at six next morning, put on his maroon-colored coat, of which the
glowing lights afforded him perennial enjoyment, fastened a pair of gold
buckles on the knee-straps of his ample satin breeches; and then, at
about seven o’clock, while all were still sleeping in the house, he
made his way to the little office adjoining the shop on the first floor.
Daylight came in through a window, fortified by iron bars, and looking
out on a small yard surrounded by such black walls that it was very like
a well. The old merchant opened the iron-lined shutters, which were so
familiar to him, and threw up the lower half of the sash window. The icy
air of the courtyard came in to cool the hot atmosphere of the little
room, full of the odor peculiar to offices.
The merchant remained standing, his hand resting on the greasy arm of
a large cane chair lined with morocco, of which the original hue had
disappeared; he seemed to hesitate as to seating himself. He looked with
affection at the double desk, where his wife’s seat, opposite his own,
was fitted into a little niche in the wall. He contemplated the
numbered boxes, the files, the implements, the cash box--objects all
of immemorial origin, and fancied himself in the room with the shade of
Master Chevrel. He even pulled out the high stool on which he had once
sat in the presence of his departed master. This stool, covered with
black leather, the horse-hair showing at every corner--as it had long
done, without, however, coming out--he placed with a shaking hand on the
very spot where his predecessor had put it, and then, with an emotion
difficult to describe, he pulled a bell, which rang at the head of
Joseph Lebas’ bed. When this decisive blow had been struck, the old man,
for whom, no doubt, these reminiscences were too much, took up three or
four bills of exchange, and looked at them without seeing them.
Suddenly Joseph Lebas stood before him.
“Sit down there,” said Guillaume, pointing to the stool.
As the old master draper had never yet bid his assistant be seated in
his presence, Joseph Lebas was startled.
“What do you think of these notes?” asked Guillaume.
“They will never be paid.”
“Why?”
“Well, I heard the day before yesterday Etienne and Co. had made their
payments in gold.”
“Oh, oh!” said the draper. “Well, one must be very ill to show one’s
bile. Let us speak of something else.--Joseph, the stock-taking is
done.”
“Yes, monsieur, and the dividend is one of the best you have ever made.”
“Do not use new-fangled words. Say the profits, Joseph. Do you know, my
boy, that this result is partly owing to you? And I do not intend to pay
you a salary any longer. Madame Guillaume has suggested to me to take
you into partnership.--‘Guillaume and Lebas;’ will not that make a
good business name? We might add, ‘and Co.’ to round off the firm’s
signature.”
Tears rose to the eyes of Joseph Lebas, who tried to hide them.
“Oh, Monsieur Guillaume, how have I deserved such kindness? I only do my
duty. It was so much already that you should take an interest in a poor
orph----”
He was brushing the cuff of his left sleeve with his right hand, and
dared not look at the old man, who smiled as he thought that this modest
young fellow no doubt needed, as he had needed once on a time, some
encouragement to complete his explanation.
“To be sure,” said Virginie’s father, “you do not altogether deserve
this favor, Joseph. You have not so much confidence in me as I have in
you.” (The young man looked up quickly.) “You know all the secrets
of the cash-box. For the last two years I have told you almost all
my concerns. I have sent you to travel in our goods. In short, I have
nothing on my conscience as regards you. But you--you have a soft place,
and you have never breathed a word of it.” Joseph Lebas blushed. “Ah,
ha!” cried Guillaume, “so you thought you could deceive an old fox like
me? When you knew that I had scented the Lecocq bankruptcy?”
“What, monsieur?” replied Joseph Lebas, looking at his master as keenly
as his master looked at him, “you knew that I was in love?”
“I know everything, you rascal,” said the worthy and cunning old
merchant, pulling the assistant’s ear. “And I forgive you--I did the
same myself.”
“And you will give her to me?”
“Yes--with fifty thousand crowns; and I will leave you as much by will,
and we will start on our new career under the name of a new firm. We
will do good business yet, my boy!” added the old man, getting up and
flourishing his arms. “I tell you, son-in-law, there is nothing like
trade. Those who ask what pleasure is to be found in it are simpletons.
To be on the scent of a good bargain, to hold your own on ‘Change, to
watch as anxiously as at the gaming-table whether Etienne and Co. will
fail or no, to see a regiment of Guards march past all dressed in your
cloth, to trip your neighbor up--honestly of course!--to make the goods
cheaper than others can; then to carry out an undertaking which you
have planned, which begins, grows, totters, and succeeds! to know the
workings of every house of business as well as a minister of police, so
as never to make a mistake; to hold up your head in the midst of wrecks,
to have friends by correspondence in every manufacturing town; is not
that a perpetual game, Joseph? That is life, that is! I shall die in
that harness, like old Chevrel, but taking it easy now, all the same.”
In the heat of his eager rhetoric, old Guillaume had scarcely looked
at his assistant, who was weeping copiously. “Why, Joseph, my poor boy,
what is the matter?”
“Oh, I love her so! Monsieur Guillaume, that my heart fails me; I
believe----”
“Well, well, boy,” said the old man, touched, “you are happier than you
know, by God! For she loves you. I know it.”
And he blinked his little green eyes as he looked at the young man.
“Mademoiselle Augustine! Mademoiselle Augustine!” exclaimed Joseph Lebas
in his rapture.
He was about to rush out of the room when he felt himself clutched by a
hand of iron, and his astonished master spun him round in front of him
once more.
“What has Augustine to do with this matter?” he asked, in a voice which
instantly froze the luckless Joseph.
“Is it not she that--that--I love?” stammered the assistant.
Much put out by his own want of perspicacity, Guillaume sat down
again, and rested his long head in his hands to consider the perplexing
situation in which he found himself. Joseph Lebas, shamefaced and in
despair, remained standing.
“Joseph,” the draper said with frigid dignity, “I was speaking of
Virginie. Love cannot be made to order, I know. I know, too, that you
can be trusted. We will forget all this. I will not let Augustine marry
before Virginie.--Your interest will be ten per cent.”
The young man, to whom love gave I know not what power of courage and
eloquence, clasped his hand, and spoke in his turn--spoke for a quarter
of an hour, with so much warmth and feeling, that he altered the
situation. If the question had been a matter of business the old
tradesman would have had fixed principles to guide his decision; but,
tossed a thousand miles from commerce, on the ocean of sentiment,
without a compass, he floated, as he told himself, undecided in the face
of such an unexpected event. Carried away by his fatherly kindness, he
began to beat about the bush.
“Deuce take it, Joseph, you must know that there are ten years between
my two children. Mademoiselle Chevrel was no beauty, still she has had
nothing to complain of in me. Do as I did. Come, come, don’t cry. Can
you be so silly? What is to be done? It can be managed perhaps. There
is always some way out of a scrape. And we men are not always devoted
Celadons to our wives--you understand? Madame Guillaume is very pious.
... Come. By Gad, boy, give your arm to Augustine this morning as we go
to Mass.”
These were the phrases spoken at random by the old draper, and their
conclusion made the lover happy. He was already thinking of a friend of
his as a match for Mademoiselle Virginie, as he went out of the smoky
office, pressing his future father-in-law’s hand, after saying with a
knowing look that all would turn out for the best.
“What will Madame Guillaume say to it?” was the idea that greatly
troubled the worthy merchant when he found himself alone.
At breakfast Madame Guillaume and Virginie, to whom the draper had not
yet confided his disappointment, cast meaning glances at Joseph Lebas,
who was extremely embarrassed. The young assistant’s bashfulness
commended him to his mother-in-law’s good graces. The matron became
so cheerful that she smiled as she looked at her husband, and allowed
herself some little pleasantries of time-honored acceptance in such
simple families. She wondered whether Joseph or Virginie were the
taller, to ask them to compare their height. This preliminary fooling
brought a cloud to the master’s brow, and he even made such a point of
decorum that he desired Augustine to take the assistant’s arm on their
way to Saint-Leu. Madame Guillaume, surprised at this manly delicacy,
honored her husband with a nod of approval. So the procession left
the house in such order as to suggest no suspicious meaning to the
neighbors.
“Does it not seem to you, Mademoiselle Augustine,” said the assistant,
and he trembled, “that the wife of a merchant whose credit is as good
as Monsieur Guillaume’s, for instance, might enjoy herself a little more
than Madame your mother does? Might wear diamonds--or keep a carriage?
For my part, if I were to marry, I should be glad to take all the work,
and see my wife happy. I would not put her into the counting-house.
In the drapery business, you see, a woman is not so necessary now as
formerly. Monsieur Guillaume was quite right to act as he did--and
besides, his wife liked it. But so long as a woman knows how to turn her
hand to the book-keeping, the correspondence, the retail business, the
orders, and her housekeeping, so as not to sit idle, that is enough. At
seven o’clock, when the shop is shut, I shall take my pleasures, go to
the play, and into company.--But you are not listening to me.”
“Yes, indeed, Monsieur Joseph. What do you think of painting? That is a
fine calling.”
“Yes. I know a master house-painter, Monsieur Lourdois. He is
well-to-do.”
Thus conversing, the family reached the Church of Saint-Leu. There
Madame Guillaume reasserted her rights, and, for the first time, placed
Augustine next herself, Virginie taking her place on the fourth chair,
next to Lebas. During the sermon all went well between Augustine and
Theodore, who, standing behind a pillar, worshiped his Madonna with
fervent devotion; but at the elevation of the Host, Madame Guillaume
discovered, rather late, that her daughter Augustine was holding her
prayer-book upside down. She was about to speak to her strongly, when,
lowering her veil, she interrupted her own devotions to look in the
direction where her daughter’s eyes found attraction. By the help of her
spectacles she saw the young artist, whose fashionable elegance seemed
to proclaim him a cavalry officer on leave rather than a tradesman of
the neighborhood. It is difficult to conceive of the state of violent
agitation in which Madame Guillaume found herself--she, who flattered
herself on having brought up her daughters to perfection--on discovering
in Augustine a clandestine passion of which her prudery and ignorance
exaggerated the perils. She believed her daughter to be cankered to the
core.
“Hold your book right way up, miss,” she muttered in a low voice,
tremulous with wrath. She snatched away the tell-tale prayer-book and
returned it with the letter-press right way up. “Do not allow your
eyes to look anywhere but at your prayers,” she added, “or I shall
have something to say to you. Your father and I will talk to you after
church.”
These words came like a thunderbolt on poor Augustine. She felt faint;
but, torn between the distress she felt and the dread of causing a
commotion in church she bravely concealed her anguish. It was, however,
easy to discern the stormy state of her soul from the trembling of her
prayer-book, and the tears which dropped on every page she turned. From
the furious glare shot at him by Madame Guillaume the artist saw the
peril into which his love affair had fallen; he went out, with a raging
soul, determined to venture all.
“Go to your room, miss!” said Madame Guillaume, on their return home;
“we will send for you, but take care not to quit it.”
The conference between the husband and wife was conducted so secretly
that at first nothing was heard of it. Virginie, however, who had tried
to give her sister courage by a variety of gentle remonstrances, carried
her good nature so far as to listen at the door of her mother’s bedroom
where the discussion was held, to catch a word or two. The first time
she went down to the lower floor she heard her father exclaim, “Then,
madame, do you wish to kill your daughter?”
“My poor dear!” said Virginie, in tears, “papa takes your part.”
“And what do they want to do to Theodore?” asked the innocent girl.
Virginie, inquisitive, went down again; but this time she stayed longer;
she learned that Joseph Lebas loved Augustine. It was written that on
this memorable day, this house, generally so peaceful, should be a hell.
Monsieur Guillaume brought Joseph Lebas to despair by telling him of
Augustine’s love for a stranger. Lebas, who had advised his friend to
become a suitor for Mademoiselle Virginie, saw all his hopes wrecked.
Mademoiselle Virginie, overcome by hearing that Joseph had, in a way,
refused her, had a sick headache. The dispute that had arisen from the
discussion between Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, when, for the third
time in their lives, they had been of antagonistic opinions, had shown
itself in a terrible form. Finally, at half-past four in the afternoon,
Augustine, pale, trembling, and with red eyes, was haled before her
father and mother. The poor child artlessly related the too brief tale
of her love. Reassured by a speech from her father, who promised to
listen to her in silence, she gathered courage as she pronounced to her
parents the name of Theodore de Sommervieux, with a mischievous little
emphasis on the aristocratic _de_. And yielding to the unknown charm of
talking of her feelings, she was brave enough to declare with innocent
decision that she loved Monsieur de Sommervieux, that she had written to
him, and she added, with tears in her eyes: “To sacrifice me to another
man would make me wretched.”
“But, Augustine, you cannot surely know what a painter is?” cried her
mother with horror.
“Madame Guillaume!” said the old man, compelling her to
silence.--“Augustine,” he went on, “artists are generally little better
than beggars. They are too extravagant not to be always a bad sort. I
served the late Monsieur Joseph Vernet, the late Monsieur Lekain, and
the late Monsieur Noverre. Oh, if you could only know the tricks played
on poor Father Chevrel by that Monsieur Noverre, by the Chevalier de
Saint-Georges, and especially by Monsieur Philidor! They are a set of
rascals; I know them well! They all have a gab and nice manners. Ah,
your Monsieur Sumer--, Somm----”
“De Sommervieux, papa.”
“Well, well, de Sommervieux, well and good. He can never have been half
so sweet to you as Monsieur le Chevalier de Saint-Georges was to me the
day I got a verdict of the consuls against him. And in those days they
were gentlemen of quality.”
“But, father, Monsieur Theodore is of good family, and he wrote me that
he is rich; his father was called Chevalier de Sommervieux before the
Revolution.”
At these words Monsieur Guillaume looked at his terrible better half,
who, like an angry woman, sat tapping the floor with her foot while
keeping sullen silence; she avoided even casting wrathful looks
at Augustine, appearing to leave to Monsieur Guillaume the whole
responsibility in so grave a matter, since her opinion was not listened
to. Nevertheless, in spite of her apparent self-control, when she
saw her husband giving way so mildly under a catastrophe which had no
concern with business, she exclaimed:
“Really, monsieur, you are so weak with your daughters! However----”
The sound of a carriage, which stopped at the door, interrupted the
rating which the old draper already quaked at. In a minute Madame Roguin
was standing in the middle of the room, and looking at the actors in
this domestic scene: “I know all, my dear cousin,” said she, with a
patronizing air.
Madame Roguin made the great mistake of supposing that a Paris notary’s
wife could play the part of a favorite of fashion.
“I know all,” she repeated, “and I have come into Noah’s Ark, like
the dove, with the olive-branch. I read that allegory in the _Genie du
Christianisme_,” she added, turning to Madame Guillaume; “the allusion
ought to please you, cousin. Do you know,” she went on, smiling at
Augustine, “that Monsieur de Sommervieux is a charming man? He gave me
my portrait this morning, painted by a master’s hand. It is worth at
least six thousand francs.” And at these words she patted Monsieur
Guillaume on the arm. The old draper could not help making a grimace
with his lips, which was peculiar to him.
“I know Monsieur de Sommervieux very well,” the Dove ran on. “He has
come to my evenings this fortnight past, and made them delightful. He
has told me all his woes, and commissioned me to plead for him. I know
since this morning that he adores Augustine, and he shall have her. Ah,
cousin, do not shake your head in refusal. He will be created Baron, I
can tell you, and has just been made Chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
by the Emperor himself, at the Salon. Roguin is now his lawyer, and
knows all his affairs. Well! Monsieur de Sommervieux has twelve thousand
francs a year in good landed estate. Do you know that the father-in-law
of such a man may get a rise in life--be mayor of his _arrondissement_,
for instance. Have we not seen Monsieur Dupont become a Count of the
Empire, and a senator, all because he went as mayor to congratulate the
Emperor on his entry into Vienna? Oh, this marriage must take place! For
my part, I adore the dear young man. His behavior to Augustine is only
met with in romances. Be easy, little one, you shall be happy, and every
girl will wish she were in your place. Madame la Duchesse de Carigliano,
who comes to my ‘At Homes,’ raves about Monsieur de Sommervieux. Some
spiteful people say she only comes to me to meet him; as if a duchesse
of yesterday was doing too much honor to a Chevrel, whose family have
been respected citizens these hundred years!
“Augustine,” Madame Roguin went on, after a short pause, “I have seen
the portrait. Heavens! How lovely it is! Do you know that the Emperor
wanted to have it? He laughed, and said to the Deputy High Constable
that if there were many women like that in his court while all the kings
visited it, he should have no difficulty about preserving the peace of
Europe. Is not that a compliment?”
The tempests with which the day had begun were to resemble those of
nature, by ending in clear and serene weather. Madame Roguin displayed
so much address in her harangue, she was able to touch so many strings
in the dry hearts of Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, that at last she hit
on one which she could work upon. At this strange period commerce and
finance were more than ever possessed by the crazy mania for seeking
alliance with rank; and the generals of the Empire took full advantage
of this desire. Monsieur Guillaume, as a singular exception, opposed
this deplorable craving. His favorite axioms were that, to secure
happiness, a woman must marry a man of her own class; that every one was
punished sooner or later for having climbed too high; that love could
so little endure under the worries of a household, that both husband and
wife needed sound good qualities to be happy, that it would not do for
one to be far in advance of the other, because, above everything, they
must understand each other; if a man spoke Greek and his wife Latin,
they might come to die of hunger. He had himself invented this sort
of adage. And he compared such marriages to old-fashioned materials of
mixed silk and wool. Still, there is so much vanity at the bottom of
man’s heart that the prudence of the pilot who steered the Cat and
Racket so wisely gave way before Madame Roguin’s aggressive volubility.
Austere Madame Guillaume was the first to see in her daughter’s
affection a reason for abdicating her principles and for consenting to
receive Monsieur de Sommervieux, whom she promised herself she would put
under severe inquisition.
The old draper went to look for Joseph Lebas, and inform him of the
state of affairs. At half-past six, the dining-room immortalized by the
artist saw, united under its skylight, Monsieur and Madame Roguin, the
young painter and his charming Augustine, Joseph Lebas, who found his
happiness in patience, and Mademoiselle Virginie, convalescent from her
headache. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume saw in perspective both their
children married, and the fortunes of the Cat and Racket once more in
skilful hands. Their satisfaction was at its height when, at dessert,
Theodore made them a present of the wonderful picture which they had
failed to see, representing the interior of the old shop, and to which
they all owed so much happiness.
“Isn’t it pretty!” cried Guillaume. “And to think that any one would pay
thirty thousand francs for that!”
“Because you can see my lappets in it,” said Madame Guillaume.
“And the cloth unrolled!” added Lebas; “you might take it up in your
hand.”
“Drapery always comes out well,” replied the painter. “We should be
only too happy, we modern artists, if we could touch the perfection of
antique drapery.”
“So you like drapery!” cried old Guillaume. “Well, then, by Gad! shake
hands on that, my young friend. Since you can respect trade, we shall
understand each other. And why should it be despised? The world began
with trade, since Adam sold Paradise for an apple. He did not strike
a good bargain though!” And the old man roared with honest laughter,
encouraged by the champagne, which he sent round with a liberal hand.
The band that covered the young artist’s eyes was so thick that he
thought his future parents amiable. He was not above enlivening them
by a few jests in the best taste. So he too pleased every one. In the
evening, when the drawing-room, furnished with what Madame Guillaume
called “everything handsome,” was deserted, and while she flitted
from the table to the chimney-piece, from the candelabra to the tall
candlesticks, hastily blowing out the wax-lights, the worthy draper, who
was always clear-sighted when money was in question, called Augustine to
him, and seating her on his knee, spoke as follows:--
“My dear child, you shall marry your Sommervieux since you insist; you
may, if you like, risk your capital in happiness. But I am not going to
be hoodwinked by the thirty thousand francs to be made by spoiling good
canvas. Money that is lightly earned is lightly spent. Did I not hear
that hare-brained youngster declare this evening that money was made
round that it might roll. If it is round for spendthrifts, it is flat
for saving folks who pile it up. Now, my child, that fine gentleman
talks of giving you carriages and diamonds! He has money, let him spend
it on you; so be it. It is no concern of mine. But as to what I can give
you, I will not have the crown-pieces I have picked up with so much toil
wasted in carriages and frippery. Those who spend too fast never grow
rich. A hundred thousand crowns, which is your fortune, will not buy
up Paris. It is all very well to look forward to a few hundred thousand
francs to be yours some day; I shall keep you waiting for them as long
as possible, by Gad! So I took your lover aside, and a man who managed
the Lecocq bankruptcy had not much difficulty in persuading the artist
to marry under a settlement of his wife’s money on herself. I will keep
an eye on the marriage contract to see that what he is to settle on you
is safely tied up. So now, my child, I hope to be a grandfather, by Gad!
I will begin at once to lay up for my grandchildren; but swear to me,
here and now, never to sign any papers relating to money without my
advice; and if I go soon to join old Father Chevrel, promise to consult
young Lebas, your brother-in-law.”