The next day, Mademoiselle Cormon, packed into the old carriole with
Josette, and looking like a pyramid on a vast sea of parcels, drove up
the rue Saint-Blaise on her way to Prebaudet, where she was overtaken by
an event which hurried on her marriage,--an event entirely unlooked
for by either Madame Granson, du Bousquier, Monsieur de Valois, or
Mademoiselle Cormon himself. Chance is the greatest of all artificers.
The day after her arrival at Prebaudet, she was innocently employed,
about eight o’clock in the morning, in listening, as she breakfasted, to
the various reports of her keeper and her gardener, when Jacquelin made
a violent irruption into the dining-room.
“Mademoiselle,” he cried, out of breath, “Monsieur l’abbe sends you an
express, the son of Mere Grosmort, with a letter. The lad left Alencon
before daylight, and he has just arrived; he ran like Penelope! Can’t I
give him a glass of wine?”
“What can have happened, Josette? Do you think my uncle can be--”
“He couldn’t write if he were,” said Josette, guessing her mistress’s
fears.
“Quick! quick!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon, as soon as she had read the
first lines. “Tell Jacquelin to harness Penelope--Get ready, Josette;
pack up everything in half an hour. We must go back to town--”
“Jacquelin!” called Josette, excited by the sentiment she saw on her
mistress’s face.
Jacquelin, informed by Josette, came in to say,--
“But, mademoiselle, Penelope is eating her oats.”
“What does that signify? I must start at once.”
“But, mademoiselle, it is going to rain.”
“Then we shall get wet.”
“The house is on fire!” muttered Josette, piqued at the silence her
mistress kept as to the contents of the letter, which she read and
reread.
“Finish your coffee, at any rate, mademoiselle; don’t excite your blood;
just see how red you are.”
“Am I red, Josette?” she said, going to a mirror, from which the
quicksilver was peeling, and which presented her features to her upside
down.
“Good heavens!” thought Mademoiselle Cormon, “suppose I should look
ugly! Come, Josette; come, my dear, dress me at once; I want to be ready
before Jacquelin has harnessed Penelope. If you can’t pack my things in
time, I will leave them here rather than lose a single minute.”
If you have thoroughly comprehended the positive monomania to which the
desire of marriage had brought Mademoiselle Cormon, you will share her
emotion. The worthy uncle announced in this sudden missive that Monsieur
de Troisville, of the Russian army during the Emigration, grandson of
one of his best friends, was desirous of retiring to Alencon, and asked
his, the abbe’s hospitality, on the ground of his friendship for his
grandfather, the Vicomte de Troisville. The old abbe, alarmed at the
responsibility, entreated his niece to return instantly and help him to
receive this guest, and do the honors of the house; for the viscount’s
letter had been delayed, and he might descend upon his shoulders that
very night.
After reading this missive could there be a question of the demands
of Prebaudet? The keeper and the gardener, witnesses to Mademoiselle
Cormon’s excitement, stood aside and awaited her orders. But when,
as she was about to leave the room, they stopped her to ask for
instructions, for the first time in her life the despotic old maid,
who saw to everything at Prebaudet with her own eyes, said, to their
stupefaction, “Do what you like.” This from a mistress who carried her
administration to the point of counting her fruits, and marking them so
as to order their consumption according to the number and condition of
each!
“I believe I’m dreaming,” thought Josette, as she saw her mistress
flying down the staircase like an elephant to which God has given wings.
Presently, in spite of a driving rain, Mademoiselle Cormon drove away
from Prebaudet, leaving her factotums with the reins on their necks.
Jacquelin dared not take upon himself to hasten the usual little trot
of the peaceable Penelope, who, like the beautiful queen whose name she
bore, had an appearance of making as many steps backward as she made
forward. Impatient with the pace, mademoiselle ordered Jacquelin in a
sharp voice to drive at a gallop, with the whip, if necessary, to the
great astonishment of the poor beast, so afraid was she of not having
time to arrange the house suitably to receive Monsieur de Troisville.
She calculated that the grandson of her uncle’s friend was probably
about forty years of age; a soldier just from service was undoubtedly
a bachelor; and she resolved, her uncle aiding, not to let Monsieur
de Troisville quit their house in the condition he entered it. Though
Penelope galloped, Mademoiselle Cormon, absorbed in thoughts of her
trousseau and the wedding-day, declared again and again that Jacquelin
made no way at all. She twisted about in the carriole without replying
to Josette’s questions, and talked to herself like a person who is
mentally revolving important designs.
The carriole at last arrived in the main street of Alencon, called the
rue Saint-Blaise at the end toward Montagne, but near the hotel du More
it takes the name of the rue de la Porte-de-Seez, and becomes the rue
du Bercail as it enters the road to Brittany. If the departure of
Mademoiselle Cormon made a great noise in Alencon, it is easy to imagine
the uproar caused by her sudden return on the following day, in a
pouring rain which beat her face without her apparently minding it.
Penelope at a full gallop was observed by every one, and Jacquelin’s
grin, the early hour, the parcels stuffed into the carriole topsy-turvy,
and the evident impatience of Mademoiselle Cormon were all noted.
The property of the house of Troisville lay between Alencon and
Mortagne. Josette knew the various branches of the family. A word
dropped by mademoiselle as they entered Alencon had put Josette on the
scent of the affair; and a discussion having started between them, it
was settled that the expected de Troisville must be between forty
and forty-two years of age, a bachelor, and neither rich nor poor.
Mademoiselle Cormon beheld herself speedily Vicomtesse de Troisville.
“And to think that my uncle told me nothing! thinks of nothing! inquires
nothing! That’s my uncle all over. He’d forget his own nose if it wasn’t
fastened to his face.”
Have you never remarked that, under circumstances such as these,
old maids become, like Richard III., keen-witted, fierce, bold,
promissory,--if one may so use the word,--and, like inebriate clerks, no
longer in awe of anything?
Immediately the town of Alencon, speedily informed from the farther
end of the rue de Saint-Blaise to the gate of Seez of this precipitate
return, accompanied by singular circumstances, was perturbed throughout
its viscera, both public and domestic. Cooks, shopkeepers, street
passengers, told the news from door to door; thence it rose to the upper
regions. Soon the words: “Mademoiselle Cormon has returned!” burst like
a bombshell into all households. At that moment Jacquelin was descending
from his wooden seat (polished by a process unknown to cabinet-makers),
on which he perched in front of the carriole. He opened the great green
gate, round at the top, and closed in sign of mourning; for during
Mademoiselle Cormon’s absence the evening assemblies did not take place.
The faithful invited the Abbe de Sponde to their several houses; and
Monsieur de Valois paid his debt by inviting him to dine at the Marquis
d’Esgrignon’s. Jacquelin, having opened the gate, called familiarly to
Penelope, whom he had left in the middle of the street. That animal,
accustomed to this proceeding, turned in of herself, and circled round
the courtyard in a manner to avoid injuring the flower-bed. Jacquelin
then took her bridle, and led the carriage to the portico.
“Mariette!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon.
“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed Mariette, who was occupied in closing the
gate.
“Has the gentleman arrived?”
“No, mademoiselle.”
“Where’s my uncle?”
“He is at church, mademoiselle.”
Jacquelin and Josette were by this time on the first step of the
portico, holding out their hands to manoeuvre the exit of their mistress
from the carriole as she pulled herself up by the sides of the vehicle
and clung to the curtains. Mademoiselle then threw herself into their
arms; because for the last two years she dared not risk her weight
on the iron step, affixed to the frame of the carriage by a horrible
mechanism of clumsy bolts.
When Mademoiselle Cormon reached the level of the portico she looked
about her courtyard with an air of satisfaction.
“Come, come, Mariette, leave that gate alone; I want you.”
“There’s something in the wind,” whispered Jacquelin, as Mariette passed
the carriole.
“Mariette, what provisions have you in the house?” asked Mademoiselle
Cormon, sitting down on the bench in the long antechamber like a person
overcome with fatigue.
“I haven’t anything,” replied Mariette, with her hands on her hips.
“Mademoiselle knows very well that during her absence Monsieur l’abbe
dines out every day. Yesterday I went to fetch him from Mademoiselle
Armande’s.”
“Where is he now?”
“Monsieur l’abbe? Why, at church; he won’t be in before three o’clock.”
“He thinks of nothing! he ought to have told you to go to market.
Mariette, go at once; and without wasting money, don’t spare it; get all
there is that is good and delicate. Go to the diligence office and see
if you can send for pates; and I want shrimps from the Brillante. What
o’clock is it?”
“A quarter to nine.”
“Good heavens! Mariette, don’t stop to chatter. The person my uncle
expects may arrive at any moment. If we had to give him breakfast, where
should we be with nothing in the house?”
Mariette turned back to Penelope in a lather, and looked at Jacquelin
as if she would say, “Mademoiselle has put her hand on a husband _this_
time.”
“Now, Josette,” continued the old maid, “let us see where we had better
put Monsieur de Troisville to sleep.”
With what joy she said the words, “Put Monsieur de Troisville”
(pronounced Treville) “to sleep.” How many ideas in those few words! The
old maid was bathed in hope.
“Will you put him in the green chamber?”
“The bishop’s room? No; that’s too near mine,” said Mademoiselle Cormon.
“All very well for monseigneur; he’s a saintly man.”
“Give him your uncle’s room.”
“Oh, that’s so bare; it is actually indecent.”
“Well, then, mademoiselle, why not arrange a bed in your boudoir? It is
easily done; and there’s a fire-place. Moreau can certainly find in his
warerooms a bed to match the hangings.”
“You are right, Josette. Go yourself to Moreau; consult with him what
to do; I authorize you to get what is wanted. If the bed could be put up
to-night without Monsieur de Troisville observing it (in case Monsieur
de Troisville arrives while Moreau is here), I should like it. If Moreau
won’t engage to do this, then I must put Monsieur de Troisville in the
green room, although Monsieur de Troisville would be so very near to
me.”
Josette was departing when her mistress recalled her.
“Stop! explain the matter to Jacquelin,” she cried, in a loud nervous
tone. “Tell _him_ to go to Moreau; I must be dressed! Fancy if Monsieur
de Troisville surprised me as I am now! and my uncle not here to receive
him! Oh, uncle, uncle! Come, Josette; come and dress me at once.”
“But Penelope?” said Josette, imprudently.
“Always Penelope! Penelope this, Penelope that! Is Penelope the mistress
of this house?”
“But she is all of a lather, and she hasn’t had time to eat her oats.”
“Then let her starve!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon; “provided I marry,”
she thought to herself.
Hearing these words, which seemed to her like homicide, Josette stood
still for a moment, speechless. Then, at a gesture from her mistress,
she ran headlong down the steps of the portico.
“The devil is in her, Jacquelin,” were the first words she uttered.
Thus all things conspired on this fateful day to produce the great
scenic effect which decided the future life of Mademoiselle Cormon.
The town was already topsy-turvy in mind, as a consequence of the five
extraordinary circumstances which accompanied Mademoiselle Cormon’s
return; to wit, the pouring rain; Penelope at a gallop, in a lather, and
blown; the early hour; the parcels half-packed; and the singular air of
the excited old maid. But when Mariette made an invasion of the market,
and bought all the best things; when Jacquelin went to the principal
upholsterer in Alencon, two doors from the church, in search of a
bed,--there was matter for the gravest conjectures. These extraordinary
events were discussed on all sides; they occupied the minds of every
one, even Mademoiselle Armande herself, with whom was Monsieur de
Valois. Within two days the town of Alencon had been agitated by such
startling events that certain good women were heard to remark that the
world was coming to an end. This last news, however, resolved itself
into a single question, “What is happening at the Cormons?”
The Abbe de Sponde, adroitly questioned when he left Saint-Leonard’s
to take his daily walk with the Abbe Couturier, replied with his usual
kindliness that he expected the Vicomte de Troisville, a nobleman in the
service of Russia during the Emigration, who was returning to Alencon
to settle there. From two to five o’clock a species of labial telegraphy
went on throughout the town; and all the inhabitants learned that
Mademoiselle Cormon had at last found a husband by letter, and was about
to marry the Vicomte de Troisville. Some said, “Moreau has sold them a
bed.” The bed was six feet wide in that quarter; it was four feet wide
at Madame Granson’s, in the rue du Bercail; but it was reduced to a
simple couch at Monsieur du Ronceret’s, where du Bousquier was dining.
The lesser bourgeoisie declared that the cost was eleven hundred francs.
But generally it was thought that, as to this, rumor was counting the
chickens before they were hatched. In other quarters it was said that
Mariette had made such a raid on the market that the price of carp had
risen. At the end of the rue Saint-Blaise, Penelope had dropped dead.
This decease was doubted in the house of the receiver-general; but at
the Prefecture it was authenticated that the poor beast had expired as
she turned into the courtyard of the hotel Cormon, with such velocity
had the old maid flown to meet her husband. The harness-maker, who lived
at the corner of the rue de Seez, was bold enough to call at the house
and ask if anything had happened to Mademoiselle Cormon’s carriage, in
order to discover whether Penelope was really dead. From the end of
the rue Saint-Blaise to the end of the rue du Bercail, it was then made
known that, thanks to Jacquelin’s devotion, Penelope, that silent victim
of her mistress’s impetuosity, still lived, though she seemed to be
suffering.
Along the road to Brittany the Vicomte de Troisville was stated to be a
younger son without a penny, for the estates in Perche belonged to the
Marquis de Troisville, peer of France, who had children; the marriage
would be, therefore, an enormous piece of luck for a poor emigre. The
aristocracy along that road approved of the marriage; Mademoiselle
Cormon could not do better with her money. But among the Bourgeoisie,
the Vicomte de Troisville was a Russian general who had fought against
France, and was now returning with a great fortune made at the court of
Saint-Petersburg; he was a _foreigner_; one of those _allies_ so hated
by the liberals; the Abbe de Sponde had slyly negotiated this marriage.
All the persons who had a right to call upon Mademoiselle Cormon
determined to do so that very evening.
During this transurban excitement, which made that of Suzanne almost
a forgotten affair, Mademoiselle was not less agitated; she was filled
with a variety of novel emotions. Looking about her salon, dining-room,
and boudoir, cruel apprehensions took possession of her. A species of
demon showed her with a sneer her old-fashioned luxury. The handsome
things she had admired from her youth up she suddenly suspected of age
and absurdity. In short, she felt that fear which takes possession of
nearly all authors when they read over a work they have hitherto thought
proof against every exacting or blase critic: new situations seem
timeworn; the best-turned and most highly polished phrases limp and
squint; metaphors and images grin or contradict each other; whatsoever
is false strikes the eye. In like manner this poor woman trembled lest
she should see on the lips of Monsieur de Troisville a smile of contempt
for this episcopal salon; she dreaded the cold look he might cast over
that ancient dining-room; in short, she feared the frame might injure
and age the portrait. Suppose these antiquities should cast a reflected
light of old age upon herself? This question made her flesh creep. She
would gladly, at that moment, spend half her savings on refitting her
house if some fairy wand could do it in a moment. Where is the general
who has not trembled on the eve of a battle? The poor woman was now
between her Austerlitz and her Waterloo.
“Madame la Vicomtesse de Troisville,” she said to herself; “a noble
name! Our property will go to a good family, at any rate.”
She fell a prey to an irritation which made every fibre of her nerves
quiver to all their papillae, long sunk in flesh. Her blood, lashed
by this new hope, was in motion. She felt the strength to converse, if
necessary, with Monsieur de Troisville.
It is useless to relate the activity with which Josette, Jacquelin,
Mariette, Moreau, and his agents went about their functions. It was like
the busyness of ants about their eggs. All that daily care had already
rendered neat and clean was again gone over and brushed and rubbed and
scrubbed. The china of ceremony saw the light; the damask linen marked
“A, B, C” was drawn from depths where it lay under a triple guard of
wrappings, still further defended by formidable lines of pins. Above
all, Mademoiselle Cormon sacrificed on the altar of her hopes three
bottles of the famous liqueurs of Madame Amphoux, the most illustrious
of all the distillers of the tropics,--a name very dear to gourmets.
Thanks to the devotion of her lieutenants, mademoiselle was soon ready
for the conflict. The different weapons--furniture, cookery, provisions,
in short, all the various munitions of war, together with a body of
reserve forces--were ready along the whole line. Jacquelin, Mariette,
and Josette received orders to appear in full dress. The garden was
raked. The old maid regretted that she couldn’t come to an understanding
with the nightingales nesting in the trees, in order to obtain their
finest trilling.
At last, about four o’clock, at the very moment when the Abbe de Sponde
returned home, and just as mademoiselle began to think she had set the
table with the best plate and linen and prepared the choicest dishes to
no purpose, the click-clack of a postilion was heard in the Val-Noble.
“‘Tis he!” she said to herself, the snap of the whip echoing in her
heart.
True enough; heralded by all this gossip, a post-chaise, in which was
a single gentleman, made so great a sensation coming down the rue
Saint-Blaise and turning into the rue du Cours that several little
gamains and some grown persons followed it, and stood in groups about
the gate of the hotel Cormon to see it enter. Jacquelin, who foresaw his
own marriage in that of his mistress, had also heard the click-clack in
the rue Saint-Blaise, and had opened wide the gates into the courtyard.
The postilion, a friend of his, took pride in making a fine turn-in, and
drew up sharply before the portico. The abbe came forward to greet his
guest, whose carriage was emptied with a speed that highwaymen might put
into the operation; the chaise itself was rolled into the coach-house,
the gates closed, and in a few moments all signs of Monsieur de
Troisville’s arrival had disappeared. Never did two chemicals blend
into each other with greater rapidity than the hotel Cormon displayed in
absorbing the Vicomte de Troisville.
Mademoiselle, whose heart was beating like a lizard caught by a
herdsman, sat heroically still on her sofa, beside the fire in the
salon. Josette opened the door; and the Vicomte de Troisville, followed
by the Abbe de Sponde, presented himself to the eyes of the spinster.
“Niece, this is Monsieur le Vicomte de Troisville, the grandson of one
of my old schoolmates; Monsieur de Troisville, my niece, Mademoiselle
Cormon.”
“Ah! that good uncle; how well he does it!” thought Rose-Marie-Victoire.
The Vicomte de Troisville was, to paint him in two words, du Bousquier
ennobled. Between the two men there was precisely the difference which
separates the vulgar style from the noble style. If they had both been
present, the most fanatic liberal would not have denied the existence
of aristocracy. The viscount’s strength had all the distinction of
elegance; his figure had preserved its magnificent dignity. He had blue
eyes, black hair, an olive skin, and looked to be about forty-six years
of age. You might have thought him a handsome Spaniard preserved in
the ice of Russia. His manner, carriage, and attitude, all denoted
a diplomat who had seen Europe. His dress was that of a well-bred
traveller. As he seemed fatigued, the abbe offered to show him to his
room, and was much amazed when his niece threw open the door of the
boudoir, transformed into a bedroom.
Mademoiselle Cormon and her uncle then left the noble stranger to attend
to his own affairs, aided by Jacquelin, who brought up his luggage, and
went themselves to walk beside the river until their guest had made
his toilet. Although the Abbe de Sponde chanced to be even more
absent-minded than usual, Mademoiselle Cormon was not less preoccupied.
They both walked on in silence. The old maid had never before met any
man as seductive as this Olympean viscount. She might have said to
herself, as the Germans do, “This is my ideal!” instead of which she
felt herself bound from head to foot, and could only say, “Here’s my
affair!” Then she flew to Mariette to know if the dinner could be put
back a while without loss of excellence.
“Uncle, your Monsieur de Troisville is very amiable,” she said, on
returning.
“Why, niece, he hasn’t as yet said a word.”
“But you can see it in his ways, his manners, his face. Is he a
bachelor?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the abbe, who was thinking of a
discussion on mercy, lately begun between the Abbe Couturier and
himself. “Monsieur de Troisville wrote me that he wanted to buy a house
here. If he was married, he wouldn’t come alone on such an errand,”
added the abbe, carelessly, not conceiving the idea that his niece could
be thinking of marriage.
“Is he rich?”
“He is a younger son of the younger branch,” replied her uncle. “His
grandfather commanded a squadron, but the father of this young man made
a bad marriage.”
“Young man!” exclaimed the old maid. “It seems to me, uncle, that he
must be at least forty-five.” She felt the strongest desire to put their
years on a par.
“Yes,” said the abbe; “but to a poor priest of seventy, Rose, a man of
forty seems a youth.”
All Alencon knew by this time that Monsieur de Troisville had arrived at
the Cormons. The traveller soon rejoined his hosts, and began to admire
the Brillante, the garden, and the house.
“Monsieur l’abbe,” he said, “my whole ambition is to have a house like
this.” The old maid fancied a declaration lurked in that speech, and she
lowered her eyes. “You must enjoy it very much, mademoiselle,” added the
viscount.
“How could it be otherwise? It has been in our family since 1574, the
period at which one of our ancestors, steward to the Duc d’Alencon,
acquired the land and built the house,” replied Mademoiselle Cormon. “It
is built on piles,” she added.
Jacquelin announced dinner. Monsieur de Troisville offered his arm to
the happy woman, who endeavored not to lean too heavily upon it; she
feared, as usual, to seem to make advances.
“Everything is so harmonious here,” said the viscount, as he seated
himself at table.
“Yes, our trees are full of birds, which give us concerts for nothing;
no one ever frightens them; and the nightingales sing at night,” said
Mademoiselle Cormon.
“I was speaking of the interior of the house,” remarked the viscount,
who did not trouble himself to observe Mademoiselle Cormon, and
therefore did not perceive the dulness of her mind. “Everything is so in
keeping,--the tones of color, the furniture, the general character.”
“But it costs a great deal; taxes are enormous,” responded the excellent
woman.
“Ah! taxes are high, are they?” said the viscount, preoccupied with his
own ideas.
“I don’t know,” replied the abbe. “My niece manages the property of each
of us.”
“Taxes are not of much importance to the rich,” said Mademoiselle
Cormon, not wishing to be thought miserly. “As for the furniture, I
shall leave it as it is, and change nothing,--unless I marry; and then,
of course, everything here must suit the husband.”
“You have noble principles, mademoiselle,” said the viscount, smiling.
“You will make one happy man.”
“No one ever made to me such a pretty speech,” thought the old maid.
The viscount complimented Mademoiselle Cormon on the excellence of her
service and the admirable arrangements of the house, remarking that he
had supposed the provinces behind the age in that respect; but, on the
contrary, he found them, as the English say, “very comfortable.”
“What can that word mean?” she thought. “Oh, where is the chevalier to
explain it to me? ‘Comfortable,’--there seem to be several words in it.
Well, courage!” she said to herself. “I can’t be expected to answer a
foreign language--But,” she continued aloud, feeling her tongue untied
by the eloquence which nearly all human creatures find in momentous
circumstances, “we have a very brilliant society here, monsieur. It
assembles at my house, and you shall judge of it this evening, for
some of my faithful friends have no doubt heard of my return and your
arrival. Among them is the Chevalier de Valois, a seigneur of the
old court, a man of infinite wit and taste; then there is Monsieur le
Marquis d’Esgrignon and Mademoiselle Armande, his sister” (she bit her
tongue with vexation),--“a woman remarkable in her way,” she added. “She
resolved to remain unmarried in order to leave all her fortune to her
brother and nephew.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the viscount. “Yes, the d’Esgrignons,--I remember them.”
“Alencon is very gay,” continued the old maid, now fairly launched.
“There’s much amusement: the receiver-general gives balls; the prefect
is an amiable man; and Monseigneur the bishop sometimes honors us with a
visit--”
“Well, then,” said the viscount, smiling, “I have done wisely to come
back, like the hare, to die in my form.”
“Yes,” she said. “I, too, attach myself or I die.”
The viscount smiled.
“Ah!” thought the old maid, “all is well; he understands me.”
The conversation continued on generalities. By one of those mysterious
unknown and undefinable faculties, Mademoiselle Cormon found in her
brain, under the pressure of her desire to be agreeable, all the phrases
and opinions of the Chevalier de Valois. It was like a duel in which the
devil himself pointed the pistol. Never was any adversary better aimed
at. The viscount was far too well-bred to speak of the excellence of
the dinner; but his silence was praise. As he drank the delicious wines
which Jacquelin served to him profusely, he seemed to feel he was with
friends, and to meet them with pleasure; for the true connoisseur does
not applaud, he enjoys. He inquired the price of land, of houses, of
estates; he made Mademoiselle Cormon describe at length the confluence
of the Sarthe and the Brillante; he expressed surprise that the town was
placed so far from the river, and seemed to be much interested in the
topography of the place.
The silent abbe left his niece to throw the dice of conversation; and
she truly felt that she pleased Monsieur de Troisville, who smiled at
her gracefully, and committed himself during this dinner far more than
her most eager suitors had ever done in ten days. Imagine, therefore,
the little attentions with which he was petted; you might have thought
him a cherished lover, whose return brought joy to the household.
Mademoiselle foresaw the moment when the viscount wanted bread; she
watched his every look; when he turned his head she adroitly put upon
his plate a portion of some dish he seemed to like; had he been a
gourmand, she would almost have killed him; but what a delightful
specimen of the attentions she would show to a husband! She did not
commit the folly of depreciating herself; on the contrary, she set every
sail bravely, ran up all her flags, assumed the bearing of the queen of
Alencon, and boasted of her excellent preserves. In fact, she fished
for compliments in speaking of herself, for she saw that she pleased the
viscount; the truth being that her eager desire had so transformed her
that she became almost a woman.
At dessert she heard, not without emotions of delight, certain sounds in
the antechamber and salon which denoted the arrival of her usual guests.
She called the attention of her uncle and Monsieur de Troisville to this
prompt attendance as a proof of the affection that was felt for her;
whereas it was really the result of the poignant curiosity which had
seized upon the town. Impatient to show herself in all her glory,
Mademoiselle Cormon told Jacquelin to serve coffee and liqueurs in
the salon, where he presently set out, in view of the whole company,
a magnificent liqueur-stand of Dresden china which saw the light only
twice a year. This circumstance was taken note of by the company,
standing ready to gossip over the merest trifle:--
“The deuce!” muttered du Bousquier. “Actually Madame Amphoux’s liqueurs,
which they only serve at the four church festivals!”
“Undoubtedly the marriage was arranged a year ago by letter,” said
the chief-justice du Ronceret. “The postmaster tells me his office has
received letters postmarked Odessa for more than a year.”
Madame Granson trembled. The Chevalier de Valois, though he had dined
with the appetite of four men, turned pale even to the left section
of his face. Feeling that he was about to betray himself, he said
hastily,--
“Don’t you think it is very cold to-day? I am almost frozen.”
“The neighborhood of Russia, perhaps,” said du Bousquier.
The chevalier looked at him as if to say, “Well played!”
Mademoiselle Cormon appeared so radiant, so triumphant, that the company
thought her handsome. This extraordinary brilliancy was not the effect
of sentiment only. Since early morning her blood had been whirling
tempestuously within her, and her nerves were agitated by the
presentiment of some great crisis. It required all these circumstances
combined to make her so unlike herself. With what joy did she now make
her solemn presentation of the viscount to the chevalier, the chevalier
to the viscount, and all Alencon to Monsieur de Troisville, and Monsieur
de Troisville to all Alencon!
By an accident wholly explainable, the viscount and chevalier,
aristocrats by nature, came instantly into unison; they recognized each
other at once as men belonging to the same sphere. Accordingly, they
began to converse together, standing before the fireplace. A circle
formed around them; and their conversation, though uttered in a low
voice, was listened to in religious silence. To give the effect of
this scene it is necessary to dramatize it, and to picture Mademoiselle
Cormon occupied in pouring out the coffee of her imaginary suitor, with
her back to the fireplace.
Monsieur de Valois. “Monsieur le vicomte has come, I am told, to settle
in Alencon?”
Monsieur de Troisville. “Yes, monsieur, I am looking for a house.”
[Mademoiselle Cormon, cup in hand, turns round.] “It must be a large
house” [Mademoiselle Cormon offers him the cup] “to lodge my whole
family.” [The eyes of the old maid are troubled.]
Monsieur de Valois. “Are you married?”
Monsieur de Troisville. “Yes, for the last sixteen years, to a daughter
of the Princess Scherbellof.”
Mademoiselle Cormon fainted; du Bousquier, who saw her stagger, sprang
forward and received her in his arms; some one opened the door and
allowed him to pass out with his enormous burden. The fiery republican,
instructed by Josette, found strength to carry the old maid to her
bedroom, where he laid her out on the bed. Josette, armed with scissors,
cut the corset, which was terribly tight. Du Bousquier flung water on
Mademoiselle Cormon’s face and bosom, which, released from the corset,
overflowed like the Loire in flood. The poor woman opened her eyes,
saw du Bousquier, and gave a cry of modesty at the sight of him. Du
Bousquier retired at once, leaving six women, at the head of whom was
Madame Granson, radiant with joy, to take care of the invalid.
What had the Chevalier de Valois been about all this time? Faithful to
his system, he had covered the retreat.
“That poor Mademoiselle Cormon,” he said to Monsieur de Troisville,
gazing at the assembly, whose laughter was repressed by his cool
aristocratic glances, “her blood is horribly out of order; she wouldn’t
be bled before going to Prebaudet (her estate),--and see the result!”
“She came back this morning in the rain,” said the Abbe de Sponde, “and
she may have taken cold. It won’t be anything; it is only a little upset
she is subject to.”
“She told me yesterday she had not had one for three months, adding that
she was afraid it would play her a trick at last,” said the chevalier.
“Ha! so you are married?” said Jacquelin to himself as he looked at
Monsieur de Troisville, who was quietly sipping his coffee.
The faithful servant espoused his mistress’s disappointment; he divined
it, and he promptly carried away the liqueurs of Madame Amphoux, which
were offered to a bachelor, and not to the husband of a Russian woman.
All these details were noticed and laughed at. The Abbe de Sponde knew
the object of Monsieur de Troisville’s journey; but, absent-minded
as usual, he forgot it, not supposing that his niece could have the
slightest interest in Monsieur de Troisville’s marriage. As for the
viscount, preoccupied with the object of his journey, and, like many
husbands, not eager to talk about his wife, he had had no occasion
to say he was married; besides, he would naturally suppose that
Mademoiselle Cormon knew it.
Du Bousquier reappeared, and was questioned furiously. One of the six
women came down soon after, and announced that Mademoiselle Cormon was
much better, and that the doctor had come. She intended to stay in bed,
as it was necessary to bleed her. The salon was now full. Mademoiselle
Cormon’s absence allowed the ladies present to discuss the tragi-comic
scene--embellished, extended, historified, embroidered, wreathed,
colored, and adorned--which had just taken place, and which, on the
morrow, was destined to occupy all Alencon.
“That good Monsieur du Bousquier! how well he carried you!” said Josette
to her mistress. “He was really pale at the sight of you; he loves you
still.”
That speech served as closure to this solemn and terrible evening.
Throughout the morning of the next day every circumstance of the late
comedy was known in the household of Alencon, and--let us say it to the
shame of that town,--they caused inextinguishable laughter. But on that
day Mademoiselle Cormon (much benefited by the bleeding) would have
seemed sublime even to the boldest scoffers, had they witnessed the
noble dignity, the splendid Christian resignation which influenced her
as she gave her arm to her involuntary deceiver to go into breakfast.
Cruel jesters! why could you not have seen her as she said to the
viscount,--
“Madame de Troisville will have difficulty in finding a suitable house;
do me the favor, monsieur, of accepting the use of mine during the time
you are in search of yours.”
“But, mademoiselle, I have two sons and two daughters; we should greatly
inconvenience you.”
“Pray do not refuse me,” she said earnestly.
“I made you the same offer in the answer I wrote to your letter,” said
the abbe; “but you did not receive it.”
“What, uncle! then you knew--”
The poor woman stopped. Josette sighed. Neither the viscount nor the
abbe observed anything amiss. After breakfast the Abbe de Sponde carried
off his guest, as agreed upon the previous evening, to show him the
various houses in Alencon which could be bought, and the lots of lands
on which he might build.
Left alone in the salon, Mademoiselle Cormon said to Josette, with a
deeply distressed air, “My child, I am now the talk of the whole town.”
“Well, then, mademoiselle, you should marry.”
“But I am not prepared to make a choice.”
“Bah! if I were in your place, I should take Monsieur du Bousquier.”
“Josette, Monsieur de Valois says he is so republican.”
“They don’t know what they say, your gentlemen: sometimes they declare
that he robbed the republic; he couldn’t love it if he did that,” said
Josette, departing.
“That girl has an amazing amount of sense,” thought Mademoiselle Cormon,
who remained alone, a prey to her perplexities.
She saw plainly that a prompt marriage was the only way to silence the
town. This last checkmate, so evidently mortifying, was of a nature to
drive her into some extreme action; for persons deficient in mind find
difficulty in getting out of any path, either good or evil, into which
they have entered.
Each of the two old bachelors had fully understood the situation in
which Mademoiselle Cormon was about to find herself; consequently, each
resolved to call in the course of that morning to ask after her health,
and take occasion, in bachelor language, to “press his point.” Monsieur
de Valois considered that such an occasion demanded a painstaking
toilet; he therefore took a bath and groomed himself with extraordinary
care. For the first and last time Cesarine observed him putting on with
incredible art a suspicion of rouge. Du Bousquier, on the other hand,
that coarse republican, spurred by a brisk will, paid no attention to
his dress, and arrived the first.
Such little things decide the fortunes of men, as they do of empires.
Kellerman’s charge at Marengo, Blucher’s arrival at Waterloo, Louis
XIV.’s disdain for Prince Eugene, the rector of Denain,--all these great
causes of fortune or catastrophe history has recorded; but no one
ever profits by them to avoid the small neglects of their own life.
Consequently, observe what happens: the Duchesse de Langeais (see
“History of the Thirteen”) makes herself a nun for the lack of ten
minutes’ patience; Judge Popinot (see “Commission in Lunacy”) puts off
till the morrow the duty of examining the Marquis d’Espard; Charles
Grandet (see “Eugenie Grandet”) goes to Paris from Bordeaux instead of
returning by Nantes; and such events are called chance or fatality! A
touch of rouge carefully applied destroyed the hopes of the Chevalier de
Valois; could that nobleman perish in any other way? He had lived by the
Graces, and he was doomed to die by their hand. While the chevalier was
giving this last touch to his toilet the rough du Bousquier was entering
the salon of the desolate old maid. This entrance produced a thought
in Mademoiselle Cormon’s mind which was favorable to the republican,
although in all other respects the Chevalier de Valois held the
advantages.
“God wills it!” she said piously, on seeing du Bousquier.
“Mademoiselle, you will not, I trust, think my eagerness importunate. I
could not trust to my stupid Rene to bring news of your condition, and
therefore I have come myself.”
“I am perfectly recovered,” she replied, in a tone of emotion. “I thank
you, Monsieur du Bousquier,” she added, after a slight pause, and in a
significant tone of voice, “for the trouble you have taken, and for that
which I gave you yesterday--”
She remembered having been in his arms, and that again seemed to her an
order from heaven. She had been seen for the first time by a man with
her laces cut, her treasures violently bursting from their casket.
“I carried you with such joy that you seemed to me light.”
Here Mademoiselle Cormon looked at du Bousquier as she had never yet
looked at any man in the world. Thus encouraged, the purveyor cast upon
the old maid a glance which reached her heart.
“I would,” he said, “that that moment had given me the right to keep
you as mine forever” [she listened with a delighted air]; “as you lay
fainting upon that bed, you were enchanting. I have never in my life
seen a more beautiful person,--and I have seen many handsome women.
Plump ladies have this advantage: they are superb to look upon; they
have only to show themselves and they triumph.”
“I fear you are making fun of me,” said the old maid, “and that is not
kind when all the town will probably misinterpret what happened to me
yesterday.”
“As true as my name is du Bousquier, mademoiselle, I have never changed
in my feelings toward you; and your first refusal has not discouraged
me.”
The old maid’s eyes were lowered. There was a moment of cruel silence
for du Bousquier, and then Mademoiselle Cormon decided on her course.
She raised her eyelids; tears flowed from her eyes, and she gave du
Bousquier a tender glance.
“If that is so, monsieur,” she said, in a trembling voice, “promise me
to live in a Christian manner, and not oppose my religious customs, but
to leave me the right to select my confessors, and I will grant you my
hand”; as she said the words, she held it out to him.
Du Bousquier seized the good fat hand so full of money, and kissed it
solemnly.
“But,” she said, allowing him to kiss it, “one thing more I must require
of you.”
“If it is a possible thing, it is granted,” replied the purveyor.
“Alas!” returned the old maid. “For my sake, I must ask you to take upon
yourself a sin which I feel to be enormous,--for to lie is one of the
capital sins. But you will confess it, will you not? We will do penance
for it together” [they looked at each other tenderly]. “Besides, it may
be one of those lies which the Church permits as necessary--”
“Can she be as Suzanne says she is?” thought du Bousquier. “What luck!
Well, mademoiselle, what is it?” he said aloud.
“That you will take upon yourself to--”
“What?”
“To say that this marriage has been agreed upon between us for the last
six months.”
“Charming woman,” said the purveyor, in the tone of a man willing to
devote himself, “such sacrifices can be made only for a creature adored
these ten years.”
“In spite of my harshness?” she said.
“Yes, in spite of your harshness.”
“Monsieur du Bousquier, I have misjudged you.”
Again she held out the fat red hand, which du Bousquier kissed again.
At this moment the door opened; the betrothed pair, looking round to see
who entered, beheld the delightful, but tardy Chevalier de Valois.
“Ah!” he said, on entering, “I see you are about to be up, fair queen.”
She smiled at the chevalier, feeling a weight upon her heart. Monsieur
de Valois, remarkably young and seductive, had the air of a Lauzun
re-entering the apartments of the Grande Mademoiselle in the
Palais-Royal.
“Hey! dear du Bousquier,” said he, in a jaunty tone, so sure was he of
success, “Monsieur de Troisville and the Abbe de Sponde are examining
your house like appraisers.”
“Faith!” said du Bousquier, “if the Vicomte de Troisville wants it,
it it is his for forty thousand francs. It is useless to me now. If
mademoiselle will permit--it must soon be known--Mademoiselle, may I
tell it?--Yes! Well, then, be the first, _my dear Chevalier_, to hear”
[Mademoiselle Cormon dropped her eyes] “of the honor that mademoiselle
has done me, the secret of which I have kept for some months. We shall
be married in a few days; the contract is already drawn, and we shall
sign it to-morrow. You see, therefore, that my house in the rue du Cygne
is useless to me. I have been privately looking for a purchaser for some
time; and the Abbe de Sponde, who knew that fact, has naturally taken
Monsieur de Troisville to see the house.”
This falsehood bore such an appearance of truth that the chevalier was
taken in by it. That “my dear chevalier” was like the revenge taken by
Peter the Great on Charles XII. at Pultawa for all his past defeats. Du
Bousquier revenged himself deliciously for the thousand little shafts he
had long borne in silence; but in his triumph he made a lively
youthful gesture by running his hands through his hair, and in so doing
he--knocked aside his false front.
“I congratulate you both,” said the chevalier, with an agreeable air;
“and I wish that the marriage may end like a fairy tale: _They were
happy ever after, and had--many--children_!” So saying, he took a pinch
of snuff. “But, monsieur,” he added satirically, “you forget--that you
are wearing a false front.”
Du Bousquier blushed. The false front was hanging half a dozen inches
from his skull. Mademoiselle Cormon raised her eyes, saw that skull in
all its nudity, and lowered them, abashed. Du Bousquier cast upon the
chevalier the most venomous look that toad ever darted on its prey.
“Dogs of aristocrats who despise me,” thought he, “I’ll crush you some
day.”
The chevalier thought he had recovered his advantage. But Mademoiselle
Cormon was not a woman to understand the connection which the chevalier
intimated between his congratulatory wish and the false front. Besides,
even if she had comprehended it, her word was passed, her hand given.
Monsieur de Valois saw at once that all was lost. The innocent woman,
with the two now silent men before her, wished, true to her sense of
duty, to amuse them.
“Why not play a game of piquet together?” she said artlessly, without
the slightest malice.
Du Bousquier smiled, and went, as the future master of the house, to
fetch the piquet table. Whether the Chevalier de Valois lost his head,
or whether he wanted to stay and study the causes of his disaster and
remedy it, certain it is that he allowed himself to be led like a lamb
to the slaughter. He had received the most violent knock-down blow that
ever struck a man; any nobleman would have lost his senses for less.
The Abbe de Sponde and the Vicomte de Troisville soon returned.
Mademoiselle Cormon instantly rose, hurried into the antechamber, and
took her uncle apart to tell him her resolution. Learning that the house
in the rue du Cygne exactly suited the viscount, she begged her future
husband to do her the kindness to tell him that her uncle knew it
was for sale. She dared not confide that lie to the abbe, fearing his
absent-mindedness. The lie, however, prospered better than if it had
been a virtuous action. In the course of that evening all Alencon heard
the news. For the last four days the town had had as much to think of
as during the fatal days of 1814 and 1815. Some laughed; others admitted
the marriage. These blamed it; those approved it. The middle classes
of Alencon rejoiced; they regarded it as a victory. The next day, among
friends, the Chevalier de Valois said a cruel thing:--
“The Cormons end as they began; there’s only a hand’s breadth between a
steward and a purveyor.”