The poor mother returned to the salon deeply distressed at finding that
the whole town was aware of what she had thought was known to her alone.
She sat down, trimmed the wick of the lamp by cutting it with a pair
of old scissors, took up once more the worsted-work she was doing, and
awaited Calyste. The baroness fondly hoped to induce her son by this
means to come home earlier and spend less time with Mademoiselle des
Touches. Such calculations of maternal jealousy were wasted. Day after
day, Calyste’s visits to Les Touches became more frequent, and every
night he came in later. The night before the day of which we speak it
was midnight when he returned.
The baroness, lost in maternal meditation, was setting her stitches with
the rapidity of one absorbed in thought while engaged in manual labor.
Whoever had seen her bending to the light of the lamp beneath the
quadruply centennial hangings of that ancient room would have admired
the sublimity of the picture. Fanny’s skin was so transparent that it
was possible to read the thoughts that crossed her brow beneath it.
Piqued with a curiosity that often comes to a pure woman, she asked
herself what devilish secrets these daughters of Baal possessed to so
charm men as to make them forgetful of mother, family, country, and
self-interests. Sometimes she longed to meet this woman and judge her
soberly for herself. Her mind measured to its full extent the evils
which the innovative spirit of the age--described to her as so dangerous
for young souls by the rector--would have upon her only child, until
then so guileless; as pure as an innocent girl, and beautiful with the
same fresh beauty.
Calyste, that splendid offspring of the oldest Breton race and the
noblest Irish blood, had been nurtured by his mother with the utmost
care. Until the moment when the baroness made over the training of him
to the rector of Guerande, she was certain that no impure word, no evil
thought had sullied the ears or entered the mind of her precious son.
After nursing him at her bosom, giving him her own life twice, as it
were, after guiding his footsteps as a little child, the mother had put
him with all his virgin innocence into the hands of the pastor, who, out
of true reverence for the family, had promised to give him a thorough
and Christian education. Calyste thenceforth received the instruction
which the abbe himself had received at the Seminary. The baroness
taught him English, and a teacher of mathematics was found, not without
difficulty, among the employes at Saint-Nazaire. Calyste was therefore
necessarily ignorant of modern literature, and the advance and present
progress of the sciences. His education had been limited to geography
and the circumspect history of a young ladies’ boarding-school, the
Latin and Greek of seminaries, the literature of the dead languages,
and to a very restricted choice of French writers. When, at sixteen, he
began what the Abbe Grimont called his philosophy, he was neither more
nor less than what he was when Fanny placed him in the abbe’s hands. The
Church had proved as maternal as the mother. Without being over-pious or
ridiculous, the idolized young lad was a fervent Catholic.
For this son, so noble, so innocent, the baroness desired to provide a
happy life in obscurity. She expected to inherit some property, two or
three thousand pounds sterling, from an aunt. This sum, joined to the
small present fortune of the Guenics, might enable her to find a wife
for Calyste, who would bring him twelve or even fifteen thousand francs
a year. Charlotte de Kergarouet, with her aunt’s fortune, a rich Irish
girl, or any other good heiress would have suited the baroness, who
seemed indifferent as to choice. She was ignorant of love, having never
known it, and, like all the other persons grouped about her, she saw
nothing in marriage but a means of fortune. Passion was an unknown thing
to these Catholic souls, these old people exclusively concerned
about salvation, God, the king, and their property. No one should be
surprised, therefore, at the foreboding thoughts which accompanied
the wounded feelings of the mother, who lived as much for the future
interests of her son as by her love for him. If the young household
would only listen to wisdom, she thought, the coming generation of the
du Guenics, by enduring privations, and saving, as people do save in the
provinces, would be able to buy back their estates and recover, in the
end, the lustre of wealth. The baroness prayed for a long age that she
might see the dawn of this prosperous era. Mademoiselle du Guenic had
understood and fully adopted this hope which Mademoiselle des Touches
now threatened to overthrow.
The baroness heard midnight strike, with tears; her mind conceived of
many horrors during the next hour, for the clock struck one, and Calyste
was still not at home.
“Will he stay there?” she thought. “It would be the first time. Poor
child!”
At that moment Calyste’s step resounded in the lane. The poor mother, in
whose heart rejoicing drove out anxiety, flew from the house to the gate
and opened it for her boy.
“Oh!” cried Calyste, in a grieved voice, “my darling mother, why did you
sit up for me? I have a pass-key and the tinder-box.”
“You know very well, my child, that I cannot sleep when you are out,”
she said, kissing him.
When the baroness reached the salon, she looked at her son to discover,
if possible, from the expression of his face the events of the
evening. But he caused her, as usual, an emotion that frequency never
weakened,--an emotion which all loving mothers feel at sight of a
human masterpiece made by them; this sentiment blues their sight and
supersedes all others for the moment.
Except for the black eyes, full of energy and the heat of the sun, which
he derived from his father, Calyste in other respects resembled his
mother; he had her beautiful golden hair, her lovable mouth, the same
curving fingers, the same soft, delicate, and purely white skin. Though
slightly resembling a girl disguised as a man, his physical strength was
Herculean. His muscles had the suppleness and vigor of steel springs,
and the singularity of his black eyes and fair complexion was by no
means without charm. His beard had not yet sprouted; this delay, it is
said, is a promise of longevity. The chevalier was dressed in a short
coat of black velvet like that of his mother’s gown, trimmed with silver
buttons, a blue foulard necktie, trousers of gray jean, and a becoming
pair of gaiters. His white brow bore the signs of great fatigue, caused,
to an observer’s eye, by the weight of painful thoughts; but his mother,
incapable of supposing that troubles could wring his heart, attributed
his evident weariness to passing excitement. Calyste was as handsome as
a Greek god, and handsome without conceit; in the first place, he had
his mother’s beauty constantly before him, and next, he cared very
little for personal advantages which he found useless.
“Those beautiful pure cheeks,” thought his mother, “where the rich young
blood is flowing, belong to another woman! she is the mistress of that
innocent brow! Ah! passion will lead to many evils; it will tarnish the
look of those eyes, moist as the eyes of an infant!”
This bitter thought wrung Fanny’s heart and destroyed her pleasure.
It may seem strange to those who calculate expenses that in a family of
six persons compelled to live on three thousand francs a year the son
should have a coat and the mother a gown of velvet; but Fanny O’Brien
had aunts and rich relations in London who recalled themselves to her
remembrance by many presents. Several of her sisters, married to great
wealth, took enough interest in Calyste to wish to find him an heiress,
knowing that he, like Fanny their exiled favorite, was noble and
handsome.
“You stayed at Les Touches longer than you did last night, my dear one,”
said the mother at last, in an agitated tone.
“Yes, dear mother,” he answered, offering no explanation.
The curtness of this answer brought clouds to his mother’s brow, and she
resolved to postpone the explanation till the morrow. When mothers admit
the anxieties which were now torturing the baroness, they tremble before
their sons; they feel instinctively the effect of the great emancipation
that comes with love; they perceive what that sentiment is about to take
from them; but they have, at the same time, a sense of joy in knowing
that their sons are happy; conflicting feelings battle in their hearts.
Though the result may be the development of their sons into superior
men, true mothers do not like this forced abdication; they would rather
keep their children small and still requiring protection. Perhaps that
is the secret of their predilection for feeble, deformed, or weak-minded
offspring.
“You are tired, dear child; go to bed,” she said, repressing her tears.
A mother who does not know all that her son is doing thinks the worst;
that is, if a mother loves as much and is as much beloved as Fanny.
But perhaps all other mothers would have trembled now as she did. The
patient care of twenty years might be rendered worthless. This human
masterpiece of virtuous and noble and religious education, Calyste,
might be destroyed; the happiness of his life, so long and carefully
prepared for, might be forever ruined by this woman.
The next day Calyste slept till mid-day, for his mother would not have
him wakened. Mariotte served the spoiled child’s breakfast in his bed.
The inflexible and semi-conventual rules which regulated the hours for
meals yielded to the caprices of the chevalier. If it became desirable
to extract from Mademoiselle du Guenic her array of keys in order to
obtain some necessary article of food outside of the meal hours, there
was no other means of doing it than to make the pretext of its serving
some fancy of Calyste.
About one o’clock the baron, his wife, and Mademoiselle were seated
in the salon, for they dined at three o’clock. The baroness was again
reading the “Quotidienne” to her husband, who was always more awake
before the dinner hour. As she finished a paragraph she heard the steps
of her son on the upper floor, and she dropped the paper, saying:--
“Calyste must be going to dine again at Les Touches; he has dressed
himself.”
“He amuses himself, the dear boy,” said the old sister, taking a silver
whistle from her pocket and whistling once.
Mariotte came through the tower and appeared at the door of
communication which was hidden by a silken curtain like the other doors
of the room.
“What is it?” she said; “anything wanted?”
“The chevalier dines at Les Touches; don’t cook the fish.”
“But we are not sure as yet,” said the baroness.
“You seem annoyed, sister; I know it by the tone of your voice.”
“Monsieur Grimont has heard some very grave charges against Mademoiselle
des Touches, who for the last year has so changed our dear Calyste.”
“Changed him, how?” asked the baron.
“He reads all sorts of books.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the baron, “so that’s why he has given up hunting
and riding.”
“Her morals are very reprehensible, and she has taken a man’s name,”
added Madame du Guenic.
“A war name, I suppose,” said the old man. “I was called ‘l’Intime,’ the
Comte de Fontaine ‘Grand-Jacques,’ the Marquis de Montauran the ‘Gars.’
I was the friend of Ferdinand, who never submitted, any more than I did.
Ah! those were the good times; people shot each other, but what of that?
we amused ourselves all the same, here and there.”
This war memory, pushing aside paternal anxiety, saddened Fanny for a
moment. The rector’s revelations, the want of confidence shown to her by
Calyste, had kept her from sleeping.
“Suppose Monsieur le chevalier does love Mademoiselle des Touches,
where’s the harm?” said Mariotte. “She has thirty thousand francs a year
and she is very handsome.”
“What is that you say, Mariotte?” exclaimed the old baron. “A Guenic
marry a des Touches! The des Touches were not even grooms in the days
when du Guesclin considered our alliance a signal honor.”
“A woman who takes a man’s name,--Camille Maupin!” said the baroness.
“The Maupins are an old family,” said the baron; “they bear: gules,
three--” He stopped. “But she cannot be a Maupin and a des Touches
both,” he added.
“She is called Maupin on the stage.”
“A des Touches could hardly be an actress,” said the old man. “Really,
Fanny, if I did not know you, I should think you were out of your head.”
“She writes plays, and books,” continued the baroness.
“Books?” said the baron, looking at his wife with an air of as much
surprise as though she were telling of a miracle. “I have heard that
Mademoiselle Scudery and Madame de Sevigne wrote books, but it was not
the best thing they did.”
“Are you going to dine at Les Touches, monsieur?” said Mariotte, when
Calyste entered.
“Probably,” replied the young man.
Mariotte was not inquisitive; she was part of the family; and she left
the room without waiting to hear what the baroness would say to her son.
“Are you going again to Les Touches, my Calyste?” The baroness
emphasized the _my_. “Les Touches is not a respectable or decent house.
Its mistress leads an irregular life; she will corrupt our Calyste.
Already Camille Maupin has made him read many books; he has had
adventures--You knew all that, my naughty child, and you never said one
word to your best friends!”
“The chevalier is discreet,” said his father,--“a virtue of the olden
time.”
“Too discreet,” said the jealous mother, observing the red flush on her
son’s forehead.
“My dear mother,” said Calyste, kneeling down beside the baroness,
“I didn’t think it necessary to publish my defeat. Mademoiselle des
Touches, or, if you choose to call her so, Camille Maupin, rejected my
love more than eighteen months ago, during her last stay at Les Touches.
She laughed at me, gently; saying she might very well be my mother; that
a woman of forty committed a sort of crime against nature in loving a
minor, and that she herself was incapable of such depravity. She made a
thousand little jokes, which hurt me--for she is witty as an angel; but
when she saw me weep hot tears she tried to comfort me, and offered
me her friendship in the noblest manner. She has more heart than even
talent; she is as generous as you are yourself. I am now her child. On
her return here lately, hearing from her that she loves another, I have
resigned myself. Do not repeat the calumnies that have been said of her.
Camille is an artist, she has genius, she leads one of those exceptional
existences which cannot be judged like ordinary lives.”
“My child,” said the religious Fanny, “nothing can excuse a woman for
not conducting herself as the Church requires. She fails in her duty
to God and to society by abjuring the gentle tenets of her sex. A woman
commits a sin in even going to a theatre; but to write the impieties
that actors repeat, to roam about the world, first with an enemy to the
Pope, and then with a musician, ah! Calyste, you can never persuade me
that such acts are deeds of faith, hope, or charity. Her fortune was
given her by God to do good, and what good does she do with hers?”
Calyste sprang up suddenly, and looked at his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “Camille is my friend; I cannot hear her spoken of in
this way; I would give my very life for her.”
“Your life!” said the baroness, looking at her son, with startled eyes.
“Your life is our life, the life of all of us.”
“My nephew has just said many things I do not understand,” said the old
woman, turning toward him.
“Where did he learn them?” said the mother; “at Les Touches.”
“Yes, my darling mother; she found me ignorant as a carp, and she has
taught me.”
“You knew the essential things when you learned the duties taught us
by religion,” replied the baroness. “Ah! this woman is fated to destroy
your noble and sacred beliefs.”
The old maid rose, and solemnly stretched forth her hands toward her
brother, who was dozing in his chair.
“Calyste,” she said, in a voice that came from her heart, “your father
has never opened books, he speaks Breton, he fought for God and for the
king. Educated people did the evil, educated noblemen deserted their
land,--be educated if you choose!”
So saying, she sat down and began to knit with a rapidity which betrayed
her inward emotion.
“My angel,” said the mother, weeping, “I foresee some evil coming down
upon you in that house.”
“Who is making Fanny weep?” cried the old man, waking with a start at
the sound of his wife’s voice. He looked round upon his sister, his son,
and the baroness. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” replied his wife.
“Mamma,” said Calyste, whispering in his mother’s ear, “it is impossible
for me to explain myself just now; but to-night you and I will talk of
this. When you know all, you will bless Mademoiselle des Touches.”
“Mothers do not like to curse,” replied the baroness. “I could not curse
a woman who truly loved my Calyste.”
The young man bade adieu to his father and went out. The baron and his
wife rose to see him pass through the court-yard, open the gate, and
disappear. The baroness did not again take up the newspaper; she was too
agitated. In this tranquil, untroubled life such a discussion was the
equivalent of a quarrel in other homes. Though somewhat calmed, her
motherly uneasiness was not dispersed. Whither would such a friendship,
which might claim the life of Calyste and destroy it, lead her boy?
Bless Mademoiselle des Touches? how could that be? These questions
were as momentous to her simple soul as the fury of revolutions to a
statesman. Camille Maupin was Revolution itself in that calm and placid
home.
“I fear that woman will ruin him,” she said, picking up the paper.
“My dear Fanny,” said the old baron, with a jaunty air, “you are too
much of an angel to understand these things. Mademoiselle des Touches
is, they say, as black as a crow, as strong as a Turk, and forty years
old. Our dear Calyste was certain to fall in love with her. Of course
he will tell certain honorable little lies to conceal his happiness. Let
him alone to amuse himself with his first illusions.”
“If it had been any other woman--” began the baroness.
“But, my dear Fanny, if the woman were a saint she would not accept your
son.” The baroness again picked up the paper. “I will go and see her
myself,” added the baron, “and tell you all about her.”
This speech has no savor at the present moment. But after reading the
biography of Camille Maupin you can then imagine the old baron entering
the lists against that illustrious woman.