Ver.07/27/01*END*
This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
THE ABBE CONSTANTIN
By LUDOVIC HALEVY
With a Preface by E. LEGOUVE, of the French Academy
LUDOVIC HALEVY
Ludovic Halevy was born in Paris, January 1, 1834. His father was Leon
Halevy, the celebrated author; his grandfather, Fromenthal, the eminent
composer. Ludovic was destined for the civil service, and, after
finishing his studies, entered successively the Department of State
(1852); the Algerian Department (1858), and later on became editorial
secretary of the Corps Legislatif (1860). When his patron, the Duc de
Morny, died in 1865, Halevy resigned, giving up a lucrative position for
the uncertain profession of a playwright: At this period he devoted
himself exclusively to the theatre.
He had already written plays as early as 1856, and had also tried his
hand at fiction, but did not meet with very great success. Toward 1860,
however, he became acquainted with Henri Meilhac, and with him formed a
kind of literary union, lasting for almost twenty years, when Halevy
rather abruptly abandoned the theatre and became a writer of fiction.
We have seen such kinds of co-partnerships, for instance, in Beaumont and
Fletcher; more recently in the beautiful French tales of Erckmann-
Chatrian, and still later in the English novels of Besant and Rice.
Some say it was a fortunate event for Meilhac; others assert that Halevy
reaped a great profit by the union. Be this as it may, a great number of
plays-drama, comedy, farce, opera, operetta and ballet--were jointly
produced, as is shown by the title-pages of two score or more of their
pieces. When Ludovic Halevy was a candidate for L'Academie--he entered
that glorious body in 1884--the question was ventilated by Pailleron:
"What was the author's literary relation in his union with Meilhac?" It
was answered by M. Sarcey, who criticised the character and quality of
the work achieved. Public opinion has a long time since brought in quite
another verdict in the case.
Halevy's cooperation endowed the plays of Meilhac with a fuller ethical
richness--tempered them, so to speak, and made them real, for it can not
be denied that Meilhac was inclined to extravagance.
Halevy's novels are remarkable for the elegance of literary style,
tenderness of spirit and keenness of observation. He excels in ironical
sketches. He has often been compared to Eugene Sue, but his touch is
lighter than Sue's, and his humor less unctuous. Most of his little
sketches, originally written for La Vie Parisienne, were collected in his
'Monsieur et Madame Cardinal' (1873); and 'Les Petites Cardinal', (1880).
They are not intended 'virginibus puerisque', and the author's attitude
is that of a half-pitying, half-contemptuous moralist, yet the virility
of his criticism has brought him immortality.
Personal recollections of the great war are to be found in 'L'Invasion'
(1872); and 'Notes et Souvenirs', 1871-1872 (1889). Most extraordinary,
however, was the success of 'L'Abbe Constantin' (1882), crowned by the
Academy, which has gone through no less than one hundred and fifty
editions up to 1904, and ranks as one of the greatest successes of
contemporaneous literature. It is, indeed, his 'chef-d'oeuvre', very
delicate, earnest, and at the same time ironical, a most entrancing
family story. It was then that the doors of the French Academy opened
wide before Halevy. 'L'Abbe Constantin' was adapted for the stage by
Cremieux and Decourcelle (Le Gymnase, 1882). Further notable novels are:
'Criquette, Deux Mariages, Un Grand Mariage, Un Mariage d'Amour', all in
1883; 'Princesse, Les Trois Coups de Foudre, Mon Camarade Moussard', all
in 1884; and the romances, 'Karikari (1892), and Mariette (1893)'. Since
that time, I think, Halevy has not published anything of importance.
E. LEGOUVE
de l'Academie Francaise.
THE ABBE CONSTANTIN
BOOK 1.
CHAPTER I
THE SALE OF LONGUEVAL
With a step still valiant and firm, an old priest walked along the dusty
road in the full rays of a brilliant sun. For more than thirty years the
Abbe Constantin had been Cure of the little village which slept there in
the plain, on the banks of a slender stream called La Lizotte. The Abbe
Constantin was walking by the wall which surrounded the park of the
castle of Longueval; at last he reached the entrance-gate, which rested
high and massive on two ancient pillars of stone, embrowned and gnawed by
time. The Cure stopped, and mournfully regarded two immense blue posters
fixed on the pillars.
The posters announced that on Wednesday, May 18, 1881, at one o'clock
P.M., would take place, before the Civil Tribunal of Souvigny, the sale
of the domain of Longueval, divided into four lots:
1. The castle of Longueval, its dependencies, fine pieces of water,
extensive offices, park of 150 hectares in extent, completely surrounded
by a wall, and traversed by the little river Lizotte. Valued at 600,000
francs.
2. The farm of Blanche-Couronne, 300 hectares, valued at 500,000 francs.
3. The farm of La Rozeraie, 250 hectares, valued at 400,000 francs.
4. The woods and forests of La Mionne, containing 450 hectares, valued
at 550,000 francs.
And these four amounts, added together at the foot of the bill, gave the
respectable sum of 2,050,000 francs.
Then they were really going to dismember this magnificent domain, which,
escaping all mutilation, had for more than two centuries always been
transmitted intact from father to son in the family of Longueval. The
placards also announced that after the temporary division into four lots,
it would be possible to unite them again, and offer for sale the entire
domain; but it was a very large morsel, and, to all appearance, no
purchaser would present himself.
The Marquise de Longueval had died six months before; in 1873 she had
lost her only son, Robert de Longueval; the three heirs were the
grandchildren of the Marquise: Pierre, Helene, and Camille. It had been
found necessary to offer the domain for sale, as Helene and Camille were
minors. Pierre, a young man of three-and-twenty, had lived rather fast,
was already half-ruined, and could not hope to redeem Longueval.
It was mid-day. In an hour it would have a new master, this old castle
of Longueval; and this master, who would he be? What woman would take
the place of the old Marquise in the chimney-corner of the grand salon,
all adorned with ancient tapestry?--the old Marquise, the friend of the
old priest. It was she who had restored the church; it was she who had
established and furnished a complete dispensary at the vicarage under the
care of Pauline, the Cure's servant; it was she who, twice a week, in her
great barouche, all crowded with little children's clothes and thick
woolen petticoats, came to fetch the Abbe Constantin to make with him
what she called 'la chasse aux pauvres'.
The old priest continued his walk, musing over all this; then he thought,
too--the greatest saints have their little weaknesses--he thought, too,
of the beloved habits of thirty years thus rudely interrupted. Every
Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at the castle. How he had been
petted, coaxed, indulged! Little Camille--she was eight years old--would
come and sit on his knee and say to him:
"You know, Monsieur le Cure, it is in your church that I mean to be
married, and grandmamma will send such heaps of flowers to fill, quite
fill the church--more than for the month of Mary. It will be like a
large garden--all white, all white, all white!"
The month of Mary! It was then the month of Mary. Formerly, at this
season, the altar disappeared under the flowers brought from the
conservatories of Longueval. None this year were on the altar, except a
few bouquets of lily-of-the-valley and white lilac in gilded china vases.
Formerly, every Sunday at high mass, and every evening during the month
of Mary, Mademoiselle Hebert, the reader to Madame de Longueval, played
the little harmonium given by the Marquise. Now the poor harmonium,
reduced to silence, no longer accompanied the voices of the choir or the
children's hymns. Mademoiselle Marbeau, the postmistress, would, with
all her heart, have taken the place of Mademoiselle Hebert, but she dared
not, though she was a little musical! She was afraid of being remarked
as of the clerical party, and denounced by the Mayor, who was a
Freethinker. That might have been injurious to her interests, and
prevented her promotion.
He had nearly reached the end of the wall of the park--that park of which
every corner was known to the old priest. The road now followed the
banks of the Lizotte, and on the other side of the little stream
stretched the fields belonging to the two farms; then, still farther off,
rose the dark woods of La Mionne.
Divided! The domain was going to be divided! The heart of the poor
priest was rent by this bitter thought. All that for thirty years had
been inseparable, indivisible to him. It was a little his own, his very
own, his estate, this great property. He felt at home on the lands of
Longueval. It had happened more than once that he had stopped
complacently before an immense cornfield, plucked an ear, removed the
husk, and said to himself:
"Come! the grain is fine, firm, and sound. This year we shall have a
good harvest!"
And with a joyous heart he would continue his way through his fields, his
meadows, his pastures; in short, by every chord of his heart, by every
tie of his life, by all his habits, his memories, he clung to this domain
whose last hour had come.
The Abbe perceived in the distance the farm of Blanche-Couronne; its red-
tiled roofs showed distinctly against the verdure of the forest. There,
again, the Cure was at home. Bernard, the farmer of the Marquise, was
his friend; and when the old priest was delayed in his visits to the poor
and sick, when the sun was sinking below the horizon, and the Abbe began
to feel a little fatigued in his limbs, and a sensation of exhaustion in
his stomach, he stopped and supped with Bernard, regaled himself with a
savory stew and potatoes, and emptied his pitcher of cider; then, after
supper, the farmer harnessed his old black mare to his cart, and took the
vicar back to Longueval. The whole distance they chatted and quarrelled.
The Abbe reproached the farmer with not going to mass, and the latter
replied:
"The wife and the girls go for me. You know very well, Monsieur le Cure,
that is how it is with us. The women have enough religion for the men.
They will open the gates of paradise for us."
And he added maliciously, while giving a touch of the whip to his old
black mare:
"If there is one!"
The Cure sprang from his seat.
"What! if there is one! Of a certainty there is one."
"Then you will be there, Monsieur le Cure. You say that is not certain,
and I say it is. You will be there, you will be there, at the gate, on
the watch for your parishioners, and still busy with their little
affairs; and you will say to St. Peter--for it is St. Peter, isn't it,
who keeps the keys of paradise?"
"Yes, it is St. Peter."
"Well, you will say to him, to St. Peter, if he wants to shut the door in
my face under the pretense that I did not go to mass--you will say to
him: 'Bah! let him in all the same. It is Bernard, one of the farmers
of Madame la Marquise, an honest man. He was common councilman, and he
voted for the maintenance of the sisters when they were going to be
expelled from the village school.' That will touch St. Peter, who will
answer: 'Well, well, you may pass, Bernard, but it is only to please
Monsieur le Cure.' For you will be Monsieur le Cure up there, and Cure
of Longueval, too, for paradise itself would be dull for you if you must
give up being Cure of Longueval."
Cure of Longueval! Yes, all his life he had been nothing but Cure of
Longueval, had never dreamed of anything else, had never wished to be
anything else. Three or four times excellent livings, with one or two
curates, had been offered to him, but he had always refused them. He
loved his little church, his little village, his little vicarage. There
he had it all to himself, saw to everything himself; calm, tranquil, he
went and came, summer and winter, in sunshine or storm, in wind or rain.
His frame became hardened by fatigue and exposure, but his soul remained
gentle, tender, and pure.
He lived in his vicarage, which was only a larger laborer's cottage,
separated from the church by the churchyard. When the Cure mounted the
ladder to train his pear and peach trees, over the top of the wall he
perceived the graves over which he had said the last prayer, and cast the
first spadeful of earth. Then, while continuing his work, he said in his
heart a little prayer for the repose of those among his dead whose fate
disturbed him, and who might be still detained in purgatory. He had a
tranquil and childlike faith.
But among these graves there was one which, oftener than all the others,
received his visits and his prayers. It was the tomb of his old friend
Dr. Reynaud, who had died in his arms in 1871, and under what
circumstances! The doctor had been like Bernard; he never went to mass
or to confession; but he was so good, so charitable, so compassionate to
the suffering. This was the cause of the Cure's great anxiety, of his
great solicitude. His friend Reynaud, where was he? Where was he? Then
he called to mind the noble life of the country doctor, all made up of
courage and self-denial; he recalled his death, above all his death, and
said to himself:
"In paradise; he can be nowhere but in paradise. The good God may have
sent him to purgatory just for form's sake--but he must have delivered
him after five minutes."
All this passed through the mind of the old man, as he continued his walk
toward Souvigny. He was going to the town, to the solicitor of the
Marquise, to inquire the result of the sale; to learn who were to be the
new masters of the castle of Longueval. The Abbe had still about a mile
to walk before reaching the first houses of Souvigny, and was passing the
park of Lavardens when he heard, above his head, voices calling to him:
"Monsieur le Cure, Monsieur le Cure."
At this spot adjoining the wall, a long alley of limetrees bordered the
terrace, and the Abbe, raising his head, perceived Madame de Lavardens,
and her son Paul.
"Where are you going, Monsieur le Cure?" asked the Countess.
"To Souvigny, to the Tribunal, to learn--"
"Stay here--Monsieur de Larnac is coming after the sale to tell me the
result."
The Abbe Constantin joined them on the terrace.
Gertrude de Lannilis, Countess de Lavardens, had been very unfortunate.
At eighteen she had been guilty of a folly, the only one of her life, but
that one--irreparable. She had married for love, in a burst of
enthusiasm and exaltation, M. de Lavardens, one of the most fascinating
and brilliant men of his time. He did not love her, and only married her
from necessity; he had devoured his patrimonial fortune to the very last
farthing, and for two or three years had supported himself by various
expedients. Mademoiselle de Lannilis knew all that, and had no illusions
on these points, but she said to herself:
"I will love him so much, that he will end by loving me."
Hence all her misfortunes. Her existence might have been tolerable, if
she had not loved her husband so much; but she loved him too much. She
had only succeeded in wearying him by her importunities and tenderness.
He returned to his former life, which had been most irregular. Fifteen
years had passed thus, in a long martyrdom, supported by Madame de
Lavardens with all the appearance of passive resignation. Nothing ever
could distract her from, or cure her of, the love which was destroying
her.
M. de Lavardens died in 1869; he left a son fourteen years of age, in
whom were already visible all the defects and all the good qualities of
his father. Without being seriously affected, the fortune of Madame de
Lavardens was slightly compromised, slightly diminished. Madame de
Lavardens sold her mansion in Paris, retired to the country, where she
lived with strict economy, and devoted herself to the education of her
son.
But here again grief and disappointment awaited her. Paul de Lavardens
was intelligent, amiable, and affectionate, but thoroughly rebellious
against any constraint, and any species of work. He drove to despair
three or four tutors who vainly endeavored to force something serious
into his head, went up to the military college of Saint-Cyr, failed at
the examination, and began to devour in Paris, with all the haste and
folly possible, 200,000 or 300,000 francs.
That done, he enlisted in the first regiment of the Chasseurs d'Afrique,
had in the very beginning of his military career the good fortune to make
one of an expeditionary column sent into the Sahara, distinguished
himself, soon became quartermaster, and at the end of three years was
about to be appointed sub-lieutenant, when he was captivated by a young
person who played the 'Fille de Madame Angot', at the theatre in Algiers.
Paul had finished his time, he quitted the service, and went to Paris
with his charmer . . . . then it was a dancer . . . . then it was
an actress . . . . then a circus-rider. He tried life in every form.
He led the brilliant and miserable existence of the unoccupied.
But it was only three or four months that he passed in Paris each year.
His mother made him an allowance Of 30,000 francs, and had declared to
him that never, while she lived, should he have another penny before his
marriage. He knew his mother, he knew he must consider her words as
serious. Thus, wishing to make a good figure in Paris, and lead a merry
life, he spent his 30,000 francs in three months, and then docilely
returned to Lavardens, where he was "out at grass." He spent his time
hunting, fishing, and riding with the officers of the artillery regiment
quartered at Souvigny. The little provincial milliners and grisettes
replaced, without rendering him obvious of, the little singers and
actresses of Paris. By searching for them, one may still find grisettes
in country towns, and Paul de Lavardens sought assiduously.
As soon as the Cure had reached Madame de Lavardens, she said: "Without
waiting for Monsieur de Larnac, I can tell you the names of the
purchasers of the domain of Longueval. I am quite easy on the subject,
and have no doubt of the success of our plan. In order to avoid any
foolish disputes, we have agreed among ourselves, that is, among our
neighbors, Monsieur de Larnac, Monsieur Gallard, a great Parisian banker,
and myself. Monsieur de Larnac will have La Mionne, Monsieur Gallard the
castle and Blanche-Couronne, and La Rozeraie. I know you, Monsieur le
Cure, you will be anxious about your poor, but comfort yourself. These
Gallards are rich and will give you plenty of money."
At this moment a cloud of dust appeared on the road, from it emerged a
carriage.
"Here comes Monsieur de Larnac!" cried Paul, "I know his ponies!"
All three hurriedly descended from the terrace and returned to the
castle. They arrived there just as M. de Larnac's carriage drove up to
the entrance.
"Well?" asked Madame de Lavardens.
"Well!" replied M. de Larnac, "we have nothing."
"What? Nothing?" cried Madame de Lavardens, very pale and agitated.
"Nothing, nothing; absolutely nothing--the one or the other of us."
And M. de Larnac springing from his carriage, related what had taken
place at the sale before the Tribunal of Souvigny.
"At first," he said, "everything went upon wheels. The castle went to
Monsieur Gallard for 650,000 francs. No competitor--a raise of fifty
francs had been sufficient. On the other hand, there was a little battle
for Blanche-Couronne. The bids rose from 500,000 francs to 520,000
francs, and again Monsieur Gallard was victorious. Another and more
animated battle for La Rozeraie; at last it was knocked down to you,
Madame, for 455,000 francs . . . . I got the forest of La Mionne
without opposition at a rise of 100 francs. All seemed over, those
present had risen, our solicitors were surrounded with persons asking the
names of the purchasers."
"Monsieur Brazier, the judge intrusted with the sale, desired silence,
and the bailiff of the court offered the four lots together for 2,150,000
or 2,160,000 francs, I don't remember which. A murmur passed through the
assembly. 'No one will bid' was heard on all sides. But little Gibert,
the solicitor, who was seated in the first row, and till then had given
no sign of life, rose and said calmly, 'I have a purchaser for the four
lots together at 2,200,000 francs.' This was like a thunderbolt.
A tremendous clamor arose, followed by a dead silence. The hall was
filled with farmers and laborers from the neighborhood. Two million
francs! So much money for the land threw them into a sort of respectful
stupor. However, Monsieur Gallard, bending toward Sandrier, the
solicitor who had bid for him, whispered something in his ear. The
struggle began between Gibert and Sandrier. The bids rose to 2,500,000
francs. Monsieur Gallard hesitated for a moment--decided--continued up
to 3,000,000. Then he stopped and the whole went to Gibert. Every one
rushed on him, they surrounded--they crushed him: 'The name, the name of
the purchaser?' 'It is an American,' replied Gibert, 'Mrs. Scott.'"
"Mrs. Scott!" cried Paul de Lavardens.
"You know her?" asked Madame de Lavardens.
"Do I know her?--do I--not at all. But I was at a ball at her house six
weeks ago."
"At a ball at her house! and you don't know her! What sort of woman is
she, then?"
"Charming, delightful, ideal, a miracle!"
"And is there a Mr. Scott?"
"Certainly, a tall, fair man. He was at his ball. They pointed him out
to me. He bowed at random right and left. He was not much amused, I
will answer for it. He looked at us as if he were thinking, 'Who are all
these people? What are they doing at my house?' We went to see Mrs.
Scott and Miss Percival, her sister. And certainly it was well worth the
trouble."
"These Scotts," said Madame de Lavardens, addressing M. de Larnac, "do
you know who they are?"
"Yes, Madame, I know. Mr. Scott is an American, possessing a colossal
fortune, who settled himself in Paris last year. As soon as their name
was mentioned, I understood that the victory had never been doubtful.
Gallard was beaten beforehand. The Scotts began by buying a house in
Paris for 2,000,000 francs, it is near the Parc Monceau."
"Yes, Rue Murillo," said Paul; "I tell you I went to a ball there. It
was--"
"Let Monsieur de Larnac speak. You can tell us presently about the ball
at Mrs. Scott's."
"Well, now, imagine my Americans established in Paris," continued M. de
Larnac, "and the showers of gold begun. In the orthodox parvenu style
they amuse themselves with throwing handfuls of gold out of window.
Their great wealth is quite recent, they say; ten years ago Mrs. Scott
begged in the streets of New York."
"Begged!"
"They say so. Then she married this Scott, the son of a New York banker,
and all at once a successful lawsuit put into their hands not millions,
but tens of millions. Somewhere in America they have a silver mine, but
a genuine mine, a real mine--a mine with silver in it. Ah! we shall see
what luxury will reign at Longueval! We shall all look like paupers
beside them! It is said that they have 100,000 francs a day to spend."
"Such are our neighbors!" cried Madame de Lavardens. "An adventuress!
and that is the least of it--a heretic, Monsieur l'Abbe, a Protestant!"
A heretic! a Protestant! Poor Cure; it was indeed that of which he had
immediately thought on hearing the words, "An American, Mrs. Scott." The
new chatelaine of Longueval would not go to mass. What did it matter to
him that she had been a beggar? What did it matter to him if she
possessed tens and tens of millions? She was not a Catholic. He would
never again baptize children born at Longueval, and the chapel in the
castle, where he had so often said mass, would be transformed into a
Protestant oratory, which would echo only the frigid utterances of a
Calvinistic or Lutheran pastor.
Every one was distressed, disappointed, overwhelmed; but in the midst of
the general depression Paul stood radiant.
"A charming heretic at all events," said he, "or rather two charming
heretics. You should see the two sisters on horseback in the Bois, with
two little grooms behind them not higher than that."
"Come, Paul, tell us all you know. Describe the ball of which you speak.
How did you happen to go to a ball at these Americans?"
"By the greatest chance. My Aunt Valentine was at home that night; I
looked in about ten o'clock. Well, Aunt Valentine's Wednesdays are not
exactly scenes of wild enjoyment, I give you my word! I had been there
about twenty minutes when I caught sight of Roger de Puymartin escaping
furtively. I caught him in the hall and said:
"'We will go home together.'
"'Oh! I am not going home.'
"'Where are you going?'
"'To the ball.'
"'Where?'
"'At Mrs. Scott's. Will you come?'
"'But I have not been invited.'
"'Neither have I'
"'What! not invited?'
"'No. I am going with one of my friends.'
"'And does your friend know them?'
"'Scarcely; but enough to introduce us. Come along; you will see Mrs.
Scott.'
"'Oh! I have seen her on horseback in the Bois.'
"'But she does not wear a low gown on horseback; you have not seen her
shoulders, and they are shoulders which ought to be seen. There is
nothing better in Paris at this moment.'
"And I went to the ball, and I saw Mrs. Scott's red hair, and I saw Mrs.
Scott's white shoulders, and I hope to see them again when there are
balls at Longueval."
"Paul!" said Madame de Lavardens, pointing to the Abbe.
"Oh! Monsieur l'Abbe, I beg a thousand pardons. Have I said anything?
It seems to me--"
The poor old priest had heard nothing; his thoughts were elsewhere.
Already he saw, in the village streets, the Protestant pastor from the
castle stopping before each house, and slipping under the doors little
evangelical pamphlets.
Continuing his account, Paul launched into an enthusiastic description of
the mansion, which was a marvel--
"Of bad taste and ostentation," interrupted Madame de Lavardens.
"Not at all, mother, not at all; nothing startling, nothing loud. It is
admirably furnished, everything done with elegance and originality. An
incomparable conservatory, flooded with electric light; the buffet was
placed in the conservatory under a vine laden with grapes, which one
could gather by handfuls, and in the month of April! The accessories of
the cotillon cost, it appears, more than 400,000 francs. Ornaments,
'bon-bonnieres', delicious trifles, and we were begged to accept them.
For my part I took nothing, but there were many who made no scruple.
That evening Puymartin told me Mrs. Scott's history, but it was not at
all like Monsieur de Larnac's story. Roger said that, when quite little,
Mrs. Scott had been stolen from her family by some acrobats, and that her
father had found her in a travelling circus, riding on barebacked horses
and jumping through paper hoops."
"A circus-rider!" cried Madame de Lavardens, "I should have preferred
the beggar."
"And while Roger was telling me this Family Herald romance, I saw
approaching from the end of a gallery a wonderful cloud of lace and
satin; it surrounded this rider from a wandering circus, and I admired
those shoulders, those dazzling shoulders, on which undulated a necklace
of diamonds as big as the stopper of a decanter. They say that the
Minister of Finance had sold secretly to Mrs. Scott half the crown
diamonds, and that was how, the month before, he had been able to show a
surplus of 1,500,000 francs in the budget. Add to all this that the lady
had a remarkably good air, and that the little acrobat seemed perfectly
at home in the midst of all this splendor."
Paul was going so far that his mother was obliged to stop him. Before M.
de Larnac, who was excessively annoyed and disappointed, he showed too
plainly his delight at the prospect of having this marvellous American
for a near neighbor.
The Abbe Constantin was preparing to return to Longueval, but Paul,
seeing him ready to start, said:
"No! no! Monsieur le Cure, you must not think of walking back to
Longueval in the heat of the day. Allow me to drive you home. I am
really grieved to see you so cast down, and will try my best to amuse
you. Oh! if you were ten times a saint I would make you laugh at my
stories."
And half an hour after, the two--the Cure and Paul--drove side by side in
the direction of the village. Paul talked, talked, talked. His mother
was not there to check or moderate his transports, and his joy was
overflowing.
"Now, look here, Monsieur l'Abbe, you are wrong to take things in this
tragic manner. Stay, look at my little mare, how well she trots! what
good action she has! You have not seen her before? What do you think
I paid for her? Four hundred francs. I discovered her a fortnight ago,
between the shafts of a market gardener's cart. She is a treasure.
I assure you she can do sixteen miles an hour, and keep one's hands full
all the time. Just see how she pulls. Come, tot-tot-tot! You are not
in a hurry, Monsieur l'Abbe, I hope. Let us return through the wood; the
fresh air will do you good. Oh! Monsieur l'Abbe, if you only knew what a
regard I have for you, and respect, too. I did not talk too much
nonsense before you just now, did I? I should be so sorry--"
"No, my child, I heard nothing."
"Well, we will take the longest way round."
After having turned to the left in the wood, Paul resumed his
communications.
"I was saying, Monsieur l'Abbe," he went on, "that you are wrong to take
things so seriously. Shall I tell you what I think? This is a very
fortunate affair."
"Very fortunate?"
"Yes, very fortunate. I would rather see the Scotts at Longueval than
the Gallards. Did you not hear Monsieur de Larnac reproach these
Americans with spending their money foolishly. It is never foolish to
spend money. The folly lies in keeping it. Your poor for I am perfectly
sure that it is your poor of whom you are thinking--your poor have made a
good thing of it to-day. That is my opinion. The religion? Well, they
will not go to mass, and that will be a grief to you, that is only
natural; but they will send you money, plenty of money, and you will take
it, and you will be quite right in doing so. You will see that you will
not say no. There will be gold raining over the whole place; a movement,
a bustle, carriages with four horses, postilions, powdered footmen, paper
chases, hunting parties, balls, fireworks, and here in this very spot I
shall perhaps find Paris again before long. I shall see once more the
two riders, and the two little grooms of whom I was speaking just now.
If you only knew how well those two sisters look on horseback! One
morning I went right round the Bois de Boulogne behind them; I fancy I
can see them still. They had high hats, and little black veils drawn
very tightly over their faces, and long riding-habits made in the
princess form, with a single seam right down the back; and a woman must
be awfully well made to wear a riding-habit like that, because you see,
Monsieur l'Abbe, with a habit of that cut no deception is possible."
For some moments the Cure had not been listening to Paul's discourse.
They had entered a long, perfectly straight avenue, and at the end of
this avenue the Cure saw a horseman galloping along.
"Look," said the Cure to Paul, "your eyes are better than mine. Is not
that Jean?"
"Yes, it is jean. I know his gray mare."
Paul loved horses, and before looking at the rider looked at the horse.
It was indeed Jean, who, when he saw in the distance the Cure and Paul
de Lavardens, waved in the air his kepi adorned with two golden stripes.
Jean was lieutenant in the regiment of artillery quartered at Souvigny.
Some moments after he stopped by the little carriage, and, addressing the
Cure, said:
"I have just been to your house, 'mon parrain'. Pauline told me that you
had gone to Souvigny about the sale. Well, who has bought the castle?"
"An American, Mrs. Scott."
"And Blanche-Couronne?"
"The same, Mrs. Scott."
"And La Rozeraie?"
"Mrs. Scott again."
"And the forest? Mrs. Scott again?"
"You have said it," replied Paul, "and I know Mrs. Scott, and I can
promise you that there will be something going on at Longueval. I will
introduce you. Only it is distressing to Monsieur l'Abbe because she is
an American--a Protestant."
"Ah! that is true," said Jean, sympathizingly. "However, we will talk
about it to-morrow. I am going to dine with you, godfather; I have
warned Pauline of my visit; no time to stop to-day. I am on duty, and
must be in quarters at three o'clock."
"Stables?" asked Paul.
"Yes. Good-by, Paul. To-morrow, godfather."
The lieutenant galloped away. Paul de Lavardens gave his little horse
her head.
"What a capital fellow Jean is!" said Paul.
"Oh, yes, indeed!"
"There is no one on earth better than Jean."
"No, no one."
The Cure turned round to take another look at Jean, who was almost lost
in the depths of the forest.
"Oh, yes, there is you, Monsieur le Cure."
"No, not me! not me!"
"Well, Monsieur 1'Abbe, shall I tell you what I think? I think there is
no one better than you two--you and Jean. That is the truth, if I must
tell you. Oh! what a splendid place for a trot! I shall let Niniche
go; I call her Niniche."
With the point of his whip Paul caressed the flank of Niniche, who
started off at full speed, and Paul, delighted, cried:
"Just look at her action, Monsieur l'Abbe! just look at her action! So
regular--just like clockwork. Lean over and look."
To please Paul de Lavardens the Abbe Constantin did lean over and look at
Niniche's action, but the old priest's thoughts were far away.