"And is it a usual custom?" she continued.
"Yes, madame, whenever a lease is renewed."
"But, to my knowledge, there have been ten leases renewed in the last
thirty years.... How is it we never heard of such a custom?"
"I cannot say, madame."
Mme. Laroque fell into an abyss of reflections, in which, perhaps, she
encountered the venerable shade of le pere Hivart. At length she
slightly shrugged her shoulders, looked at me, then at the gold, then
again at me, and seemed to hesitate. At last, leaning back in her
chair, sighing deeply, and speaking with a simplicity which I greatly
appreciated, she said:
"Very well, monsieur. Thank you."
Mme. Laroque had the good taste not to compliment me on this instance of
ordinary honesty; but, none the less, she conceived a great idea of her
steward's ability and virtues. A few days later I had a proof of this.
Her daughter was reading an account of a voyage to the pole to her, in
which an extraordinary bird is mentioned---"_qui ne vole pas_."[#]
[#] "Which does not _fly_." But the French verb _voler_ is also to
steal; hence the application.
"Like my steward," she said.
I sincerely believe that from this time my devotion to the work I had
undertaken gave me a claim to a more positive commendation. Soon
afterward, when I went to see my sister in Paris, M. Laubepin thanked me
warmly for having so creditably redeemed the pledges he had given on my
behalf.
"Courage, Maxime," he said. "We shall give Helene her dowry. The poor
child will not have noticed anything unusual, and you, my friend, will
have nothing to regret. Believe me, you possess what in this world
comes nearest to happiness, and I am sure you will always possess it,
thank Heaven! It is a peaceful conscience and the manly serenity of a
soul devoted to duty."
The old man is right, of course. I am at peace, but I cannot say that I
am happy. My soul is not yet ripe for the austere delights of
sacrifice; it has its outbursts of youthfulness and of despair. My life
is no longer my own: it is devoted and consecrated to a weaker, dearer
life; it has no future: it is imprisoned in a cloister that will never
be opened. My heart must not beat, my brain must not think, save for
another. So be it! May Helene be happy! Years are stealing upon me.
May they come quickly! I pray that they will; the coldness that comes
with them will strengthen my courage.
Besides, I cannot complain of a situation which has, in fact, fallen
agreeably short of my worst forebodings, and has even surpassed my
brightest expectations. My work, my frequent journeys into the
neighbouring departments, and my love of solitude, often keep me away
from the chateau, where I particularly avoid all the more festive
gatherings. And perhaps it is because I go to them so seldom that I am
welcomed so kindly. Mme. Laroque, in particular, shows a real affection
for me; she makes me the confidant of her curious and perfectly sincere
fancies about poverty, sacrifice, and poetic abnegation, which form such
an amusing contrast to the chilly Creole's multitudinous contrivances
for comfort.
Sometimes she envies the gipsies carrying their children on a wretched
cart along the roads, and cooking their food under hedges; sometimes it
is the Sisters of Chanty; sometimes the _cantinieres_, whose heroic work
she longs to share.
And she never ceases to lament the late M. Laroque's admirable health,
which prevented his wife from showing that nature had meant her for a
sick-nurse. Nevertheless, she has lately had fixed to her chair a kind
of niche like a sentry-box, as a protection from draughts. The other
morning I found her triumphantly installed in this kiosk, where she
really awaits her martyrdom in considerable comfort.
I have scarcely less reason to be satisfied with the other inhabitants
of the chateau. Mlle. Marguerite, who is always plunged like a Nubian
sphinx in some mysterious vision, nevertheless condescends to treat me
to my favourite airs with the utmost good-nature. She has a fine
contralto voice, which she uses with perfect art, but at the same time
with an indifference and coldness which I think must be deliberate.
Sometimes, in an unguarded moment, I have heard her tones become
impassioned, but almost immediately she has returned to an icy
correctness, as if ashamed of the lapse from her character or from her
role.
A few games of piquet with M. Laroque, which I had the tact to lose, won
me the favour of the poor old man. Sometimes I find his dim and feeble
gaze fixed on me with strange intentness, as if some dream of the past,
some fanciful resemblance, had half revived among the mists of an
exhausted memory, in which the images of a century hover confusedly.
They actually wanted to return me the money I lost to him. Mme. Aubry,
who usually plays with the old captain, accepts these restitutions
without scruple; but this does not prevent her from winning pretty
frequently, on which occasions she has furious encounters with the old
corsair. M. Laubepin was lenient when he described this lady merely as
embittered. I have no liking for her, but, out of consideration for the
others, I have made an effort to gain her good-will, and have succeeded
in doing so by listening patiently first to her lamentations over her
present position, and then to her impressive description of her former
grandeur, her silver, her furniture, her lace, and her gloves.
It must be confessed that I have come to the right school to learn to
despise the advantages I have lost. Every one here by their attitude
and language eloquently exhorts me to the contempt of riches. Firstly,
Mme. Aubry, who might be aptly compared to those shameless gluttons
whose greediness takes away one's appetite, and who disgust one with the
dishes they praise; the old man, perishing as sadly among his millions
as Job on his dunghill; the good woman, romantic and _blase_, who in the
midst of her inopportune prosperity dreams of the forbidden fruit of
suffering; and lastly, the haughty Marguerite, who wears like a crown of
thorns the diadem of beauty and opulence which Heaven has forced on her
brow. A strange girl!
Nearly every fine morning I see her ride past the windows of my belfry;
she bows gravely to me, the black plume of her felt riding hat dipping
and waving in the wind; and then she slowly disappears along the shaded
path that runs through the ruins of the ancient chateau. Sometimes old
Alain follows her, and sometimes her only companion is the huge and
faithful Mervyn, who strides at the side of his beautiful mistress like
a pensive bear. So attended, she covers all the country round on her
errands of charity. She does not need a protector, for there is not a
cottage within six leagues where she is not known and worshipped as the
goddess of good works. The poor people call her "Mademoiselle," as if
they were speaking of one of those daughters of kings who give poetry to
their legends, and whose beauty and power and mystery they recognise in
her.
I, meanwhile, am seeking the key to the sombre preoccupation that clouds
her brow, the haughty and defiant severity of her eyes, the cold
bitterness of her tongue. I ask myself if these are the natural traits
of a strange and complex character, or the symptoms of some secret
suffering, remorse, or fear, or love, which preys on this noble heart.
However slightly one may be interested in the question, it is impossible
not to feel a certain curiosity about a person so remarkable. Last
night, while old Alain, with whom I am a favourite, was serving my
solitary repast, I said:
"Well, Alain, it's been a lovely day. Have you been riding?"
"Yes, sir, this morning, with mademoiselle."
"Oh, indeed!"
"You must have seen us go by, sir."
"Very likely. I sometimes do see you pass. You look well on horseback,
Alain."
"You're very kind, sir. But mademoiselle looks better than I do."
"She is a very beautiful young lady."
"You're right, sir, and she's fair inside as well as outside. Just like
her mother. I'll tell you something, sir. You know, perhaps, that this
property belonged to the last Comte de Castennec, whom I had the honour
of serving. When the Laroques bought the chateau I must own that I was
rather upset, and not inclined to stay with the new people. I had been
brought up to respect the nobility, and it went against my feelings to
live with people of no birth. You may have noticed, sir, that I am glad
to wait upon you; that is because I think you look like a gentleman. Are
you quite sure you don't belong to the nobility, sir?"
"Quite sure, my poor Alain."
"Well, it's of no consequence, sir, and this is what I wanted to tell
you," said Alain, with a graceful inclination. "In the service of these
ladies I have learned that nobility of the heart is as good as the
other, more especially that of the Comte de Castennec, who had a
weakness for beating his servants. Still, sir, it's a great pity
mademoiselle cannot marry a gentleman with a fine old name. Then she
would be perfect."
"But, Alain, it seems to me that it only depends on herself."
"If you refer to M. de Bevallan, sir, it certainly does, for he asked
for her more than six months ago. Madame was not opposed to the
marriage, and, in fact, after the Laroques, M. de Bevallan is the
richest man hereabouts; but mademoiselle, though she didn't positively
refuse, wanted time to think the matter over."
"But if she loves M. de Bevallan, and can marry him whenever she likes,
why is she always so sad and thoughtful?"
"It's very true, sir, that mademoiselle has changed a good deal in the
last two or three years. Before that she was as merry as a bird; now she
seems to have something on her mind, but, if I may say so, it is not
love for this gentleman."
"You don't seem very fond of M. de Bevallan yourself, Alain. But his
family is excellent."
"That does not prevent him from being a bad lot, sir, always running
after the country girls, and for no good either. And if you used your
eyes, sir, you might see that he is quite ready to play the sultan here
in the chateau itself while he's waiting for something better."
After a significant pause Alain went on.
"Pity you haven't a hundred thousand francs a year, sir."
"And why, Alain?"
"Because..." and Alain shook his head thoughtfully.
_July 25th_.
During the past month I have made one friend and two enemies. The
enemies are Mlle. Marguerite and Mlle. Helouin. The friend is a maiden
lady of eighty-eight. Scarcely a compensation! I will first make up my
account with Mlle. Helouin, an ungrateful young lady. What she
considers my offences should rather have secured her esteem. But she is
one of the many women who do not care either to give, or to inspire,
such a commonplace sentiment. From the first I had been inclined to
establish friendly relations with her. The governess and the steward
were on a similar footing; we had a common ground in our subordinate
position at the chateau. I have always tried to show to ladies in her
position the consideration which seems to me due to those in
circumstances so precarious, humiliating, and hopeless. Besides, Mlle.
Helouin is pretty, intelligent, and accomplished, though she rather
deducts from these qualities by the exaggerated liveliness of manner,
the feverish coquetry, and the tinge of pedantry which are the failings
of her profession.
I do not claim any credit for my chivalrous attitude towards her. It
seemed to me a sort of duty when, as various hints had warned me, I
became aware that a devouring lion in the semblance of King Francis I
was prowling round my young _protegee_. This duplicity, which did
credit to M. de Bevallan's audacity, was carried on, under cover of a
friendly interest, with an astuteness and confidence well calculated to
deceive the careless and unsuspecting. Mme. Laroque and her daughter,
especially, are too little acquainted with the wickedness of this world,
and too little in touch with realities to have the slightest suspicion.
For my own part, I was angry with this insatiable lady-killer, and did
my best to spoil his plans. More than once I secured the attention he
desired to monopolize; and I tried more especially to counteract or
diminish the bitter sense of neglect and isolation, which makes women in
Mlle. Helouin's position ready to accept the kind of consolation which
was being offered to her. Have I ever throughout this ill-advised
contest outstepped the delicate limits of brotherly protection? I think
not. The very words of the brief dialogue which has suddenly altered
the character of our relations bear witness to my discretion. One
evening last week we were taking the air on the terrace. During the day
I had had occasion to show some kindly attention to Mlle. Helouin, and
she now took my arm and said, as she bit at an orange-blossom with her
small white teeth:
"M. Maxime, you are very good to me."
Her voice was a little unsteady.
"I hope so, mademoiselle."
"You are a true friend."
"Yes, indeed."
"But what kind of a friend?"
"A true friend, as you say."
"A friend who--loves me?"
"Surely."
"Much?"
"Most decidedly."
"Passionately?"
"No."
At this word, which I uttered very clearly and with a steady look, Mlle.
Helouin flung the orange-blossom away and dropped my arm. Since this
unlucky hour I have been treated with a contempt I do not deserve, and I
should have been convinced that friendship between man and woman is a
mere illusion, if I had not had on the following day something like an
antithesis to this adventure.
I had gone to spend the evening at the chateau, and as the two or three
families who had been staying there for the last fortnight had left in
the morning, I met only the _habitues_--the cure, the tax-collector, Dr.
Desmarets, and General de Saint-Cast and his wife, who, like the doctor,
lived at the neighbouring little town.
When I came in, Mme. de Saint-Cast, who had apparently brought her
husband a handsome fortune, was in close conversation with Mme. Aubry.
As usual, these ladies were in perfect agreement. In language in which
distinction of form rivalled elevation of thought, they, like two
shepherds in an eclogue, alternately lauded the incomparable charms of
wealth.
"You are perfectly right, madame," said Mme. Aubry. "There is only one
thing in the world worth having, and that is money. When I had money I
utterly despised every one who had not, and now I think it quite natural
for people to despise me, and I don't complain if they do."
"No one despises you on that account, madame," replied Mme. de
Saint-Cast, "most certainly not; but all the same there's a very great
difference between poverty and riches, I must confess, as the general
knows well enough. Why, he had absolutely nothing when I married
him--except his sword--and one doesn't get fat on a sword, does one,
madame?"
"No, no, indeed, madame!" exclaimed Mme. Aubry, delighted with this bold
metaphor. "Honour and glory are all very well in novels, but a nice
carriage is much better in practice, isn't it, madame?"
"Of course it is, madame; and that's just what I was saying to the
general this morning as we came here. Isn't it, general?"
"Eh, what?" growled the general, who was playing cards in a corner with
the old corsair.
"You hadn't a penny when I married you, general, had you?" continued
Mme. de Saint-Cast. "You won't think of denying that, I suppose."
"We've heard it often enough, I should say," growled the general.
"That doesn't alter the fact that if it hadn't been for me, general,
you'd have had to travel on foot, and that wouldn't have been a fine
thing for you with your wounds. Your half-pay of six or seven hundred
francs wouldn't have kept a carriage for you, my friend. I was saying
this to him to-day _apropos_ of our new carriage, which is as easy as an
arm-chair. Of course I paid a good price for it; it's four thousand
francs out of my pocket, madame."
"I can well believe it, madame. My best carriage cost me fully five
thousand, including the tiger-skin mat, which was worth five hundred
francs alone."
"Yes," replied Mme. de Saint-Cast; "but I have had to be a little
careful, for I've just been getting new drawing-room furniture; the
carpet and curtains alone cost me fifteen thousand francs. You'll say
it's too good for a country hole like this. You're right. But the
whole town is lost in admiration, and, after all, one does like to be
respected, madame!"
"Of course, madame," replied Mme. Aubry, "we like to be respected, and
we are respected according to the money we have. For my part, I console
myself for not being respected now, by remembering that if I were as
well off as I once was, I should see all the people who despise me at my
feet again."
"Except me, by God!" cried Dr. Desmarets, jumping up. "You might have a
hundred millions a year, and I give you my word of honour you wouldn't
see me at your feet! And now I'll go and get some air, for, devil take
me, if one can breathe here!"
So saying, the honest doctor left the room, and my heart went out to him
for the outburst that had relieved my own sense of disgust and
indignation.
Although M. Desmarets was received at the house as a Chrysostom to whom
great license of speech was allowed, his language had been so forcible
that it had produced a certain embarrassment in the company, and an
awkward silence ensued. Mme. Laroque broke it adroitly by asking her
daughter whether it was eight o'clock.
"It can't be, mother," replied Mlle. Marguerite, "for Mlle. de Porhoet
has not come yet."
The minute after, as the clock struck, the door opened, and Mlle.
Jocelynde de Porhoet-Gael entered the room, with astronomical
punctuality, on the arm of Dr. Desmarets.
Mlle. de Porhoet-Gael, who had this year seen her eighty-eighth spring,
and whose appearance suggested a tall reed wrapped in silk, is the last
scion of a noble race, whose earliest ancestors must be sought among the
legendary kings of ancient Armorica. Of this house, however, there is
no authentic record in history until the twelfth century, when Juthail,
son of Conan le Tort, who belonged to the younger branch of the reigning
family of Brittany, is mentioned. Some drops of the Porhoet blood have
mingled with that of the most illustrious veins of France--those of the
Rohans, the Lusignans, the Penthievres, and these _grands seigneurs_ had
admitted that it was not the least pure of their blood. I remember that
when in a fit of youthful vanity I studied the alliances of my family, I
noticed the strange name of Porhoet, and that my father, who was very
learned in such matters, spoke highly in its praise. Mlle. de Porhoet,
who is now the sole bearer of the name, had always refused to marry,
because she wished to preserve as long as possible in the firmament of
the French nobility the constellation of those magic syllables,
Porhoet-Gael. It happened one day that the origin of the house of
Bourbon was referred to in her presence.
"The Bourbons," said Mlle. de Porhoet, sticking her knitting-needle into
her blond peruke, "the Bourbons are a good family, but" (with an air of
modesty) "there are better."
However, it is impossible not to render homage to this august old lady,
who bears with surprising dignity the heavy and triple majesty of birth,
age, and misfortune. A wretched lawsuit in some foreign country which
she has persisted in carrying on for fifteen years, has gradually
reduced a fortune, which was but small to begin with; and now she has
scarcely a thousand francs a year. Privation has not broken her pride or
embittered her temper. She is gay, good-humoured, and courteous. She
lives, no one quite knows how, in her small house with her little
servant, and contrives even to find money for charity. To their great
honour, Mme. Laroque and her daughter are devoted to their poor and
noble neighbour. At their house she is treated with a respectful
attention which amazes Mme. Aubry. I have often seen Mlle. Marguerite
leave the gayest dance to make a fourth for Mlle. de Porhoet's rubber,
for the world would come to an end if Mlle. de Porhoet's whist
(halfpenny points) was omitted for a single day. I am one of the old
lady's favourite partners, and on this particular evening soon found
myself, with the cure and the doctor, seated at the whist-table with the
descendant of Conan le Tort.
I ought to mention here that at the commencement of the last century a
grand-uncle of Mlle. de Porhoet, who held an office in the establishment
of the Duke d'Anjou, crossed the Pyrenees in the suite of the young
prince, who became Philip V, settled in Spain, and prospered there. His
posterity became extinct about fifteen years ago, and Mlle. de Porhoet,
who had never lost sight of her Spanish relatives, at once declared
herself heiress to their considerable property. Her claims were
contested, only too justly, I fear, by one of the oldest Castilian
families allied to the Spanish branch of the Porhoets.
Hence the lawsuit which the unfortunate octogenarian maintained at great
expense, going from court to court with a persistence akin to mania,
which her friends deplored and other people ridiculed. Dr. Desmarets,
despite his respect for Mlle. de Porhoet, belongs to the party who
laughs; more particularly, because he strongly disapproves of the use to
which the poor lady has prospectively devoted her fictitious heritage.
She intends to build in the neighbouring town a cathedral in the richest
_flamboyant_ style, which shall perpetuate the name of the foundress and
of a great departed race to all future generations. This
cathedral--dream begotten of a dream!--is the harmless hobby of the old
lady. She has had the plans made; she spends her days and sometimes her
nights brooding on its splendours, altering its arrangements, or adding
to its decoration. She speaks of it as already existent: "I was in the
nave of my cathedral; to-night I noticed something very ugly in the
north aisle of my cathedral; I have altered the uniform of the
_suisse_;" etc., etc.
"Well, mademoiselle," said the doctor, shuffling the cards, "have you
been working at the cathedral since yesterday?"
"Yes, of course I have, doctor; and I've had a rather happy idea. I
have replaced the solid wall, which you know separates the choir from
the sacristy, by a screen of carved foliage in imitation of the Clisson
chapel in the church at Josselin. It is much lighter."
"No doubt; but in the meanwhile what is the news from Spain? Can it be
true, as I think I saw in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ this morning, that
the young duke of Villa-Hermosa proposes to put an end to the case in a
friendly way, by offering to marry you?"
Mademoiselle de Porhoet disdainfully shook the plume of faded ribbons
attached to her cap.
"I should refuse absolutely," she said.
"Ah, yes, you say so, mademoiselle! But how about the guitar that's
been heard under your windows the last few nights?"
"Bah!"
"Bah? And that Spaniard who has been prowling about the country in a
mantle and yellow boots, sighing as if his heart would burst?"
"You are a feather-head, Dr. Desmarets," said Mademoiselle de Porhoet,
calmly opening her snuff-box. "Still, as you wish to know--I may say
that my man of business wrote to me from Madrid a day or two ago that
with a little more patience we should see the end of all our troubles."
"I can quite believe that! Do you know where your man of business comes
from, madame? Straight from Gil Blas' cavern. He'll drain you of your
last shilling, and then he'll laugh in your face. How much better it
would be to give up this folly for good and all, and live at ease
quietly! What good will these millions do you? Aren't you happy and
respected ... what more do you want? ... As for your cathedral, I won't
speak of it, because--it is a bad joke."
"My cathedral is not a bad joke to any but bad jokers, Dr. Desmarets;
besides, I am defending my rights, I am fighting for justice; the
property belongs to me. I have heard my father say so a hundred times,
and never, with my consent, shall it go to people who are actually as
much strangers to our family as yourself, my friend, or," she added,
indicating me, "this gentleman."
I was childish enough to resent this remark, and at once replied: "As
far as I am concerned, mademoiselle, you are mistaken; for my family has
had the honour of being allied to yours, and _vice versa_."
At this startling announcement Mlle. de Porhoet hastily brought her
cards, which she held spread out fanwise, nearer to her pointed chin,
and straightening her spare figure, looked me in the face as if she
doubted my sanity. By a tremendous effort she recovered her
self-possession, and said, as she carried a pinch of Spanish snuff to
her thin nose, "Young man, you will have to prove what you say to me."
Ashamed of my foolish boast, and embarrassed by the attention it had
aroused, I bowed awkwardly without speaking. Our rubber was played in
gloomy silence. It was ten o'clock, and I was preparing to slip off,
when Mlle. de Porhoet touched my arm.
"Sir," she said, "will you be so kind as to accompany me to the end of
the avenue?"
I bowed again and followed her into the park. The little servant in
Breton costume went first, carrying a lantern; then came Mlle. de
Porhoet, stiff and silent, carefully holding up her worn silk frock; she
had coldly declined the offer of my arm, and I walked humbly at her
side, feeling very much dissatisfied with myself. After a few minutes
of this funeral march the old lady spoke.
"Well, sir?" she said. "You may speak; I am waiting. You have asserted
that your family is allied to mine, and as an alliance of this kind is a
piece of history entirely new to me, I shall be greatly obliged if you
will enlighten me on the subject."