My aunt Gretchen van Cloth is in Paris!
Well, why do you assume your facetious tone on reading that? I know you
and can guess your thoughts.
After all, Barbassou is a pasha, is it still necessary to remind you of
that?
Well, the other day my uncle informed me that he would take me home to
dine with him. I repaired to the boulevard at the appointed hour and we
started in his brougham for Passy. On the way he told me what it was
necessary I should know. We reached a rather nice looking house in the
Rue Raynouard, from which you can see the boats floating down the
Seine. There is a railing and a little garden in front. On hearing our
footsteps, a young lady whom I at once recognised, from the
recollections of my childhood, hurried to the door.
"Kiss your aunt," my uncle said to me: and I did as I was told.
We then entered a modest little drawing-room, the commonplace aspect of
which, reminding one of furnished apartments, was improved by its
general neatness and by a few bunches of flowers displayed in sundry odd
vases. Three youngsters, the smallest of whom was between three and four
years old, were eating bread and butter there. My uncle saluted each of
them with a hurried kiss, and then they ran off to their nurse.
My aunt Gretchen is just reaching her thirty-fourth birthday. She
confesses to her age. If she did not come from Amsterdam she ought to
have been born there. She has blossomed like a flower among the tulips,
and she looks like a Rubens, in that painter's more sober style, as in
the portrait of the Friesland woman, with the prim pink and white flesh
of the healthful natures of the North. You realise that good blood flows
quietly and temperately beneath the pleasantly plump charms of this
worthy Dutchwoman, who claims only her due, but is desirous of getting
it. And she does get it. She has luxuriant light chestnut hair, and a
very attractive face with the smiling, placid, and even somewhat simple
expression of a good housewife, who is as expert in bringing up her
children as in making pastry and pineapple jam. Being of a gay and
amiable disposition, she greeted her husband with the ordinary, hearty
affection of a woman who has never been a widow. After bringing him his
foxskin cap she established him in a comfortable arm-chair, and then
mixed his absinthe for him. I guessed that the captain was returning to
old habits, with the dignified composure which he displays in
everything.
They began to talk in Dutch, and as I looked at them without
understanding it, my uncle said to me:
"Your aunt tells me that her kitchen range is too small to make any good
_soufflés_, and it worries her on your account."
"Oh! my aunt is too kind to disturb herself about such a trifling
matter," I replied; "the pleasure I feel in seeing her again amply
compensates me for this slight mishap."
"Well, instead of the _soufflés_ you shall have some _wafelen_ and some
_poffertjes_!" quickly rejoined my aunt with her kindly smile.
I remarked that she spoke French much better than formerly. However,
probably on account of her voyages with the captain, who recruited his
crews at Toulon, her Dutch accent has now become a Provençal one.
The dinner was delightful, substantial and plentiful, like the charms of
my aunt, who was victorious along the whole line, and notably with the
spicy sauce of a _gebakken schol_, which was excellently baked.
The conversation was simple and of a free and easy character, my uncle
talking with all the freedom of a man who has a quiet conscience. He was
as much at his ease in his Dutch household as any good citizen could
be, and I perceived that my aunt knew absolutely nothing about him,
unless it were the important position that he occupied in the spice
trade. She gave him some news about the great doings of the Van Hutten
firm of Rotterdam and Antwerp, in which he seemed to take a particular
interest. It seems, too, that Peter van Schloss, junior, is married to a
young lady of Dordrecht, who presented him with twins after six months
of matrimony, a circumstance which my uncle found very natural. Old
Joshua Schlittermans, having been utterly ruined by the failure of
Gannton Brothers of New York, has now taken to drink.
When the coffee was served (Dirkie had brought it from Amsterdam,
purchasing it on the Damplaatz, at the corner of Kalver Straat), my aunt
filled a long porcelain pipe which my uncle took from her hands and
lighted, puffing out clouds of smoke, with the serene gravity of some
worthy burgomaster at home. We drank some schiedam and two sorts of dry
curaçoa. While my aunt sat knitting at the table she questioned me as to
my occupations, asking me if I were working in my uncle's establishment;
and upon my replying affirmatively to her, she gave me some very good
advice, telling me to be very industrious so that I might take my
uncle's place later on.
At half-past ten we rose from table and went into the drawing-room.
Dirkie got everything ready for a game of dominoes, and they began to
play in the Dutch fashion. My uncle kept the markers, and noted the
points made: he himself speedily scored between three and four hundred,
and then, feeling satisfied with his success, he said:
"Well, give us a little music!"
My aunt did not require any pressing, but went to the piano in a very
good-humoured manner. She opened the top so that the instrument might
give out a louder sound, then passed behind and arranged everything; and
suddenly I heard the splendid introduction of Haydn's seventh symphony
in _F major_ bursting forth, while my aunt turned the handle with rare
skill and gracefulness. (I recognised the superb instrument mentioned in
the fourth legacy of the famous will.)
I must admit that if my aunt played the minuet rather quickly, she
executed the _andante_ in a very delicate style, and the _scherzo_ and
the _finale_ were both dashed off in a spirited way. At the last chord,
I applauded with sincere enthusiasm.
"She plays very well, doesn't she?" my uncle quietly asked me, in a
modest tone. "You, who are a connoisseur--"
"Oh! she plays perfectly," I rejoined, without stinting my praise.
"And besides she puts expression into it," he resumed. "One can see that
she feels what she plays."
My aunt kissed him for this compliment, which he paid her with the
gravest assurance.
"Ah! you are still a flatterer!" she said to him.
As may readily be guessed, some of Strauss's waltzes and two or three
polkas followed the classical symphonies, together with the overtures of
"Don Giovanni" and "Fra Diavolo." It was really a perfect concert till
midnight. But by that time my aunt's plump arm being somewhat tired it
was necessary to bring the entertainment to a close.
Now, my dear fellow, I am not one of those who give way to the stupid
prejudices of our foolish traditions; still less am I one of those who
seek to evade frivolous objections, or fight shy of plain and open
discussion. I have myself officially abandoned polygamy, that is
true--but you are meditating another attack upon my uncle--I see it and
I feel it--and from the depths of your troglodytic intellect you intend
to drag out some commonplace hackneyed argument accompanied by frivolous
sarcasms, and directed, not at the point in question, but all round it.
As you are even incapable of understanding your own so-called virtue in
its true and primitive sense, you will no doubt repeat your usual stupid
remarks, denouncing my uncle's conduct as scandalous.
Let us go straight to the moral point, without haggling over words. My
uncle, who has the advantage of being a Turk, distributes himself
between his two wives, like a worthy husband faithful to his duty. Do
you presume to blame him? In that case what have you to say to our
friends A. B. C. D. E. F. (I spare you the rest of the alphabet, and it
is understood that the reader and present company are excepted), our
friends, I say, who deceive their wives for the sake of hussies who have
several protectors, as they are well aware? It is not a question here of
fighting on behalf of the holy shrine of monogamy. With how many
faithful, irreproachable husbands are you acquainted? Those hussies are
mistresses, you will say to me! I know it: that is to say, they are
females who belong to everybody. The question is settled: my uncle is a
virtuous man by the side of our friends. As he is incapable of such
vulgar and promiscuous intrigues he has a supplementary household, that
is all! Like the prudent traveller who is acquainted with the length of
the journey he judiciously prepares relays.
Compare that family gathering at my aunt Van Cloth's with those
unhealthy stolen pleasures of debauched husbands who feel ashamed and
tremble with the fear of being surprised. My uncle is a patriarch and
takes no part in the licentiousness of our times. So much for this
subject.
I have just received a most unforeseen blow, my dear Louis, and even
while I write have scarcely recovered from the alarm of a horrible
machination from which we were only saved by a miracle.
I told you about my poor Kondjé-Gul's passing grief on account of her
mother's foolish ideas. Reassured as to the future by my vows and
promises, she was too amenable to my influence to refuse to submit to a
trial which I was forced by duty to prepare her for. Proud at the
thought that she was sacrificing her jealousy for me, sacrificing
herself for my happiness, her tears having been dried up by my kisses, I
found her the day after this cruel blow to her heart as expansive and
confiding as if no cloud had darkened our sky.
But a very few days after I was quite surprised to observe a sort of
melancholy resignation about her. I attributed this trouble to some of
the childish worries which her mother's temper occasionally gave her.
However, after several days had passed like this, I came to the
conclusion that the cause of her sadness must be something more than a
transitory one, and that she was harassed by some new grief which even
my presence was not sufficient to dissipate. By her replies to me, which
seemed to be pervaded by more than usual tenderness, I judged that--in
her fear of alarming me, no doubt,--she wished to conceal from me the
real cause of her anxiety.
One evening at one of our little parties at the Montagues, which had
begun as a concert, but was converted by us, in our gay and sociable
mood, into a dance, Maud had trotted me off to make up a quadrille.
Kondjé-Gul, who, as you know, never dances, had withdrawn into the
boudoir adjoining the drawing-room, where she was looking through the
albums. I suspected nothing, and was engaged in a frivolous conversation
with Maud, when from where I stood, through the glass partition which
separated the two rooms, I noticed Kiusko come and sit down by her side.
It was natural enough that, seeing her alone, he considered himself
bound not to leave her so, for that might have looked like a want of
politeness on his part. It seemed to me, moreover, from their faces,
that their conversation was upon indifferent topics, and was being
conducted in that tone of ordinary friendliness which was usual between
them.
He was turning over the pages of an album as he talked to her. I had no
reason to pay much attention to this _tête-à-tête_, and was not even
intending to follow it, but once, near the end of the quadrille, my eyes
being again turned by chance in Kondjé-Gul's direction, I saw her rise
up all of a sudden, as if something that Daniel had said had excited her
suddenly. I thought I saw her blush, raising her head proudly and
answering him in an offended tone.
The dance being now over, I left Maud, and, agitated by an anxious kind
of feeling, walked up to the boudoir. They were standing up, and
Kiusko's back being turned to the door, he did not see me enter.
Kondjé-Gul saw me and said:
"André, come and give me your arm!"
At this unusually bold request, Daniel could not repress a gesture of
astonishment, and cast a bewildered glance at me. I advanced, and she
seized my arm with a convulsive movement, and addressed herself to my
rival:
"This is the second time, sir, that you have declared your love to me.
Let me tell you why I decline it: I am the slave of Monsieur André de
Peyrade, and I love him!"
If a thunderbolt had fallen at Daniel's feet, it could not have startled
him more than this. He turned so pale that I thought he was going to
faint. He gazed at both of us with a desperate and ferocious look, as if
some terrible thought was revolving in his mind. His features were
contracted into such a savage expression that I instinctively placed
myself between him and Kondjé-Gul. But, all at once, frightened no doubt
at his own passion, he gave one glance of despair and rage, and fled
from the room. Kondjé-Gul was all of a tremble.
"What has happened, then?" I asked her.
"I will tell you all about it," she answered, in a voice still quivering
with emotion. "I am going home with my mother. Come after us as soon as
we are off."
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