-fitter returned to make his bow to his benefactress,
and she
desired him to fetch a coach. When he came back, she begged him
to
give little Atala Judici a home, and to take her away at
once.
"And tell her that if she will place herself under the
guidance of
Monsieur the Cure of the Madeleine, on the day when she attends
her
first Communion I will give her thirty thousand francs and find
her a
good husband, some worthy young man."
"My eldest son, then madame! He is two-and-twenty, and he
worships the
child."
The Baron now came down; there were tears in his eyes.
"You are forcing me to desert the only creature who had ever
begun to
love me at all as you do!" said he in a whisper to his wife.
"She is
crying bitterly, and I cannot abandon her so--"
"Be quite easy, Hector. She will find a home with honest
people, and I
will answer for her conduct."
"Well, then, I can go with you," said the Baron, escorting his
wife to
the cab.
Hector, the Baron d'Ervy once more, had put on a blue coat
and
trousers, a white waistcoat, a black stock, and gloves. When
the
Baroness had taken her seat in the vehicle, Atala slipped in
like an
eel.
"Oh, madame," she said, "let me go with you. I will be so
good, so
obedient; I will do whatever you wish; but do not part me from
my
Daddy Vyder, my kind Daddy who gives me such nice things. I
shall be
beaten--"
"Come, come, Atala," said the Baron, "this lady is my wife--we
must
part--"
"She! As old as that! and shaking like a leaf!" said the
child. "Look
at her head!" and she laughingly mimicked the Baroness'
palsy.
The stove-fitter, who had run after the girl, came to the
carriage
door.
"Take her away!" said Adeline. The man put his arms round
Atala and
fairly carried her off.
"Thanks for such a sacrifice, my dearest," said Adeline,
taking the
Baron's hand and clutching it with delirious joy. "How much you
are
altered! you must have suffered so much! What a surprise for
Hortense
and for your son!"
Adeline talked as lovers talk who meet after a long absence,
of a
hundred things at once.
In ten minutes the Baron and his wife reached the Rue
Louis-le-Grand,
and there Adeline found this note awaiting her:--
"MADAME LA BARONNE,--
"Monsieur le Baron Hulot d'Ervy lived for one month in the Rue de
Charonne under the name of Thorec, an anagram of Hector. He is now
in the Passage du Soleil by the name of Vyder. He says he is an
Alsatian, and does writing, and he lives with a girl named Atala
Judici. Be very cautious, madame, for search is on foot; the Baron
is wanted, on what score I know not."The actress has kept her word, and remains, as ever,
"Madame la Baronne, your humble servant,
"J. M."
The Baron's return was hailed with such joy as reconciled him
to
domestic life. He forgot little Atala Judici, for excesses
of
profligacy had reduced him to the volatility of feeling that
is
characteristic of childhood. But the happiness of the family
was
dashed by the change that had come over him. He had been still
hale
when he had gone away from his home; he had come back almost
a
hundred, broken, bent, and his expression even debased.
A splendid dinner, improvised by Celestine, reminded the old man
of
the singer's banquets; he was dazzled by the splendor of his
home.
"A feast in honor of the return of the prodigal father?" said
he in a
murmur to Adeline.
"Hush!" said she, "all is forgotten."
"And Lisbeth?" he asked, not seeing the old maid.
"I am sorry to say that she is in bed," replied Hortense. "She
can
never get up, and we shall have the grief of losing her ere
long. She
hopes to see you after dinner."
At daybreak next morning Victorin Hulot was informed by the
porter's
wife that soldiers of the municipal guard were posted all round
the
premises; the police demanded Baron Hulot. The bailiff, who
had
followed the woman, laid a summons in due form before the
lawyer, and
asked him whether he meant to pay his father's debts. The claim
was
for ten thousand francs at the suit of an usurer named Samanon,
who
had probably lent the Baron two or three thousand at most.
Victorin
desired the bailiff to dismiss his men, and paid.
"But is it the last?" he anxiously wondered.
Lisbeth, miserable already at seeing the family so prosperous,
could
not survive this happy event. She grew so rapidly worse that
Bianchon
gave her but a week to live, conquered at last in the long
struggle in
which she had scored so many victories.
She kept the secret of her hatred even through a painful death
from
pulmonary consumption. And, indeed, she had the supreme
satisfaction
of seeing Adeline, Hortense, Hulot, Victorin, Steinbock,
Celestine,
and their children standing in tears round her bed and mourning
for
her as the angel of the family.
Baron Hulot, enjoying a course of solid food such as he had
not known
for nearly three years, recovered flesh and strength, and was
almost
himself again. This improvement was such a joy to Adeline that
her
nervous trembling perceptibly diminished.
"She will be happy after all," said Lisbeth to herself on the
day
before she died, as she saw the veneration with which the
Baron
regarded his wife, of whose sufferings he had heard from
Hortense and
Victorin.
And vindictiveness hastened Cousin Betty's end. The family
followed
her, weeping, to the grave.
The Baron and Baroness, having reached the age which looks for
perfect
rest, gave up the handsome rooms on the first floor to the Count
and
Countess Steinbock, and took those above. The Baron by his
son's
exertions found an official position in the management of a
railroad,
in 1845, with a salary of six thousand francs, which, added to
the six
thousand of his pension and the money left to him by Madame
Crevel,
secured him an income of twenty-four thousand francs. Hortense
having
enjoyed her independent income during the three years of
separation
from Wenceslas, Victorin now invested the two hundred thousand
francs
he had in trust, in his sister's name and he allowed her
twelve
thousand francs.
Wenceslas, as the husband of a rich woman, was not unfaithful,
but he
was an idler; he could not make up his mind to begin any work,
however
trifling. Once more he became the artist in partibus; he
was popular
in society, and consulted by amateurs; in short, he became a
critic,
like all the feeble folk who fall below their promise.
Thus each household, though living as one family, had its own
fortune.
The Baroness, taught by bitter experience, left the management
of
matters to her son, and the Baron was thus reduced to his
salary, in
hope that the smallness of his income would prevent his
relapsing into
mischief. And by some singular good fortune, on which neither
the
mother nor the son had reckoned, Hulot seemed to have foresworn
the
fair sex. His subdued behaviour, ascribed to the course of
nature, so
completely reassured the family, that they enjoyed to the full
his
recovered amiability and delightful qualities. He was
unfailingly
attentive to his wife and children, escorted them to the
play,
reappeared in society, and did the honors to his son's house
with
exquisite grace. In short, this reclaimed prodigal was the joy
of his
family.
He was a most agreeable old man, a ruin, but full of wit,
having
retained no more of his vice than made it an added social
grace.
Of course, everybody was quite satisfied and easy. The young
people
and the Baroness lauded the model father to the skies,
forgetting the
death of the two uncles. Life cannot go on without much
forgetting!
Madame Victorin, who managed this enormous household with
great skill,
due, no doubt, to Lisbeth's training, had found it necessary to
have a
man-cook. This again necessitated a kitchen-maid. Kitchen-maids
are in
these days ambitious creatures, eager to detect the
chef's secrets,
and to become cooks as soon as they have learnt to stir a
sauce.
Consequently, the kitchen-maid is liable to frequent change.
At the beginning of 1845 Celestine engaged as kitchen-maid a
sturdy
Normandy peasant come from Isigny--short-waisted, with strong
red
arms, a common face, as dull as an "occasional piece" at the
play, and
hardly to be persuaded out of wearing the classical linen cap
peculiar
to the women of Lower Normandy. This girl, as buxom as a
wet-nurse,
looked as if she would burst the blue cotton check in which
she
clothed her person. Her florid face might have been hewn out of
stone,
so hard were its tawny outlines.
Of course no attention was paid to the advent in the house of
this
girl, whose name was Agathe--an ordinary, wide-awake specimen,
such as
is daily imported from the provinces. Agathe had no attractions
for
the cook, her tongue was too rough, for she had served in a
suburban
inn, waiting on carters; and instead of making a conquest of her
chief
and winning from him the secrets of the high art of the kitchen,
she
was the object of his great contempt. The chef's
attentions were, in
fact, devoted to Louise, the Countess Steinbock's maid. The
country
girl, thinking herself ill-used, complained bitterly that she
was
always sent out of the way on some pretext when the chef
was
finishing a dish or putting the crowning touch to a sauce.
"I am out of luck," said she, "and I shall go to another place."
And yet she stayed though she had twice given notice to quit.
One night, Adeline, roused by some unusual noise, did not see
Hector
in the bed he occupied near hers; for they slept side by side in
two
beds, as beseemed an old couple. She lay awake an hour, but he
did not
return. Seized with a panic, fancying some tragic end had
overtaken
him--an apoplectic attack, perhaps--she went upstairs to the
floor
occupied by the servants, and then was attracted to the room
where
Agathe slept, partly by seeing a light below the door, and
partly by
the murmur of voices. She stood still in dismay on recognizing
the
voice of her husband, who, a victim to Agathe's charms, to
vanquish
this strapping wench's not disinterested resistance, went to
the
length of saying:
"My wife has not long to live, and if you like you may be a Baroness."
Adeline gave a cry, dropped her candlestick, and fled.
Three days later the Baroness, who had received the last
sacraments,
was dying, surrounded by her weeping family.
Just before she died, she took her husband's hand and pressed
it,
murmuring in his ear:
"My dear, I had nothing left to give up to you but my life. In
a
minute or two you will be free, and can make another Baronne
Hulot."
And, rare sight, tears oozed from her dead eyes.
This desperateness of vice had vanquished the patience of the
angel,
who, on the brink of eternity, gave utterance to the only
reproach she
had ever spoken in her life.
The Baron left Paris three days after his wife's funeral.
Eleven
months after Victorin heard indirectly of his father's marriage
to
Mademoiselle Agathe Piquetard, solemnized at Isigny, on the
1st
February 1846.
"Parents may hinder their children's marriage, but children
cannot
interfere with the insane acts of their parents in their
second
childhood," said Maitre Hulot to Maitre Popinot, the second son
of the
Minister of Commerce, who was discussing this marriage.
Beauvisage, Phileas
The Member for Arcis
Berthier (Parisian notary)
Cousin Pons
Bianchon, Horace
Father Goriot
The Atheist's Mass
Cesar Birotteau
The Commission in Lunacy
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor's Establishment
The Secrets of a Princess
The Government Clerks
Pierrette
A Study of Woman
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
Honorine
The Seamy Side of History
The Magic Skin
A Second Home
A Prince of Bohemia
Letters of Two Brides
The Muse of the Department
The Imaginary Mistress
The Middle Classes
The Country Parson
In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following:
Another Study of Woman
La Grande Breteche
Bixiou, Jean-Jacques
The Purse
A Bachelor's Establishment
The Government Clerks
Modeste Mignon
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Firm of Nucingen
The Muse of the Department
The Member for Arcis
Beatrix
A Man of Business
Gaudissart II.
The Unconscious Humorists
Cousin Pons
Braulard
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Cousin Pons
Bridau, Joseph
The Purse
A Bachelor's Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Start in Life
Modeste Mignon
Another Study of Woman
Pierre Grassou
Letters of Two Brides
The Member for Arcis
Brisetout, Heloise
Cousin Pons
The Middle Classes
Cadine, Jenny
Beatrix
The Unconscious Humorists
The Member for Arcis
Chanor
Cousin Pons
Chocardelle, Mademoiselle
Beatrix
A Prince of Bohemia
A Man of Business
The Member for Arcis
Colleville, Flavie Minoret, Madame
The Government Clerks
The Middle Classes
Collin, Jacqueline
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Unconscious Humorists
Crevel, Celestin
Cesar Birotteau
Cousin Pons
Esgrignon, Victurnien, Comte (then Marquis d')
Jealousies of a Country Town
Letters of Two Brides
A Man of Business
The Secrets of a Princess
Falcon, Jean
The Chouans
The Muse of the Department
Graff, Wolfgang
Cousin Pons
Grassou, Pierre
Pierre Grassou
A Bachelor's Establishment
The Middle Classes
Cousin Pons
Grindot
Cesar Birotteau
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Start in Life
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
Beatrix
The Middle Classes
Hannequin, Leopold
Albert Savarus
Beatrix
Cousin Pons
Herouville, Duc d'
The Hated Son
Jealousies of a Country Town
Modeste Mignon
Hulot (Marshal)
The Chouans
The Muse of the Department
Hulot, Victorin
The Member for Arcis
La Bastie la Briere, Madame Ernest de
Modeste Mignon
The Member for Arcis
La Baudraye, Madame Polydore Milaud de
The Muse of the Department
A Prince of Bohemia
La Chanterie, Baronne Henri le Chantre de
The Seamy Side of History
Laginski, Comte Adam Mitgislas
Another Study of Woman
The Imaginary Mistress
La Palferine, Comte de
A Prince of Bohemia
A Man of Business
Beatrix
The Imaginary Mistress
La Roche-Hugon, Martial de
Domestic Peace
The Peasantry
A Daughter of Eve
The Member for Arcis
The Middle Classes
Lebas, Joseph
At the Sign of the Cat and Racket
Cesar Birotteau
Lebas, Madame Joseph (Virginie)
At the Sign of the Cat and Racket
Cesar Birotteau
Lebas
The Muse of the Department
Lefebvre, Robert
The Gondreville Mystery
Lenoncourt-Givry, Duc de
Letters of Two Brides
The Member for Arcis
Lora, Leon de
The Unconscious Humorists
A Bachelor's Establishment
A Start in Life
Pierre Grassou
Honorine
Beatrix
Lousteau, Etienne
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Bachelor's Establishment
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
A Daughter of Eve
Beatrix
The Muse of the Department
A Prince of Bohemia
A Man of Business
The Middle Classes
The Unconscious Humorists
Massol
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Magic Skin
A Daughter of Eve
The Unconscious Humorists
Montauran, Marquis de (younger brother of Alphonse de)
The Chouans
The Seamy Side of History
Montcornet, Marechal, Comte de
Domestic Peace
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Peasantry
A Man of Business
Navarreins, Duc de
A Bachelor's Establishment
Colonel Chabert
The Muse of the Department
The Thirteen
Jealousies of a Country Town
The Peasantry
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Country Parson
The Magic Skin
The Gondreville Mystery
The Secrets of a Princess
Nourrisson, Madame
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Unconscious Humorists
Nucingen, Baron Frederic de
The Firm of Nucingen
Father Goriot
Pierrette
Cesar Birotteau
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
Another Study of Woman
The Secrets of a Princess
A Man of Business
The Muse of the Department
The Unconscious Humorists
Paz, Thaddee
The Imaginary Mistress
Popinot, Anselme
Cesar Birotteau
Gaudissart the Great
Cousin Pons
Popinot, Madame Anselme
Cesar Birotteau
A Prince of Bohemia
Cousin Pons
Popinot, Vicomte
Cousin Pons
Rastignac, Eugene de
Father Goriot
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
The Ball at Sceaux
The Commission in Lunacy
A Study of Woman
Another Study of Woman
The Magic Skin
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
The Gondreville Mystery
The Firm of Nucingen
The Member for Arcis
The Unconscious Humorists
Rivet, Achille
Cousin Pons
Rochefide, Marquis Arthur de
Beatrix
Ronceret, Madame Fabien du
Beatrix
The Muse of the Department
The Unconscious Humorists
Samanon
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
The Government Clerks
A Man of Business
Sinet, Seraphine
The Unconscious Humorists
Steinbock, Count Wenceslas
The Imaginary Mistress
Stidmann
Modeste Mignon
Beatrix
The Member for Arcis
Cousin Pons
The Unconscious Humorists
Tillet, Ferdinand du
Cesar Birotteau
The Firm of Nucingen
The Middle Classes
A Bachelor's Establishment
Pierrette
Melmoth Reconciled
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
The Secrets of a Princess
A Daughter of Eve
The Member for Arcis
The Unconscious Humorists
Trailles, Comte Maxime de
Cesar Birotteau
Father Goriot
Gobseck
Ursule Mirouet
A Man of Business
The Member for Arcis
The Secrets of a Princess
The Member for Arcis
Beatrix
The Unconscious Humorists
Turquet, Marguerite
The Imaginary Mistress
The Muse of the Department
A Man of Business
Vauvinet
The Unconscious Humorists
Vernisset, Victor de
The Seamy Side of History
Beatrix
Vernou, Felicien
A Bachelor's Establishment
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
A Daughter of Eve
Vignon, Claude
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
A Daughter of Eve
Honorine
Beatrix
The Unconscious Humorists
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