Towards four o’clock the following day, the officers of the old army
who were at Issoudun or its environs, were sauntering about the place
du Marche, in front of an eating-house kept by a man named Lacroix, and
waiting the arrival of Colonel Philippe Bridau. The banquet in honor
of the coronation was to take place with military punctuality at five
o’clock. Various groups of persons were talking of Max’s discomfiture,
and his dismissal from old Rouget’s house; for not only were the
officers to dine at Lacroix’s, but the common soldiers had determined
on a meeting at a neighboring wine-shop. Among the officers, Potel and
Renard were the only ones who attempted to defend Max.
“Is it any of our business what takes place among the old man’s heirs?”
said Renard.
“Max is weak with women,” remarked the cynical Potel.
“There’ll be sabres unsheathed before long,” said an old sub-lieutenant,
who cultivated a kitchen-garden in the upper Baltan. “If Monsieur
Maxence Gilet committed the folly of going to live under old Rouget’s
roof, he would be a coward if he allowed himself to be turned off like a
valet without asking why.”
“Of course,” said Mignonnet dryly. “A folly that doesn’t succeed becomes
a crime.”
At this moment Max joined the old soldiers of Napoleon, and was received
in significant silence. Potel and Renard each took an arm of their
friend, and walked about with him, conversing. Presently Philippe was
seen approaching in full dress; he trailed his cane after him with an
imperturbable air which contrasted with the forced attention Max was
paying to the remarks of his two supporters. Bridau’s hand was grasped
by Mignonnet, Carpentier, and several others. This welcome, so different
from that accorded to Max, dispelled the last feeling of cowardice, or,
if you prefer it, wisdom, which Flore’s entreaties, and above all, her
tendernesses, had awakened in the latter’s mind.
“We shall fight,” he said to Renard, “and to the death. Therefore don’t
talk to me any more; let me play my part well.”
After these words, spoken in a feverish tone, the three Bonapartists
returned to the group of officers and mixed among them. Max bowed first
to Bridau, who returned his bow, and the two exchanged a frigid glance.
“Come, gentlemen, let us take our seats,” said Potel.
“And drink to the health of the Little Corporal, who is now in the
paradise of heroes,” cried Renard.
The company poured into the long, low dining-hall of the restaurant
Lacroix, the windows of which opened on the market-place. Each guest
took his seat at the table, where, in compliance with Philippe’s
request, the two adversaries were placed directly opposite to each
other. Some young men of the town, among them several Knights of
Idleness, anxious to know what might happen at the banquet, were
walking about the street and discussing the critical position into
which Philippe had contrived to force Max. They all deplored the crisis,
though each considered the duel to be inevitable.
Everything went off well until the dessert, though the two antagonists
displayed, in spite of the apparent joviality of the dinner, a certain
vigilance that resembled disquietude. While waiting for the quarrel
that both were planning, Philippe showed admirable coolness, and Max a
distracting gayety; but to an observer, each was playing a part.
When the desert was served Philippe rose and said: “Fill your glasses,
my friends! I ask permission to propose the first toast.”
“He said _my friends_, don’t fill your glass,” whispered Renard to Max.
Max poured out some wine.
“To the Grand Army!” cried Philippe, with genuine enthusiasm.
“To the Grand Army!” was repeated with acclamation by every voice.
At this moment eleven private soldiers, among whom were Benjamin and
Kouski, appeared at the door of the room and repeated the toast,--
“To the Grand Army!”
“Come in, my sons; we are going to drink His health.”
The old soldiers came in and stood behind the officers.
“You see He is not dead!” said Kouski to an old sergeant, who had
perhaps been grieving that the Emperor’s agony was over.
“I claim the second toast,” said Mignonnet, as he rose. “Let us drink to
those who attempted to restore his son!”
Every one present, except Maxence Gilet, bowed to Philippe Bridau, and
stretched their glasses towards him.
“One word,” said Max, rising.
“It is Max! it is Max!” cried voices outside; and then a deep silence
reigned in the room and in the street, for Gilet’s known character made
every one expect a taunt.
“May we _all_ meet again at this time next year,” said Max, bowing
ironically to Philippe.
“It’s coming!” whispered Kouski to his neighbor.
“The Paris police would never allow a banquet of this kind,” said Potel
to Philippe.
“Why the devil to you mention the police to Colonel Bridau?” said
Maxence insolently.
“Captain Potel--_he_--meant no insult,” said Philippe, smiling coldly.
The stillness was so profound that the buzzing of a fly could have been
heard if there had been one.
“The police were sufficiently afraid of me,” resumed Philippe, “to send
me to Issoudun,--a place where I have had the pleasure of meeting old
comrades, but where, it must be owned, there is a dearth of amusement.
For a man who doesn’t despise folly, I’m rather restricted. However, it
is certainly economical, for I am not one of those to whom feather-beds
give incomes; Mariette of the Grand Opera cost me fabulous sums.”
“Is that remark meant for me, my dear colonel?” asked Max, sending a
glance at Philippe which was like a current of electricity.
“Take it as you please,” answered Bridau.
“Colonel, my two friends here, Renard and Potel, will call to-morrow
on--”
“--on Mignonnet and Carpentier,” answered Philippe, cutting short Max’s
sentence, and motioning towards his two neighbors.
“Now,” said Max, “let us go on with the toasts.”
The two adversaries had not raised their voices above the tone of
ordinary conversation; there was nothing solemn in the affair except the
dead silence in which it took place.
“Look here, you others!” cried Philippe, addressing the soldiers who
stood behind the officers; “remember that our affairs don’t concern the
bourgeoisie--not a word, therefore, on what goes on here. It is for the
Old Guard only.”
“They’ll obey orders, colonel,” said Renard. “I’ll answer for them.”
“Long live His little one! May he reign over France!” cried Potel.
“Death to Englishmen!” cried Carpentier.
That toast was received with prodigious applause.
“Shame on Hudson Lowe,” said Captain Renard.
The dessert passed off well; the libations were plentiful. The
antagonists and their four seconds made it a point of honor that a duel,
involving so large a fortune, and the reputation of two men noted for
their courage, should not appear the result of an ordinary squabble. No
two gentlemen could have behaved better than Philippe and Max; in this
respect the anxious waiting of the young men and townspeople grouped
about the market-place was balked. All the guests, like true soldiers,
kept silence as to the episode which took place at dessert. At ten
o’clock that night the two adversaries were informed that the sabre
was the weapon agreed upon by the seconds; the place chosen for the
rendezvous was behind the chancel of the church of the Capuchins at
eight o’clock the next morning. Goddet, who was at the banquet in his
quality of former army surgeon, was requested to be present at the
meeting. The seconds agreed that, no matter what might happen, the
combat should last only ten minutes.
At eleven o’clock that night, to Colonel Bridau’s amazement, Monsieur
Hochon appeared at his rooms just as he was going to bed, escorting
Madame Hochon.
“We know what has happened,” said the old lady, with her eyes full of
tears, “and I have come to entreat you not to leave the house to-morrow
morning without saying your prayers. Lift your soul to God!”
“Yes, madame,” said Philippe, to whom old Hochon made a sign from behind
his wife’s back.
“That is not all,” said Agathe’s godmother. “I stand in the place of
your poor mother, and I divest myself, for you, of a thing which I hold
most precious,--here,” she went on, holding towards Philippe a tooth,
fastened upon a piece of black velvet embroidered in gold, to which she
had sewn a pair of green strings. Having shown it to him, she replaced
it in a little bag. “It is a relic of Sainte Solange, the patron saint
of Berry,” she said, “I saved it during the Revolution; wear it on your
breast to-morrow.”
“Will it protect me from a sabre-thrust?” asked Philippe.
“Yes,” replied the old lady.
“Then I have no right to wear that accoutrement any more than if it were
a cuirass,” cried Agathe’s son.
“What does he mean?” said Madame Hochon.
“He says it is not playing fair,” answered Hochon.
“Then we will say no more about it,” said the old lady, “I shall pray
for you.”
“Well, madame, prayer--and a good point--can do no harm,” said Philippe,
making a thrust as if to pierce Monsieur Hochon’s heart.
The old lady kissed the colonel on his forehead. As she left the house,
she gave thirty francs--all the money she possessed--to Benjamin,
requesting him to sew the relic into the pocket of his master’s
trousers. Benjamin did so,--not that he believed in the virtue of the
tooth, for he said his master had a much better talisman than that
against Gilet, but because his conscience constrained him to fulfil a
commission for which he had been so liberally paid. Madame Hochon went
home full of confidence in Saint Solange.
At eight o’clock the next morning, December third, the weather being
cloudy, Max, accompanied by his seconds and the Pole, arrived on the
little meadow which then surrounded the apse of the church of the
Capuchins. There he found Philippe and his seconds, with Benjamin,
waiting for him. Potel and Mignonnet paced off twenty-four feet; at each
extremity, the two attendants drew a line on the earth with a spade:
the combatants were not allowed to retreat beyond that line, on pain of
being thought cowardly. Each was to stand at his own line, and advance
as he pleased when the seconds gave the word.
“Do we take off our coats?” said Philippe to his adversary coldly.
“Of course,” answered Maxence, with the assumption of a bully.
They did so; the rosy tints of their skin appearing through the cambric
of their shirts. Each, armed with a cavalry sabre selected of equal
weight, about three pounds, and equal length, three feet, placed himself
at his own line, the point of his weapon on the ground, awaiting the
signal. Both were so calm that, in spite of the cold, their muscles
quivered no more than if they had been made of iron. Goddet, the four
seconds, and the two soldiers felt an involuntary admiration.
“They are a proud pair!”
The exclamation came from Potel.
Just as the signal was given, Max caught sight of Fario’s sinister face
looking at them through the hole which the Knights of Idleness had made
for the pigeons in the roof of the church. Those eyes, which sent forth
streams of fire, hatred, and revenge, dazzled Max for a moment. The
colonel went straight to his adversary, and put himself on guard in a
way that gained him an advantage. Experts in the art of killing,
know that, of two antagonists, the ablest takes the “inside of the
pavement,”--to use an expression which gives the reader a tangible
idea of the effect of a good guard. That pose, which is in some degree
observant, marks so plainly a duellist of the first rank that a feeling
of inferiority came into Max’s soul, and produced the same disarray of
powers which demoralizes a gambler when, in presence of a master or a
lucky hand, he loses his self-possession and plays less well than usual.
“Ah! the lascar!” thought Max, “he’s an expert; I’m lost!”
He attempted a “moulinet,” and twirled his sabre with the dexterity of
a single-stick. He wanted to bewilder Philippe, and strike his weapon so
as to disarm him; but at the first encounter he felt that the colonel’s
wrist was iron, with the flexibility of a steel spring. Maxence was then
forced, unfortunate fellow, to think of another move, while Philippe,
whose eyes were darting gleams that were sharper than the flash of
their blades, parried every attack with the coolness of a fencing-master
wearing his plastron in an armory.
Between two men of the calibre of these combatants, there occurs a
phenomenon very like that which takes place among the lower classes,
during the terrible tussle called “the savante,” which is fought with
the feet, as the name implies. Victory depends on a false movement, on
some error of the calculation, rapid as lightning, which must be made
and followed almost instinctively. During a period of time as short to
the spectators as it seems long to the combatants, the contest lies in
observation, so keen as to absorb the powers of mind and body, and yet
concealed by preparatory feints whose slowness and apparent prudence
seem to show that the antagonists are not intending to fight. This
moment, which is followed by a rapid and decisive struggle, is terrible
to a connoisseur. At a bad parry from Max the colonel sent the sabre
spinning from his hand.
“Pick it up,” he said, pausing; “I am not the man to kill a disarmed
enemy.”
There was something atrocious in the grandeur of these words; they
seemed to show such consciousness of superiority that the onlookers took
them for a shrewd calculation. In fact, when Max replaced himself in
position, he had lost his coolness, and was once more confronted with
his adversary’s raised guard which defended the colonel’s whole person
while it menaced his. He resolved to redeem his shameful defeat by a
bold stroke. He no longer guarded himself, but took his sabre in both
hands and rushed furiously on his antagonist, resolved to kill him, if
he had to lose his own life. Philippe received a sabre-cut which slashed
open his forehead and a part of his face, but he cleft Max’s head
obliquely by the terrible sweep of a “moulinet,” made to break the force
of the annihilating stroke Max aimed at him. These two savage blows
ended the combat, at the ninth minute. Fario came down to gloat over the
sight of his enemy in the convulsions of death; for the muscles of a man
of Maxence Gilet’s vigor quiver horribly. Philippe was carried back to
his uncle’s house.
Thus perished a man destined to do great deeds had he lived his life
amid environments which were suited to him; a man treated by Nature as
a favorite child, for she gave him courage, self-possession, and the
political sagacity of a Cesar Borgia. But education had not bestowed
upon him that nobility of conduct and ideas without which nothing great
is possible in any walk of life. He was not regretted, because of the
perfidy with which his adversary, who was a worse man than he, had
contrived to bring him into disrepute. His death put an end to the
exploits of the Order of Idleness, to the great satisfaction of the town
of Issoudun. Philippe therefore had nothing to fear in consequence
of the duel, which seemed almost the result of divine vengeance: its
circumstances were related throughout that whole region of country, with
unanimous praise for the bravery of the two combatants.
“But they had better both have been killed,” remarked Monsieur
Mouilleron; “it would have been a good riddance for the Government.”
The situation of Flore Brazier would have been very embarrassing were
it not for the condition into which she was thrown by Max’s death. A
brain-fever set in, combined with a dangerous inflammation resulting
from her escapade to Vatan. If she had had her usual health, she might
have fled the house where, in the room above her, Max’s room, and in
Max’s bed, lay and suffered Max’s murderer. She hovered between life
and death for three months, attended by Monsieur Goddet, who was also
attending Philippe.
As soon as Philippe was able to hold a pen, he wrote the following
letters:--
To Monsieur Desroches:
I have already killed the most venomous of the two reptiles; not
however without getting my own head split open by a sabre; but the
rascal struck with a dying hand. The other viper is here, and I
must come to an understanding with her, for my uncle clings to her
like the apple of his eye. I have been half afraid the girl, who
is devilishly handsome, might run away, and then my uncle would
have followed her; but an illness which seized her suddenly has
kept her in bed. If God desired to protect me, he would call her
soul to himself, now, while she is repenting of her sins.
Meantime, on my side I have, thanks to that old trump, Hochon, the
doctor of Issoudun, one named Goddet, a worthy soul who conceives
that the property of uncles ought to go to nephews rather than to
sluts.
Monsieur Hochon has some influence on a certain papa Fichet, who
is rich, and whose daughter Goddet wants as a wife for his son: so
the thousand francs they have promised him if he mends up my pate
is not the chief cause of his devotion. Moreover, this Goddet, who
was formerly head-surgeon to the 3rd regiment of the line, has
been privately advised by my staunch friends, Mignonnet and
Carpentier; so he is now playing the hypocrite with his other
patient. He says to Mademoiselle Brazier, as he feels her pulse,
“You see, my child, that there’s a God after all. You have been
the cause of a great misfortune, and you must now repair it. The
finger of God is in all this (it is inconceivable what they don’t
say the finger of God is in!). Religion is religion: submit,
resign yourself, and that will quiet you better than my drugs.
Above all, resolve to stay here and take care of your master:
forget and forgive,--that’s Christianity.”
Goddet has promised to keep the Rabouilleuse three months in her
bed. By degrees the girl will get accustomed to living under the
same roof with me. I have bought over the cook. That abominable
old woman tells her mistress Max would have led her a hard life;
and declares she overheard him say that if, after the old man’s
death, he was obliged to marry Flore, he didn’t mean to have his
prospects ruined by it, and he should find a way to get rid of
her.
Thus, all goes well, so far. My uncle, by old Hochon’s advice, has
destroyed his will.
To Monsieur Giroudeau, care of Mademoiselle Florentine. Rue de Vendome,
Marais:
My dear old Fellow,--Find out if the little rat Cesarine has any
engagement, and if not, try to arrange that she can come to
Issoudun in case I send for her; if I do, she must come at once.
It is a matter this time of decent behavior; no theatre morals.
She must present herself as the daughter of a brave soldier,
killed on the battle-field. Therefore, mind,--sober manners,
schoolgirl’s clothes, virtue of the best quality; that’s the
watchword. If I need Cesarine, and if she answers my purpose, I
will give her fifty thousand francs on my uncle’s death. If
Cesarine has other engagements, explain what I want to Florentine;
and between you, find me some ballet-girl capable of playing the
part.
I have had my skull cracked in a duel with the fellow who was
filching my inheritance, and is now feeding the worms. I’ll tell
you all about it some day. Ah! old fellow, the good times are
coming back for you and me; we’ll amuse ourselves once more, or we
are not the pair we really are. If you can send me five hundred
more cartridges I’ll bite them.
Adieu, my old fire-eater. Light your pipe with this letter. Mind,
the daughter of the officer is to come from Chateauroux, and must
seem to be in need of assistance. I hope however that I shall not
be driven to such dangerous expedients. Remember me to Mariette
and all our friends.
Agathe, informed by Madame Hochon of what had happened, rushed to
Issoudun, and was received by her brother, who gave her Philippe’s
former room. The poor mother’s tenderness for the worthless son revived
in all its maternal strength; a few happy days were hers at last, as she
listened to the praises which the whole town bestowed upon her hero.
“After all, my child,” said Madame Hochon on the day of her arrival,
“youth must have its fling. The dissipations of a soldier under the
Empire must, of course, be greater than those of young men who are
looked after by their fathers. Oh! if you only knew what went on here at
night under that wretched Max! Thanks to your son, Issoudun now breathes
and sleeps in peace. Philippe has come to his senses rather late; he
told us frankly that those three months in the Luxembourg sobered him.
Monsieur Hochon is delighted with his conduct here; every one thinks
highly of it. If he can be kept away from the temptations of Paris, he
will end by being a comfort to you.”
Hearing these consolatory words Agathe’s eyes filled with tears.
Philippe played the saint to his mother, for he had need of her. That
wily politician did not wish to have recourse to Cesarine unless he
continued to be an object of horror to Mademoiselle Brazier. He saw that
Flore had been thoroughly broken to harness by Max; he knew she was an
essential part of his uncle’s life, and he greatly preferred to use her
rather than send for the ballet-girl, who might take it into her head
to marry the old man. Fouche advised Louis XVIII. to sleep in Napoleon’s
sheets instead of granting the charter; and Philippe would have liked
to remain in Gilet’s sheets; but he was reluctant to risk the good
reputation he had made for himself in Berry. To take Max’s place with
the Rabouilleuse would be as odious on his part as on hers. He could,
without discredit and by the laws of nepotism, live in his uncle’s
house and at his uncle’s expense; but he could not have Flore unless her
character were whitewashed. Hampered by this difficulty, and stimulated
by the hope of finally getting hold of the property, the idea came into
his head of making his uncle marry the Rabouilleuse. With this in
view he requested his mother to go and see the girl and treat her in a
sisterly manner.
“I must confess, my dear mother,” he said, in a canting tone, looking at
Monsieur and Madame Hochon who accompanied her, “that my uncle’s way
of life is not becoming; he could, however, make Mademoiselle Brazier
respected by the community if he chose. Wouldn’t it be far better for
her to be Madame Rouget than the servant-mistress of an old bachelor?
She had better obtain a definite right to his property by a marriage
contract then threaten a whole family with disinheritance. If you, or
Monsieur Hochon, or some good priest would speak of the matter to
both parties, you might put a stop to the scandal which offends decent
people. Mademoiselle Brazier would be only too happy if you were to
welcome her as a sister, and I as an aunt.”
On the morrow Agathe and Madame Hochon appeared at Flore’s bedside,
and repeated to the sick girl and to Rouget, the excellent sentiments
expressed by Philippe. Throughout Issoudun the colonel was talked of
as a man of noble character, especially because of his conduct towards
Flore. For a month, the Rabouilleuse heard Goddet, her doctor,
the individual who has paramount influence over a sick person, the
respectable Madame Hochon, moved by religious principle, and Agathe, so
gentle and pious, all representing to her the advantages of a marriage
with Rouget. And when, attracted by the idea of becoming Madame Rouget,
a dignified and virtuous bourgeoisie, she grew eager to recover, so that
the marriage might speedily be celebrated, it was not difficult to make
her understand that she would not be allowed to enter the family of the
Rougets if she intended to turn Philippe from its doors.
“Besides,” remarked the doctor, “you really owe him this good fortune.
Max would never have allowed you to marry old Rouget. And,” he added
in her ear, “if you have children, you can revenge Max, for that will
disinherit the Bridaus.”
Two months after the fatal duel in February, 1823, the sick woman,
urged by those about her, and implored by Rouget, consented to receive
Philippe, the sight of whose scars made her weep, but whose softened and
affectionate manner calmed her. By Philippe’s wish they were left alone
together.
“My dear child,” said the soldier. “It is I, who, from the start, have
advised your marriage with my uncle; if you consent, it will take place
as soon as you are quite recovered.”
“So they tell me,” she replied.
“Circumstances have compelled me to give you pain, it is natural
therefore that I should wish to do you all the good I can. Wealth,
respect, and a family position are worth more than what you have lost.
You wouldn’t have been that fellow’s wife long after my uncle’s death,
for I happen to know, through friends of his, that he intended to
get rid of you. Come, my dear, let us understand each other, and live
happily. You shall be my aunt, and nothing more than my aunt. You will
take care that my uncle does not forget me in his will; on my side, you
shall see how well I will have you treated in the marriage contract.
Keep calm, think it over, and we will talk of it later. All sensible
people, indeed the whole town, urge you to put an end to your illegal
position; no one will blame you for receiving me. It is well understood
in the world that interests go before feelings. By the day of your
marriage you will be handsomer than ever. The pallor of illness has
given you an air of distinction, and on my honor, if my uncle did not
love you so madly, you should be the wife of Colonel Bridau.”
Philippe left the room, having dropped this hint into Flore’s mind to
waken a vague idea of vengeance which might please the girl, who did,
in fact, feel a sort of happiness as she saw this dreadful being at her
feet. In this scene Philippe repeated, in miniature, that of Richard
III. with the queen he had widowed. The meaning of it is that personal
calculation, hidden under sentiment, has a powerful influence on the
heart, and is able to dissipate even genuine grief. This is how, in
individual life, Nature does that which in works of genius is thought to
be consummate art: she works by self-interest,--the genius of money.
At the beginning of April, 1823, the hall of Jean-Jacques Rouget’s house
was the scene of a splendid dinner, given to celebrate the signing of
the marriage contract between Mademoiselle Flore Brazier and the old
bachelor. The guests were Monsieur Heron, the four witnesses, Messieurs
Mignonnet, Carpentier, Hochon, and Goddet, the mayor and the curate,
Agathe Bridau, Madame Hochon, and her friend Madame Borniche, the two
old ladies who laid down the law to the society of Issoudun. The
bride was much impressed by this concession, obtained by Philippe, and
intended by the two ladies as a mark of protection to a repentant woman.
Flore was in dazzling beauty. The curate, who for the last fortnight
had been instructing the ignorant crab-girl, was to allow her, on the
following day, to make her first communion. The marriage was the text
of the following pious article in the “Journal du Cher,” published at
Bourges, and in the “Journal de l’Indre,” published at Chateauroux:
Issoudun.--The revival of religion is progressing in Berry.
Friends of the Church and all respectable persons in this town
were yesterday witnesses of a marriage ceremony by which a leading
man of property put an end to a scandalous connection, which began
at the time when the authority of religion was overthrown in this
region. This event, due to the enlightened zeal of the clergy of
Issoudun will, we trust, have imitators, and put a stop to
marriages, so-called, which have never been solemnized, and were
only contracted during the disastrous epoch of revolutionary rule.
One remarkable feature of the event to which we allude, is the
fact that it was brought about at the entreaty of a colonel
belonging to the old army, sent to our town by a sentence of the
Court of Peers, who may, in consequence, lose the inheritance of
his uncle’s property. Such disinterestedness is so rare in these
days that it deserves public mention.
By the marriage contract Rouget secured to Flore a dower of one hundred
thousand francs, and a life annuity of thirty thousand more.
After the wedding, which was sumptuous, Agathe returned to Paris the
happiest of mothers, and told Joseph and Desroches what she called the
good news.
“Your son Philippe is too wily a man not to keep his paw on that
inheritance,” said the lawyer, when he had heard Madame Bridau to
the end. “You and your poor Joseph will never get one penny of your
brother’s property.”
“You, and Joseph too, will always be unjust to that poor boy,” said
the mother. “His conduct before the Court of Peers was worthy of a
statesman; he succeeded in saving many heads. Philippe’s errors came
from his great faculties being unemployed. He now sees how faults of
conduct injure the prospects of a man who has his way to make. He is
ambitious; that I am sure of; and I am not the only one to predict
his future. Monsieur Hochon firmly believes that Philippe has a noble
destiny before him.”
“Oh! if he chooses to apply his perverted powers to making his fortune,
I have no doubt he will succeed: he is capable of everything; and such
fellows go fast and far,” said Desroches.
“Why do you suppose that he will not succeed by honest means?” demanded
Madame Bridau.
“You will see!” exclaimed Desroches. “Fortunate or unfortunate,
Philippe will remain the man of the rue Mazarin, the murderer of Madame
Descoings, the domestic thief. But don’t worry yourself; he will manage
to appear honest to the world.”
After breakfast, on the morning succeeding the marriage, Philippe
took Madame Rouget by the arm when his uncle rose from table and
went upstairs to dress,--for the pair had come down, the one in her
morning-robe, and the other in his dressing-gown.
“My dear aunt,” said the colonel, leading her into the recess of a
window, “you now belong to the family. Thanks to me, the law has tied
the knot. Now, no nonsense. I intend that you and I should play above
board. I know the tricks you will try against me; and I shall watch you
like a duenna. You will never go out of this house except on my arm; and
you will never leave me. As to what passes within the house, damn
it, you’ll find me like a spider in the middle of his web. Here is
something,” he continued, showing the bewildered woman a letter, “which
will prove to you that I could, while you were lying ill upstairs,
unable to move hand or foot, have turned you out of doors without a
penny. Read it.”
He gave her the letter.
My dear Fellow,--Florentine, who has just made her debut at the
new Opera House in a “pas de trois” with Mariette and Tullia, is
thinking steadily about your affair, and so is Florine,--who has
finally given up Lousteau and taken Nathan. That shrewd pair have
found you a most delicious little creature,--only seventeen,
beautiful as an English woman, demure as a “lady,” up to all
mischief, sly as Desroches, faithful as Godeschal. Mariette is
forming her, so as to give you a fair chance. No woman could hold
her own against this little angel, who is a devil under her skin;
she can play any part you please; get complete possession of your
uncle, or drive him crazy with love. She has that celestial look
poor Coralie used to have; she can weep,--the tones of her voice
will draw a thousand-franc note from a granite heart; and the
young mischief soaks up champagne better than any of us. It is a
precious discovery; she is under obligations to Mariette, and
wants to pay them off. After squandering the fortunes of two
Englishmen, a Russian, and an Italian prince, Mademoiselle Esther
is now in poverty; give her ten thousand francs, that will satisfy
her. She has just remarked, laughing, that she has never yet
fricasseed a bourgeois, and it will get her hand in. Esther is
well known to Finot, Bixiou, and des Lupeaulx, in fact to all our
set. Ah! if there were any real fortunes left in France, she would
be the greatest courtesan of modern times.
All the editorial staff, Nathan, Finot, Bixiou, etc., are now
joking the aforesaid Esther in a magnificent _appartement_ just
arranged for Florine by old Lord Dudley (the real father of de
Marsay); the lively actress captured him by the dress of her new
role. Tullia is with the Duc de Rhetore, Mariette is still with
the Duc de Maufrigneuse; between them, they will get your sentence
remitted in time for the King’s fete. Bury your uncle under the
roses before the Saint-Louis, bring away the property, and spend a
little of it with Esther and your old friends, who sign this
epistle in a body, to remind you of them.
Nathan, Florine, Bixiou, Finot, Mariette,
Florentine, Giroudeau, Tullia
The letter shook in the trembling hands of Madame Rouget, and betrayed
the terror of her mind and body. The aunt dared not look at the nephew,
who fixed his eyes upon her with terrible meaning.
“I trust you,” he said, “as you see; but I expect some return. I have
made you my aunt intending to marry you some day. You are worth more to
me than Esther in managing my uncle. In a year from now, we must be in
Paris; the only place where beauty really lives. You will amuse yourself
much better there than here; it is a perpetual carnival. I shall return
to the army, and become a general, and you will be a great lady. There’s
our future; now work for it. But I must have a pledge to bind this
agreement. You are to give me, within a month from now, a power
of attorney from my uncle, which you must obtain under pretence of
relieving him of the fatigues of business. Also, a month later, I must
have a special power of attorney to transfer the income in the Funds.
When that stands in my name, you and I have an equal interest in
marrying each other. There it all is, my beautiful aunt, as plain as
day. Between you and me there must be no ambiguity. I can marry my aunt
at the end of a year’s widowhood; but I could not marry a disgraced
girl.”
He left the room without waiting for an answer. When Vedie came in,
fifteen minutes later, to clear the table, she found her mistress pale
and moist with perspiration, in spite of the season. Flore felt like
a woman who had fallen to the bottom of a precipice; the future loomed
black before her; and on its blackness, in the far distance, were shapes
of monstrous things, indistinctly perceptible, and terrifying. She felt
the damp chill of vaults, instinctive fear of the man crushed her;
and yet a voice cried in her ear that she deserved to have him for her
master. She was helpless against her fate. Flore Brazier had had a room
of her own in Rouget’s house; but Madame Rouget belonged to her husband,
and was now deprived of the free-will of a servant-mistress. In the
horrible situation in which she now found herself, the hope of having a
child came into her mind; but she soon recognized its impossibility. The
marriage was to Jean-Jacques what the second marriage of Louis XII. was
to that king. The incessant watchfulness of a man like Philippe, who had
nothing to do and never quitted his post of observation, made any form
of vengeance impossible. Benjamin was his innocent and devoted spy.
The Vedie trembled before him. Flore felt herself deserted and utterly
helpless. She began to fear death. Without knowing how Philippe might
manage to kill her, she felt certain that whenever he suspected her of
pregnancy her doom would be sealed. The sound of that voice, the veiled
glitter of that gambler’s eye, the slightest movement of the soldier,
who treated her with a brutality that was still polite, made her
shudder. As to the power of attorney demanded by the ferocious colonel,
who in the eyes of all Issoudun was a hero, he had it as soon as he
wanted it; for Flore fell under the man’s dominion as France had fallen
under that of Napoleon.
Like a butterfly whose feet are caught in the incandescent wax of a
taper, Rouget rapidly dissipated his remaining strength. In presence
of that decay, the nephew remained as cold and impassible as the
diplomatists of 1814 during the convulsions of imperial France.
Philippe, who did not believe in Napoleon II., now wrote the following
letter to the minister of war, which Mariette made the Duc de
Maufrigneuse convey to that functionary:--
Monseigneur,--Napoleon is no more. I desired to remain faithful to
him according to my oath; now I am free to offer my services to
His Majesty. If your Excellency deigns to explain my conduct to
His Majesty, the King will see that it is in keeping with the laws
of honor, if not with those of his government. The King, who
thought it proper that his aide-de-camp, General Rapp, should
mourn his former master, will no doubt feel indulgently for me.
Napoleon was my benefactor.
I therefore entreat your Excellency to take into consideration the
request I make for employment in my proper rank; and I beg to
assure you of my entire submission. The King will find in me a
faithful subject.
Deign to accept the assurance of respect with which I have the
honor to be,
Your Excellency’s very submissive and
Very humble servant,
Philippe Bridau
Formerly chief of squadron in the dragoons of the Guard; officer
of the Legion of honor; now under police surveillance at Issoudun.
To this letter was joined a request for permission to go to Paris on
urgent family business; and Monsieur Mouilleron annexed letters from the
mayor, the sub-prefect, and the commissary of police at Issoudun, all
bestowing many praises on Philippe’s conduct, and dwelling upon the
newspaper article relating to his uncle’s marriage.
Two weeks later, Philippe received the desired permission, and a letter,
in which the minister of war informed him that, by order of the King, he
was, as a preliminary favor, reinstated lieutenant-colonel in the royal
army.