Edmond de Goncourt, born at Nancy on May 26, 1822, and his
brother Jules, born in Paris on December 17, 1830, were
primarily artists, who, while wandering over France, knapsack
on back, discovered that their note-books also made them
writers. In 1850 they entered upon a literary partnership
which only finished with the death of the younger brother on
June 20, 1870. Their earliest literary endeavours consisted of
a series of historical studies dealing with the France of the
second half of the eighteenth century. It was not until 1860,
with the publication of their first novel, "Les Hommes de
Lettres," that they discovered their true bent lay in fiction.
"Renée Mauperin," which is, perhaps, the best known of their
books, was published in 1864. As a psychological analysis of
contemporaneous youth, it is probably without its equal in
French fiction. "The plot of the story," wrote Edmond de
Goncourt, "is secondary. The authors have rather preferred to
paint the modern young woman as she is: the product of the
artistic and masculine system of education in force during the
last thirty years. We have also attempted to portray the
modern young college man influenced by the republican ideas of
the time since Louis Philippe." Edmond de Goncourt died on
July 16, 1896.
_I.--A Wayward Girl_
"Yes, I love riding and hunting. I never miss a meet. The wind blowing
through one's hair, the hounds, the horns, the trees flying past you--it
is intoxicating! In those moments I feel brave. Life has few other
pleasures for a well-brought-up girl like me. Everything is shocking! I
dance, yes ... but do you think I am allowed to talk to my partner? Yes,
no, no, yes--that's all! That's proper. And I am allowed to read if the
books and articles are proper. I paint in oils, and that shocks my
family; a young lady must not go beyond copying roses in water-colours.
Isn't the current strong here?"
Renée Mauperin and young Reverchon, her parent's guest, were swimming in
the Seine.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed the girl, as she noticed the evening sun
gilding the river and the banks where country and suburb merged into
each other.
"You are an artist by nature, mademoiselle."
"Ouf!" she exclaimed with a comic intonation.
A boat approached.
"Well, Renée, how is the water?" asked one of the rowers.
"Splendid, thanks, Denoisel," she replied, as she mounted the steps
lowered for her.
"I was almost getting nervous for you. And Reverchon? Ah, there he is!"
* * * * *
Renée was the youngest daughter of a distinguished Napoleonic officer,
who, at the time of the revolution of 1830, was elected deputy, and
fought with all his ardour for the Liberal cause, but who subsequently,
at the urging of his wife, a tyrannical conventional member of the
_bourgeois_, retired from the world of politics and established a sugar
refinery, so as to be able to provide suitably for his three children.
The first two, a boy born in 1826 and a daughter in 1827, were a
disappointment to the old soldier. They were too reasonable, too
"grown-up" before they were children, but in Renée, who was born after
an interval of eight years, M. Mauperin found ample consolation. His
heart revelled in her pranks and merry laughter, and she grew up the pet
of her father, whose affection she returned with all her heart. She was
now twenty; her brother Henri, serious, studious, plodding and
determined to make a career, was a lawyer, and had made some reputation
by his articles on statistical subjects; and Henriette, her elder
sister, had found a husband in M. Davarande, whose wealth and position
allowed her to devote herself to the life of empty amusement, divided
mainly between long rounds of calls, the opera, and the Bois, which
filled the days of the moneyed Paris _bourgeoisie_ of that time.
Madame Mauperin, delighted with Henriette's match, was anxious to find
an equally suitable partner for Renée; but the high-spirited girl had a
will of her own, and seemed to take almost a pleasure in crossing her
mother's transparent matrimonial schemes. Quite a number of eligible
young men had been introduced to the house at La Briche--and had left it
without having furthered their suit. Reverchon had now been invited with
similar intentions, and Renée was no more amenable than before. While
her mother filled the young man's ears with praise of her
accomplishments, the wayward girl, with her charming ingenuous talk, did
her best to demonstrate her lack of those negative conventional virtues
that were expected from a well-educated French girl in those days. She
made Madame Mauperin turn first crimson, then pale, when she finally
proceeded to cut Denoisel's hair in the drawing-room after dinner.
Denoisel was the son of Mauperin's bosom friend, who had fought by his
side in many battles, and who on his death-bed had made him his son's
guardian. Mauperin became more than a guardian to the boy--he became his
father. When Henri and Henriette were born, it seemed to Denoisel that
he had been given a brother and sister; but he adored the baby Renée,
and he alone succeeded in making her listen and obey.
"Sometimes," said Henri to Denoisel as they travelled back to Paris, "my
sister's follies are harmless enough; but to-night ... before that
fellow ... I am sure the marriage will fall through. And such an
excellent match!"
"You think so? I began to fear for her. And that's why I lent myself to
her prank. He is too hopelessly commonplace--a tailor's dummy! He would
never have understood her. Your sister ought to marry a man of
intelligence and character."
And Madame Mauperin, as she prepared for bed, lectured her husband upon
acceding to all his favourite's whims.
"Another marriage missed! Henri spoke to me this evening. He is sure
Reverchon will not have her."
"Well, what of it?"
"Why, he is the tenth! Renée will get an awful reputation. She will see
when she is thirty ... and you too." Then, after a pause, "And now about
your son. He is twenty-nine now. He, at any rate, has no objection to
marriage. Have you ever thought of finding him a suitable wife?"
She continued to talk and to grumble until Mauperin fell asleep.
"Henri is reasonable enough, but he is a young man, and you know the
danger. It's driving me mad! What do you think of trying Madame
Rosiéres?"
There was no reply. Madame Mauperin resigned herself to silence, and
turned to find the sleep which only came with morning.
_II.--Plots and Plays_
Next morning Madame Mauperin proceeded to Paris, and drove to her son's
apartments in the Rue Taitbout. She found him at work. After some
beating about the bush she approached the object of her visit.
"I fear," she began, "that you must have some reason for ..."
"For not marrying, isn't it? My dear mother, you need not worry. I know
that wealth is needed for a successful career, and that the best and
most honourable way to obtain it is a good marriage. And I am determined
to make a career. I shall get married soon enough... and better,
perhaps, than you think."
At La Briche, meanwhile, M. Mauperin vainly tried to be stern with his
pet.
"I have done it purposely," she said.
"And why?"
"Because I love you better than that young gentleman who was in no way
sympathetic to me. You are ungrateful."
"But listen, my dear child! Fathers are egotists, and would prefer to
keep their children. But I am old, and I should not like to part without
seeing you married, a mother, with affections that will replace mine."
"Oh, this is wicked! Never, never!" she exclaimed; "let me cry alone for
a minute." And she left the room hurriedly.
When she returned after a while, she found Denoisel in the room.
"You have been out? And where have you been?"
"Well, if you want to know, I have been to church to pray that I may die
before father. I knelt before a statue of the Virgin. And, you may
laugh, but it seemed to me that she nodded at my request. And it made me
quite happy."
The conversation drifted to gayer topics, and the two soon fell into
their wonted tone of banter. "Tell me, Renée," said Denoisel, "have you
never felt, I won't say love, but some sentiment for anybody?"
"Never. That sort of thing only occurs when the heart is empty. But when
it is defended by the affection one feels for a father--as a child I
felt perhaps the beginning of that emotion of which one reads in novels.
And do you know for whom?"
"No."
"For you. Oh, only for a moment. I soon loved you differently for having
corrected the spoilt child of its faults, for having directed my
attention to noble and beautiful things. And I resolved to repay you by
true friendship."