BOOK 3.

MONSIEUR, MADAME AND BEBE

By Gustave Droz

Antoine-Gustave Droz was born in Paris, June 9, 1832. He was the son of

Jules-Antoine Droz, a celebrated French sculptor, and grand son of Jean

Pierre Droz, master of the mint and medalist under the Directoire. The

family is of Swiss origin. Gustave entered L’Ecole des Beaux Arts and

became quite a noted artist, coming out in the Salon of 1857 with the

painting ‘L’Obole de Cesar’. He also exhibited a little later various

‘tableaux de genre’: ‘Buffet de chemin de fer’ (1863), ‘A la Sacristie’

and ‘Un Succes de Salon’ (1864), ‘Monsieur le Cure, vous avez Raison’

and ‘Un Froid Sec’ (1865).

Toward this period, however, he abandoned the art of painting and

launched on the career of an author, contributing under the name of

Gustave Z.... to ‘La Vie Parisienne’. His articles found great favor,

he showed himself an exquisite raconteur, a sharp observer of intimate

family life, and a most penetrating analyst. The very gallant sketches,

later reunited in ‘Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe’ (1866), and crowned by the

Academy, have gone through many editions. ‘Entre nous’ (1867) and ‘Une

Femme genante’, are written in the same humorous strain, and procured

him many admirers by the vivacious and sparkling representations of

bachelor and connubial life. However, Droz knows very well where to draw

the line, and has formally disavowed a lascivious novel published in

Belgium--‘Un Ete a la campagne’, often, but erroneously, attributed to

him.

It seems that Gustave Droz later joined the pessimistic camp. His works,

at least, indicate other qualities than those which gained for him the

favor of the reading public. He becomes a more ingenious romancer, a

more delicate psychologist. If some of his sketches are realistic, we

must consider that realism is not intended ‘pour les jeunes filles du

pensiannat’.

Beside the works mentioned in the above text, Gustave Droz wrote: ‘Le

Cahier bleu de Mademoiselle Cibot (1868), ‘Auteur d’une Source (1869),

‘Un Paquet de Lettres’ (1870), ‘Babolain’ (1872), ‘Les Etangs’ (1875),

‘Tristesses et Sourires (1883), and L’Enfant (1884).

He died in Paris, October 22, 1895.

CAMILLE DOUCET

de l’Academie Francaise.

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I. MY FIRST SUPPER PARTY

The devil take me if I can remember her name, notwithstanding I dearly

loved her, the charming girl!

It is strange how rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawers;

how many forgotten sighs, how many pretty little trinkets, broken,

old-fashioned, and dusty, we come across. But no matter. I was now

eighteen, and, upon my honor, very unsuspecting. It was in the arms

of that dear--I have her name at the tip of my tongue, it ended in

“ine”--it was in her arms, the dear child, that I murmured my first

words of love, while I was close to her rounded shoulder, which had a

pretty little mole, where I imprinted my first kiss. I adored her, and

she returned my affection.

I really think I should have married her, and that cheerfully, I can

assure you, if it had not been that on certain details of moral weakness

her past life inspired me with doubts, and her present with uneasiness.

No man is perfect; I was a trifle jealous.

Well, one evening--it was Christmas eve--I called to take her to supper

with a friend of mine whom I esteemed much, and who became an examining

magistrate, I do not know where, but he is now dead.

I went upstairs to the room of the sweet girl, and was quite surprised

to find her ready to start. She had on, I remember, a square-cut bodice,

a little too low to my taste, but it became her so well that when she

embraced me I was tempted to say: “I say, pet, suppose we remain here”;

but she took my arm, humming a favorite air of hers, and we soon found

ourselves in the street.

You have experienced, have you not, this first joy of the youth who at

once becomes a man when he has his sweetheart on his arm? He trembles at

his boldness, and scents on the morrow the paternal rod; yet all these

fears are dissipated in the presence of the ineffable happiness of the

moment. He is free, he is a man, he loves, he is loved, he is conscious

that he is taking a forward step in life. He would like all Paris to see

him thus, yet he is afraid of being recognized; he would give his little

finger to grow three hairs on his upper lip, and to have a wrinkle on

his brow, to be able to smoke a cigar without being sick, and to polish

off a glass of punch without coughing.

When we reached my friend’s, the aforesaid examining magistrate, we

found a numerous company; from the anteroom we could hear bursts of

laughter, noisy conversation, accompanied by the clatter of plate and

crockery, which was being placed upon the table. I was a little excited;

I knew that I was the youngest of the party, and I was afraid of

appearing awkward on that night of revelry. I said to myself: “Old

boy, you must face the music, do the grand, and take your liquor like a

little man; your sweetheart is here, and her eyes are fixed on you.” The

idea, however, that I might be ill next morning did indeed trouble me;

in my mind’s eye, I saw my poor mother bringing me a cup of tea, and

weeping over my excesses, but I chased away all such thoughts and really

all went well up till suppertime. My sweetheart had been pulled about a

little, no doubt; one or two men had even kissed her under my very nose,

but I at once set down these details to the profit and loss column, and

in all sincerity I was proud and happy.

“My young friends,” suddenly exclaimed our host, “it is time to use your

forks vigorously. Let us adjourn to the diningroom.”

Joyful shouts greeted these words, and, amid great disorder, the guests

arranged themselves round the table, at each end of which I noticed

two plates filled up with those big cigars of which I could not smoke a

quarter without having a fit of cold shivers.

“Those cigars will lead to a catastrophe, if I don’t use prudence and

dissemble,” said I to myself.

I do not know how it was, but my sweetheart found herself seated on the

left of the host. I did not like that, but what could I say? And then,

the said host, with his twenty-five summers, his moustache curled up at

the ends, and his self-assurance, seemed to me the most ideal, the most

astounding of young devils, and I felt for him a shade of respect.

“Well,” he said, with captivating volubility, “you are feeling yourself

at home, are you not? You know any guest who feels uncomfortable in his

coat may take it off... and the ladies, too. Ha! ha! ha! That’s the way

to make one’s self happy, is it not, my little dears?” And before he had

finished laughing he printed a kiss right and left on the necks of his

two neighbors, one of whom, as I have already said, was my beloved.

The ill-bred dog! I felt my hair rise on end and my face glow like

red-hot iron. For the rest, everybody burst out laughing, and from that

moment the supper went on with increased animation.

“My young friends,” was the remark of that infernal examining

magistrate, “let us attack the cold meat, the sausages, the turkey, the

salad; let us at the cakes, the cheese, the oysters, and the grapes;

let us attack the whole show. Waiter, draw the corks and we will eat up

everything at once, eh, my cherubs? No ceremony, no false delicacy. This

is fine fun; it is Oriental, it is splendid. In the centre of Africa

everybody acts in this manner. We must introduce poetry into our

pleasures. Pass me some cheese with my turkey. Ha! ha! ha! I feel queer,

I am wild, I am crazy, am I not, pets?” And he bestowed two more kisses,

as before. If I had not been already drunk, upon my honor, I should have

made a scene.

I was stupid. Around me they were laughing, shouting, singing, and

rattling their plates. A racket of popping corks and breaking glasses

buzzed in my ears, but it seemed to me that a cloud had risen between me

and the outer world; a veil separated me from the other guests, and, in

spite of the evidence of my senses, I thought I was dreaming. I could

distinguish, however, though in a confused manner, the animated glances

and heightened color of the guests, and, above all, a disorder quite

new to me in the toilettes of the ladies. Even my sweetheart appeared to

have changed. Suddenly--it was as a flash of lightning--my beloved, my

angel, my ideal, she whom that very morning I was ready to marry,

leaned toward the examining magistrate and--I still feel the cold

shudder--devoured three truffles which were on his plate.

I experienced keen anguish; it seemed to me as if my heart were breaking

just then.

Here my recollections cease. What then took place I do not know. All I

remember is that some one took me home in a cab. I kept asking: “Where

is she? Where? Oh, where?”

I was told that she had left two hours before. The next morning I

experienced a keen sense of despair when the truffles of the examining

magistrate came back to mind. For a moment I had a vague idea of

entering upon holy orders, but time--you know what it is--calmed my

troubled breast. But what the devil was her name? It ended in “ine.”

Indeed, no, I believe it ended in “a.”

CHAPTER II. THE SOUL IN AGONY. TO MONSIEUR CLAUDE DE L--------

Seminary of P------sur-C-------

(Haute-Saone).

It affords me unspeakable pleasure to sit down to address you, dear

Claude. Must I tell you that I can not think without pious emotion of

that life which but yesterday we were leading together at the Jesuits’

College. How well I remember our long talks under the great trees, the

pious pilgrimages we daily made to the Father Superior’s Calvary, our

charming readings, the darting forth of our two souls toward the eternal

source of all greatness and all goodness. I can still see the little

chapel which you fitted up one day in your desk, the pretty wax tapers

we made for it, which we lighted one day during the cosmography class.

Oh, sweet recollections, how dear you are to me! Charming details of

a calm and holy life, with what happiness do I recall you! Time

in separating you from me seems only to have brought you nearer in

recollection. I have seen life, alas! during these six long months, but,

in acquiring a knowledge of the world, I have learned to love still more

the innocent ignorance of my past existence. Wiser than myself, you

have remained in the service of the Lord; you have understood the divine

mission which had been reserved for you; you have been unwilling to step

over the profane threshold and to enter the world, that cavern, I ought

to say, in which I am now assailed, tossed about like a frail bark

during a tempest. Nay, the anger of the waves of the sea compared

to that of the passions is mere child’s play. Happy friend, who art

ignorant of what I have learned. Happy friend, whose eyes have not yet

measured the abyss into which mine are already sunk.

But what was I to do? Was I not obliged--despite my vocation and the

tender friendship which called me to your side--was I not obliged, I

say, to submit to the exigencies imposed by the name I bear, and also to

the will of my father, who destined me for a military career in order to

defend a noble cause which you too would defend? In short, I obeyed and

quitted the college of the Fathers never to return again.

I went into the world, my heart charged with the salutary fears which

our pious education had caused to grow up there. I advanced cautiously,

but very soon recoiled horror-stricken. I am eighteen; I am still young,

I know, but I have already reflected much, while the experience of my

pious instructors has imparted to my soul a precocious maturity which

enables me to judge of many things; besides my faith is so firmly

established and so deeply rooted in my being, that I can look about me

without danger. I do not fear for my own salvation, but I am shocked

when I think of the future of our modern society, and I pray the

Lord fervently, from a heart untainted by sin, not to turn away His

countenance in wrath from our unhappy country. Even here, at the seat of

my cousin, the Marchioness K------de C------, where I am at the

present moment, I can discover nothing but frivolity among the men, and

dangerous coquetry among the women. The pernicious atmosphere of the

period seems to pervade even the highest rank of the French aristocracy.

Sometimes discussions occur on matters pertaining to science and morals,

which aim a kind of indirect blow at religion itself, of which our Holy

Father the Pope should alone be called on to decide. In this way God

permits, at the present day, certain petty savants, flat-headed men

of science, to explain in a novel fashion the origin of humanity, and,

despite the excommunication which will certainly overtake them, to throw

down a wild and impious challenge at the most venerable traditions.

I have not myself desired to be enlightened in regard to such base

depravity, but I have heard with poignant grief men with great minds and

illustrious names attach some importance to it.

As to manners and customs, they are, without being immoral, which would

be out of the question in our society, distinguished by a frivolity and

a faculty for being carried away with allurements which are shocking in

the extreme. I will only give you a single example of this, although it

is one that has struck me most forcibly.

Ten minutes’ walk from the house there is a charming little stream

overshadowed by spreading willows; the current is slight, the water

pellucid, and the bed covered with sand so fine that one’s feet sink

into it like a carpet. Now, would you believe it, dear friend, that, in

this hot weather, all those staying at the house go at the same time,

together, and, without distinction of sex, bathe in it? A simple

garment of thin stuff, and very tight, somewhat imperfectly screens the

strangely daring modesty of the ladies. Forgive me, my pious friend, for

entering into all these details, and for troubling the peacefulness of

your soul by this picture of worldly scenes, but I promised to share

with you my impressions, as well as my most secret thoughts. It is a

sacred contract which I am fulfilling.

I will, therefore, acknowledge that these bathing scenes shocked me

greatly, the first time I heard them spoken of. I resented it with a

species of disgust easy to understand, while I positively refused to

take part in them. To speak the truth, I was chafed a little; still,

these worldly railleries could not touch me, and had no effect on my

determination.

Yesterday, however, about five in the afternoon, the Marchioness sent

for me, and managed the affair so neatly, that it was impossible for me

not to act as her escort.

We started. The maid carried the bathing costumes both of the

Marchioness and of my sister, who was to join us later.

“I know,” said my cousin, “that you swim well; the fame of your

abilities has reached us here from your college. You are going to teach

me to float, eh, Robert?”

“I do not set much store by such paltry physical acquirements, cousin,”

I replied; “I swim fairly, nothing more.”

And I turned my head to avoid an extremely penetrating aroma with

which her hair was impregnated. You know very well that I am subject to

nervous attacks.

“But, my dear child, physical advantages are not so much to be

despised.”

This “dear child” displeased me much. My cousin is twenty-six, it

is true, but I am no longer, properly speaking, a “dear child,” and

besides, it denoted a familiarity which I did not care for. It was, on

the part of the Marchioness, one of the consequences of that frivolity

of mind, that carelessness of speech which I mentioned above, and

nothing more; still, I was shocked at it. She went on:

“Exaggerated modesty is not good form in society,” she said, turning

toward me with a smile. “You will, in time, make a very handsome

cavalier, my dear Robert, and that which you now lack is easy to

acquire. For instance, you should have your hair dressed by the

Marquis’s valet. He will do it admirably, and then you will be

charming.”

You must understand, my dear Claude, that I met these advances with a

frigidity of manner that left no doubt as to my intentions.

“I repeat, my cousin,” said I to her, “I attach to all this very little

importance,” and I emphasized my words by a firm and icy look. Then

only, for I had not before cast my eyes on her, did I notice the

peculiar elegance of her toilette, an elegance for which, unhappily,

the perishable beauty of her person served as a pretext and an

encouragement.

Her arms were bare, and her wrists covered with bracelets; the upper

part of her neck was insufficiently veiled by the too slight fabric of

a transparent gauze; in short, the desire to please was displayed in her

by all the details of her appearance. I was stirred at the aspect of so

much frivolity, and I felt myself blush for pity, almost for shame.

We reached, at length, the verge of the stream. She loosed my arm and

unceremoniously slid down, I can not say seated herself, upon the

grass, throwing back the long curls depending from her chignon. The

word chignon, in the language of society, denotes that prominence of the

cranium which is to be seen at the back of ladies’ heads. It is produced

by making coils or plaits of their long hair. I have cause to believe,

from certain allusions I have heard, that many of these chignons are not

natural. There are women, most worthy daughters of Eve, who purchase

for gold the hair--horyesco referens--of the wretched or the dead. It

sickens one.

“It is excessively hot, my dear cousin,” said she, fanning herself. “I

tremble every moment in such weather lest Monsieur de Beaurenard’s nose

should explode or catch fire. Ha, ha, ha. Upon my word of honor I do.”

She exploded with laughter at this joke, an unbecoming one, and without

much point. Monsieur de Beaurenard is a friend of the Marquis, who

happens to have a high color. Out of politeness, I forced a smile, which

she, no doubt, took for approbation, for she then launched out into

conversation--an indescribable flow of chatter, blending the most

profane sentiments with the strangest religious ideas, the quiet of

the country with the whirl of society, and all this with a freedom of

gesture, a charm of expression, a subtlety of glance, and a species

of earthly poesy, by which any other soul than mine would have been

seduced.

“This is a pretty spot, this charming little nook, is it not?”

“Certainly, my dear cousin.”

“And these old willows with their large tops overhanging the stream;

see how the field-flowers cluster gayly about their battered trunks! How

strange, too, that young foliage, so elegant, so silvery, those branches

so slender and so supple! So much elegance, freshness and youth shooting

up from that old trunk which seems as if accursed!”

“God does not curse a vegetable, my cousin.”

“That is possible; but I can not help finding in willows something which

is suggestive of humanity. Perpetual old age resembles punishment. That

old reprobate of the bank there is expiating and suffering, that old

Quasimodo of the fields. What would you that I should do about it, my

cousin, for that is the impression that it gives me? What is there to

tell me that the willow is not the final incarnation of an impenitent

angler?” And she burst out laughing.

“Those are pagan ideas, and as such are so opposed to the dogmas of

faith, that I am obliged, in order to explain their coming from your

mouth, to suppose that you are trying to make a fool of me.”

“Not the least in the world; I am not making fun of you, my dear Robert.

You are not a baby, you know! Come, go and get ready for a swim; I will

go into my dressing-tent and do the same.”

She saluted me with her hand, as she lifted one of the sides of the

tent, with unmistakable coquetry. What a strange mystery is the heart of

woman!

I sought out a spot shaded by the bushes, thinking over these things;

but it was not long before I had got into my bathing costume. I thought

of you, my pious friend, as I was buttoning the neck and the wrists

of this conventional garment. How many times have you not helped me

to execute this little task about which I was so awkward. Briefly, I

entered the water and was about to strike out when the sound of the

marchioness’s voice assailed my ears. She was talking with her maid

inside the tent. I stopped and listened; not out of guilty curiosity,

I can assure you, but out of a sincere wish to become better acquainted

with that soul.

“No, no, Julie,” the marchioness was saying. “No, no; I won’t hear you

say any more about that frightful waterproof cap. The water gets inside

and does not come out. Twist up my hair in a net; nothing more is

required.”

“Your ladyship’s hair will get wet.”

“Then you can powder it. Nothing is better for drying than powder. And

so, I shall wear my light blue dress this evening; blond powder will

go with it exactly. My child, you are becoming foolish. I told you to

shorten my bathing costume, by taking it up at the knees. Just see what

it looks like!”

“I was fearful that your ladyship would find it too tight for swimming.”

“Tight! Then why have you taken it in three good inches just here? See

how it wrinkles up; it is ridiculous, don’t you see it, my girl, don’t

you see it?”

The sides of the tent were moved; and I guessed that my cousin was

somewhat impatiently assuming the costume in question, in order the

better to point out its defects to her maid.

“I don’t want to look as if I were wound up in a sheet, but yet I want

to be left freedom of action. You can not get it into your head,

Julie, that this material will not stretch. You see now that I stoop a

little-Ah! you see it at last, that’s well.”

Weak minds! Is it not true, my pious friend, that there are those who

can be absorbed by such small matters? I find these preoccupations to be

so frivolous that I was pained at being even the involuntary recipient

of them, and I splashed the water with my hands to announce my presence

and put a stop to a conversation which shocked me.

“I am coming to you, Robert; get into the water. Has your sister arrived

yet?” said my cousin, raising her voice; then softly, and addressing her

maid, she added: “Yes, of course, lace it tightly. I want support.”

One side of the tent was raised, and my relative appeared. I know not

why I shuddered, as if at the approach of some danger. She advanced two

or three steps on the fine sand, drawing from her fingers as she did so,

the gold rings she was accustomed to wear; then she stopped, handed

them to Julie, and, with a movement which I can see now, but which it

is impossible for me to describe to you, kicked off into the grass the

slippers, with red bows, which enveloped her feet.

She had only taken three paces, but it sufficed to enable me to remark

the singularity of her gait. She walked with short, timid steps, her

bare arms close to her sides.

She had divested herself of all the outward tokens of a woman, save the

tresses of her hair, which were rolled up in a net. As for the rest,

she was a comical-looking young man, at once slender yet afflicted by an

unnatural plumpness, one of those beings who appear to us in dreams, and

in the delirium of fever, one of those creatures toward whom an unknown

power attracts us, and who resemble angels too nearly not to be demons.

“Well, Robert, of what are you thinking? Give me your hand and help me

to get into the water.”

She dipped the toes of her arched foot into the pellucid stream.

“This always gives one a little shock, but the water ought to be

delightful to-day,” said she. “But what is the matter with you?--your

hand shakes. You are a chilly mortal, cousin.”

The fact is, I was not trembling either through fear or cold; but on

approaching the Marchioness, the sharp perfume which emanated from

her hair went to my head, and with my delicate nerves you will readily

understand that I was about to faint. I mastered this sensation,

however. She took a firm grip of my hand, as one would clasp the knob of

a cane or the banister of a stair, and we advanced into the stream side

by side.

As we advanced the stream became deeper. The Marchioness, as the water

rose higher, gave vent to low cries of fear resembling the hiss of a

serpent; then she broke out into ringing bursts of laughter, and drew

closer and closer to me. Finally, she stopped, and turning she looked

straight into my eyes. I felt then that moment was a solemn one. I

thought a hidden precipice was concealed at my feet, my heart throbbed

as if it would burst, and my head seemed to be on fire.

“Come now, teach me to float on my back, Robert. Legs straight and

extended, arms close to the body, that’s the way, is it not?”

“Yes, my dear cousin, and move your hands gently under you.”

“Very good; here goes, then. One, two, three-off! Oh, what a little

goose I am, I’m afraid! Oh cousin, support me, just a little bit.”

That was the moment when I ought to have said to her: “No, Madame, I am

not the man to support coquettes, and I will not.” But I did not dare

say that; my tongue remained silent, and I passed my arm round the

Marchioness’s waist, in order to support her more easily.

Alas! I had made a mistake; perhaps an irreparable one.

In that supreme moment it was but too true that I adored her seductive

charms. Let me cut it short. When I held her thus it seemed to me that

all the blood in my body rushed back to my heart--a deadly thrill ran

through every limb--from shame and indignation, no doubt; my vision

became obscure; it seemed as if my soul was leaving my body, and I fell

forward fainting, and dragged her down to the bottom of the water in a

mortal clutch.

I heard a loud cry. I felt her arms interlace my neck, her clenched

fingers sink deep into my flesh, and all was over. I had lost

consciousness.

When I came to myself I was lying on the grass. Julie was chafing my

hands, and the Marchioness, in her bathing-dress, which was streaming

with water, was holding a vinaigrette to my nose. She looked at

me severely, although in her glance there was a shade of pleased

satisfaction, the import of which escaped me.

“Baby! you great baby!” said she.

Now that you know all the facts, my pious friend, bestow on me the favor

of your counsel, and thank heaven that you live remote from scenes like

these.

With heart and soul,

Your sincere friend,

ROBERT DE K-----DEC------.

CHAPTER III. MADAME DE K.

It is possible that you know Madame de K.; if this be so, I congratulate

you, for she is a very remarkable person. Her face is pretty, but they

do not say of her, “Ah, what a pretty woman!” They say: “Madame de K.?

Ah! to be sure, a fine woman!” Do you perceive the difference? it is

easy to grasp it. That which charms in her is less what one sees than

what one guesses at. Ah! to be sure, a fine woman! That is what is said

after dinner when we have dined at her house, and when her husband, who

unfortunately is in bad health and does not smoke, has gone to fetch

cigars from his desk. It is said in a low tone, as though in confidence;

but from this affected reserve, it is easy to read conviction on the

part of each of the guests. The ladies in the drawing room do not

suspect the charming freedom which characterizes the gossip of the

gentlemen when they have gone into the smoking-room to puff their cigars

over a cup of coffee.

“Yes, yes, she is a very fine woman.”

“Ah! the deuce, expansive beauty, opulent.”

“But poor De K. makes me feel anxious; he does not seem to get any

better. Does it not alarm you, Doctor?”

Every one smiles ‘sub rosa’ at the idea that poor De K., who has gone to

fetch cigars, pines away visibly, while his wife is so well.

“He is foolish; he works too hard, as I have told him. His position at

the ministry--thanks, I never take sugar.”

“But, really, it is serious, for after all he is not strong,” ventures a

guest, gravely, biting his lips meanwhile to keep from laughing.

“I think even that within the last year her beauty has developed,” says

a little gentleman, stirring his coffee.

“De K.’s beauty? I never could see it.”

“I don’t say that.”

“Excuse me, you did; is it not so, Doctor?”

“Forsooth!”--“How now! Come, let us make the distinction.”--“Ha, ha,

ha!” And there is a burst of that hearty laughter which men affect to

assist digestion. The ice is broken, they draw closer to each other and

continue in low tones:

“She has a fine neck! for when she turned just now it looked as if it

had been sculptured.”

“Her neck, her neck! but what of her hands, her arms and her shoulders!

Did you see her at Leon’s ball a fortnight ago? A queen, my dear fellow,

a Roman empress. Neck, shoulders, arms--”

“And all the rest,” hazards some one, looking down into his cup. All

laugh heartily, and the good De K. comes in with a box of cigars which

look exceptional.

“Here you are, my friends,” he says, coughing slightly, “but let me

recommend you to smoke carefully.”

I have often dined with my friend De K., and I have always, or almost

always, heard a conversation similar to the preceding. But I must

avow that the evening on which I heard the impertinent remark of this

gentleman I was particularly shocked; first, because De K. is my friend,

and in the second place because I can not endure people who speak of

that of which they know nothing. I make bold to say that I alone in

Paris understand this matter to the bottom. Yes, yes, I alone; and the

reason is not far to seek. Paul and his brother are in England; Ernest

is a consul in America; as for Leon, he is at Hycres in his little

subprefecture. You see, therefore, that in truth I am the only one in

Paris who can--

“But hold, Monsieur Z., you must be joking. Explain yourself; come to

the point. Do you mean to say that Madame de K.--oh! dear me! but that

is most ‘inconvenant’!”

Nothing, nothing! I am foolish. Let us suppose that I had not spoken,

ladies; let us speak of something else. How could the idea have got

into my head of saying anything about “all the rest”? Let us talk of

something else.

It was a real spring morning, the rain fell in torrents and the north

wind blew furiously, when the damsel, more dead than alive----

The fact is, I feel I can not get out of it. It will be better to tell

all. Only swear to me to be discreet. On your word of honor? Well, then,

here goes.

I am, I repeat, the only man in Paris who can speak from knowledge of

“all the rest” in regard to Madame de K.

Some years ago--but do not let us anticipate--I say, some years ago I

had an intimate friend at whose house we met many evenings. In summer

the windows were left open, and we used to sit in armchairs and chat

of affairs by the light of our cigars. Now, one evening, when we were

talking of fishing--all these details are still fresh in my memory--we

heard the sound of a powerful harpsichord, and soon followed the harsh

notes of a voice more vigorous than harmonious, I must admit.

“Aha! she has altered her hours,” said Paul, regarding one of the

windows of the house opposite.

“Who has changed her hours, my dear fellow?”

“My neighbor. A robust voice, don’t you think so? Usually she practises

in the morning, and I like that better, for it is the time I go out for

a walk.”

Instinctively I glanced toward the lighted window, and through the drawn

curtains I distinctly perceived a woman, dressed in white, with her hair

loose, and swaying before her instrument like a person conscious that

she was alone and responding to her own inspirations.

“My Fernand, go, seek glo-o-o-ry,” she was singing at the top of her

voice. The singing appeared to me mediocre, but the songstress in her

peignoir interested me much.

“Gentlemen,” said I, “it appears to me there is behind that frail

tissue”--I alluded to the curtain--“a very handsome woman. Put out

your cigars, if you please; their light might betray our presence and

embarrass the fair singer.”

The cigars were at once dropped--the window was even almost completely

closed for greater security--and we began to watch.

This was not, I know, quite discreet, but, as the devil willed it, we

were young bachelors, all five of us, and then, after all, dear reader,

would not you have done the same?

When the song was concluded, the singer rose. It was very hot and

her garment must have been very thin, for the light, which was at the

farther end of the room, shone through the fabric. It was one of those

long robes which fall to the feet, and which custom has reserved for

night wear. The upper part is often trimmed with lace, the sleeves are

wide, the folds are long and flowing, and usually give forth a perfume

of ambergris or violet. But perhaps you know this garment as well as I.

The fair one drew near the looking-glass, and it seemed to us that she

was contemplating her face; then she raised her hands in the air, and,

in the graceful movement she made, the sleeve, which was unbuttoned and

very loose, slipped from her beautifully rounded arm, the outline of

which we distinctly perceived.

“The devil!” said Paul, in a stifled voice, but he could say no more.

The songstress then gathered up her hair, which hung very low, in her

two hands and twisted it in the air, just as the washerwomen do. Her

head, which we saw in profile, inclined a little forward, and her

shoulders, which the movement of her arms threw back, presented a more

prominent and clear outline.

“Marble, Parian marble!” muttered Paul. “O Cypris! Cytherea! Paphia!”

“Be quiet, you donkey!”

It really seemed as if the flame of the candle understood our

appreciation and ministered specially to our admiration. Placed behind

the fair songstress, it illuminated her so perfectly that the garment

with the long folds resembled those thin vapors which veil the horizon

without hiding it, and in a word, the most inquisitive imagination,

disarmed by so much courtesy, was ready to exclaim, “That is enough!”

Soon the fair one moved forward toward her bed, sat down in a very low

armchair, in which she stretched herself out at her ease, and remained

for some moments, with her hands clasped over her head and her limbs

extended. Just then midnight struck; we saw her take her right leg

slowly and cross it over her left, when we perceived that she had not

yet removed her shoes and stockings.

But what is the use of asking any more about it? These recollections

trouble me, and, although they have fixed themselves in my mind-very

firmly indeed, I can assure you--I feel an embarrassment mingled with

modesty at relating all to you at length. Besides, at the moment she

turned down the clothes, and prepared, to get into bed, the light went

out.

On the morrow, about ten o’clock in the evening, we all five again found

ourselves at Paul’s, four of us with opera-glasses in our pockets. As

on the previous evening, the fair songstress sat down at her piano, then

proceeded slowly to make her night toilette. There was the same grace,

the same charm, but when we came to the fatal moment at which on the

preceding night the candle had gone out, a faint thrill ran through

us all. To tell the truth, for my part, I was nervous. Heaven, very

fortunately, was now on our side; the candle continued to burn. The

young woman then, with her charming hand, the plump outlines of which

we could easily distinguish, smoothed the pillow, patted it, arranged

it with a thousand caressing precautions in which the thought was

suggested, “With what happiness shall I now go and bury my head in it!”

Then she smoothed down the little wrinkles in the bed, the contact with

which might have irritated her, and, raising herself on her right arm,

like a horseman, about to get into the saddle, we saw her left knee,

smooth and shining as marble, slowly bury itself. We seemed to hear a

kind of creaking, but this creaking sounded joyful. The sight was brief,

too brief, alas! and it was in a species of delightful confusion that we

perceived a well-rounded limb, dazzlingly white, struggling in the silk

of the quilt. At length everything became quiet again, and it was as

much as we could do to make out a smooth, rose-tinted little foot which,

not being sleepy, still lingered outside and fidgeted with the silken

covering.

Delightful souvenir of my lively youth! My pen splutters, my paper seems

to blush to the color of that used by the orange-sellers. I believe I

have said too much.

I learned some time afterward that my friend De K. was about to be

married, and, singularly enough, was going to wed this beautiful

creature with whom I was so well acquainted.

“A charming woman!” I exclaimed one day.

“You know her, then?” said someone.

“I? No, not the least in the world.”

“But?”

“Yes-no, let me see; I have seen her once at high mass.”

“She is not very pretty,” some one remarked to me.

“No, not her face,” I rejoined, and added to myself, “No, not her face,

but all the rest!”

It is none the less true that for some time past this secret has been

oppressing me, and, though I decided to-day to reveal it to you, it was

because it seems to me that to do so would quiet my conscience.

But, for Heaven’s sake, let me entreat you, do not noise abroad the

affair!

CHAPTER IV. SOUVENIRS OF LENT

The faithful are flocking up the steps of the temple; spring toilettes

already glitter in the sun; trains sweep the dust with their long

flowing folds; feathers and ribbons flutter; the bell chimes solemnly,

while carriages keep arriving at a trot, depositing upon the pavement

all that is most pious and most noble in the Faubourg, then draw up in

line at the farther end of the square.

Be quick, elbow your way through the crowd if you want a good place;

the Abbe Gelon preaches to-day on abstinence, and when the Abbe Gelon

preaches it is as if Patti were singing.

Enter Madame, pushes the triple door, which recloses heavily, brushes

with rapid fingers the holywater sprinkler which that pious old man

holds out, and carefully makes a graceful little sign of the cross so as

not to spot her ribbons.

Do you hear these discreet and aristocratic whisperings?

“Good morning, my dear.”

“Good morning, dear. It is always on abstinence that he preaches, is it

not? Have you a seat?”

“Yes, yes, come with me. You have got on your famous bonnet, I see?”

“Yes; do you like it? It is a little showy, is it not? What a multitude

of people! Where is your husband?”

“Showy! Oh, no, it is splendid. My husband is in the churchwarden’s pew;

he left before me; he is becoming a fanatic--he speaks of lunching on

radishes and lentils.”

“That ought to be very consoling to you.”

“Don’t mention it. Come with me. See; there are Ernestine and Louise.

Poor Louise’s nose, always the same; who would believe that she drinks

nothing stronger than water?”

The ladies push their way among the chairs, some of which they upset

with the greatest unconcern.

Arrived at their places they sink down on their knees, and, moist-eyed

and full of feeling, cast a look of veiled adoration toward the high

altar, then hide their faces with their gloved hands.

For a very few minutes they gracefully deprecate themselves in the eyes

of the Lord, then, taking their seats, coquettishly arrange the immense

bows of their bonnet-strings, scan the assembly through a gold eyeglass,

with the little finger turning up; finally, while smoothing down the

satin folds of a dress difficult to keep in place, they scatter, right

and left, charming little recognitions and delightful little smiles.

“Are you comfortable, dear?”

“Quite, thanks. Do you see in front there, between the two tapers,

Louise and Madame de C-------? Is it allowable in any one to come to

church got up like that?”

“Oh! I have never believed much in the piety of Madame de C-------. You

know her history--the story of the screen? I will tell it you later. Ah!

there is the verger.”

The verger shows his bald head in the pulpit of truth. He arranges the

seat, adjusts the kneeling-stool, then withdraws and allows the Abbe

Gelon, who is somewhat pale from Lenten fasting, but striking, as he

always is, in dignity, elegance, and unction. A momentary flutter passes

through the congregation, then they settle down comfortably. The noise

dies away, and all eyes are eagerly looking toward the face of the

preacher. With his eyes turned to heaven, the latter stands upright and

motionless; a light from above may be divined in his inspired look;

his beautiful, white hands, encircled at the wrists by fine lace, are

carelessly placed on the red velvet cushion of the pulpit. He waits a

few moments, coughs twice, unfolds his handkerchief, deposits his square

hat in a corner, and, bending forward, lets fall from his lips in those

sweet slow, persuasive tones, by which he is known, the first words of

his sermon, “Ladies!”

With this single word he has already won all hearts. Slowly he casts

over his audience a mellow glance, which penetrates and attracts; then,

having uttered a few Latin words which he has the tact to translate

quickly into French, he continues:

“What is it to abstain? Why should we abstain? How should we abstain?

Those are the three points, ladies, I shall proceed to discuss.”

He blows his nose, coughs; a holy thrill stirs every heart. How will he

treat this magnificent subject? Let us listen.

Is it not true, Madame, that your heart is piously stirred, and that at

this moment you feel an actual thirst for abstinence and mortification?

The holy precincts are bathed in a soft obscurity, similar to that of

your boudoir, and inducing revery.

I know not how much of the ineffable and of the vaguely exhilarating

penetrates your being. But the voice of this handsome and venerated old

man has, amidst the deep silence, something deliciously heavenly about

it. Mysterious echoes repeat from the far end of the temple each of his

words, and in the dim light of the sanctuary the golden candlesticks

glitter like precious stones. The old stained-glass windows with their

symbolic figures become suddenly illuminated, a flood of light and

sunshine spreads through the church like a sheet of fire. Are the

heavens opening? Is the Spirit from on high descending among us?

While lost in pious revery, which soothes and lulls, one gazes with

ecstasy on the fanciful details of the sculptures which vanish in

the groined roof above, and on the quaint pipes of the organ with its

hundred voices. The beliefs of childhood piously inculcated in your

heart suddenly reawaken; a vague perfume of incense again penetrates

the air. The stone pillars shoot up to infinite heights, and from these

celestial arches depends the golden lamp which sways to and fro in

space, diffusing its eternal light. Truly, God is great.

By degrees the sweet tones of the preacher enrapture one more and more,

and the sense of his words are lost; and, listening to the divine murmur

of that saint-like voice, your eyes, like those of a child falling

asleep in the bosom of the Creator, close.

You do not go to sleep, but your head inclines forward, the ethereal

light surrounds you, and your soul, delighting in the uncertain, plunges

into celestial space, and loses itself in infinity.

What a sweet and holily intoxicating sensation, a delicious

ecstasy! Nevertheless, there are those who smile at this religious

raise-en-scene, these pomps and splendors, this celestial music, which

soothes the nerves and thrills the brain! Pity on these scoffers who do

not comprehend the ineffable delight of being able to open at will the

gates of Paradise to themselves, and to become, at odd moments, one with

the angels! But what purpose does it serve to speak of the faithless

and of their harmless, smiles? As the Abbe Gelon has in his inimitable

manner observed, “The heart is a fortress, incessantly assailed by the

spirit of darkness.”

The idea of a constant struggle with this powerful being has something

about it that adds tenfold to our strength and flatters our vanity.

What, alone in your fortress, Madame; alone with the spirit of darkness.

But hush! the Abbe Gelon is finishing in a quivering and fatigued voice.

His right hand traces in the air the sign of peace. Then he wipes his

humid forehead, his eyes sparkle with divine light, he descends the

narrow stairs, and we hear on the pavement the regular taps of the rod

of the verger, who is reconducting him to the vestry.

“Was he not splendid, dear?”

“Excellent! when he said, ‘That my eyes might close forever, if...’

you remember?”

“Superb! and further on: ‘Yes, ladies, you are coquettes.’ He told us

some hard truths; he speaks admirably.”

“Admirably! He is divine!”

It is four o’clock, the church is plunged in shadow and silence. The

confused rumble of the vehicles without hardly penetrates this dwelling

of prayer, and the creak of one’s boots, echoing in the distance, is the

only human noise which ruffles the deep calm.

However, in proportion as we advance, we perceive in the chapels groups

of the faithful, kneeling, motionless and silent. In viewing the despair

that their attitude appears to express, we are overwhelmed with sadness

and uneasiness. Is it an appeal for the damned?

The aspects of one of these chapels is peculiar. A hundred or a hundred

and fifty ladies, almost buried in silk and velvet, are crowded devoutly

about the confessional. A sweet scent of violets and vervain permeates

the vicinity, and one halts, in spite of one’s self, in the presence of

this large display of elegance.

From each of the two cells adjoining the confessional shoot out the

folds of a rebellious skirt, for the penitent, held fast at the waist,

has been able to get only half of her form into the narrow space.

However, her head can be distinguished moving in the shadow, and we can

guess from the contrite movements of her white feather that her forehead

is bowed by reason of remonstrance and repentance.

Hardly has she concluded her little story when a dozen of her neighbors

rush forward to replace her. This eagerness is quite explicable, for

this chapel is the one in which the Abbe Gelon hears confessions, and I

need not tell you that when the Abbe Gelon confesses it is the same as

if he were preaching--there is a crowd.

The good Abbe confesses all these ladies, and, with angelic devotion,

remains shut up for hours in this dark, narrow, suffocating box, through

the grating of which two penitents are continually whispering their

sins.

The dear Abbe! the most likable thing about him is that he is not

long over the business. He knows how to get rid of useless details; he

perceives, with subtle instinct and a sureness of vision that spares

you a thousand embarrassments, the condition of a soul, so that, besides

being a man of intelligence and of the world, he renders the repetition

of those little weaknesses, of which he has whispered the one half to

you, almost agreeable.

In coming to him with one’s little burden of guilt, one feels somewhat

embarrassed, but while one is hesitating about telling him all, he, with

a discreet and skilful hand, disencumbers one of it rapidly, examines

the contents, smiles or consoles, and the confession is made without

one having uttered a single word; so that after all is over the penitent

exclaims, prostrating one’s self before God, “But, Lord, I was pure,

pure as the lily, and yet how uneasy I was!”

Even when he assumes the sacerdotal habit and ceases to be a man, and

speaks in the name of God, the tones of his voice, the refinement of his

look, reveal innate distinction and that spotless courtesy which can not

harm even a minister of God, and which one must cultivate on this side

of the Rue du Bac.

If God wills that there must be a Faubourg St.-Germain in the world--and

it can not be denied that He does--is it not proper that He should give

us a minister who speaks our language and understands our weaknesses?

Nothing is more obvious, and I really do not comprehend some of these

ladies who talk to me about the Abbe Brice. Not that I wish to speak ill

of the good Abbe, for this is neither the time nor the place for it; he

is a holy man, but his sanctity is a little bourgeois and needs polish.

With him one has to dot one’s i’s; he is dull in perception, or does not

perceive at all.

Acknowledge a peccadillo, and his brows knit, he must know the hour, the

moment, the antecedents; he examines, he probes, he weighs, and finishes

his thousand questions by being indiscreet and almost improper. Is there

not, even in the holy mission of the priest, a way of being politely

severe, and of acting the gentleman to people well born?

The Abbe Brice--and there is no reason why I should conceal it--smells

of the stable, which must be prejudicial to him. He is slightly

Republican, too, wears clumsy boots, has awful nails, and when he gets

new gloves, twice a year, his fingers stand out stiff and separate.

I do not, I would have you remark, deny his admirable virtues; but say

what you like, you will never get a woman of fashion to confide her

“little affairs” to a farmer’s son, and address him as “Father.” Matters

must not be carried the length of absurdity; besides, this Abbe Brice

always smells detestably of snuff.

He confesses all sorts of people, and you will agree that it is not

pleasant to have one’s maid or one’s cook for one’s visa-vis at the

confessional.

There is not a woman who understands Christian humility better than

yourself, dear Madame; but all the same you are not accustomed to travel

in an omnibus. You may be told that in heaven you will only be too happy

to call your coachman “Brother,” and to say to Sarah Jane, “Sister,” but

these worthy folk shall have first passed through purgatory, and fire

purifies everything. Again, what is there to assure us that Sarah Jane

will go to heaven, since you yourself, dear Madame, are not so sure of

entering there?

It is hence quite well understood why the Abbe Gelon’s chapel is

crowded. If a little whispering goes on, it is because they have been

waiting three long hours, and because everybody knows one another.

All the ladies, you may be sure, are there.

“Make a little room for me, dear,” whispers a newcomer, edging her way

through trains, kneeling-stools, and chairs.

“Ah! is that you, dear? Come here. Clementine and Madame de B. are there

in the corner at the cannon’s mouth. You will have to wait two good

hours.”

“If Madame de B. is there, it does not surprise me. She is

inexhaustible, and there is no other woman who is so long in telling

a thing. Have all these people not had their turn yet? Ah! there is

Ernestine.” (She waves her hand to her quietly.) “That child is an

angel. She acknowledged to me the other day that her conscience troubled

her because, on reading the ‘Passion,’ she could not make up her mind to

kiss the mat.”

“Ah! charming; but, tell me, do you kiss the mat yourself?”

“I! no, never in my life; it is so nasty, dear.”

“You confess to the omission, at least?”

“Oh! I confess all those little trifles in a lump. I say, ‘Father, I

have erred out of human self-respect.’ I give the total at once.”

“That is just what I do, and that dear Abbe Gelon discharges the bill.”

“Seriously, time would fail him if he acted otherwise. But it seems to

me that we are whispering a little too much, dear; let me think over my

little bill.”

Madame leans upon her praying-stool. Gracefully she removes, without

taking her eyes off the altar, the glove from her right hand, and with

her thumb turns the ring of Ste-Genevieve that serves her as a rosary,

moving her lips the while. Then, with downcast eyes and set lips, she

loosens the fleur-de-lys-engraved clasp of her Book of Hours, and seeks

out the prayers appropriate to her condition.

She reads with fervency: “‘My God, crushed beneath the burden of my sins

I cast myself at thy feet’--how annoying that it should be so cold to

the feet. With my sore throat, I am sure to have influenza,--‘that

I cast myself at thy feet’--tell me, dear, do you know if the

chapel-keeper has a footwarmer? Nothing is worse than cold feet, and

that Madame de P. sticks there for hours. I am sure she confesses her

friends’ sins along with her own. It is intolerable; I no longer

have any feeling in my right foot; I would pay that woman for her

foot-warmer--‘I bow my head in the dust under the weight of repentance,

and of........’”

“Ah! Madame de P. has finished; she is as red as the comb of a

turkey-cock.”

Four ladies rush forward with pious ardor to take her place.

“Ah! Madame, do not push so, I beg of you.”

“But I was here before you, Madame.”

“I beg a thousand pardons, Madame.”

“You surely have a very strange idea of the respect which is due to this

hallowed spot.”

“Hush, hush! Profit by the opportunity, Madame; slip through and take

the vacant place. (Whispering.) Do not forget the big one last night,

and the two little ones of this morning.”

CHAPTER V. MADAME AND HER FRIEND CHAT BY THE FIRESIDE

Madam--(moving her slender fingers)--It is ruched, ruched, ruched, loves

of ruches, edged all around with blond.

Her Friend--That is good style, dear.

Madame--Yes, I think it will be the style, and over this snowlike

foam fall the skirts of blue silk like the bodice; but a lovely blue,

something like--a little less pronounced than skyblue, you know,

like--my husband calls it a subdued blue.

Her Friend--Splendid. He is very happy in his choice of terms.

Madame--Is he not? One understands at once--a subdued blue. It describes

it exactly.

Her Friend--But apropos of this, you know that Ernestine has not

forgiven him his pleasantry of the other evening.

Madame--How, of my husband? What pleasantry? The other evening when the

Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice were there?

Her Friend--And his son, who was there also.

Madame--What! the Abbe’s son? (Both break into laughter.)

Her Friend--But--ha! ha! ha!--what are you saying, ha! ha! you little

goose?

Madame--I said the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice, and you add, ‘And his

son.’ It is your fault, dear. He must be a choir-boy, that cherub. (More

laughter.)

Her Friend--(placing her hand over hey mouth)--Be quiet, be quiet; it is

too bad; and in Lent, too!

Madame--Well, but of whose son are you speaking?

Her Friend--Of Ernestine’s son, don’t you know, Albert, a picture of

innocence. He heard your husband’s pleasantry, and his mother was vexed.

Madame--My dear, I really don’t know to what you refer. Please tell me

all about it.

Hey Friend--Well, on entering the drawing-room, and perceiving the

candelabra lit up, and the two Abbe’s standing at that moment in the

middle of the room, your husband appeared as if looking for something,

and when Ernestine asked him what it was, he said aloud: “I am looking

for the holy-water; please, dear neighbor, excuse me for coming in the

middle of the service.”

Madame--Is it possible? (Laughing.) The fact is, he can not get out

of it; he has met the two Abbes, twice running, at Ernestine’s. Her

drawing-room is a perfect sacristy.

Hey Friend (dryly)--A sacristy! How regardless you are getting in your

language since your marriage, dear.

Madame--Not more than before. I never cared to meet priests elsewhere

than at church.

Her Friend--Come, you are frivolous, and if I did not know you

better--but do you not like to meet the Abbe Gelon?

Madame--Ah! the Abbe Gelon, that is quite different. He is charming.

Her Friend--(briskly)--His manners are so distingue.

Madame--And respectful. His white hair is such an admirable frame for

his pale face, which is so full of unction.

Her Friend--Oh! yes, he has unction, and his looks--those sweetly

softened looks! The other day, when he was speaking on the mediation

of Christ, he was divine. At one moment he wiped away a tear; he was no

longer master of his emotions; but he grew calm almost immediately--his

power of self-command is marvellous; then he went on quietly, but the

emotion in turn had overpowered us. It was electrifying. The Countess

de S., who was near me, was bubbling like a spring, under her yellow

bonnet.

Madame--Ah! yes, I have seen that yellow bonnet. What a sight that

Madame de S. is!

Her Friend--The truth is, she is always dressed like an applewoman. A

bishopric has been offered these messieurs, I know, on good authority;

my husband had it from De l’Euvre. Well--

Madame--(interrupting her)--A bishopric offered to Madame de S. It was

wrong to do so.

Her Friend--You make fun of everything, my dear; there are, however,

some subjects which should be revered. I tell you that the mitre and

the ring have been offered to the Abby Gelon. Well, he refused them. God

knows, however, that the pastoral ring would well become his hand.

Madame--Oh! yes, he has a lovely hand.

Her Friend--He has a white, slender, and aristocratic hand. Perhaps it

is a wrong for us to dwell on these worldly details, but after all his

hand is really beautiful. Do you know (enthusiastically) I find that

the Abbe Gelon compels love of religion? Were you ever present at his

lectures?

Madame--I was at the first one. I would have gone again on Thursday, but

Madame Savain came to try on my bodice and I had a protracted discussion

with her about the slant of the skirts.

Her Friend--Ah! the skirts are cut slantingly.

Madame--Yes, yes, with little cross-bars, which is an idea of my own--I

have not seen it anywhere else; I think it will not look badly.

Her Friend--Madame Savain told me that you had suppressed the shoulders

of the corsage.

Madame--Ah! the gossip! Yes, I will have nothing on the shoulders but

a ribbon, a trifle, just enough to fasten a jewel to--I was afraid that

the corsage would look a little bare. Madame Savain had laid on, at

intervals, some ridiculous frippery. I wanted to try something else--my

plan of crossbars, there and then--and I missed the dear Abbe Gelon’s

lecture. He was charming, it seems.

Her Friend--Oh! charming. He spoke against bad books; there was a large

crowd. He demolished all the horrible opinions of Monsieur Renan. What a

monster that man is!

Madame--You have read his book?

Her Friend--Heaven forbid! Don’t you know it is impossible for one to

find anything more--well, it must be very bad ‘Messieurs de l’OEuvre’

for the Abbe Gelon, in speaking to one of these friends of my husband,

uttered the word----

Madame--Well, what word?

Her Friend--I dare not tell you, for, really, if it is true it would

make one shudder. He said that it was (whispering in her ear) the

Antichrist! It makes one feel aghast, does it not! They sell his

photograph; he has a satanic look. (Looking at the clock.) Half-past

two--I must run away; I have given no orders about dinner. These three

fast-days in the week are to me martyrdom. One must have a little

variety; my husband is very fastidious. If we did not have water-fowl I

should lose my head. How do you get on, dear?

Madame--Oh! with me it is very simple, provided I do not make my husband

leaner; he eats anything. You know, Augustus is not very much--

Her Friend--Not very much! I think that he is much too spare; for,

after all, if we do not in this life impose some privations upon

ourselves--no, that would be too easy. I hope, indeed, that you have a

dispensation?

Madame--Oh! yes, I am safe as to that.

Her Friend--I have one, of course, for butter and eggs, as

vice-chancellor of the Association. The Abbe Gelon begged me to accept a

complete dispensation on account of my headaches, but I refused. Yes! I

refused outright. If one makes a compromise with one’s principles--but

then there are people who have no principles.

Madame--If you mean that to apply to my husband, you are wrong. Augustus

is not a heathen--he has excellent principles.

Her Friend--Excellent principles! You make my blood boil. But there, I

must go. Well, it is understood, I count upon you for Tuesday; he

will preach upon authority, a magnificent subject, and we may expect

allusions--Ah! I forgot to tell you; I am collecting and I expect your

mite, dear. I take as low a sum as a denier (the twelfth of a penny).

I have an idea of collecting with my little girl on my praying-stool.

Madame de K. collected on Sunday at St. Thomas’s and her baby held the

alms-bag. The little Jesus had an immense success--immense!

Madame--I must go now. How will you dress?

Her Friend--Oh! for the present, quite simply and in black; you

understand.

Madame--Besides, black becomes you so well.

Her Friend--Yes, everything is for the best; black does not suit me at

all ill. Tuesday, then. But my dear, try to bring your husband, he likes

music so much.

Madame--Well, I can not promise that.

Her Fiend--Ah! mon Dieu! they are all like that, these men; they are

strong-minded, and when grace touches them, they look back on their past

life with horror. When my husband speaks of his youth, the tears come

into his eyes. I must tell you; that he has not always been as he is

now; he was a gay boy in his youth, poor fellow. I do not detest a man

because he knows life a little, do you? But I am gossiping and time

passes; I have a call to make yet on Madame W. I do not know whether she

has found her juvenile lead.

Madame--What for, in Heaven’s name?

Her Friend--For her evening party. There are to be private theatricals

at her house, but for a pious object, you may be sure, during Lent; it

is so as to have a collection on behalf of the Association. I must fly.

Good-by, dear.

Madame--Till Tuesday, dear; in full uniform?

Her Friend--(smiling)--In full uniform. Kind regards to your reprobate.

I like him very much all the same. Good-by.

CHAPTER VI. A DREAM

Sleeplessness is almost always to be traced to indigestion. My friend,

Dr. Jacques, is there and he will tell you so.

Now, on that particular evening, it was last Friday, I had committed the

mistake of eating brill, a fish that positively disagrees with me.

God grant that the account of the singular dream which ensued may

inspire you with some prudent reflections.

Be that as it may, this was my dream, in all its extravagance.

I had, in this dream, the honor to belong, as senior curate, to one

of the most frequented parish churches in Paris. What could be more

ridiculous! I was, moreover, respectably stout, possessed a head decked

with silver locks, well-shaped hands, an aquiline nose, great unction,

the friendship of the lady worshippers, and, I venture to add, the

esteem of the rector.

While I was reciting the thanksgiving after service, and at the same

time unfastening the cords of my alb, the rector came up to me (I see

him even now) blowing his nose.

“My dear friend,” said he, “you hear confessions this evening, do you

not?”

“Most certainly. Are you well this morning? I had a good congregation at

mass.”

Having said this, I finished my thanksgiving, put my alb into the

wardrobe, and, offering a pinch to the rector, added cheerily:

“This is not breaking the fast, is it?”

“Ha! ha! no, no, no! Besides, it wants five minutes to twelve and the

clock is slow.”

We took a pinch together and walked off arm in arm by the little side

door, for night sacraments, chatting in a friendly way.

Suddenly I found myself transported into my confessional. The chapel was

full of ladies who all bowed at my approach. I entered my narrow box,

the key of which I had. I arranged on the seat the air-cushion which is

indispensable to me on the evenings preceding great church festivals,

the sittings at that season being always prolonged. I slipped the

white surplice which was hanging from a peg over my cassock, and, after

meditating for a moment, opened the little shutter that puts me in

communication with the penitents.

I will not undertake to describe to you one by one the different people

who came and knelt before me. I will not tell you, for instance, how one

of them, a lady in black, with a straight nose, thin lips, and sallow

complexion, after reciting her Confiteor in Latin, touched me infinitely

by the absolute confidence she placed in me, though I was not of her

sex. In five minutes she found the opportunity to speak to me of her

sister-in-law, her brother, an uncle who was on the point of death whose

heiress she was, her nephews, and her servants; and I could perceive,

despite the tender benevolence that appeared in all her words, that she

was the victim of all these people. She ended by informing me she had

a marriageable daughter, and that her stomach was an obstacle to her

fasting.

I can still see a throng of other penitents, but it would take too

long to tell you about them, and we will confine ourselves, with your

permission, to the last two, who, besides, impressed upon my memory

themselves particularly.

A highly adorned little lady rushed into the confessional; she was

brisk, rosy, fresh. Despite her expression of deep thoughtfulness,

she spoke very quickly in a musical voice, and rattled through her

Confiteor, regardless of the sense.

“Father,” she said, “I have one thing that is troubling me.”

“Speak, my child; you know that a confessor is a father.”

“Well, father--but I really dare not.”

There are many of these timid little hearts that require to be

encouraged. I said, “Go on, my child, go on.”

“My husband,” she murmured confusedly, “will not abstain during Lent.

Ought I to compel him, father?”

“Yes, by persuasion.”

“But he says that he will go and dine at the restaurant if I do not let

him have any meat. Oh! I suffer terribly from that. Am I not assuming

the responsibility of all that meat, father?”

This young wife really interested me; she had in the midst of one cheek,

toward the corner of the mouth, a small hollow, a kind of little

dimple, charming in the profane sense of the word, and giving a special

expression to her face. Her tiny white teeth glittered like pearls when

she opened her mouth to relate her pious inquietudes; she shed around,

besides, a perfume almost as sweet as that of our altars, although of a

different kind, and I breathed this perfume with an uneasiness full of

scruples, which for all that inclined me to indulgence. I was so

close to her that none of the details of her face escaped me; I could

distinguish, almost in spite of myself, even a little quiver of her left

eyebrow, tickled every now and again by a stray tress of her fair hair.

“Your situation,” I said, “is a delicate one; on one hand, your domestic

happiness, and on the other your duty as a Christian.” She gave a sigh

from her very heart. “Well, my dear child, my age warrants my speaking

to you like that, does it not?”

“Oh, yes, father.”

“Well, my dear child”--I fancy I noticed at that moment that she had

at the outer corner of her eyes a kind of dark mark something like an

arrow-head--“try, my dear child, to convince your husband, who in his

heart--” In addition, her lashes, very long and somewhat curled, were

underlined, I might almost say, by a dark streak expanding and shading

off delicately toward the middle of the eye. This physical peculiarity

did not seem to me natural, but an effect of premeditated coquetry.

Strange fact, the verification of such weakness in this candid heart

only increased my compassion. I continued in a gentle tone:

“Strive to bring your husband to God. Abstinence is not only a religious

observance, it is also a salutary custom. ‘Non solum lex Dei, sed

etiam’. Have you done everything to bring back your husband?”

“Yes, father, everything.”

“Be precise, my child; I must know all.”

“Well, father, I have tried sweetness and tenderness.”

I thought to myself that this husband must be a wretch.

“I have implored him for the sake of our child,” continued the little

angel, “not to risk his salvation and my own. Once or twice I even

told him that the spinach was dressed with gravy when it was not. Was I

wrong, father?”

“There are pious falsehoods which the Church excuses, for in such cases

it only takes into consideration the intention and the greater glory of

God. I can not, therefore, say that you have done wrong. You have not,

have you, been guilty toward your husband of any of those excusable

acts of violence which may escape a Christian soul when it is struggling

against error? For it really is not natural that an honest man should

refuse to follow the prescription of the Church. Make a few concessions

at first.”

“I have, father, and perhaps too many,” she said, contritely.

“What do you mean?”

“Hoping to bring him back to God, I accorded him favors which I ought

to have refused him. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that I ought to

have refused him.”

“Do not be alarmed, my dear child, everything depends upon degrees, and

it is necessary in these matters to make delicate distinctions.”

“That is what I say to myself, father, but my husband unites with his

kindness such a communicative gayety--he has such a graceful and natural

way of excusing his impiety--that I laugh in spite of myself when I

ought to weep. It seems to me that a cloud comes between myself and my

duties, and my scruples evaporate beneath the charm of his presence and

his wit. My husband has plenty of wit,” she added, with a faint smile,

in which there was a tinge of pride.

“Hum! hum!” (the blackness of this man’s heart revolted me). “There is

no seductive shape that the tempter does not assume, my child. Wit in

itself is not to be condemned, although the Church shuns it as far as

she is concerned, looking upon it as a worldly ornament; but it may

become dangerous, it may be reckoned a veritable pest when it tends to

weaken faith. Faith, which is to the soul, I hardly need tell you,

what the bloom is to the peach, and--if I may so express myself, what

the--dew is--to the flower--hum, hum! Go on, my child.”

“But, father, when my husband has disturbed me for a moment, I soon

repent of it. He has hardly gone before I pray for him.”

“Good, very good.”

“I have sewn a blessed medal up in his overcoat.” This was said more

boldly, though still with some timidity.

“And have you noticed any result?”

“In certain things he is better, yes, father, but as regards abstinence

he is still intractable,” she said with embarrassment.

“Do not be discouraged. We are in the holy period of Lent. Make use of

pious subterfuges, prepare him some admissible viands, but pleasant to

the taste.”

“Yes, father, I have thought of that. The day before yesterday I gave

him one of these salmon pasties that resemble ham.”

“Yes, yes, I know them. Well?”

“Well, he ate the salmon, but he had a cutlet cooked afterward.”

“Deplorable!” I exclaimed, almost in spite of myself, so excessive did

the perversity of this man seem to me. “Patience, my child, offer up

to Heaven the sufferings which your husband’s impiety causes you, and

remember that your efforts will be set down to you. You have nothing

more to tell me?”

“No, father.”

“Collect yourself, then. I will give you absolution.”

The dear soul sighed as she joined her two little hands.

Hardly had my penitent risen to withdraw when I abruptly closed my

little shutter and took a long pinch of snuff--snuff-takers know how

much a pinch soothes the mind--then having thanked God rapidly, I drew

from the pocket of my cassock my good old watch, and found that it was

earlier than I thought. The darkness of the chapel had deceived me, and

my stomach had shared my error. I was hungry. I banished these carnal

preoccupations from my mind, and after shaking my hands, on which

some grains of snuff had fallen, I slackened one of my braces that was

pressing a little on one shoulder, and opened my wicket.

“Well, Madame, people should be more careful,” said the penitent on my

left, addressing a lady of whom I could only see a bonnet-ribbon; “it is

excusable.”

My penitent’s voice, which was very irritated, though restrained by

respect for the locality, softened as if by magic at the creaking of my

wicket. She knelt down, piously folded her two ungloved hands, plump,

perfumed, rosy, laden with rings--but let that pass. I seemed to

recognize the hands of the Countess de B., a chosen soul, whom I had the

honor to visit frequently, especially on Saturday, when there is always

a place laid for me at her table.

She raised her little lace veil and I saw that I was not mistaken. It

was the Countess. She smiled at me as at a person with whom she was

acquainted, but with perfect propriety; she seemed to be saying,

“Good-day, my dear Abbe, I do not ask how your rheumatism is, because

at this moment you are invested with a sacred character, but I am

interested in it all the same.”

This little smile was irreproachable. I replied by a similar smile, and

I murmured in a very low tone, giving her, too, to understand by the

expression of my face that I was making a unique concession in her

favor, “Are you quite well, dear Madame?”

“Thanks, father, I am quite well.” Her voice had resumed an angelic

tone. “But I have just been in a passion.”

“And why? Perhaps you have taken for a passion what was really only a

passing moment of temper?”

It does not do to alarm penitents.

“Ah! not at all, it was really a passion, father. My dress had just been

torn from top to bottom; and really it is strange that one should be

exposed to such mishaps on approaching the tribunal of----”

“Collect yourself, my dear Madame, collect yourself,” and assuming a

serious look I bestowed my benediction upon her.

The Countess sought to collect herself, but I saw very well that

her troubled spirit vainly strove to recover itself. By a singular

phenomenon I could see into her brain, and her thoughts appeared to me

one after the other. She was saying to herself, “Let me collect myself;

our Father, give me grace to collect myself,” but the more effort

she made to restrain her imagination the more it became difficult

to restrain and slipped through her fingers. “I had made a serious

examination of my conscience, however,” she added. “Not ten minutes ago

as I was getting out of my carriage I counted up three sins; there was

one above all I wished to mention. How these little things escape me! I

must have left them in the carriage.” And she could not help smiling to

herself at the idea of these three little sins lost among the cushions.

“And the poor Abbe waiting for me in his box. How hot it must be in

there! he is quite red. Good Heavens! how shall I begin? I can not

invent faults? It is that torn dress which has upset me. And there is

Louise, who is to meet me at five o’clock at the dressmaker’s. It is

impossible for me to collect myself. O God, do not turn away your face

from me, and you, Lord, who can read in my soul--Louise will wait till a

quarter past five; besides, the bodice fits--there is only the skirt to

try on. And to think that I had three sins only a minute ago.”

All these different thoughts, pious and profane, were struggling

together at once in the Countess’s brain, so that I thought the moment

had come to interfere and help her a little.

“Come,” I said, in a paternal voice, leaning forward benevolently and

twisting my snuff-box in my fingers. “Come, my dear Madame, and speak

fearlessly; have you nothing to reproach yourself with? Have you had no

impulses of--worldly coquetry, no wish to dazzle at the expense of your

neighbor?”

I had a vague idea that I should not be contradicted.

“Yes, father,” she said, smoothing down her bonnet strings, “sometimes;

but I have always made an effort to drive away such thoughts.”

“That good intention in some degree excuses you, but reflect and see how

empty are these little triumphs of vanity, how unworthy of a truly poor

soul and how they draw it aside from salvation. I know that there are

certain social exigencies--society. Yes, yes, but after all one can even

in those pleasures which the Church tolerates--I say tolerates--bring

to bear that perfume of good-will toward one’s neighbor of which the

Scriptures speak, and which is the appanage--in some degree... the

glorious appanage. Yes, yes, go on.”

“Father, I have not been able to resist certain temptations to

gluttony.”

“Again, again! Begin with yourself. You are here at the tribunal of

penitence; well, promise God to struggle energetically against these

little carnal temptations, which are not in themselves serious sins--oh!

no, I know it--but, after all, these constant solicitations prove a

persistent attachment--displeasing to Him--to the fugitive and deceitful

delights of this world. Hum, hum! and has this gluttony shown itself

by more blameworthy actions than usual--is it simply the same as last

month?”

“The same as last month, father.”

“Yes, yes, pastry between meals,” I sighed gravely.

“Yes, father, and almost always a glass of Capri or of Syracuse after

it.”

“Or of Syracuse after it. Well, let that pass, let that pass.”

I fancied that the mention of this pastry and those choice wines was

becoming a source of straying thoughts on my part, for which I mentally

asked forgiveness of heaven.

“What else do you recall?” I asked, passing my hand over my face.

“Nothing else, father; I do not recollect anything else.”

“Well let a sincere repentance spring up in your heart for the sins you

have just admitted, and for those which you may have forgotten; commune

with yourself, humble yourself in the presence of the great act you have

just accomplished. I will give you absolution. Go in peace.”

The Countess rose, smiled at me with discreet courtesy, and, resuming

her ordinary voice, said in a low tone, “Till Saturday evening, then?”

I bowed as a sign of assent, but felt rather embarrassed on account of

my sacred character.

CHAPTER VII. AN EMBASSY BALL

“Don’t say that it is not pretty,” added my aunt, brushing the firedog

with the tip of her tiny boot. “It lends an especial charm to the look,

I must acknowledge. A cloud of powder is most becoming, a touch of rouge

has a charming effect, and even that blue shadow that they spread, I

don’t know how, under the eye. What coquettes some women are! Did

you notice Anna’s eyes at Madame de Sieurac’s last Thursday? Is it

allowable? Frankly, can you understand how any one can dare?”

“Well, aunt, I did not object to those eyes, and between ourselves they

had a softness.”

“I do not deny that, they had a softness.”

“And at the same time such a strange brilliancy beneath that half

shadow, an expression of such delicious languor.”

“Yes, certainly, but, after all, it is making an exhibition of one’s

self. But for that--it is very pretty sometimes--I have seen in the Bois

charming creatures under their red, their black, and their blue, for

they put on blue too, God forgive me!”

“Yes, aunt, Polish blue; it is put on with a stump; it is for the

veins.”

With interest: “They imitate veins! It is shocking, upon my word. But

you seem to know all about it?”

“Oh, I have played so often in private theatricals; I have even quite

a collection of little pots of color, hare’s-feet stumps, pencils, et

cetera.”

“Ah! you have, you rascal! Are you going to the fancy ball at the

Embassy to-morrow?”

“Yes, aunt; and you, are you going in character?”

“One must, since every one else will. They say the effect will be

splendid.” After a silence: “I shall wear powder; do you think it will

suit me?”

“Better than any one, my dear aunt; you will look adorable, I feel

certain.”

“We shall see, you little courtier.”

She rose, gave me her hand to kiss with an air of exquisite grace, and

seemed about to withdraw, then, seemingly changing her mind:

“Since you are going to the Embassy to-morrow, Ernest, call for me; I

will give you a seat in the carriage. You can give me your opinion on my

costume, and then,” she broke into a laugh, and taking me by the hand,

added in my ear: “Bring your little pots and come early. This is between

ourselves.” She put her finger to her lip as a signal for discretion.

“Till tomorrow, then.”

The following evening my aunt’s bedroom presented a spectacle of most

wild disorder.

Her maid and the dressmaker, with haggard eyes, for they had been up all

night, were both on their knees, rummaging amidst the bows of satin, and

feverishly sticking in pins.

“How late you are,” said my aunt to me. “Do you know that it is eleven

o’clock? and we have,” she continued, showing her white teeth, “a great

many things to do yet. The horses have been put to this last hour. I

am sure they will take cold in that icy courtyard.” As she spoke she

stretched out her foot, shod with a red-heeled slipper, glittering with

gold embroidery. Her plump foot seemed to overflow the side of the shoe

a trifle, and through the openwork of her bright silk stocking the rosy

skin of her ankle showed at intervals.

“What do you think of me, Monsieur Artist?”

“But, Countess, my dear aunt, I mean, I--I am dazzled by this July sun,

the brightest of all the year, you know. You are adorable, adorable--and

your hair!”

“Is it not well arranged? Silvani did it; he has not his equal, that

man. The diamonds in the hair go splendidly, and then this lofty style

of head-dressing gives a majestic turn to the neck. I do not know

whether you are aware that I have always been a coquette as regards

my neck; it is my only bit of vanity. Have you brought your little

color-pots?”

“Yes, aunt, I have the whole apparatus, and if you will sit down--”

“I am frightfully pale-just a little, Ernest; you know what I told you,”

and she turned her head, presenting her right eye to me. I can still see

that eye.

I do not know what strange perfume, foreign to aunts in general, rose

from her garments.

“You understand, my dear boy, that it is only an occasion like the

present, and the necessities of a historical costume, that make me

consent to paint like this.”

“My dear little aunt, if you move, my hand will shake.” And, indeed, in

touching her long lashes, my hand trembled.

“Ah! yes, in the corner, a little--you are right, it gives a softness,

a vagueness, a--it is very funny, that little pot of blue. How ugly it

must be! How things lead on one to another! Once one’s hair is powdered,

one must have a little pearl powder on one’s face in order not to look

as yellow as an orange; and one’s cheeks once whitened, one can’t--you

are tickling me with your brush--one can’t remain like a miller, so a

touch of rouge is inevitable. And then--see how wicked it is--if, after

all that, one does not enlarge the eyes a bit, they look as if they had

been bored with a gimlet, don’t they? It is like this that one goes on

little by little, till one comes to the gallows.”

My aunt began to laugh freely, as she studied her face.

“Ah! that is very effective what you have just done--well under the

eye, that’s it. What animation it gives to the look! How clever those

creatures are, how well they know everything that becomes one! It is

shameful, for with them it is a trick, nothing more. Oh! you may put on

a little more of that blue of yours, I see what it does now. It has a

very good effect. How you are arching the eyebrows. Don’t you think it

is a little too black? You know I should not like to look as if--you are

right, though. Where did you learn all that? You might earn a deal of

money, do you know, if you set up a practice.”

“Well, aunt, are you satisfied?”

My aunt held her hand-glass at a distance, brought it near, held it

away again, smiled, and, leaning back in her chair, said: “It must be

acknowledged that it is charming, this. What do your friends call it?”

“Make-up, aunt.”

“It is vexatious that it has not another name, for really I shall have

recourse to it for the evening--from time to time. It is certain that it

is attractive. Haven’t you a little box for the lips?”

“Here it is.”

“Ah! in a bottle, it is liquid.”

“It is a kind of vinegar, as you see. Don’t move, aunt. Put out your

lips as if you wished to kiss me. You don’t by chance want to?”

“Yes, and you deserve it. You will teach me your little accomplishments,

will you not?”

“Willingly, aunt.”

“Your vinegar is miraculous! what brightness it gives to the lips, and

how white one’s teeth look. It is true my teeth were always--”

“Another of your bits of vanity.”

“It is done, then. Thank you.” She smiled at me mincingly, for the

vinegar stung her lips a little.

With her moistened finger she took a patch which she placed with

charming coquetry under her eye, and another which she placed near the

corner of her mouth, and then, radiant and adorable, exclaimed: “Hide

away your little color-pots; I hear your uncle coming for me. Clasp my

bracelets for me. Midnight! O my poor horses!”

At that moment my uncle entered in silk shorts and a domino.

“I hope I do not intrude,” said he, gayly, on seeing me.

“What nonsense!” said my aunt, turning toward him. “Ernest is going

to the Embassy, like ourselves, and I have offered him a seat in the

carriage.”

At the aspect of my aunt, my uncle, dazzled, held out his gloved hand

to her, saying, “You are enchanting this evening, my dear.” Then, with a

sly smile, “Your complexion has a fine brightness, and your eyes have a

wonderful brilliancy.”

“Oh, it is the fire they have been making up--it is stifling here. But

you, my dear, you look splendid; I have never seen your beard so black.”

“It is because I am so pale--I am frozen. Jean forgot to look after my

fire at all, and it went out. Are you ready?”

My aunt smiled in turn as she took up her fan.

CHAPTER VIII. MY AUNT AS VENUS

Since that day when I kissed Madame de B. right on the centre of the

neck, as she held out her forehead to me, there has crept into our

intercourse an indescribable, coquettish coolness, which is nevertheless

by no means unpleasant. The matter of the kiss has never been completely

explained. It happened just as I left Saint-Cyr. I was full of ardor,

and the cravings of my heart sometimes blinded me. I say that they

sometimes blinded me; I repeat, blinded me, and this is true, for really

I must have been possessed to have kissed my aunt on the neck as I did

that day. But let that pass.

It was not that she was hardly worth it; my little auntie, as I used

to call her then, was the prettiest woman in the world--coquettish,

elegant; and what a foot! and, above all, that delightful little--I

don’t know what--which is so fashionable now, and which tempts one

always to say too much.

When I say that I must have been possessed, it is because I think of the

consequences to which that kiss might have led. Her husband, General de

B., being my direct superior, it might have got me into a very awkward

position; besides, there is the respect due to one’s family. Oh, I have

never failed in that.

But I do not know why I am recalling all these old recollections,

which have nothing in common with what I am about to relate to you. My

intention was simply to tell you that since my return from Mexico I go

pretty frequently to Madame de B.’s, as perhaps you do also, for she

keeps up a rather good establishment, receives every Monday evening,

and there is usually a crowd of people at her house, for she is very

entertaining. There is no form of amusement that she does not resort to

in order to keep up her reputation as a woman of fashion. I must own,

however, that I had never seen anything at her house to equal what I saw

last Monday.

I was in the ante-room, where the footman was helping me off with my

top-coat, when Jean, approaching me with a suspicion of mystery, said:

“My mistress expects to see you immediately, Monsieur, in her bedroom.

If you will walk along the passage and knock at the door at the end, you

will find her.”

When one has just returned from the other side of the world, such words

sound queer. The old affair of the kiss recurred to me in spite of

myself. What could my aunt want with me?

I tapped quietly at the door, and heard at once an outburst of stifled

laughter.

“Wait a moment,” exclaimed a laughing voice.

“I won’t be seen in this state,” whispered another--“Yes”--“No”--“You

are absurd, my dear, since it is an affair of art.”--“Ha, ha, ha.” And

they laughed and laughed again.

At last a voice cried, “Come in,” and I turned the handle.

At first glance I could only make out a confused chaos, impossible

to describe, amidst which my aunt was bustling about clad in pink

fleshings. Clad, did I say?--very airily.

The furniture, the carpet, the mantel-piece were encumbered, almost

buried under a heterogeneous mass of things. Muslin petticoats, tossed

down haphazard, pieces of lace, a cardboard helmet covered with gilt

paper, open jewel-cases, bows of ribbon; curling-tongs, half hidden in

the ashes; and on every side little pots, paint-brushes, odds and ends

of all kinds. Behind two screens, which ran across the room, I could

hear whisperings, and the buzzing sound peculiar to women dressing

themselves. In one corner Silvani--the illustrious Silvani, still

wearing the large white apron he assumes when powdering his clients--was

putting away his powder-puff and turning down his sleeves with a

satisfied air. I stood petrified. What was going on at my aunt’s?

She discovered my astonishment, and without turning round she said in

agitated tones:

“Ah! is it you, Ernest?” Then as if making up her mind, she broke into a

hearty burst of laughter, like all women who have good teeth, and

added, with a slightly superior air, “You see, we are having private

theatricals.”

Then turning toward me with her elegant coiffure powdered to excess,

I could see that her face was painted like that of a priestess of

antiquity. That gauze, that atmosphere, redolent with feminine perfumes,

and behind those screens-behind those screens!

“Women in society,” I said to myself, looking about me, “must be mad to

amuse themselves in this fashion.”

“And what piece are you going to play, aunt, in such an attractive

costume?”

“Good evening, Captain,” called out a laughing voice from behind the

screen on the right.

“We were expecting you,” came from behind the screen on the left.

“Good evening, ladies; what can I do for you?”

“It is not a play,” observed my aunt, modestly drawing together her

sea-weed draperies. “How behind the age you are, to think that any one

plays set-pieces nowadays. It is not a piece, it is a ‘tableau vivant’,

‘The judgment of Paris.’ You know ‘The Judgment of Paris’? I take the

part of Venus--I did not want to, but they all urged me--give me a

pin--on the mantelpiece--near the bag of bonbons--there to the left,

next to the jewel-case--close by the bottle of gum standing on my

prayer-book. Can’t you see? Ah! at last. In short, the knife to my

throat to compel me to play Venus.”

Turning to the screen on the right she said: “Pass me the red for the

lips, dear; mine are too pale.” To the hairdresser, who is making his

way to the door: “Silvani, go to the gentlemen who are dressing in the

billiard-room, and in the Baron’s dressing-room, they perhaps may need

you. Madame de S. and her daughters are in the boudoir--ah! see whether

Monsieur de V. has found his apple again--he plays Paris,” added my

aunt, turning toward me once more; “the apple must not be lost--well,

dear, and that red for the lips I asked you for? Pass it to the Captain

over the screen.”

“Here it is; but make haste, Captain, my cuirass cracks as soon as I

raise my arm.”

I descried above the screen two slender fingers, one of which, covered

with glittering rings, held in the air a little pot without a cover.

“What,--is your cuirass cracking, Marchioness?”

“Oh! it will do, but make haste and take it, Captain.”

“You may think it strange, but I tremble like a leaf,” exclaimed my

aunt. “I am afraid of being ill. Do you hear the gentlemen who are

dressing in there in the Baron’s dressing room? What a noise! Ha! ha!

ha! it is charming, a regular gang of strollers. It is exhilarating, do

you know, this feverish existence, this life in front of the footlights.

But, for the love of Heaven, shut the door, Marie, there is a frightful

draught blowing on me. This hourly struggle with the public, the hisses,

the applause, would, with my impressionable nature, drive me mad, I am

sure.”

The old affair of the kiss recurred to me and I said to myself,

“Captain, you misunderstood the nature of your relative.”

“But that is not the question at all,” continued my aunt; “ten o’clock

is striking. Ernest, can you apply liquid white? As you are rather

experienced--”

“Rather--ha! ha! ha!” said some one behind the screen.

“On the whole,” continued the Baroness, “it would be very singular

if, in the course of your campaigns, you had never seen liquid white

applied.”

“Yes, aunt, I have some ideas; yes, I have some ideas about liquid

white, and by summoning together all my recollections--”

“Is it true, Captain, that it causes rheumatism?”

“No, not at all; have a couple of logs put on the fire and give me the

stuff.”

So saying, I turned up my sleeves and poured some of the “Milk of

Beauty” into a little onyx bowl that was at hand, then I dipped a little

sponge into it, and approached my Aunt Venus with a smile.

“You are sure that it has no effect on the skin--no, I really dare not.”

As she said this she looked as prim as a vestal. “It is the first time,

do you know, that I ever used this liquid white, ah! ah! ah! What a baby

I am! I am all in a shiver.”

“But, my dear, you are foolish,” exclaimed the lady of the screen,

breaking into a laugh; “when one acts one must submit to the exigencies

of the footlights.”

“You hear, aunt? Come, give me your arm.”

She held out her full, round arm, on the surface of which was spread

that light and charming down, symbol of maturity. I applied the wet

sponge.

“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed the Baroness; “it is like ice, a regular

shower-bath, and you want to put that all over me?”

Just then there was a knock at the door which led out of the Baron’s

dressing-room, and instinctively I turned toward it.

“Who’s there? Oh! you are letting it splutter all over me!” exclaimed

the Baroness. “You can’t come in; what is it?”

“What is the matter, aunt?”

“You can’t come in,” exclaimed some one behind the screen; “my cuirass

has split. Marie, Rosine, a needle and thread, the gum.”

“Oh! there is a stream all down my back, your horrid white is running

down,” said the Baroness, in a rage.

“I will wipe it. I am really very sorry.”

“Can you get your hand down my back, do you think?”

“Why not, aunt?”

“Why not, why not! Because where there is room for a drop of water,

there is not room for the hand of a lancer.”

Another knock, this time at the door opening from the passage.

“What is it now?”

“The torches have come, Madame,” said a footman. “Will you have them

lighted?”

“Ah! the torches of Mesdemoiselles de N., who are dressing in the

boudoir. No, certainly not, do not light them, they are not wanted till

the second tableau.”

“Do not stir, aunt, I beg of you. Mesdemoiselles de N. appears too,

then?”

“Yes, with their mamma; they represent ‘The Lights of Faith driving out

Unbelief,’ thus they naturally require torches. You know, they are tin

tubes with spirits of wine which blazes up. It will be, perhaps, the

prettiest tableau of the evening. It is an indirect compliment we wish

to pay to the Cardinal’s nephew; you know the dark young man with very

curly hair and saintly eyes; you saw him last Monday. He is in high

favor at court. The Comte de Geloni was kind enough to promise to

come this evening, and then Monsieur de Saint P. had the idea of this

tableau. His imagination is boundless, Monsieur de Saint P., not to

mention his good taste, if he would not break his properties.”

“Is he not also a Chevalier of the Order of Saint Gregory?”

“Yes, and, between ourselves, I think that he would not be sorry to

become an officer in it.”

“Ah! I understand, ‘The Lights of Faith driving out,’ et cetera. But

tell me, aunt, am I not brushing you too hard? Lift up your arm a

little, please. Tell me who has undertaken the part of Unbelief?”

“Don’t speak of it, it is quite a history. As it happened, the casting

of the parts took place the very evening on which his Holiness’s

Encyclical was published, so that the gentlemen were somewhat excited.

Monsieur de Saint P. took high ground, really very high ground; indeed,

I thought for a moment that the General was going to flare out. In

short, no one would have anything to do with Unbelief, and we had to

have recourse to the General’s coachman, John--you know him? He is a

good-looking fellow; he is a Protestant, moreover, so that the part is

not a novel one to him.”

“No matter, it will be disagreeable for the De N.’s to appear side by

side with a servant.”

“Come! such scruples must not be carried too far; he is smeared over

with black and lies stretched on his face, while the three ladies

trample on him, so you see that social proprieties are observed after

all. Come, have you done yet? My hair is rather a success, is it not?

Silvani is the only man who understands how to powder one. He wanted

to dye it red, but I prefer to wait till red hair has found its way a

little more into society.”

“There; it is finished, aunt. Is it long before you have to go on?”

“No. Good Heavens, it is close on eleven o’clock! The thought of

appearing before all these people--don’t the flowers drooping from my

head make my neck appear rather awkward, Ernest? Will you push them up a

little?”

Then going to the door of the dressing-room she tapped at it gently,

saying, “Are you ready, Monsieur de V.?”

“Yes, Baroness, I have found my apple, but I am horribly nervous. Are

Minerva and Juno dressed? Oh! I am nervous to a degree you have no idea

of.”

“Yes, yes, every one is ready; send word to the company in the

drawing-room. My poor heart throbs like to burst, Captain.”

CHAPTER IX. HUSBAND AND WIFE MY DEAR SISTERS:

Marriage, as it is now understood, is not exactly conducive to love. In

this I do not think that I am stating an anomaly. Love in marriage is,

as a rule, too much at his ease; he stretches himself with too

great listlessness in armchairs too well cushioned. He assumes the

unconstrained habits of dressing-gown and slippers; his digestion goes

wrong, his appetite fails and of an evening, in the too-relaxing warmth

of a nest, made for him, he yawns over his newspaper, goes to sleep,

snores, and pines away. It is all very well, my sisters, to say, “But

not at all--but how can it be, Father Z.?--you know nothing about it,

reverend father.”

I maintain that things are as I have stated, and that at heart you are

absolutely of my opinion. Yes, your poor heart has suffered very often;

there are nights during which you have wept, poor angel, vainly awaiting

the dream of the evening before.

“Alas!” you say, “is it then all over? One summer’s day, then thirty

years of autumn, to me, who am so fond of sunshine.” That is what you

have thought.

But you say nothing, not knowing what you should say. Lacking

self-confidence and ignorant of yourself, you have made it a virtue to

keep silence and not wake your husband while he sleeps; you have got

into the habit of walking on the tips of your toes so as not to disturb

the household, and your husband, in the midst of this refreshing

half-sleep, has begun to yawn luxuriously; then he has gone out to his

club, where he has been received like the prodigal son, while you, poor

poet without pen or ink, have consoled yourself by watching your sisters

follow the same road as yourself.

You have, all of you, ladies, your pockets full of manuscripts, charming

poems, delightful romances; it is a reader who is lacking to you,

and your husband takes up his hat and stick at the very sight of your

handwriting; he firmly believes that there are no more romances except

those already in print. From having read so many, he considers that no

more can be written.

This state of things I regard as absolutely detestable. I look upon you,

my dear sisters, as poor victims, and if you will permit I will give you

my opinion on the subject.

Esteem and friendship between husband and wife are like our daily bread,

very pleasant and respectable; but a little jam would not spoil that,

you will admit! If, therefore, one of your friends complains of the

freedom that reigns in this little book, let her talk on and be sure

beforehand that this friend eats dry bread. We have described marriage

as we think it should be--depicting smiling spouses, delighted to be

together.

Is it because love is rare as between husband and wife that it is

considered unbecoming to relate its joys? Is it regret, or envy, that

renders you fastidious on the subject, sisters? Reserve your blushes for

the pictures of that society of courtesans where love is an article of

commerce, where kisses are paid for in advance. Regard the relation of

these coarse pleasures as immodest and revolting, be indignant, scold

your brethren--I will admit that you are in the right beforehand; but

for Heaven’s sake do not be offended if we undertake your defence,

when we try to render married life pleasant and attractive, and advise

husbands to love their wives, wives to love their husbands.

You must understand that there is a truly moral side to all this. To

prove that you are adorable; that there are pleasures, joys, happiness,

to be found outside the society of those young women--such is our

object; and since we are about to describe it, we venture to hope that

after reflecting for a few minutes you will consider our intentions

praiseworthy, and encourage us to persevere in them.

I do not know why mankind has chosen to call marriage a man-trap, and

all sorts of frightful things; to stick up all round it boards on which

one reads: “Beware of the sacred ties of marriage;” “Do not jest with

the sacred duties of a husband;” “Meditate on the sacred obligation of

a father of a family;” “Remember that the serious side of life is

beginning;” “No weakness; henceforth you are bound to find yourself face

to face with stern reality,” etc., etc.

I will not say that it is imprudent to set forth all those fine things;

but when done it should be done with less affectation. To warn people

that there are thorns in the path is all very well; but, hang it! there

is something else in married life, something that renders these duties

delightful, else this sacred position and these ties would soon be

nothing more than insupportable burdens. One would really think that

to take to one’s self a pretty little wife, fresh in heart and pure in

mind, and to condemn one’s self to saw wood for the rest of one’s days,

were one and the same thing.

Well, my dear sisters, have you any knowledge of those who have painted

the picture in these gloomy colors and described as a punishment that

which should be a reward? They are the husbands with a past and having

rheumatism. Being weary and--how shall I put it?--men of the world, they

choose to represent marriage as an asylum, of which you are to be the

angels. No doubt to be an angel is very nice, but, believe me, it is

either too much or too little. Do not seek to soar so high all at once,

but, instead, enter on a short apprenticeship. It will be time enough to

don the crown of glory when you have no longer hair enough to dress in

any other fashion.

But, O husbands with a past! do you really believe that your own angelic

quietude and the studied austerity of your principles are taken for

anything else than what they really mean--exhaustion?

You wish to rest; well and good; but it is wrong in you to wish

everybody else about you to rest too; to ask for withered trees and

faded grass in May, the lamps turned down and the lamp-shades doubled;

to require one to put water in the soup and to refuse one’s self a

glass of claret; to look for virtuous wives to be highly respectable

and somewhat wearisome beings; dressing neatly, but having had neither

poetry, youth, gayety, nor vague desires; ignorant of everything,

undesirous of learning anything; helpless, thanks to the weighty virtues

with which you have crammed them; above all, to ask of these poor

creatures to bless your wisdom, caress your bald forehead, and blush

with shame at the echo of a kiss.

The deuce! but that is a pretty state of things for marriage to come to.

Delightful institution! How far are your sons, who are now

five-and-twenty years of age, in the right in being afraid of it! Have

they not a right to say to you, twirling their moustaches:

“But, my dear father, wait a bit; I am not quite ripe for it!”

“Yes; but it is a splendid match, and the young lady is charming.”

“No doubt, but I feel that I should not make her happy. I am not old

enough--indeed, I am not.”

And when the young man is seasoned for it, how happy she will be, poor

little thing!--a ripe husband, ready to fall from the tree, fit to be

put away in the apple-loft! What happiness! a good husband, who the day

after his marriage will piously place his wife in a niche and light a

taper in front of her; then take his hat and go off to spend elsewhere a

scrap of youth left by chance at the bottom of his pocket.

Ah! my good little sisters who are so very much shocked and cry “Shame!”

follow our reasoning a little further. It is all very well that you

should be treated like saints, but do not let it be forgotten that you

are women, and, listen to me, do not forget it yourselves.

A husband, majestic and slightly bald, is a good thing; a young husband

who loves you and eats off the same plate is better. If he rumples your

dress a little, and imprints a kiss, in passing, on the back of your

neck, let him. When, on coming home from a ball, he tears out the pins,

tangles the strings, and laughs like a madman, trying to see whether you

are ticklish, let him. Do not cry “Murder!” if his moustache pricks you,

but think that it is all because at heart he loves you well. He worships

your virtues; is it surprising hence that he should cherish their

outward coverings? No doubt you have a noble soul; but your body is

not therefore to be despised; and when one loves fervently, one loves

everything at the same time. Do not be alarmed if in the evening, when

the fire is burning brightly and you are chatting gayly beside it, he

should take off one of your shoes and stockings, put your foot on his

lap, and in a moment of forgetfulness carry irreverence so far as to

kiss it; if he likes to pass your large tortoise-shell comb through your

hair, if he selects your perfumes, arranges your plaits, and suddenly

exclaims, striking his forehead: “Sit down there, darling; I have an

idea how to arrange a new coiffure.”

If he turns up his sleeves and by chance tangles your curls, where

really is the harm? Thank Heaven if in the marriage which you have hit

upon you find a laughing, joyous side; if in your husband you find the

loved reader of the pretty romance you have in your pocket; if, while

wearing cashmere shawls and costly jewels in your ears, you find the

joys of a real intimacy--that is delicious! In short, reckon yourself

happy if in your husband you find a lover.

But before accepting my theories, ladies, although in your heart

and conscience you find them perfect, you will have several little

prejudices to overcome; above all, you will have to struggle against

your education, which is deplorable, as I have already said, but that is

no great matter. Remember that under the pretext of education you have

been stuffed, my dear sisters. You have been varnished too soon, like

those pictures painted for sales, which crack all over six months after

purchase. Your disposition has not been properly directed; you are not

cultivated; you have been stifled, pruned; you have been shaped like

those yew-trees at Versailles which represent goblets and birds. Still,

you are women at the bottom, though you no longer look it.

You are handed over to us men swaddled, distorted, stuffed with

prejudices and principles, heavy as paving-stones; all of which are the

more difficult to dislodge since you look upon them as sacred; you are

started on the matrimonial journey with so much luggage reckoned as

indispensable; and at the first station your husband, who is not an

angel, loses his temper amidst all these encumbrances, sends it all to

the devil under some pretext or other, lets you go on alone, and gets

into another carriage. I do not require, mark me, that you should be

allowed to grow up uncared for, that good or evil instincts should be

suffered to spring up in you anyhow: but it were better that they should

not treat your poor mind like the foot of a well-born Chinese girl--that

they should not enclose it in a porcelain slipper.

A marriageable young lady is a product of maternal industry, which takes

ten years to fructify, and needs from five to six more years of study on

the part of the husband to purify, strip, and restore to its real shape.

In other words, it takes ten years to make a bride and six years at

least to turn this bride into a woman again. Admit frankly that this is

time lost as regards happiness, but try to make it up if your husband

will permit you to do so.

The sole guaranty of fidelity between husband and wife is love. One

remains side by side with a fellow-traveller only so long as one

experiences pleasure and happiness in his company. Laws, decrees, oaths,

may prevent faithlessness, or at least punish it, but they can neither

hinder nor punish intention. But as regards love, intention and deed are

the same.

Is it not true, my dear sisters, that you are of this opinion? Do

not you thoroughly understand that if love is absent from marriage it

should, on the contrary, be its real pivot? To make one’s self lovable

is the main thing. Believe my white hairs that it is so, and let me give

you some more advice.

Yes, I favor marriage--I do not conceal it--the happy marriage in which

we cast into the common lot our ideas and our sorrows, as well as

our good-humor and our affections. Suppress, by all means, in this

partnership, gravity and affectation, yet add a sprinkling of gallantry

and good-fellowship. Preserve even in your intimacy that coquetry you

so readily assume in society. Seek to please your husband. Be amiable.

Consider that your husband is an audience, whose sympathy you must

conquer.

In your manner of loving mark those shades, those feminine delicacies,

which double the price of things. Do not be miserly, but remember that

the manner in which one gives adds to the value of the gift; or rather

do not give--make yourself sought after. Think of those precious jewels

that are arranged with such art in their satin-lined jewel-case; never

forget the case. Let your nest be soft, let your presence be felt in

all its thousand trifles. Put a little of yourself into the ordering of

everything. Be artistic, delicate, and refined--you can do so without

effort--and let your husband perceive in everything that surrounds him,

from the lace on the curtains to the perfume that you use, a wish on

your part to please him.

Do not say to him, “I love you”; that phrase may perhaps recall to him

a recollection or two. But lead him on to say to you, “You do love me,

then?” and answer “No,” but with a little kiss which means “Yes.” Make

him feel beside you the present to be so pleasant that the past will

fade from his memory; and to this end let nothing about you recall that

past, for, despite himself, he would never forgive it in you. Do not

imitate the women whom he may have known, nor their head-dresses or

toilettes; that would tend to make him believe he has not changed his

manner of life. You have in yourself another kind of grace, another wit,

another coquetry, and above all that rejuvenescence of heart and mind

which those women have never had. You have an eagerness in life, a need

of expansion, a freshness of impression which are--though perhaps you

may not imagine it--irresistible charms. Be yourselves throughout,

and you will be for this loved spouse a novelty, a thousand times more

charming in his eyes than all the bygones possible. Conceal from him

neither your inclinations nor your inexperience, your childish joys or

your childish fears; but be as coquettish with all these as you are of

the features of your face, of your fine, black eyes and your long, fair

hair.

Nothing is more easily acquired than a little adroitness; do not throw

yourself at his head, and always have confidence in yourself.

Usually, a man marries when he thinks himself ruined; when he feels in

his waistcoat pocket--not a louis--he is then seasoned; he goes at once

before the registrar. But let me tell you, sisters, he is still rich.

He has another pocket of which he knows nothing, the fool! and which is

full of gold. It is for you to act so that he shall find it out and be

grateful to you for the happiness he has had in finding a fortune.

I will sum up, at once, as time is flying and I should not like you to

be late for dinner. For Heaven’s sake, ladies, tear from the clutches

of the women, whose toilettes you do very wrong in imitating, your

husbands’ affections. Are you not more refined, more sprightly, than

they? Do for him whom you love that which these women do for all the

world; do not content yourselves with being virtuous--be attractive,

perfume your hair, nurture illusion as a rare plant in a golden

vase. Cultivate a little folly when practicable; put away your

marriage-contract and look at it only once in ten years; love one

another as if you had not sworn to do so; forget that there are bonds,

contracts, pledges; banish from your mind the recollection of the Mayor

and his scarf. Sometimes when you are alone fancy that you are only

sweethearts; sister, is not that what you eagerly desire?

Ah! let candor and youth flourish. Let us love and laugh while spring

blossoms. Let us love our babies, the little dears, and kiss our wives.

Yes, that is moral and healthy; the world is not a shivering convent,

marriage is not a tomb. Shame on those who find in it only sadness,

boredom, and sleep.

My sisters, my sisters, strive to be real; that is the blessing I wish

you.

CHAPTER X. MADAME’S IMPRESSIONS

The marriage ceremony at the Town Hall has, no doubt, a tolerable

importance; but is it really possible for a well-bred person to regard

this importance seriously? I have been through it; I have undergone like

every one else this painful formality, and I can not look back on it

without feeling a kind of humiliation. On alighting from the carriage I

descried a muddy staircase; walls placarded with bills of every color,

and in front of one of them a man in a snuff-colored coat, bare-headed,

a pen behind his ear, and papers under his arm, who was rolling a

cigarette between his inky fingers. To the left a door opened and I

caught a glimpse of a low dark room in which a dozen fellows belonging

to the National Guard were smoking black pipes. My first thought on

entering this barrack-room was that I had done wisely in not putting on

my gray dress. We ascended the staircase and I saw a long, dirty, dim

passage, with a number of half-glass doors, on which I read: “Burials.

Turn the handle,” “Expropriations,” “Deaths. Knock loudly,” “Inquiries,”

“Births,” “Public Health,” etc., and at length “Marriages.”

We entered in company with a small lad who was carrying a bottle of

ink; the atmosphere was thick, heavy, and hot, and made one feel ill.

Happily, an attendant in a blue livery, resembling in appearance the

soldiers I had seen below, stepped forward to ask us to excuse him for

not having at once ushered us into the Mayor’s drawing-room, which is no

other than the first-class waiting-room. I darted into it as one jumps

into a cab when it begins to rain suddenly. Almost immediately two

serious persons, one of whom greatly resembled the old cashier at the

Petit-Saint-Thomas, brought in two registers, and, opening them, wrote

for some time; only stopping occasionally to ask the name, age,

and baptismal names of both of us, then, saying to themselves,

“Semi-colon... between the aforesaid... fresh paragraph, etc., etc.”

When he had done, the one like the man cashier at the Petit-Saint-Thomas

read aloud, through his nose, that which he had put down, and of which I

could understand nothing, except that my name was several times repeated

as well as that of the other “aforesaid.” A pen was handed to us and we

signed. Voila.

“Is it over?” said I to Georges, who to my great surprise was very pale.

“Not yet, dear,” said he; “we must now go into the hall, where the

marriage ceremony takes place.”

We entered a large, empty hall with bare walls; a bust of the Emperor

was at the farther end over a raised platform, some armchairs, and some

benches behind them, and dust upon everything. I must have been in a

wrong mood, for it seemed to me I was entering the waiting-room at a

railway-station; nor could I help looking at my aunts, who were very

merry, over the empty chairs. The gentlemen, who no doubt affected not

to think as we did, were, on the contrary, all very serious, and I could

discern very well that Georges was actually trembling. At length the

Mayor came in by a little door and appeared before us, awkward and podgy

in his dress-coat, which was too large for him, and which his scarf

caused to rise up. He was a very respectable man who had amassed a

decent fortune from the sale of iron bedsteads; yet how could I bring

myself to think that this embarrassed-looking, ill-dressed, timid little

creature could, with a word hesitatingly uttered, unite me in eternal

bonds? Moreover, he had a fatal likeness to my piano-tuner.

The Mayor, after bowing to us, as a man bows when without his hat, and

in a white cravat, that is to say, clumsily, blew his nose, to the

great relief of his two arms which he did not know what to do with, and

briskly began the little ceremony. He hurriedly mumbled over several

passages of the Code, giving the numbers of the paragraphs; and I was

given confusedly to understand that I was threatened with the police if

I did not blindly obey all the orders and crotchets of my husband, and

if I did not follow wherever he might choose to take me, even if it

should be to a sixth floor in the Rue-Saint-Victor. A score of times

I was on the point of interrupting the Mayor, and saying, “Excuse me,

Monsieur, but those remarks are hardly polite as regards myself, and you

yourself must know that they are devoid of meaning.”

But I restrained myself for fear I might frighten the magistrate, who

seemed to me to be in a hurry to finish. He added, however, a few words

on the mutual duties of husband and wife--copartnership--paternity,

etc., etc.; but all these things, which would perhaps have made me weep

anywhere else, seemed grotesque to me, and I could not forget that dozen

of soldiers playing piquet round the stove, and that row of doors on

which I had read “Public Health,” “Burials,” “Deaths,” “Expropriations,”

etc. I should have been aggrieved at this dealer in iron bedsteads

touching on my cherished dreams if the comic side of the situation had

not absorbed my whole attention, and if a mad wish to laugh outright had

not seized me.

“Monsieur Georges--------, do you swear to take for your wife

Mademoiselle-----------,” said the Mayor, bending forward.

My husband bowed and answered “Yes” in a very low voice. He has since

acknowledged to me that he never felt more emotion in his life than in

uttering that “Yes.”

“Mademoiselle Berthe--------,” continued the magistrate, turning to me,

“do you swear to take for your husband-----------”

I bowed, with a smile, and said to myself: “Certainly; that is plain

enough; I came here for that express purpose.”

That was all. I was married!

My father and my husband shook hands like men who had not met for twenty

years; the eyes of both were moist. As for myself, it was impossible for

me to share their emotion. I was very hungry, and mamma and I had

the carriage pulled up at the pastry-cook’s before going on to the

dressmaker’s.

The next morning was the great event, and when I awoke it was hardly

daylight. I opened the door leading into the drawing-room; there my

dress was spread out on the sofa, the veil folded beside it, my shoes,

my wreath in a large white box, nothing was lacking. I drank a glass

of water. I was nervous, uneasy, happy, trembling. It seemed like the

morning of a battle when one is sure of winning a medal. I thought of

neither my past nor my future; I was wholly taken up with the idea of

the ceremony, of that sacrament, the most solemn of all, of the oath

I was about to take before God, and also by the thought of the crowd

gathered expressly to see me pass.

We breakfasted early. My father was in his boots, his trousers, his

white tie, and his dressing-gown. My mother also was half dressed. It

seemed to me that the servants took greater pains in waiting on me

and showed me more respect. I even remember that Marie said, “The

hairdresser has come, Madame.” Madame! Good girl, I have not forgotten

it.

It was impossible for me to eat; my throat was parched and I experienced

all over me shudders of impatience, something like the sensation one has

when one is very-thirsty and is waiting for the sugar to melt. The

tones of the organ seemed to haunt me, and the wedding of Emma and Louis

recurred to my mind. I dressed; the hairdresser called me “Madame” too,

and arranged my hair so nicely that I said, I remember, “Things are

beginning well; this coiffure is a good omen.” I stopped Marie, who

wished to lace me tighter than usual. I know that white makes one look

stouter and that Marie was right; but I was afraid lest it should send

the blood to my head. I have always had a horror of brides who looked

as if they had just got up from table. Religious emotions should be too

profound to be expressed by anything save pallor. It is silly to blush

under certain circumstances.

When I was dressed I entered the drawing-room to have a little more room

and to spread out my trailing skirts. My father and Georges were already

there, talking busily.

“Have the carriages come?--yes--and about the ‘Salutaris’?--very good,

then, you will see to everything--and the marriage coin--certainly,

I have the ring--Mon Dieu! where is my certificate of confession? Ah!

good, I left it in the carriage.”

They were saying all this hurriedly and gesticulating like people having

great business on hand. When Georges caught sight of me he kissed my

hand, and while the maids kneeling about me were settling the skirt, and

the hairdresser was clipping the tulle of the veil, he said in a husky

voice, “You look charming, dear.”

He was not thinking in the least of what he was saying, and I answered

mechanically:

“Do you think so? Not too short, the veil, Monsieur Silvani. Don’t

forget the bow on the bodice, Marie.”

When one has to look after everything, one needs all one’s wits.

However, Georges’ husky voice recurred to me, and I said to myself, “I

am sure that he has caught a cold; it is plain that he has had his hair

cut too short.”

I soon got at the true state of the case.

“You have a cold, my dear fellow,” said my father.

“Don’t speak of it,” he answered in a low voice. And still lower, and

with a somewhat embarrassed smile: “Will you be so kind as to give me an

extra pocket-handkerchief? I have but one--”

“Certainly, my dear boy.”

“Thanks, very much.”

It was a trifle, to be sure, but I felt vexed, and I remember that,

when going downstairs with them holding up my train behind me, I said to

myself, “I do hope that he does not sneeze at the altar.”

I soon forgot all about it. We got into the carriage; I felt that every

one was looking at me, and I caught sight of groups of spectators in the

street beyond the carriage gates. What I felt is impossible to describe,

but it was something delightful. The sound of the beadles’ canes on the

pavement will forever reecho in my heart. We halted for a moment on the

red drugget. The great organ poured forth the full tones of a triumphal

march; thousands of eager faces turned toward me, and there in the

background, amidst an atmosphere of sunshine, incense, velvet, and gold,

were two gilt armchairs for us to seat ourselves on before the altar.

I do not know why an old engraving in my father’s study crossed my mind.

It represents the entry of Alexander the Great into Babylon; he is on

an elephant which is glittering with precious stones. You must know it.

Only, Alexander was a heathen who had many things to reproach himself

with, while I was not.

God smiled on me, and with His paternal hand invited me to seat myself

in His house, on His red drugget, in His gilt armchair. The heavens,

full of joy, made music for me, and on high, through the glittering

stained-glass windows, the archangels, full of kind feeling, whispered

as they watched me. As I advanced, heads were bent as a wheat-field

bends beneath the breeze. My friends, my relatives, my enemies, bowed to

us, and I saw--for one sees everything in spite of one’s self on

these solemn occasions--that they did not think that I looked ugly. On

reaching the gilt chair, I bent forward with restrained eagerness--my

chignon was high, revealing my neck, which is passable--and thanked

the Lord. The organ ceased its triumphal song and I could hear my poor

mother bursting into tears beside me. Oh! I understand what a mother’s

heart must feel during such a ceremony. While watching with satisfaction

the clergy who were solemnly advancing, I noticed Georges; he seemed

irritated; he was stiff, upright, his nostrils dilated, and his lips

set. I have always been rather vexed at him for not having been a

little more sensible to what I was experiencing that day, but men do not

understand this kind of poetry.

The discourse of his Reverence who married us was a masterpiece, and was

delivered, moreover, with that unction, that dignity, that persuasive

charm peculiar to him. He spoke of our two families “in which pious

belief was hereditary, like honor.” You could have heard a pin drop,

such was the attention with which the prelate’s voice was listened to.

Then at one point he turned toward me, and gave me to understand with

a thousand delicacies that I was wedding one of the noblest officers in

the army. “Heaven smiles,” said he, “on the warrior who places at the

service of his country a sword blessed by God, and who, when he darts

into the fray, can place his hand upon his heart and shout to the

enemy that noble war-cry, ‘I believe!’” How well that was turned! What

grandeur in this holy eloquence! A thrill ran through the assembly. But

that was not all. His Lordship then addressed Georges in a voice as soft

and unctuous as it had before been ringing and enthusiastic.

“Monsieur, you are about to take as your companion a young girl”--I

scarcely dare recall the graceful and delicate things that his Reverence

said respecting me--“piously reared by a Christian mother who has been

able to share with her, if I may say so, all the virtues of her heart,

all the charms of her mind.” (Mamma was sobbing.) “She will love her

husband as she has loved her father, that father full of kindness,

who, from the cradle, implanted in her the sentiments of nobility and

disinterestedness which--” (Papa smiled despite himself.) “Her father,

whose name is known to the poor, and who in the house of God has his

place marked among the elect.” (Since his retirement, papa has become

churchwarden.) “And you, Monsieur, will respect, I feel certain, so much

purity, such ineffable candor”--I felt my eyes grow moist--“and without

forgetting the physical and perishable charms of this angel whom God

bestows upon you, you will thank Heaven for those qualities a thousand

times more precious and more lasting contained in her heart and her

mind.”

We were bidden to stand up, and stood face to face with one another like

the divine spouses in the picture of Raphael. We exchanged the golden

ring, and his Reverence, in a slow, grave voice, uttered some Latin

words, the sense of which I did not understand, but which greatly moved

me, for the prelate’s hand, white, delicate, and transparent, seemed to

be blessing me. The censer, with its bluish smoke, swung by the hands of

children, shed in the air its holy perfume. What a day, great heavens!

All that subsequently took place grows confused in my memory. I was

dazzled, I was transported. I can remember, however, the bonnet with

white roses in which Louise had decked herself out. Strange it is how

some people are quite wanting in taste!

Going to the vestry, I leaned on the General’s arm, and it was then that

I saw the spectators’ faces. All seemed touched.

Soon they thronged round to greet me. The vestry was full, they pushed

and pressed round me, and I replied to all these smiles, to all these

compliments, by a slight bow in which religious emotion peeped forth in

spite of me. I felt conscious that something solemn had just taken place

before God and man; I felt conscious of being linked in eternal bonds. I

was married!

By a strange fancy I then fell to thinking of the pitiful ceremony of

the day before. I compared--God forgive me for doing so!--the ex-dealer

in iron bedsteads, ill at ease in his dress-coat, to the priest; the

trivial and commonplace words of the mayor, with the eloquent outbursts

of the venerable prelate. What a lesson! There earth, here heaven; there

the coarse prose of the man of business, here celestial poesy.

Georges, to whom I lately spoke about this, said:

“But, my dear, perhaps you don’t know that marriage at the Town Hall

before the registrar is gratis, while--” I put my hand over his mouth to

prevent him from finishing; it seemed to me that he was about to utter

some impiety.

Gratis, gratis. That is exactly what I find so very unseemly.

CHAPTER XI. A WEDDING NIGHT

Thanks to country manners and the solemnity of the occasion, the guests

had left fairly early. Almost every one had shaken hands with me,

some with a cunning smile and others with a foolish one, some with an

officious gravity that suggested condolence, and others with a stupid

cordiality verging on indiscretion.

General de S. and the prefect, two old friends of the family, were

lingering over a game of ecarte, and frankly, in spite of all the

good-will I bore toward them, I should have liked to see them at the

devil, so irritable did I feel that evening.

All this took place, I had forgotten to tell you, the very day of

my marriage, and I was really rather tired. Since morning I had been

overwhelmed by an average of about two hundred people, all actuated by

the best intentions, but as oppressive as the atmosphere before a storm.

Since morning I had kept up a perpetual smile for all, and then the good

village priest who had married us had thought it his duty, in a very

neat sermon so far as the rest of it went, to compare me to Saint

Joseph, and that sort of thing is annoying when one is Captain in

a lancer regiment. The Mayor, who had been good enough to bring his

register to the chateau, had for his part not been able, on catching

sight of the prefect, to resist the pleasure of crying, “Long live the

Emperor!” On quitting the church they had fired off guns close to my

ears and presented me with an immense bouquet. Finally--I tell you this

between ourselves--since eight o’clock in the morning I had had on a

pair of boots rather too tight for me, and at the moment this narrative

begins it was about half an hour after midnight.

I had spoken to every one except my dear little wife, whom they seemed

to take pleasure in keeping away from me. Once, however, on ascending

the steps, I had squeezed her hand on the sly. Even then this rash act

had cost me a look, half sharp and half sour, from my mother-in-law,

which had recalled me to a true sense of the situation. If, Monsieur,

you happen to have gone through a similar day of violent effusion and

general expansion, you will agree with me that during no other moment of

your life were you more inclined to irritability.

What can you say to the cousins who kiss you, to the aunts who cling

round your neck and weep into your waistcoat, to all these smiling faces

ranged one beyond the other before you, to all those eyes which have

been staring at you for twelve hours past, to all those outbursts of

affection which you have not sought, but which claim a word from the

heart in reply?

At the end of such a day one’s very heart is foundered. You say to

yourself: “Come, is it all over? Is there yet a tear to wipe away,

a compliment to receive, an agitated hand to clasp? Is every one

satisfied? Have they seen enough of the bridegroom? Does any one want

any more of him? Can I at length give a thought to my own happiness,

think of my dear little wife who is waiting for me with her head buried

in the folds of her pillow? Who is waiting for me!” That flashes through

your mind all at once like a train of powder. You had not thought of

it. During the whole of the day this luminous side of the question had

remained veiled, but the hour approaches, at this very moment the silken

laces of her bodice are swishing as they are unloosed; she is blushing,

agitated, and dare not look at herself in the glass for fear of noting

her own confusion. Her aunt and her mother, her cousin and her bosom

friend, surround and smile at her, and it is a question of who shall

unhook her dress, remove the orange-blossoms from her hair, and have the

last kiss.

Good! now come the tears; they are wiped away and followed by kisses.

The mother whispers something in her ear about a sacrifice, the future,

necessity, obedience, and finds means to mingle with these simple but

carefully prepared words the hope of celestial benedictions and of the

intercession of a dove or two hidden among the curtains.

The poor child does not understand anything about it, except it be that

something unheard-of is about to take place, that the young man--she

dare not call him anything else in her thoughts--is about to appear as a

conqueror and address her in wondrous phrases, the very anticipation of

which makes her quiver with impatience and alarm. The child says not a

word--she trembles, she weeps, she quivers like a partridge in a furrow.

The last words of her mother, the last farewells of her family, ring

confusedly in her ears, but it is in vain that she strives to seize on

their meaning; her mind--where is that poor mind of hers? She really

does not know, but it is no longer under her control.

“Ah! Captain,” I said to myself, “what joys are hidden beneath these

alarms, for she loves you. Do you remember that kiss which she let you

snatch coming out of church that evening when the Abbe What’s-his-name

preached so well, and those hand-squeezings and those softened glances,

and--happy Captain, floods of love will inundate you; she is awaiting

you!”

Here I gnawed my moustache, I tore my gloves off and then put them

on again, I walked up and down the little drawing-room, I shifted the

clock, which stood on the mantel-shelf; I could not keep still. I had

already experienced such sensations on the morning of the assault on the

Malakoff. Suddenly the General, who was still going on with his eternal

game at ecarte with the prefect, turned round.

“What a noise you are making, Georges!” said he. “Cards, if you please,

Prefect.”

“But, General, the fact is that I feel, I will not conceal from you, a

certain degree of emotion and--”

“The king-one-and four trumps. My dear friend, you are not in luck,”

said he to the prefect, and pulling up with an effort the white

waistcoat covering his stomach, he slipped some louis which were on the

table L931 into his fob; then bethinking himself, he added: “In fact, my

poor fellow, you think yourself bound to keep us company. It is late and

we have three leagues to cover from here to B. Every one has left, too.”

At last he departed. I can still see his thick neck, the back of which

formed a roll of fat over his ribbon of the Legion of Honor. I heard him

get into his carriage; he was still laughing at intervals. I could have

thrashed him.

“At last!” I said to myself; “at last!” I mechanically glanced at myself

in the glass. I was crimson, and my boots, I am ashamed to say, were

horribly uncomfortable. I was furious that such a grotesque detail as

tight boots should at such a moment have power to attract my attention;

but I promised to be sincere, and I am telling you the whole truth.

Just then the clock struck one, and my mother-in-law made her

appearance. Her eyes were red, and her ungloved hand was crumpling up a

handkerchief visibly moistened.

At the sight of her my first movement was one of impatience. I said to

myself, “I am in for a quarter of an hour of it at least.”

Indeed, Madame de C. sank down on a couch, took my hand, and burst into

tears. Amid her sobs she ejaculated, “Georges--my dear boy--Georges--my

son.”

I felt that I could not rise to the occasion. “Come, Captain,” I said

to myself, “a tear; squeeze forth a tear. You can not get out of this

becomingly without a tear, or it will be, ‘My son-in-law, it is all

off.’”

When this stupid phrase, derived from I do not know where--a Palais

Royal farce, I believe--had once got into my head, it was impossible for

me to get rid of it, and I felt bursts of wild merriment welling up to

my lips.

“Calm yourself, Madame; calm yourself.”

“How can I, Georges? Forgive me, my dear boy.”

“Can you doubt me, Madame?”

I felt that “Madame” was somewhat cold, but I was afraid of making

Madame de C. seem old by calling her “mother.” I knew her to be somewhat

of a coquette.

“Oh, I do not doubt your affection; go, my dear boy, go and make her

happy; yes, oh, yes! Fear nothing on my account; I am strong.”

Nothing is more unbearable than emotion when one does not share it. I

murmured “Mother!” feeling that after all she must appreciate such an

outburst; then approaching, I kissed her, and made a face in spite of

myself--such a salt and disagreeable flavor had been imparted to my

mother-in-law’s countenance by the tears she had shed.

CHAPTER XII. THE HONEYMOON

It had been decided that we should pass the first week of our honeymoon

at Madame de C.’s chateau. A little suite of apartments had been fitted

up for us, upholstered in blue chintz, delightfully cool-looking. The

term “cool-looking” may pass here for a kind of bad joke, for in reality

it was somewhat damp in this little paradise, owing to the freshly

repaired walls.

A room had been specially reserved for me, and it was thither that,

after heartily kissing my dear mother-in-law, I flew up the stairs four

at a time. On an armchair, drawn in front of the fire, was spread out

my maroon velvet dressing-gown and close beside it were my slippers. I

could not resist, and I frantically pulled off my boots. Be that as it

may, my heart was full of love, and a thousand thoughts were whirling

through my head in frightful confusion. I made an effort, and reflected

for a moment on my position:

“Captain,” said I to myself, “the approaching moment is a solemn one. On

the manner in which you cross the threshold of married life depends your

future happiness. It is not a small matter to lay the first stone of an

edifice. A husband’s first kiss”--I felt a thrill run down my back--“a

husband’s first kiss is like the fundamental axiom that serves as a

basis for a whole volume. Be prudent, Captain. She is there beyond that

wall, the fair young bride, who is awaiting you; her ear on the alert,

her neck outstretched, she is listening to each of your movements. At

every creak of the boards she shivers, dear little soul.”

As I said this, I took off my coat and my cravat. “Your line of conduct

lies before you ready traced out,” I added; “be impassioned with due

restraint, calm with some warmth, good, kind, tender; but at the same

time let her have a glimpse of the vivacities of an ardent affection and

the attractive aspect of a robust temperament.” Suddenly I put my coat

on again. I felt ashamed to enter my wife’s room in a dressing-gown and

night attire. Was it not equal to saying to her: “My dear, I am at home;

see how I make myself so”? It was making a show of rights which I

did not yet possess, so I rearranged my dress, and after the thousand

details of a careful toilette I approached the door and gave three

discreet little taps. Oh! I can assure you that I was all in a tremble,

and my heart was beating so violently that I pressed my hand to my chest

to restrain its throbs.

She answered nothing, and after a moment of anguish I decided to knock

again. I felt tempted to say in an earnest voice, “It is I, dear; may I

come in?” But I also felt that it was necessary that this phrase should

be delivered in the most perfect fashion, and I was afraid of marring

its effect; I remained, therefore, with a smile upon my lips as if she

had been able to see me, and I twirled my moustache, which, without

affectation, I had slightly perfumed.

I soon heard a faint cough, which seemed to answer me and to grant me

admission. Women, you see, possess that exquisite tact, that extreme

delicacy, which is wholly lacking to us. Could one say more cleverly, in

a more charming manner, “Come, I await you, my love, my spouse”? Saint

Peter would not have hit upon it. That cough was heaven opening to me.

I turned the handle, the door swept noiselessly over the soft carpet. I

was in my wife’s room.

A delightful warmth met me face to face, and I breathed a vague perfume

of violets and orris-root, or something akin, with which the air of the

room was laden. A charming disorder was apparent, the ball dress was

spread upon a lounging-chair, two candles were discreetly burning

beneath rose-colored shades.

I drew near the bed where Louise was reposing, on the farther side

of it, with her face to the wall, and her head buried in the pillows.

Motionless and with closed eyes she appeared to be asleep, but her

heightened color betrayed her emotion. I must acknowledge that at that

moment I felt the most embarrassed of mankind. I resolved humbly to

request hospitality. That would be delicate and irreproachable. Oh! you

who have gone through these trials, search your memories and recall that

ridiculous yet delightful moment, that moment of mingled anguish and

joy, when it becomes necessary, without any preliminary rehearsal, to

play the most difficult of parts, and to avoid the ridicule which is

grinning at you from the folds of the curtains; to be at one and the

same time a diplomatist, a barrister, and a man of action, and by skill,

tact, and eloquence render the sternest of realities acceptable without

banishing the most ideal of dreams.

I bent over the bed, and in the softest notes, the sweetest tones my

voice could compass, I murmured, “Well, darling?”

One does what one can at such moments; I could not think of anything

better, and yet, Heaven knows, I had tried.

No reply, and yet she was awake. I will admit that my embarrassment was

doubled. I had reckoned--I can say as much between ourselves--upon

more confidence and greater yielding. I had calculated on a moment of

effusiveness, full of modesty and alarm, it is true, but, at any rate,

I had counted upon such effusiveness, and I found myself strangely

disappointed. The silence chilled me.

“You sleep very soundly, dear. Yet I have a great many things to say;

won’t you talk a little?”

As I spoke I--touched her shoulder with the tip of my finger, and saw

her suddenly shiver.

“Come,” said I; “must I kiss you to wake you up altogether?”

She could not help smiling, and I saw that she was blushing.

“Oh! do not be afraid, dear; I will only kiss the tips of your fingers

gently, like that,” and seeing that she let me do so, I sat down on the

bed.

She gave a little cry. I had sat down on her foot, which was straying

beneath the bedclothes.

“Please let me go to sleep,” she said, with a supplicating air; “I am so

tired.”

“And how about myself, my dear child? I am ready to drop. See, I am in

evening dress, and have not a pillow to rest my head on, not one, except

this one.” I had her hand in mine, and I squeezed it while kissing it.

“Would you be very vexed to lend this pillow to your husband? Come, are

you going to refuse me a little bit of room? I am not troublesome, I can

assure you.”

I thought I noted a smile on her lips, and, impatient to escape from

my delicate position, in a moment I rose, and, while continuing to

converse, hastelessly and noiselessly undressed. I was burning my ships.

When my ships were burned there was absolutely nothing left for me to do

but to get into bed.

Louise gave a little cry, then she threw herself toward the wall, and I

heard a kind of sob.

I had one foot in bed and the other out, and remained petrified, a smile

on my lips, and supporting myself wholly on one arm.

“What is the matter-dear; what is the matter? Forgive me if I have

offended you.”

I brought my head closer to her own, and, while inhaling the perfume of

her hair, whispered in her ear:

“I love you, my dear child; I love you, little wife; don’t you think

that I do?”

She turned toward me her eyes, moistened with tears, and said in a voice

broken by emotion and so soft, so low, so tender, that it penetrated to

the marrow of my bones:

“I love you, too. But let me sleep!”

“Sleep, my loved angel; sleep fearlessly, my love. I am going away;

sleep while I watch over you,” I said.

Upon my honor I felt a sob rise to my throat, and yet the idea that my

last remark was not badly turned shot through my brain. I pulled the

coverings over her again and tucked her up like a child. I can still see

her rosy face buried in that big pillow, the curls of fair hair escaping

from under the lace of her little nightcap. With her left hand she held

the counterpane close up under her chin, and I saw on one of her fingers

the new and glittering wedding-ring I had given her that morning. She

was charming, a bird nestling in cottonwool, a rosebud fallen amid snow.

When she was settled I bent over her and kissed her on the forehead.

“I am repaid,” said I to her, laughing; “are you comfortable, Louise?”

She did not answer, but her eyes met mine and I saw in them a smile

which seemed to thank me, but a smile so subtle that in any other

circumstances I should have seen a shadow of raillery in it.

“Now, Captain, settle yourself in this armchair and goodnight!” I said

this to myself, and I made an effort to raise my unfortunate foot which

I had forgotten, a heroic effort, but it was impossible to accomplish

it. The leg was so benumbed that I could not move it. As well as I could

I hoisted myself upon the other leg, and, hobbling, reached my armchair

without appearing too lame. The room seemed to me twice as wide to

cross as the Champ de Mars, for hardly had I taken a step in its

chilly atmosphere--the fire had gone out, it was April, and the chateau

overlooked the Loire--when the cold reminded me of the scantiness of my

costume. What! to cross the room before that angel, who was doubtless

watching me, in the most grotesque of costumes, and with a helpless

leg into the bargain! Why had I forgotten my dressing-gown? However, I

reached the armchair, into which I sank. I seized my dress-coat which

was beside me, threw it over my shoulders, twisted my white cravat

round my neck, and, like a soldier bivouacking, I sought a comfortable

position.

It would have been all very well without the icy cold that assailed

my legs, and I saw nothing in reach to cover me. I said to myself,

“Captain, the position is not tenable,” when at length I perceived on

the couch--One sometimes is childishly ashamed, but I really dared

not, and I waited for a long minute struggling between a sense of the

ridiculous and the cold which I felt was increasing. At last, when I

heard my wife’s breathing become more regular and thought that she must

be asleep, I stretched out my arm and pulled toward me her wedding-gown

which was on the couch--the silk rustled enough to wake the dead--and

with the energy which one always finds on an emergency, wrapped it round

me savagely like a railway rug. Then yielding to an involuntary fit of

sybaritism, I unhooked the bellows and tried to get the fire to burn.

“After all,” I said to myself, arranging the blackened embers and

working the little instrument with a thousand precautions, “after all,

I have behaved like a gentleman. If the General saw me at this moment he

would laugh in my face; but no matter, I have acted rightly.”

Had I not sworn to be sincere, I do not know whether I should

acknowledge to you that I suddenly felt horrible tinglings in the nasal

regions. I wished to restrain myself, but the laws of nature are those

which one can not escape. My respiration suddenly ceased, I felt a

superhuman power contract my facial muscles, my nostrils dilated, my

eyes closed, and all at once I sneezed with such violence that the

bottle of Eau des Carmes shook again. God forgive me! A little cry

came from the bed, and immediately afterward the most silvery frank and

ringing outbreak of laughter followed. Then she added in her simple,

sweet, musical tones:

“Have you hurt yourself--, Georges?” She had said Georges after a brief

silence, and in so low a voice that I scarcely heard it.

“I am very ridiculous, am I not, dear? and you are quite right to laugh

at me. What would you have? I am camping out and I am undergoing the

consequences.”

“You are not ridiculous, but you are catching cold,” and she began to

laugh again.

“Naughty girl!”

“Cruel one, you ought to say, and you would not be wrong if I were

to let you fall ill.” She said this with charming grace. There was a

mingling of timidity and tenderness, modesty and raillery, which I find

it impossible to express, but which stupefied me. She smiled at me, then

I saw her move nearer to the wall in order to leave room for me, and, as

I hesitated to cross the room.

“Come, forgive me,” she said.

I approached the bed; my teeth were chattering.

“How kind you are to me, dear,” she said to me after a moment or so;

“will you wish me good-night?” and she held out her cheek to me. I

approached nearer, but as the candle had just gone out I made a mistake

as to the spot, and my lips brushed hers. She quivered, then, after a

brief silence, she murmured in a low tone, “You must forgive me; you

frightened me so just now.”

“I wanted to kiss you, dear.”

“Well, kiss me, my husband.”

Within the trembling young girl the coquetry of the woman was breaking

forth in spite of herself.

I could not help it; she exhaled a delightful perfume which mounted to

my brain, and the contact of this dear creature whom I touched, despite

myself, swept away all my resolutions.

My lips--I do not know how it was--met hers, and we remained thus for a

long moment; I felt against my breast the echo of the beating heart, and

her rapid breathing came full into my face.

“You do love me a little, dear?” I whispered in her ear.

I distinguished amid a confused sigh a little “Yes!” that resembled a

mere breath.

“I don’t frighten you any longer?”

“No,” she murmured, very softly.

“You will be my little wife, then, Louise; you will let me teach you to

love me as I love you?”

“I do love you,” said she, but so softly and so gently that she seemed

to be dreaming.

How many times have we not laughed over these recollections, already so

remote.

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER XIII. THE BLUE NOTE-BOOK

Toward midnight mamma made a sign to me with her eyes, and under cover

of a lively waltz we slipped out of the drawing-room. In the hall the

servants, who were passing to and fro, drew aside to let us go by them,

but I felt that their eyes were fixed upon me with the curiosity which

had pursued me since the morning. The large door giving on to the park

was open, although the night was cool, and in the shadow I could make

out groups of country folk gathered there to catch a glimpse of the

festivities through the windows. These good people were laughing and

whispering; they were silent for a moment as we advanced to ascend the

staircase, but I once more felt that I was the mark of these inquisitive

looks and the object of all these smiles. The face of mamma, who

accompanied me, was much flushed, and large tears were flowing from her

eyes.

How was it that an event so gay for some was so sad for others?

When I think over it now I can hardly keep my countenance. What silly

terrors at that frightful yet charming moment! Yet, after all, one

exaggerates things a great deal.

On reaching the first floor mamma stopped, choking, took my head in her

hands, and kissed me on the forehead, and exclaimed, “Valentine!” I was

not greatly moved by this outburst, knowing that mamma, since she has

grown a little too stout, has some difficulty in getting upstairs. I

judged, therefore, that the wish to take breath for a moment without

appearing to do so had something to do with this sudden halt.

We entered the nuptial chamber; it was as coquettish as possible,

refreshing to the eye, snug, elegant, and adorned with fine Louis XVI

furniture, upholstered in Beauvais tapestry. The bed, above all, was

a marvel of elegance, but to tell the truth I had no idea of it till

a week later. At the outside it seemed to me that I was entering an

austere-looking locality; the very air we breathed appeared to me to

have something solemn and awe-striking about it.

“Here is your room, child,” said mamma; “but first of all come and sit

here beside me, my dear girl.”

At these words we both burst into tears, and mamma then expressed

herself as follows:

“The kiss you are giving me, Valentine, is the last kiss that I shall

have from you as a girl. Your husband--for Georges is that now--”

At these words I shuddered slightly, and by a singular freak of my brain

pictured to myself Monsieur Georges--Georges--my husband--in a cotton

night cap and a dressing-gown. The vision flashed across my mind in the

midst of the storm. I saw him just as plainly as if he had been there.

It was dreadful. The nightcap came over his forehead, down to his

eyebrows, and he said to me, pressing my hand; “At last, Valentine; you

are mine; do you love me? oh! tell me, do you love me?” And as his head

moved as he uttered these words, the horrible tuft at the end of his

nightcap waggled as an accompaniment.

“No,” I said to myself, “it is impossible for my husband to appear in

such a fashion; let me banish this image--and yet my father wears the

hideous things, and my brother, who is quite young, has them already.

Men wear them at all ages, unless though--” It is frightful to

relate, but Georges now appeared to me with a red-and-green bandanna

handkerchief tied round his head. I would have given ten years of my

life to be two hours older, and hurriedly passed my hand across my eyes

to drive away these diabolical visions.

However, mamma, who had been still speaking all the time, attributing

this movement to the emotion caused by her words, said, with great

sweetness:

“Do not be alarmed, my dear Valentine; perhaps I am painting the picture

in too gloomy colors; but my experience and my love render this duty

incumbent upon me.”

I have never heard mamma express herself so fluently. I was all the more

surprised as, not having heard a word of what she had already said, this

sentence seemed suddenly sprung upon me. Not knowing what to answer, I

threw myself into the arms of mamma, who, after a minute or so, put me

away gently, saying, “You are suffocating me, dear.”

She wiped her eyes with her little cambric handkerchief, which was damp,

and said, smilingly:

“Now that I have told you what my conscience imposed on me, I am strong.

See, dear, I think that I can smile. Your husband, my dear child, is a

man full of delicacy. Have confidence; accept all without misgiving.”

Mamma kissed me on the forehead, which finished off her sentence, and

added:

“Now, dear one, I have fulfilled a duty I regarded as sacred. Come here

and let me take your wreath off.”

“By this time,” I thought, “they have noticed that I have left the

drawing-room. They are saying, ‘Where is the bride?’ and smiling,

‘Monsieur Georges is getting uneasy. What is he doing? what is he

thinking? where is he?’”

“Have you tried on your nightcap, dear?” said mamma, who had recovered

herself; “it looks rather small to me, but is nicely embroidered. Oh, it

is lovely!”

And she examined it from every point of view.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. “It is I,” said several

voices, among which I distinguished the flute-like tones of my aunt

Laura, and those of my godmother. Madame de P., who never misses a

chance of pressing her two thick lips to some one’s cheeks, accompanied

them. Their eyes glittered, and all three had a sly and triumphant look,

ferreting and inquisitive, which greatly intimidated me. Would they also

set about fulfilling a sacred duty?

“Oh, you are really too pretty, my angel!” said Madame de P., kissing

me on the forehead, after the moist fashion peculiar to her, and then

sitting down in the large Louis XVI armchair.

My maid had not been allowed to undress me, so that all of them, taking

off their gloves, set to work to render me this service. They tangled

the laces, caught their own lace in the hooks, and laughed heartily all

the while.

“It is the least that the oldest friend of the family,”--she loved to

speak of herself as such--“should make herself useful at such a moment,”

muttered Madame de P., holding her eyeglass in one hand and working with

the other.

I passed into a little boudoir to complete my toilette for the night,

and found on the marble of the dressing-table five or six bottles of

scent, tied up with red, white, and blue ribbons--an act of attention on

the part of my Aunt Laura. I felt the blood flying to my head; there

was an unbearable singing in my ears. Now that I can coolly weigh the

impressions I underwent, I can tell that what I felt above all was

anger. I would have liked to be in the farthest depths of the wildest

forest in America, so unseemly did I find this curious kindness which

haunted me with its attentions. I should have liked to converse a little

with myself, to fathom my own emotion somewhat, and, in short, to utter

a brief prayer before throwing myself into the torrent.

However, through the open door, I could hear the four ladies whispering

together and stifling their outbursts of laughter; I had never seen

them so gay. I made up my mind. I crossed the room, and, shaking off

the pretty little white slippers which my mother had embroidered for me,

jumped into bed. I was not long in finding out that it was no longer

my own narrow little bed. It was immense, and I hesitated a moment, not

knowing which way to turn. I felt nevertheless a feeling of physical

comfort. The bed was warm, and I do not know what scent rose from its

silken coverlet. I felt myself sink into the mass of feathers, the

pillows, twice over too large and trimmed with embroidery, gave way as

it were beneath me, burying me in a soft and perfumed abyss.

At length the ladies rose, and after giving a glance round the room,

doubtless to make sure that nothing was lacking, approached the bed.

“Good-night, my dear girl,” said my mother, bending over me.

She kissed me, carried her handkerchief, now reduced to a wet dab, to

her eyes, and went out with a certain precipitation.

“Remember that the old friend of the family kissed you on this night, my

love,” said Madame de P., as she moistened my forehead.

“Come, my little lamb, good-night and sleep well,” said my aunt, with

her smile that seemed to issue from her nose. She added in a whisper:

“You love him, don’t you? The slyboots! she won’t answer! Well, since

you love him so much, don’t tell him so, my dear. But I must leave you;

you are sleepy. Goodnight.”

And she went away, smiling.

At length I was alone. I listened; the doors were being closed, I heard

a carriage roll along the road; the flame of the two candles placed

upon the mantelshelf quivered silently and were reflected in the

looking-glass.

I thought about the ceremony of that morning, the dinner, the ball. I

said to myself, clenching my fists to concentrate my thoughts: “How was

Marie dressed? She was dressed in--dressed in--dressed in--” I repeated

the words aloud to impart more authority to them and oblige my mind to

reply; but do what I would, it was impossible for me to drive away the

thought that invaded my whole being.

“He is coming. What is he doing? Where is he? Perhaps he is on the

stairs now. How shall I receive him when he comes?”

I loved him; oh! with my whole soul, I can acknowledge it now; but I

loved him quite at the bottom of my heart. In order to think of him I

went down into the very lowest chamber of my heart, bolted the door, and

crouched down in the darkest corner.

At last, at a certain moment, the floor creaked, a door was opened in

the passage with a thousand precautions, and I heard the tread of a

boot--a boot!

The boot ceased to creak, and I heard quite close to me, on the other

side of the wall, which was nothing but a thin partition, an armchair

being rolled across the carpet, and then a little cough, which seemed

to me to vibrate with emotion. It was he! But for the partition I could

have touched him with my finger. A few moments later I could distinguish

the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps on the carpet; this faint

sound rang violently in my head. All at once my breathing and my heart

both stopped together; there was a tap at the door. The tapping was

discreet, full of entreaty and delicacy. I wanted to reply, “Come in,”

but I had no longer any voice; and, besides, was it becoming to answer

like that, so curtly and plainly? I thought “Come in” would sound

horribly unseemly, and I said nothing. There was another tap. I should

really have preferred the door to have been broken open with a hatchet

or for him to have come down the chimney. In my agony I coughed faintly

among my sheets. That was enough; the door opened, and I divined from

the alteration in the light shed by the candles that some one at whom I

did not dare look was interposing between them and myself.

This some one, who seemed to glide across the carpet, drew near the bed,

and I could distinguish out of the corner of my eye his shadow on the

wall. I could scarcely restrain my joy; my Captain wore neither cotton

nightcap nor bandanna handkerchief. That was indeed something. However,

in this shadow which represented him in profile, his nose had so much

importance that amid all my uneasiness a smile flitted across my lips.

Is it not strange how all these little details recur to your mind? I

did not dare turn round, but I devoured with my eyes this shadow

representing my husband; I tried to trace in it the slightest of his

gestures; I even sought the varying expressions of his physiognomy, but,

alas! in vain.

I do not know how to express in words all that I felt at that moment; my

pen seems too clumsy to write my sensations, and, besides, did I really

see deep into my heart?

Do men comprehend all this? Do they understand that the heart requires

gradual changes, and that if a half-light awakens, a noon-day blaze

dazzles and burns? It is not that the poor child, who is trembling in

a corner, refuses to learn; far from that, she has aptitude, good-will,

and a quick and ready intelligence; she knows she has reached the age

at which it is necessary to know how to read; she rejects neither the

science nor even the teacher. It is the method of instruction that makes

her uneasy. She is afraid lest this young professor, whose knowledge

is so extensive, should turn over the pages of the book too quickly and

neglect the A B C.

A few hours back he was the submissive, humble lover, ready to kneel

down before her, hiding his knowledge as one hides a sin, speaking his

own language with a thousand circumspections. At any moment it might

have been thought that he was going to blush. She was a queen, he a

child; and now all at once the roles are changed; it is the submissive

subject who arrives in the college cap of a professor, hiding under his

arm an unknown and mysterious book. Is the man in the college cap about

to command, to smile, to obtrude himself and his books, to speak Latin,

to deliver a lecture?

She does not know that this learned individual is trembling, too; that

he is greatly embarrassed over his opening lesson, that emotion has

caused him to forget his Latin, that his throat is parched and his

legs are trembling beneath him. She does not know this, and I tell you

between ourselves, it is not her self-esteem that suffers least at this

conjecture. She suffers at finding herself, after so many signatures,

contracts, and ceremonies-still a charming child, and nothing more.

I believe that the first step in conjugal life will, according to the

circumstances accompanying it, give birth to captivating sympathies or

invincible repulsion. But to give birth to these sympathies, to strike

the spark that is to set light to this explosion of infinite gratitude

and joyful love--what art, what tact, what delicacy, and at the same

time what presence of mind are needed.

How was it that at the first word Georges uttered my terrors vanished?

His voice was so firm and so sweet, he asked me so gayly for leave to

draw near the fire and warm his feet, and spoke to me with such ease

and animation of the incidents of the day. I said to myself, “It is

impossible for the least baseness to be hidden under all this.” In

presence of so much good-humor and affability my scaffolding fell to

pieces. I ventured a look from beneath the sheets: I saw him comfortably

installed in the big armchair, and I bit my lips. I am still at a loss

to understand this little fit of ill-temper. When one is reckoning on

a fright, one is really disappointed at its delaying itself. Never had

Georges been more witty, more affectionate, more well-bred; he was still

the man of the day before. He must really have been very excited.

“You are tired out, I am certain, darling,” he said.

The word “darling” made me start, but did not frighten me; it was the

first time he had called me so, but I really could not refuse him the

privilege of speaking thus. However it may be, I maintained my reserve,

and in the same tone as one replies, “No thanks, I don’t take tea,” I

answered:

“Oh, yes! I am worn out.”

“I thought so,” he added, approaching the bed; “you can not keep your

eyes open; you can not even look at me, my dear little wife.”

“I will leave you,” continued he. “I will leave you; you need repose.”

And he drew still more closely to me, which was not natural. Then,

stretching out his hand, which I knew was white and well cared for:

“Won’t you give me a little shake of the hand, dear? I am half asleep,

too, my pretty little wife.” His face wore an expression which was

alarming, though not without its charm; as he said this, I saw clearly

that he had lied to me like a demon, and that he was no more sleepy than

I was.

However that may be, I was guilty of the fault, the carelessness that

causes disaster, of letting him take my hand, which was straying by

chance under the lace of the pillows.

I was that evening in a special condition of nervous sensibility, for

at this contact a strange sensation ran through me from head to foot.

It was not that the Captain’s hand had the softness of satin--I believe

that physical sensations, in us women, have causes directly contrary to

those which move men; for that which caused me such lively emotion was

precisely its firmness. There was something strong, manly, and powerful

about it. He squeezed my hand rather strongly.

My rings, which I have a fancy for wearing all at once, hurt me, and--I

really should not have believed it--I liked it very much, perhaps

too much. For the first time I found an inexplicable, an almost

intoxicating, charm in this intimate contact with a being who could have

crushed me between his fingers, and that in the middle of the night too,

in silence, without any possibility of help. It was horribly delicious.

I did not withdraw my hand, which he kissed, but lingeringly. The clock

struck two, and the last sound had long since died away when his lips

were still there, quivering with rapid little movements, which were so

many imperceptible kisses, moist, warm, burning. I felt gleams of fire

flashing around me. I wished to draw away my hand, but could not; I

remember perfectly well that I could not. His moustache pricked me, and

whiffs of the scent with which he perfumed it reached me and completed

my trouble. I felt my nostrils dilating despite myself, and, striving

but in vain to take refuge in my inmost being, I exclaimed inwardly:

“Protect me, Lord, but this time with all your might. A drop of water,

Lord; a drop of water!” I waited--no appreciable succor reached from

above. It was not till a week afterward that I understood the intentions

of Providence.

“You told me you were sleepy,” I murmured, in a trembling voice. I was

like a shipwrecked person clutching at a floating match-box; I knew

quite well that the Captain would not go away.

“Yes, I was sleepy, pet,” said Georges, approaching his face to mine;

“but now I am athirst.” He put his lips to my ear and whispered softly,

“Athirst for a kiss from you, love.”

This “love” was the beginning of another life. The spouse now appeared,

the past was fleeing away, I was entering on the future. At length I had

crossed the frontier; I was in a foreign land. Oh! I acknowledge--for

what is the use of feigning?--that I craved for this love, and I felt

that it engrossed me and spread itself through me. I felt that I was

getting out of my depth, I let go the last branch that held me to the

shore, and to myself I repeated: “Yes, I love you; yes, I am willing to

follow you; yes, I am yours, love, love, love!”

“Won’t you kiss your husband; come, won’t you?”

And his mouth was so near my own that it seemed to meet my lips.

“Yes,” said I.

.............................

August 7th, 185-How many times have I not read through you during the

last two years, my little blue note-book! How many things I might add as

marginal notes if you were not doomed to the flames, to light my first

fire this autumn! How could I have written all this, and how is it that

having done so I have not dared to complete my confidences! No one has

seen you, at any rate; no one has turned your pages. Go back into your

drawer, dear, with, pending the first autumn fire, a kiss from your

Valentine.

NOTE.--Owing to what circumstances this blue note-book, doomed to the

flames, was discovered by me in an old Louis XVI chiffonnier I had just

bought does not greatly matter to you, dear reader, and would be out of

my power to explain even if it did.

CHAPTER XIV. THE BLUE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN

Only to think that I was going to throw you into the fire, poor dear!

Was I not foolish? In whom else could I confide? If I had not you, to

whom could I tell all those little things at which every one laughs, but

which make you cry!

This evening, for instance, I dined alone, for Georges was invited out;

well, to whom else can I acknowledge that when I found myself alone,

face to face with a leg of mutton, cooked to his liking, and with the

large carving-knife which is usually beside his plate, before me, I

began to cry like a child? To whom else can I admit that I drank out of

the Bohemian wine-glass he prefers, to console me a little?

But if I were to mention this they would laugh in my face. Father

Cyprien himself, who nevertheless has a heart running over with

kindness, would say to me:

“Let us pass that by, my dear child; let us pass that by.”

I know him so well, Father Cyprien; while you, you always listen to me,

my poor little note-book; if a tear escapes me, you kindly absorb it and

retain its trace like a good-hearted friend. Hence I love you.

And, since we are tete-a-tete, let us have a chat. You won’t be angry

with me for writing with a pencil, dear. You see I am very comfortably

settled in my big by-by and I do not want to have any ink-stains. The

fire sparkles on the hearth, the street is silent; let us forget that

George will not return till midnight, and turn back to the past.

I can not recall the first month of that dear past without laughing and

weeping at one and the same time.

How foolish we were! How sweet it was! There is a method of teaching

swimming which is not the least successful, I am told. It consists in

throwing the future swimmer into the water and praying God to help him.

I am assured that after the first lesson he keeps himself afloat.

Well, I think that we women are taught to be wives in very much the same

fashion.

Happy or otherwise--the point is open to discussion marriage is a

hurricane--something unheard-of and alarming.

In a single night, and without any transition, everything is transformed

and changes color; the erst while-cravatted, freshly curled, carefully

dressed gentleman makes his appearance in a dressing-gown. That which

was prohibited becomes permissible, the code is altered, and words

acquire a meaning they never had before, et cetera, et cetera.

It is not that all this is so alarming, if taken the right way--a woman

with some courage in her heart and some flexibility in her mind supports

the shock and does not die under it; but the firmest of us are amazed

at it, and stand open-mouthed amid all these strange novelties, like a

penniless gourmand in the shop of Potel and Chabot.

They dare not touch these delicacies surrounding them, though invited to

taste. It is not that the wish or the appetite is lacking to them, but

all these fine fruits have been offered them so lately that they have

still the somewhat acid charm of green apples or forbidden fruit. They

approach, but they hesitate to bite.

After all, why complain? What would one have to remember if one had

entered married life like an inn, if one had not trembled a little when

knocking at the door? And it is so pleasant to recall things, that one

would sometimes like to deck the future in the garments of the past.

It was, I recollect, two days after the all-important one. I had gone

into his room, I no longer remember why--for the pleasure of going in,

I suppose, and thereby acting as a wife. A strong desire is that which

springs up in your brain after leaving church to look like an old

married woman. You put on caps with ribbons, you never lay aside your

cashmere shawl, you talk of “my home”--two sweet words--and then you

bite your lips to keep from breaking out into a laugh; and “my husband,”

and “my maid,” and the first dinner you order, when you forget the soup.

All this is charming, and, however ill at ease you may feel at first in

all these new clothes, you are quite eager to put them on.

So I had gone into the dressing-room of my husband, who, standing before

the glass, very lightly clad, was prosaically shaving.

“Excuse me, dear,” said he, laughing, and he held up his shaving-brush,

covered with white lather. “You will pardon my going on with this. Do

you want anything?”

“I came, on the contrary,” I answered, “to see whether you had need of

anything;” and, greatly embarrassed myself, for I was afraid of being

indiscreet, and I was not sure whether one ought to go into one’s

husband’s room like this, I added, innocently, “Your shirts have

buttons, have they not?”

“Oh, what a good little housewife I have married! Do not bother yourself

about such trifles, my pet. I will ask your maid to look after my

buttons,” said he.

I felt confused; I was afraid of appealing too much of a schoolgirl

in his eyes. He went on working his soap into a lather with his

shaving-brush. I wanted to go away, but I was interested in such a novel

fashion by the sight of my husband, that I had not courage to do so.

His neck was bare--a thick, strong neck, but very white and changing

its shape at every movement--the muscles, you know. It would have been

horrible in a woman, that neck, and yet it did not seem ugly to me. Nor

was it admiration that thus inspired me; it was rather like gluttony.

I wanted to touch it. His hair, cut very short--according to

regulation--grew very low, and between its beginning and the ear there

was quite a smooth white place. The idea at once occurred to me that

if ever I became brave enough, it was there that I should kiss him

oftenest; it was strange, that presentiment, for it is in fact on that

little spot that I--

He stopped short. I fancied I understood that he was afraid of appearing

comical in my eyes, with his face smothered in lather; but he was wrong.

I felt myself all in a quiver at being beside a man--the word man is

rather distasteful to me, but I can not find another, for husband would

not express my thoughts--at being beside a man in the making of his

toilette. I should have liked him to go on without troubling himself;

I should have liked to see how he managed to shave himself without

encroaching on his moustache, how he made his parting and brushed his

hair with the two round brushes I saw on the table, what use he made

of all the little instruments set out in order on the marble-tweezers,

scissors, tiny combs, little pots and bottles with silver tops, and a

whole arsenal of bright things, that aroused quite a desire to beautify

one’s self.

I should have liked him while talking to attend to the nails of his

hands, which I was already very fond of; or, better still, to have

handed them over to me. How I should have rummaged in the little

corners, cut, filed, arranged all that.

“Well, dear, what are you looking at me like that for?” said he,

smiling.

I lowered my eyes at once, and felt that I was blushing. I was uneasy,

although charmed, amid these new surroundings. I did not know what to

answer, and mechanically I dipped the tip of my finger into the little

china pot in which the soap was being lathered.

“What is the matter, darling?” said he, approaching his face to mine;

“have I offended you?”

I don’t know what strange idea darted through my mind, but I suddenly

took my hand from the pot and stuck the big ball of lather at the end of

my finger on the tip of his nose. He broke out into a hearty laugh, and

so did I; though I trembled for a moment, lest he should be angry.

“So that’s the way in which you behave to a captain in the lancers? You

shall pay for this, you wicked little darling;” and, taking the shaving

brush in his hand, he chased me round the room. I dodged round the

table, I took refuge behind the armchair, upsetting his boots with my

skirt, getting the tongs at the same time entangled in it. Passing the

sofa, I noticed his uniform laid out--he had to wait on the General that

morning--and, seizing his schapska, I made use of it as a buckler. But

laughter paralyzed me, and besides, what could a poor little woman do

against a soldier, even with a buckler?

He ended by catching me--the struggle was a lovely one. It was all very

well for me to scream, as I threw my head backward over the arm by

which he clasped me; I none the less saw the frightful brush, like a big

snowball, at the end of a little stick, come nearer and yet nearer.

But he was merciful; he was satisfied with daubing a little white spot

on my chin and exclaiming, “The cavalry have avenged themselves.”

Seizing the brush in turn, I said to him roguishly, “Captain, let me

lather your face,” for I did so want to do that.

In answer, he held his face toward me, and, observing that I was obliged

to stand on the tips of my toes and to support myself a little on his

shoulder, he knelt down before me and yielded his head to me.

With the tip of my finger I made him bend his face to the right and the

left, backward and forward, and I lathered and lathered, giggling like

a schoolgirl. It amused me so to see my Captain obey me like a child;

I would have given I don’t know what if he had only had his sword and

spurs on at that moment. Unfortunately, he was in his slippers. I spread

the lather over his nose and forehead; he closed his eyes and put his

two arms round me, saying:

“Go on, my dear, go on; but see that you don’t put any into my mouth.”

At that moment I experienced a very strange feeling. My laughter died

away all at once; I felt ashamed at seeing my husband at my feet and at

thus amusing myself with him as if he were a doll.

I dropped the shaving-brush; I felt my eyes grow moist; and, suddenly,

becoming more tender, I bent toward him and kissed him on the neck,

which was the only spot left clear.

Yet his ear was so near that, in passing it, my lips moved almost in

spite of myself, and I whispered:

“Don’t be angry, dear,” then, overcome by emotion and repentance, I

added: “I love you, I do love you.”

“My own pet!” he said, rising suddenly. His voice shook.

What delightful moments these were! Unfortunately, oh! yes, indeed,

unfortunately, he could not press his lathered face to mine!

“Wait a little,” he exclaimed, darting toward the washbasin, full of

water, “wait an instant!”

But it seemed as if it took him a week to wash it off.

CHAPTER XV. MY WIFE GOES TO A DANCE

Madame--Ah! it is so nice of you to come home early! (Looking at the

clock.) A quarter to six. But how cold you are! your hands are frozen;

come and sit by the fire. (She puts a log on the fire.) I have been

thinking of you all day. It is cruel to have to go out in such weather.

Have you finished your doubts? are you satisfied?

Monsieur--Quite well satisfied, dear. (Aside.) But I have never known

my wife to be so amiable. (Aloud, taking up the bellows.) Quite well

satisfied, and I am very hungry. Has my darling been good?

Madame--You are hungry. Good! (Calling out.) Marie, call into the

kitchen that your master wants to dine early. Let them look after

everything--and send up a lemon.

Monsieur--A mystery?

Madame--Yes, Monsieur, I have a little surprise for you, and I fancy

that it will delight you.

Monsieur--Well, what is the surprise?

Madame--Oh! it is a real surprise. How curious you look! your eyes are

glittering already. Suppose I were not to tell you anything?

Monsieur--Then you would vex me very much.

Madame--There, I don’t want to vex you. You are going to have some

little green oysters and a partridge. Am I good?

Monsieur--Oysters and a partridge! You are an angel. (He kisses her.) An

angel. (Aside.) What on earth is the matter with her? (Aloud.) Have you

had visitors to-day?

Madame--I saw Ernestine this morning, but she only stayed a moment. She

has just discharged her maid. Would you believe it, that girl was seen

the night before last dressed up as a man, and in her master’s clothes,

too! That was going too far.

Monsieur--That comes of having confidential servants. And you just got a

sight of Ernestine?

Madame--And that was quite enough, too. (With an exclamation.) How

stupid I am! I forgot. I had a visit from Madame de Lyr as well.

Monsieur--God bless her! But does she still laugh on one side of her

mouth to hide her black tooth?

Madame-How cruel you are! Yet, she likes you very well. Poor woman! I

was really touched by her visit. She came to remind me that we--now you

will be angry. (She kisses him and sits down beside him.)

Monsieur--Be angry! be angry! I’m not a Turk. Come, what is it?

Madame--Come, we shall go to dinner. You know that there are oysters and

a partridge. I won’t tell you--you are already in a bad temper. Besides,

I all but told her that we are not going.

Monsieur--(raising his hands aloft)--I thought so. She and her evening

may go to the dogs. What have I done to this woman that she should so

pester me?

Madame--But she thinks she is affording you pleasure. She is a charming

friend. As for me, I like her because she always speaks well of you. If

you had been hidden in that cabinet during her visit, you could not

have helped blushing. (He shrugs his shoulders.) “Your husband is so

amiable,” she said to me, “so cheery, so witty. Try to bring him; it is

an honor to have him.” I said, “Certainly,” but without meaning it, you

know. But I don’t care about it at all. It is not so very amusing at

Madame de Lyr’s. She always invites such a number of serious people. No

doubt they are influential people, and may prove useful, but what does

that matter to me? Come to dinner. You know that there is a bottle left

of that famous Pomard; I have kept it for your partridge. You can not

imagine what pleasure I feel in seeing you eat a partridge. You eat

it with such a gusto. You are a glutton, my dear. (She takes his

arm.) Come, I can hear your rascal of a son getting impatient in the

dining-room.

Monsieur--(with a preoccupied air)--Hum! and when is it?

Madame--When is what?

Monsieur--The party, of course.

Madame--Ah! you mean the ball--I was not thinking of it. Madame de Lyr’s

ball. Why do you ask me that, since we are not going? Let us make haste,

dinner is getting cold.... This evening.

Monsieur--(stopping short)--What! this party is a ball, and this ball is

for this evening. But, hang it! people don’t invite you to a ball like

that. They always give notice some time beforehand.

Madame--But she sent us an invitation a week ago, though I don’t know

what became of the card. I forgot to show it to you.

Monsieur--You forgot! you forgot!

Madame--Well, it is all for the best; I know you would have been sulky

all the week after. Come to dinner.

They sat down to table. The cloth was white, the cutlery bright, the

oysters fresh; the partridge, cooked to perfection, exhaled a delightful

odor. Madame was charming, and laughed at everything. Monsieur unbent

his brows and stretched himself on the chair.

Monsieur--This Pomard is very good. Won’t you have some, little dear?

Madame--Yes, your little dear will. (She pushes forward her glass with a

coquettish movement.)

Monsieur--Ah! you have put on your Louis Seize ring. It is a very pretty

ring.

Madame--(putting her hand under her husband’s nose)--Yes; but look--see,

there is a little bit coming off.

Monsieur--(kissing his wife’s hand)--Where is the little bit?

Madame--(smiling)--You jest at everything. I am speaking seriously.

There--look--it is plain enough! (They draw near once another and bend

their heads together to see it.) Don’t you see it? (She points out a

spot on the ring with a rosy and slender finger.) There! do you see

now--there?

Monsieur--That little pearl which--What on earth have you been putting

on your hair, my dear? It smells very nice--You must send it to the

jeweller. The scent is exquisite. Curls don’t become you badly.

Madame--Do you think so? (She adjusts her coiffure with her white hand.)

I thought you would like that scent; now, if I were in your place I

should--

Monsieur--What would you do in my place, dear?

Madame--I should--kiss my wife.

Monsieur--(kissing her)--Well, I must say you have very bright ideas

sometimes. Give me a little bit more partridge, please. (With his mouth

full.) How pretty these poor little creatures look when running among

the corn. You know the cry they give when the sun sets?--A little

gravy.--There are moments when the poetic side of country life appeals

to one. And to think that there are barbarians who eat them with

cabbage. But (filling his glass) have you a gown ready?

Madame--(with innocent astonishment.)--What for, dear?

Monsieur--Why, for Madame de Lyr’s--

Madame--For the ball?--What a memory you have--There you are still

thinking of it--No, I have not--ah! yes, I have my tarletan, you know;

but then a woman needs so little to make up a ball-room toilette.

Monsieur--And the hairdresser, has he been sent for?

Madame--No, he has not been sent for; but I am not anxious to go to this

ball. We will settle down by the fireside, read a little, and go to bed

early. You remind me, however, that, on leaving, Madame de Lyr did say,

“Your hairdresser is the same as mine, I will send him word.” How stupid

I am; I remember now that I did not answer her. But it is not far, I can

send Marie to tell him not to come.

Monsieur--Since this blessed hairdresser has been told, let him come and

we will go and--amuse ourselves a little at Madame de Lyr’s. But on one

condition only; that I find all my dress things laid out in readiness on

my bed with my gloves, you know, and that you tie my necktie.

Madame--A bargain. (She kisses him.) You are a jewel of a husband. I am

delighted, my poor dear, because I see you are imposing a sacrifice upon

yourself in order to please me; since, as to the ball itself, I am quite

indifferent about it. I did not care to go; really now I don’t care to

go.

Monsieur--Hum. Well, I will go and smoke a cigar so as not to be in your

way, and at ten o’clock I will be back here. Your preparations will be

over and in five minutes I shall be dressed. Adieu.

Madame--Au revoir.

Monsieur, after reaching the street, lit his cigar and buttoned up his

great-coat. Two hours to kill. It seems a trifle when one is busy, but

when one has nothing to do it is quite another thing. The pavement is

slippery, rain is beginning to fall--fortunately the Palais Royal is not

far off. At the end of his fourteenth tour round the arcades, Monsieur

looks at his watch. Five minutes to ten, he will be late. He rushes

home.

In the courtyard the carriage is standing waiting.

In the bedroom two unshaded lamps shed floods of light. Mountains of

muslin and ribbons are piled on the bed and the furniture. Dresses,

skirts, petticoats, and underpetticoats, lace, scarfs, flowers, jewels,

are mingled in a charming chaos. On the table there are pots of pomade,

sticks of cosmetic, hairpins, combs and brushes, all carefully set out.

Two artificial plaits stretch themselves languishingly upon a dark mass

not unlike a large handful of horsehair. A golden hair net, combs of

pale tortoise-shell and bright coral, clusters of roses, sprays of white

lilac, bouquets of pale violets, await the choice of the artist or the

caprice of the beauty. And yet, must I say it? amidst this luxury of

wealth Madame’s hair is undressed, Madame is uneasy, Madame is furious.

Monsieur--(looking at his watch)--Well, my dear, is your hair dressed?

Madame--(impatiently)--He asks me whether my hair is dressed? Don’t you

see that I have been waiting for the hairdresser for an hour and a half?

Can’t you see that I am furious, for he won’t come, the horrid wretch?

Monsieur--The monster!

Madame--Yes, the monster; and I would advise you not to joke about it.

There is a ring. The door opens and the lady’s-maid exclaims, “It is he,

Madame!”

Madame--It is he!

Monsieur--It is he!

The artist enters hurriedly and bows while turning his sleeves up.

Madame--My dear Silvani, this is unbearable.

Silvani--Very sorry, very, but could not come any sooner. I have been

dressing hair since three o’clock in the afternoon. I have just left the

Duchesse de W., who is going to the Ministry this evening. She sent me

home in her brougham. Lisette, give me your mistress’s combs, and put

the curling-tongs in the fire.

Madame--But, my dear Silvani, my maid’s name is not Lisette.

Silvani--You will understand, Madame, that if I had to remember the

names of all the lady’s-maids who help me, I should need six clerks

instead of four. Lisette is a pretty name which suits all these young

ladies very well. Lisette, show me your mistress’s dress. Good. Is the

ball an official one?

Madame--But dress my hair, Silvani.

Silvani--It is impossible for me to dress your hair, Madame, unless I

know the circle in which the coiffure will be worn. (To the husband,

seated in the corner.) May I beg you, Monsieur, to take another place? I

wish to be able to step back, the better to judge the effect.

Monsieur--Certainly, Monsieur Silvani, only too happy to be agreeable to

you. (He sits down on a chair.)

Madame--(hastily)--Not there, my dear, you will rumple my skirt. (The

husband gets up and looks for another seat.) Take care behind you, you

are stepping on my bustle.

Monsieur--(turning round angrily)--Her bustle! her bustle!

Madame--Now you go upsetting my pins.

Silvani--May I beg a moment of immobility, Madame?

Monsieur--Come, calm yourself, I will go into the drawing-room; is there

a fire there?

Madame--(inattentively)--But, my dear, how can you expect a fire to be

in the drawing-room?

Monsieur--I will go to my study, then.

Madame--There is none there, either. What do you want a fire in your

study for? What a singular idea! High up, you know, Silvani, and a dash

of disorder, it is all the rage.

Silvani--Would you allow a touch of brown under the eyes? That would

enable me to idealize the coiffure.

Monsieur--(impatiently)--Marie, give me my top-coat and my cap. I will

walk up and down in the anteroom. (Aside.) Madame de Lyr shall pay for

this.

Silvani--(crimping)--I leave your ear uncovered, Madame; it would be

a sin to veil it. It is like that of the Princesse de K., whose hair

I dressed yesterday. Lisette, get the powder ready. Ears like yours,

Madame, are not numerous.

Madame--You were saying--

Silvani--Would your ear, Madame, be so modest as not to listen?

Madame’s hair is at length dressed. Silvani sheds a light cloud of

scented powder over his work, on which he casts a lingering look of

satisfaction, then bows and retires.

In passing through the anteroom, he runs against Monsieur, who is

walking up and down.

Silvani--A thousand pardons, I have the honor to wish you good night.

Monsieur--(from the depths of his turned-up collar) Good-night.

A quarter of an hour later the sound of a carriage is heard. Madame is

ready, her coiffure suits her, she smiles at herself in the glass as she

slips the glove-stretchers into the twelve-button gloves.

Monsieur has made a failure of his necktie and broken off three buttons.

Traces of decided ill-humor are stamped on his features.

Monsieur--Come, let us go down, the carriage is waiting; it is a quarter

past eleven. (Aside.) Another sleepless night. Sharp, coachman; Rue de

la Pepiniere, number 224.

They reach the street in question. The Rue de la Pepiniere is in a

tumult. Policemen are hurriedly making way through the crowd. In the

distance, confused cries and a rapidly approaching, rumbling sound are

heard. Monsieur thrusts his head out of the window.

Monsieur--What is it, Jean?

Coachman--A fire, Monsieur; here come the firemen.

Monsieur--Go on all the same to number 224.

Coachman--We are there, Monsieur; the fire is at number 224.

Doorkeeper of the House--(quitting a group of people and approaching the

carriage)--You are, I presume, Monsieur, one of the guests of Madame

de Lyr? She is terror-stricken; the fire is in her rooms. She can not

receive any one.

Madame--(excitedly)--It is scandalous.

Monsieur--(humming)--Heart-breaking, heartbreaking! (To the coachman.)

Home again, quickly; I am all but asleep. (He stretches himself out

and turns up his collar.) ( Aside.) After all, I am the better for a

well-cooked partridge.

CHAPTER XVI. A FALSE ALARM

Every time I visit Paris, which, unhappily, is too often, it rains in

torrents. It makes no difference whether I change the time of starting

from that which I had fixed upon at first, stop on the way, travel

at night, resort, in short, to a thousand devices to deceive the

barometer-at ten leagues from Paris the clouds begin to pile up and I

get out of the train amidst a general deluge.

On the occasion of my last visit I found myself as usual in the

street, followed by a street porter carrying my luggage and addressing

despairing signals to all the cabs trotting quickly past amid the

driving rain. After ten minutes of futile efforts a driver, more

sensible than the others, and hidden in his triple cape, checks his

horses. With a single bound I am beside the cab, and opening, the door

with a kind of frenzy, jump in.

Unfortunately, while I am accomplishing all this on one side, a

gentleman, similarly circumstanced, opens the other door and also jumps

in. It is easy to understand that there ensues a collision.

“Devil take you!” said my rival, apparently inclined to push still

farther forward.

I was about to answer him, and pretty sharply, too, for I hail from the

south of France and am rather hotheaded, when our eyes met. We looked

one another in the face like two lions over a single sheep, and suddenly

we both burst out laughing. This angry gentleman was Oscar V., that dear

good fellow Oscar, whom I had not seen for ten years, and who is a very

old friend of mine, a charming fellow whom I used to play with as a boy.

We embraced, and the driver, who was looking at us through the window,

shrugged his shoulders, unable to understand it all. The two porters,

dripping with water, stood, one at each door, with a trunk on his

shoulder. We had the luggage put on the cab and drove off to the Hotel

du Louvre, where Oscar insisted on dropping me.

“But you are travelling, too, then?” said I to my friend, after the

first moments of expansion. “Don’t you live in Paris?”

“I live in it as little as possible and have just come up from Les

Roches, an old-fashioned little place I inherited from my father, at

which I pass a great deal of the year. Oh! it is not a chateau; it is

rustic, countrified, but I like it, and would not change anything about

it. The country around is fresh and green, a clear little river flows

past about forty yards from the house, amid the trees; there is a mill

in the background, a spreading valley, a steeple and its weather-cock on

the horizon, flowers under the windows, and happiness in the house. Can

I grumble? My wife makes exquisite pastry, which is very agreeable to me

and helps to whiten her hands. By the way, I did not tell you that I am

married. My dear fellow, I came across an angel, and I rightly thought

that if I let her slip I should not find her equal. I did wisely. But I

want to introduce you to my wife and to show you my little place. When

will you come and see me? It is three hours from Paris--time to smoke a

couple of cigars. It is settled, then--I am going back to-morrow morning

and I will have a room ready for you. Give me your card and I will write

down my address on it.”

All this was said so cordially that I could not resist my friend’s

invitation, and promised to visit him.

Three or four days later, Paris being empty and the recollection of my

old companion haunting me, I felt a strong desire to take a peep at his

conjugal felicity and to see with my own eyes this stream, this mill,

this steeple, beside all which he was so happy.

I reached Les Roches at about six in the evening and was charmed at the

very first glance. Oscar’s residence was a little Louis Quinze chateau

buried in the trees; irregularly built, but charmingly picturesque. It

had been left unaltered for a century at least, and everything, from

the blackened mansard roofs with their rococo weather-cocks, to the bay

windows with their tiny squares of glass and the fantastic escutcheon

over the door, was in keeping. Over the thick tiles of the somewhat

sunken roof, the rough-barked old chestnuts lazily stretched their

branches. Creepers and climbing roses wantoned over the front, framing

the windows, peeping into the garrets, and clinging to the waterspouts,

laden with large bunches of flowers which swayed gently in the air. Amid

all these pointed roofs and this profusion of verdure and trees the blue

sky could only be caught a glimpse of here and there.

The first person I saw was Oscar, clad in white from head to foot, and

wearing a straw hat. He was seated on an enormous block of stone which

seemed part and parcel of the house, and appeared very much interested

in a fine melon which his gardener had just brought to him. No sooner

had he caught sight of me than he darted forward and grasped me by the

hand with such an expression of good-humor and affection that I said to

myself, “Yes, certainly he was not deceiving me, he is happy.” I found

him just as I had known him in his youth, lively, rather wild, but kind

and obliging.

“Pierre,” said he to the gardener, “take this gentleman’s portmanteau to

the lower room,” and, as the gardener bestirred himself slowly and with

an effort, Oscar seized the portmanteau and swung it, with a jerk, on to

the shoulders of the poor fellow, whose legs bent under the weight.

“Lazybones,” said Oscar, laughing heartily. “Ah! now I must introduce

you to my little queen. My wife, where is my wife?”

He ran to the bell and pulled it twice. At once a fat cook with a red

face and tucked-up sleeves, and behind her a man-servant wiping a plate,

appeared at the ground-floor windows. Had they been chosen on purpose?

I do not know, but their faces and bearing harmonized so thoroughly with

the picture that I could not help smiling.

“Where is your mistress?” asked Oscar, and as they did not answer

quickly enough he exclaimed, “Marie, Marie, here is my friend George.”

A young girl, fair as a lily, appeared at a narrow, little window, the

one most garlanded by, flowers, on the first floor. She was clad in a

white dressing-gown of some particular shape; I could not at first make

out. With one hand she gathered its folds about her, and with the other

restrained her flowing hair. Hardly had she seen me when she blushed,

somewhat ashamed, no doubt, at having been surprised in the midst of

her toilet, and, giving a most embarrassed yet charming bow; hurriedly

disappeared. This vision completed the charm; it seemed to me that I had

suddenly been transported into fairy-land. I had fancied when strapping

my portmanteau that I should find my friend Oscar installed in one of

those pretty, little, smart-looking houses, with green shutters and gilt

lightning-conductor, dear to the countrified Parisian, and here I found

myself amid an ideal blending of time-worn stones hidden in flowers,

ancient gables, and fanciful ironwork reddened by rust. I was right

in the midst of one of Morin’s sketches, and, charmed and stupefied, I

stood for some moments with my eyes fixed on the narrow window at which

the fair girl had disappeared.

“I call her my little queen,” said Oscar, taking my arm. “It is my wife.

Come this way, we shall meet my cousin who is fishing, and two other

friends who are strolling about in this direction, good fellows, only

they do not understand the country as I do--they have on silk stockings

and pumps, but it does not matter, does it? Would you like a pair of

slippers or a straw hat?

“I hope you have brought some linen jackets. I won’t offer you a glass

of Madeira--we shall dine at once. Ah! my dear fellow, you have turned

up at the right moment; we are going to taste the first melon of the

year this evening.”

“Unfortunately, I never eat melons, though I like to see others do so.”

“Well, then, I will offer you consolation by seeking out a bottle of my

old Pomard for you. Between ourselves, I don’t give it to every one;

it is a capital wine which my poor father recommended to me on his

deathbed; poor father, his eyes were closed, and his head stretched back

on the pillow. I was sitting beside his bed, my hand in his, when I felt

it feebly pressed. His eyes half opened, and I saw him smile. Then

he said in a weak, slow, and the quavering voice of an old man who

is dying: ‘The Pomard at the farther end--on the left--you know, my

boy--only for friends.’ He pressed my hand again, and, as if exhausted,

closed his eyes, though I could see by the imperceptible motion of his

lips that he was still smiling inwardly. Come with me to the cellar,”

continued Oscar, after a brief silence, “at the farther end to the left,

you shall hold the lantern for me.”

When we came up from the cellar, the bell was ringing furiously, and

flocks of startled birds were flying out of the chestnut-trees. It was

for dinner. All the guests were in the garden. Oscar introduced me in

his off-hand way, and I offered my arm to the mistress of the house to

conduct her to the dining-room.

On examining my friend’s wife, I saw that my first impression had not

been erroneous--she was literally a little angel, and a little angel in

the shape of a woman, which is all the better. She was delicate, slender

as a young girl; her voice was as thrilling and harmonious as the

chaffinch, with an indefinable accent that smacked of no part of the

country in particular, but lent a charm to her slightest word. She had,

moreover, a way of speaking of her own, a childish and coquettish way

of modulating the ends of her sentences and turning her eyes toward her

husband, as if to seek for his approbation. She blushed every moment,

but at the same time her smile was so bewitching and her teeth so white

that she seemed to be laughing at herself. A charming little woman! Add

to this a strange yet tasteful toilette, rather daring, perhaps, but

suiting this little queen, so singular in herself. Her beautiful fair

hair, twisted up apparently at hazard, was fixed rather high up on the

head by a steel comb worn somewhat on one side; and her white muslin

dress trimmed with wide, flat ruches, cut square at the neck, short in

the skirt, and looped up all round, had a delicious eighteenth-century

appearance. The angel was certainly a trifle coquettish, but in her own

way, and yet her way was exquisite.

Hardly were we seated at table when Oscar threw toward his little queen

a rapid glance, but one so full of happiness and-why should I not

say it?--love that I experienced a kind of shiver, a thrill of envy,

astonishment, and admiration, perhaps. He took from the basket of

flowers on the table a red rose, scarcely opened, and, pushing it toward

her, said with a smile:

“For your hair, Madame.”

The fair girl blushed deeply, took the flower, and, without hesitation,

quickly and dexterously stuck it in her hair, high up on the left,

just in the right spot, and, delightedly turning round to each of us,

repeated several times, amid bursts of laughter, “Is it right like

that?”

Then she wafted a tiny kiss with the tips of her fingers to her husband,

as a child of twelve would have done, and gayly plunged her spoon into

the soup, turning up her little finger as she did so.

The other guests had nothing very remarkable about them; they laughed

very good-naturedly at these childish ways, but seemed somewhat out of

place amid all this charming freedom from restraint. The cousin, above

all, the angler, with his white waistcoat, his blue tie, his full beard,

and his almond eyes, especially displeased me. He rolled his r’s like

an actor at a country theatre. He broke his bread into little bits and

nibbled them as he talked. I divined that the pleasure of showing off a

large ring he wore had something to do with this fancy for playing with

his bread. Once or twice I caught a glance of melancholy turned toward

the mistress of the house, but at first I did not take much notice of

it, my attention being attracted by the brilliant gayety of Oscar.

It seemed to me, however, at the end of a minute or so, that this young

man was striving in a thousand ways to engage the attention of the

little queen.

The latter, however, answered him in the most natural way in the world,

neither betraying constraint nor embarrassment. I was mistaken, no

doubt. Have you ever noticed, when you are suddenly brought into

the midst of a circle where you are unacquainted, how certain little

details, matters of indifference to every one else, assume importance in

your eyes? The first impression is based upon a number of trifles that

catch your attention at the outset. A stain in the ceiling, a nail in

the wall, a feature of your neighbor’s countenance impresses itself upon

your mind, installs itself there, assumes importance, and, in spite

of yourself, all the other observations subsequently made by you group

around this spot, this nail, this grimace. Think over it, dear reader,

and you will see that every opinion you may have as to a fact, a person,

or an object has been sensibly influenced by the recollection of the

little trifle that caught your eye at the first glance. What young

girl victim of first impressions has not refused one or two husbands on

account of a waistcoat too loose, a cravat badly tied, an inopportune

sneeze, a foolish smile, or a boot too pointed at the toe?

One does not like admitting to one’s self that such trifles can serve as

a base to the opinion one has of any one, and one must seek attentively

in order to discover within one’s mind these unacknowledged germs.

I recollect quite well that the first time I had the honor of calling

on Madame de M., I noticed that one of her teeth, the first molar on

the right, was quite black. I only caught a glimpse of the little black

monster, such was the care taken to hide it, yet I could not get

this discovery out of my head. I soon noticed that Madame de M. made

frightful grimaces to hide her tooth, and that she took only

the smallest possible mouthfuls at table to spare the nervous

susceptibilities of the little monster.

I arrived at the pitch of accounting for all the mental and physical

peculiarities of Madame de M. by the presence of this slight blemish,

and despite myself this black tooth personified the Countess so well

that even now, although it has been replaced by another magnificent one,

twice as big and as white as the bottom of a plate, even now, I say,

Madame de M. can not open her mouth without my looking naturally at it.

But to return to our subject. Amid all this conjugal happiness, so

delightfully surrounded, face to face with dear old Oscar, so good, so

confiding, so much in love with this little cherub in a Louis XV dress,

who carried grace and naivete to so strange a pitch, I had been struck

by the too well combed and foppish head of the cousin in the white

waistcoat. This head had attracted my attention like the stain on the

ceiling of which I spoke just now, like the Countess’s black tooth, and

despite myself I did not take my eyes off the angler as he passed the

silver blade of his knife through a slice of that indigestible fruit

which I like to see on the plates of others, but can not tolerate on my

own.

After dinner, which lasted a very long time, we went into the garden,

where coffee had been served, and stretched ourselves out beatifically,

cigar in mouth. All was calm and silent about us, the insects had ceased

their music, and in an opaline sky little violet clouds were sleeping.

Oscar, with a happy air, pointed out to me the famous mill, the quiet

valley, and farther on his loved stream, in which the sun, before

setting, was reflecting itself amid the reeds. Meanwhile the little

queen on her high heels flitted round the cups like a child playing

at party-giving, and with a thousand charming touches poured out the

boiling coffee, the odor of which blended deliciously with the perfume

of the flowers, the hay, and the woods.

When she had finished she sat down beside her husband, so close that her

skirt half hid my friend, and unceremoniously taking the cigar from his

lips, held it at a distance, with a little pout, that meant, “Oh, the

horrid thing!” and knocked off with her little finger the ash which

fell on the gravel. Then she broke into a laugh, and put the cigar back

between the lips of her husband held out to her.

It was charming. Oscar was no doubt accustomed to this, for he did not

seem astonished, but placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder, as one

would upon a child’s, and, kissing her on the forehead, said, “Thanks,

my dear.”

“Yes, but you are only making fun of me,” said the young wife, in a

whisper, leaning her head against her husband’s arm.

I could not help smiling, there was so much coaxing childishness and

grace in this little whispered sentence. I do not know why I turned

toward the cousin who had remained a little apart, smoking in silence.

He seemed to me rather pale; he took three or four sudden puffs, rose

suddenly under the evident influence of some moral discomfort, and

walked away beneath the trees.

“What is the matter with cousin?” said Oscar, with some interest. “What

ails him?”

“I don’t know,” answered the little queen, in the most natural manner in

the world, “some idea about fishing, no doubt.”

Night began to fall; we had remained as I have said a long time at

table. It was about nine o’clock. The cousin returned and took the seat

he had occupied before, but from this moment it seemed to me that a

strange constraint crept in among us, a singular coolness showed itself.

The talk, so lively at first, slackened gradually and, despite all my

efforts to impart a little life to it, dragged wretchedly. I myself did

not feel very bright; I was haunted by the most absurd notions in the

world; I thought I had detected in the sudden departure of the cousin,

in his pallor, in his embarrassed movements, the expression of some

strong feeling which he had been powerless to hide. But how was it that

that adorable little woman with such a keen intelligent look did not

understand all this, since I understood it myself? Had not Oscar,

however confiding he might be, noted that the departure of the cousin

exactly coincided with the kiss he had given his wife? Were these two

blind, or did they pretend not to see, or was I myself the victim of

an illusion? However, conversation had died away; the mistress of the

house, singular symptom, was silent and serious, and Oscar wriggled in

his chair, like a man who is not altogether at ease. What was passing in

their minds?

Soon we heard the clock in the drawing-room strike ten, and Oscar,

suddenly rising, said: “My dear fellow, in the country it is Liberty

Hall, you know; so I will ask your permission to go in--I am rather

tired this evening. George,” he added to me, “they will show you your

room; it is on the ground floor; I hope that you will be comfortable

there.”

Everybody got up silently, and, after bidding one another good-night in

a somewhat constrained manner, sought their respective rooms. I thought,

I must acknowledge, that they went to bed rather too early at my

friend’s. I had no wish to sleep; I therefore examined my room, which

was charming. It was completely hung with an old figured tapestry framed

in gray wainscot. The bed, draped in dimity curtains, was turned down

and exhaled that odor of freshly washed linen which invites one to

stretch one’s self in it. On the table, a little gem dating from the

beginning of the reign of Louis XVI, were four or five books, evidently

chosen by Oscar and placed there for me. These little attentions touch

one, and naturally my thoughts recurred to the dear fellow, to the

strange incident of the evening, to the vexations and tortures hidden,

perhaps, by this apparent happiness. I was ridiculous that night--I

already pitied him, my poor friend.

I felt quite touched, and, full of melancholy, went and leaned against

the sill of the open window. The moon had just risen, the sky was

beautifully clear, whiffs of delicious perfumes assailed my nostrils. I

saw in the shadow of the trees glowworms sparkling on the grass, and, in

the masses of verdure lit up mysteriously by the moon, I traced strange

shapes of fantastic monsters. There was, above all, a little pointed

roof surmounted by a weathercock, buried in the trees at about fifty

paces from my window, which greatly interested me. I could not in the

obscurity make out either door or windows belonging to this singular

tower. Was it an old pigeon-house, a tomb, a deserted summer-house? I

could not tell, but its little pointed roof, with a round dormer window,

was extremely graceful. Was it chance or an artist lull of taste that

had covered this tower with creepers and flowers, and surrounded it with

foliage in such capricious fashion that it seemed to be hiding itself

in order to catch all glances? I was gazing at all this when I heard

a faint noise in the shrubbery. I looked in that direction and I

saw--really, it was an anxious moment--I saw a phantom clad in a white

robe and walking with mysterious and agitated rapidity. At a turning

of the path the moon shone on this phantom. Doubt was impossible; I had

before my eyes my friend’s wife. Her gait no longer had that coquettish

ease which I had noticed, but clearly indicated the agitation due to

some strong emotion.

I strove to banish the horrible suspicion which suddenly forced itself

into my mind. “No,” I said to myself, “so much innocence and beauty can

not be capable of deception; no doubt she has forgotten her fan or her

embroidery, on one of the benches there.” But instead of making her way

toward the benches I noticed on the right, the young wife turned to

the left, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the grove in which was

hidden the mysterious turret.

My heart ached. “Where is she going, the hapless woman?” I exclaimed

to myself. “At any rate, I will not let her imagine any one is watching

her.” And I hurriedly blew out my candle. I wanted to close my window,

go to bed, and see nothing more, but an invincible curiosity took me

back to the window. I had only been there a few minutes when I plainly

distinguished halting and timid footsteps on the gravel. I could see no

one at first, but there was no doubt that the footsteps were those of a

man. I soon had a proof that I was not mistaken; the elongated outline

of the cousin showed up clearly against the dark mass of shrubbery. I

should have liked to have stopped him, the wretch, for his intention was

evident; he was making his way toward the thicket in which the little

queen had disappeared. I should have liked to shout to him, “You are

a villain; you shall go no farther.” But had I really any right to act

thus? I was silent, but I coughed, however, loud enough to be heard by

him.

He suddenly paused in his uneasy walk, looked round on all sides with

visible anxiety, then, seized by I know not what impulse, darted toward

the pavilion. I was overwhelmed. What ought I to do? Warn my friend, my

childhood’s companion? Yes, no doubt, but I felt ashamed to pour despair

into the mind of this good fellow and to cause a horrible exposure. “If

he can be kept in ignorance,” I said to myself, “and then perhaps I am

wrong--who knows? Perhaps this rendezvous is due to the most natural

motive possible.”

I was seeking to deceive myself, to veil the evidence of my own eyes,

when suddenly one of the house doors opened noisily, and Oscar--Oscar

himself, in all the disorder of night attire, his hair rumpled, and his

dressing-gown floating loosely, passed before my window. He ran rather

than walked; but the anguish of his heart was too plainly revealed in

the strangeness of his movements. He knew all. I felt that a mishap was

inevitable. “Behold the outcome of all his happiness, behold the bitter

poison enclosed in so fair a vessel!” All these thoughts shot through

my mind like arrows. It was necessary above all to delay the explosion,

were it only for a moment, a second, and, beside myself, without giving

myself time to think of what I was going to say to him, I cried in a

sharp imperative tone:

“Oscar, come here; I want to speak to you.”

He stopped as if petrified. He was ghastly pale, and, with an infernal

smile, replied, “I have no time-later on.”

“Oscar, you must, I beg of you--you are mistaken.”

At these words he broke into a fearful laugh.

“Mistaken--mistaken!”

And he ran toward the pavilion.

Seizing the skirt of his dressing-gown, I held him tightly, exclaiming:

“Don’t go, my dear fellow, don’t go; I beg of you on my knees not to

go.”

By way of reply he gave me a hard blow on the arm with his fist,

exclaiming:

“What the devil is the matter with you?”

“I tell you that you can not go there, Oscar,” I said, in a voice which

admitted of no contradiction.

“Then why did not you tell me at once.”

And feverishly snatching his dressing-gown from my grasp, he began to

walk frantically up and down.

CHAPTER XVII. I SUP WITH MY WIFE

That evening, which chanced to be Christmas Eve, it was infernally cold.

The snow was falling in heavy flakes, and, driven by the wind, beat

furiously against the window panes. The distant chiming of the

bells could just be heard through this heavy and woolly atmosphere.

Foot-passengers, wrapped in their cloaks, slipped rapidly along, keeping

close to the house and bending their heads to the wintry blast.

Enveloped in my dressing-gown, and tapping with my fingers on the

window-panes, I was smiling at the half-frozen passers-by, the north

wind, and the snow, with the contented look of a man who is in a warm

room and has on his feet comfortable flannel-lined slippers, the soles

of which are buried in a thick carpet. At the fireside my wife was

cutting out something and smiling at me from time to time; a new book

awaited me on the mantelpiece, and the log on the hearth kept shooting

out with a hissing sound those little blue flames which invite one to

poke it.

“There is nothing that looks more dismal than a man tramping through the

snow, is there?” said I to my wife.

“Hush,” said she, lowering the scissors which she held in her hand; and,

after smoothing her chin with her fingers, slender, rosy, and plump at

their tips, she went on examining the pieces of stuff she had cut out.

“I say that it is ridiculous to go out in the cold when it is so easy to

remain at home at one’s own fireside.”

“Hush.”

“But what are you doing that is so important?”

“I--I am cutting out a pair of braces for you,” and she set to work

again. But, as in cutting out she kept her head bent, I noticed, on

passing behind her, her soft, white neck, which she had left bare that

evening by dressing her hair higher than usual. A number of little downy

hairs were curling there. This kind of down made me think of those ripe

peaches one bites so greedily. I drew near, the better to see, and I

kissed the back of my wife’s neck.

“Monsieur!” said Louise, suddenly turning round.

“Madame,” I replied, and we both burst out laughing.

“Christmas Eve,” said I.

“Do you wish to excuse yourself and to go out?”

“Do you mean to complain?”

“Yes, I complain that you are not sufficiently impressed by the fact of

its being Christmas Eve. The ding-ding-dong of the bells of Notre Dame

fails to move you; and just now when the magic-lantern passed beneath

the window, I looked at you while pretending to work, and you were quite

calm.”

“I remain calm when the magic-lantern is going by! Ah! my dear, you are

very severe on me, and really--”

“Yes, yes, jest about it, but it was none the less true that the

recollections of your childhood have failed.”

“Now, my dear, do you want me to leave my boots out on the hearth this

evening on going to bed? Do you want me to call in the magic-lantern

man, and to look out a big sheet and a candle end for him, as my poor

mother used to do? I can still see her as she used to entrust her white

sheet to him. ‘Don’t make a hole in it, at least,’ she would say. How

we used to clap our hands in the mysterious darkness! I can recall all

those joys, my dear, but you know so many other things have happened

since then. Other pleasures have effaced those.”

“Yes, I can understand, your bachelor pleasures; and, there, I am

sure that this Christmas Eve is the first you have passed by your own

fireside, in your dressing-gown, without supper; for you used to sup on

Christmas Eve.”

“To sup, to sup.”

“Yes, you supped; I will wager you did.”

“I have supped two or three times, perhaps, with friends, you know; two

sous’ worth of roasted chestnuts and--”

“A glass of sugar and water.”

“Oh, pretty nearly so. It was all very simple; as far as I can

recollect. We chatted a little and went to bed.”

“And he says that without a smile. You have never breathed a word to me

of all these simple pleasures.”

“But, my dear, all that I am telling you is strictly true. I remember

that once, however, it was rather lively. It was at Ernest’s, and we had

some music. Will you push that log toward me? But, never mind; it will

soon be midnight, and that is the hour when reasonable people--”

Louise, rising and throwing her arms around my neck, interrupted me

with: “Well, I don’t want to be reasonable, I want to wipe out all your

memories of chestnuts and glasses of sugar and water.”

Then pushing me into my dressing-room she locked the door.

“But, my dear, what is the matter with you?” said I through the keyhole.

“I want ten minutes, no more. Your newspaper is on the mantelpiece; you

have not read it this evening. There are some matches in the corner.”

I heard a clatter of crockery, a rustling of silk my wife mad?

Louise soon came and opened the door.

“Don’t scold me for having shut you up,” she said, kissing me. “Look how

I have beautified myself? Do you recognize the coiffure you are so

fond of, the chignon high, and the neck bare? Only as my poor neck is

excessively timid, it would have never consented to show itself thus if

I had not encouraged it a little by wearing my dress low. And then one

must put on full uniform to sup with the authorities.”

“To sup?”

“Certainly, to sup with you; don’t you see my illuminations and this

table covered with flowers and a heap of good things? I had got it all

ready in the alcove; but you understand that to roll the table up to the

fire and make a little toilette, I wanted to be alone. Come, Monsieur,

take your place at table. I am as hungry as a hunter. May I offer you a

wing of cold chicken?”

“Your idea is charming, but, dear, really I am ashamed; I am in my

dressing-gown.”

“Take off your dressing-gown if it incommodes you, Monsieur, but don’t

leave this chicken wing on my hands. I want to serve you myself.” And,

rising, she turned her sleeves up to the elbow, and placed her table

napkin on her arm.

“It is thus that the waiters at the restaurant do it, is it not?”

“Exactly; but, waiter, allow me at least to kiss your hand.”

“I have no time,” said she, laughing, sticking the corkscrew into the

neck of the bottle. “Chambertin--it is a pretty name; and then do you

remember that before our marriage (how hard this cork is!) you told me

that you liked it on account of a poem by Alfred de Musset? which,

by the way, you have not let me read yet. Do you see the two little

Bohemian glasses which I bought expressly for this evening? We will

drink each other’s health in them.”

“And his, too, eh?”

“The heir’s, poor dear love of an heir! I should think so. And then I

will put away the two glasses against this time next year; they shall

be our Christmas Eve glasses? Every year we will sup like this together,

however old we may get.”

“But, my dear, how about the time when we have no longer any teeth?”

“Well, we will sup on good strong soups; it will be very nice, all the

same. Another piece, please, with some of the jelly. Thanks.”

As she held out her plate I noticed her arm, the outline of which was

lost in lace.

“Why are you looking up my sleeve instead of eating?”

“I am looking at your arm, dear. You are charming, let me tell you, this

evening. That coiffure suits you so well, and that dress which I was

unacquainted with.”

“Well, when one seeks to make a conquest--”

“How pretty you look, pet!”

“Is it true that you think me charming, pretty, and a pet this evening?

Well, then,” lowering her eyes and smiling at her bracelets, “in that

case I do not see why--”

“What is it you do not see, dear?”

“I do not see any reason why you should not come and give me just a

little kiss.”

And as the kiss was prolonged, she said to me, amid bursts of laughter,

her head thrown back, and showing the double row of her white teeth: “I

should like some pie; yes, some brie! You will break my Bohemian glass,

the result of my economy. You always cause some mishap when you want to

kiss me. Do you recollect at Madame de Brill’s ball, two days before

our marriage, how you tore my skirt while waltzing in the little

drawing-room?”

“Because it is difficult to do two things at once-to keep step and to

kiss one’s partner.”

“I recollect, too, when mamma asked how my skirt had got torn, I felt

that I was blushing up to my ears. And Madame D., that old jaundiced

fairy, who said to me with her Lenten smile, ‘How flushed you are

tonight, my dear child!’ I could have strangled her! I said it was the

key of the door that had caught it. I looked at you out of the corner of

my eye; you were pulling your moustache and seemed greatly annoyed--you

are keeping all the truffles for yourself; that is kind--not that one;

I want the big black one there in the corner-it was very wrong all the

same, for--oh! not quite full--I do not want to be tipsy--for, after

all, if we had not been married--and that might have happened, for

you know they say that marriages only depend on a thread. Well, if the

thread had not been strong enough, I should have remained a maid with a

kiss on my shoulder, and a nice thing that would have been.”

“Bah! it does not stain.”

“Yes, Monsieur, it does, I beg your pardon. It stains so much that there

are husbands, I believe, who even shed their blood to wash out such

little stains.”

“But I was joking, dear. Hang it!--don’t you think--yes, certainly, hang

it!”

“Ah! that’s right, I like to see you angry. You are a trifle jealous,

dear--oh! that is too bad; I asked you for the big black one, and you

have gone and eaten it.”

“I am sorry, dear; I quite forgot about it.”

“It was the same at the Town Hall, where I was obliged to jog your elbow

to make you answer ‘Yes’ to the Mayor’s kind words.”

“Kind!”

“Yes, kind. I thought him charming. No one could have been more graceful

than he was in addressing me. ‘Mademoiselle, will you consent to

accept for your husband that great, ugly fellow standing beside you?’”

(Laughing, with her mouth full.) “I wanted to say to him, ‘Let us come

to an understanding, Mr. Mayor; there is something to be said on either

side.’ I am choking!”--she bursts out laughing--“I was wrong not to

impose restrictions. Your health, dear! I am teasing you; it is very

stupid. I said ‘Yes’ with all my heart, I can assure you, dear, and I

thought the word too weak a one. When I think that all women, even the

worst, say that word, I feel ashamed not to have found another.” Holding

out her glass: “To our golden wedding--will you touch glasses?”

“And to his baptism, little mamma.”

In a low voice: “Tell me--are you sorry you married me?”

Laughing, “Yes.” Kissing her on the shoulder, “I think I have found the

stain again; it was just there.”

“It is two in the morning, the fire is out, and I am a little--you won’t

laugh now? Well, I am a little dizzy.”

“A capital pie, eh?”

“A capital pie! We shall have a cup of tea for breakfast tomorrow, shall

we not?”

CHAPTER XVIII. FROM ONE THING TO ANOTHER

SCENE.--The country in autumn--The wind is blowing without--MADAME,

seated by the fireside in a large armchair, is engaged in needlework

--MONSIEUR, seated in front of her, is watching the flames of the

fire--A long silence.

Monsieur--Will you pass me the poker, my dear?

Madame--(humming to herself)--“And yet despite so many fears.” (Spoken.)

Here is the poker. (Humming.) “Despite the painful----”

Monsieur--That is by Mehul, is it not, my dear? Ah! that is music--I

saw Delaunay Riquier in Joseph. (He hums as he makes up the fire.) “Holy

pains.” (Spoken.) One wonders why it does not burn, and, by Jove! it

turns out to be green wood. Only he was a little too robust--Riquier. A

charming voice, but he is too stout.

Madame--(holding her needlework at a distance, the better to judge of

the effect)--Tell me, George, would you have this square red or black?

You see, the square near the point. Tell me frankly.

Monsieur--(singing) “If you can repent.” (Spoken without turning his

head.) Red, my dear; red. I should not hesitate; I hate black.

Madame--Yes, but if I make that red it will lead me to--(She reflects.)

Monsieur--Well, my dear, if it leads you away, you must hold fast to

something to save yourself.

Madame--Come, George, I am speaking seriously. You know that if this

little square is red, the point can not remain violet, and I would not

change that for anything.

Monsieur--(slowly and seriously)--My dear, will you follow the advice

of an irreproachable individual, to whose existence you have linked your

fate? Well, make that square pea-green, and so no more about it. Just

look whether a coal fire ever looked like that.

Madame--I should only be too well pleased to use up my pea-green wool; I

have a quantity of it.

Monsieur--Then where lies the difficulty?

Madame--The difficulty is that pea-green is not sufficiently religious.

Monsieur--Hum! (Humming.) Holy pains! (Spoken.) Will you be kind

enough to pass the bellows? Would it be indiscreet to ask why the poor

pea-green, which does not look very guilty, has such an evil reputation?

You are going in for religious needlework, then, my dear?

Madame--Oh, George! I beg of you to spare me your fun. I have been

familiar with it for a long time, you know, and it is horribly

disagreeable to me. I am simply making a little mat for the

confessional-box of the vicar. There! are you satisfied? You know what

it is for, and you must understand that under the present circumstances

pea-green would be altogether out of place.

Monsieur--Not the least in the world. I can swear to you that I could

just as well confess with pea-green under my feet. It is true that I am

naturally of a resolute disposition. Use up your wool; I can assure

you that the vicar will accept it all the same. He does not know how to

refuse. (He plies the bellows briskly.)

Madame--You are pleased, are you not?

Monsieur--Pleased at what, dear?

Madame--Pleased at having vented your sarcasm, at having passed a jest

on one who is absent. Well, I tell you that you are a bad man, seeing

that you seek to shake the faith of those about you. My beliefs had

need be very fervent, principles strong, and have real virtue, to resist

these incessant attacks. Well, why are you looking at me like that?

Monsieur--I want to be converted, my little apostle. You are so

pretty when you speak out; your eyes glisten, your voice rings, your

gestures--I am sure that you could speak like that for a long time, eh?

(He kisses her hand, and takes two of her curls and ties them under hey

chin.) You are looking pretty, my pet.

Madame--Oh! you think you have reduced me to silence because you have

interrupted me. Ah! there, you have tangled my hair. How provoking you

are! It will take me an hour to put it right. You are not satisfied with

being a prodigy of impiety, but you must also tangle my hair. Come, hold

out your hands and take this skein of wool.

Monsieur--(sitting down on a stool, which he draws as closely as

possible to Madame, and holding up his hands) My little Saint John!

Madame--Not so close, George; not so close. (She smiles despite

herself.) How silly you are! Please be careful; you will break my wool.

Monsieur--Your religious wool.

Madame--Yes, my religious wool. (She gives him a little pat on the

cheek.) Why do you part your hair so much on one side, George? It would

suit you much better in the middle, here. Yes, you may kiss me, but

gently.

Monsieur--Can you guess what I am thinking of?

Madame--How do you imagine I could guess that?

Monsieur--Well, I am thinking of the barometer which is falling and of

the thermometer which is falling too.

Madame--You see, cold weather is coming on and my mat will never be

finished. Come, let us make haste.

Monsieur--I was thinking of the thermometer which is falling and of my

room which faces due north.

Madame--Did you not choose it yourself? My wool! Good gracious! my wool!

Oh! the wicked wretch!

Monsieur--In summer my room with the northern aspect is, no doubt, very

pleasant; but when autumn comes, when the wind creeps in, when the rain

trickles down the windowpanes, when the fields, the country, seem hidden

under a huge veil of sadness, when the spoils of our woodlands strew the

earth, when the groves have lost their mystery and the nightingale her

voice--oh! then the room with the northern aspect has a very northern

aspect, and--

Madame--(continuing to wind her wool)--What nonsense you are talking!

Monsieur--I protest against autumns, that is all. God’s sun is hidden

and I seek another. Is not that natural, my little fairhaired saint, my

little mystic lamb, my little blessed palmbranch? This new sun I find

in you, pet--in your look, in the sweet odor of your person, in the

rustling of your skirt, in the down on your neck which one notices by

the lamp-light when you bend over the vicar’s mat, in your nostril which

expands when my lips approach yours--

Madame--Will you be quiet, George? It is Friday, and Ember week.

Monsieur--And your dispensation? (He kisses her.) Don’t you see that

your hand shakes, that you blush, that your heart is beating?

Madame--George, will you have done, sir? (She pulls away her hand,

throws herself back in the chair, and avoids her husband’s glance.)

Monsieur--Your poor little heart beats, and it is right, dear; it knows

that autumn is the time for confidential chats and evening caresses, the

time for kisses. And you know it too, for you defend yourself poorly,

and I defy you to look me in the face. Come! look me in the face.

Madame--(she suddenly leans toward hey husband, the ball of wool rolling

into the fireplace, the pious task falling to the ground. She takes his

head between her hands)--Oh, what a dear, charming husband you would be

if you had--

Monsieur--If I had what? Tell me quickly.

Madame--If you had a little religion. I should only ask for such a

little at the beginning. It is not very difficult, I can assure you.

While, now, you are really too--

Monsieur--Pea-green, eh?

Madame--Yes, pea-green, you great goose. (She laughs frankly.)

Monsieur--(lifting his hands in the air)--Sound trumpets! Madame has

laughed; Madame is disarmed. Well, my snow-white lamb, I am going to

finish my story; listen properly, there, like that--your hands here, my

head so. Hush! don’t laugh. I am speaking seriously. As I was saying to

you, the north room is large but cold, poetic but gloomy, and I will add

that two are not too many in this wintry season to contend against the

rigors of the night. I will further remark that if the sacred ties of

marriage have a profoundly social significance, it is--do not interrupt

me--at that hour of one’s existence when one shivers on one’s solitary

couch.

Madame--You can not be serious.

Monsieur--Well, seriously, I should like the vicar’s mat piously spread

upon your bed, to keep us both warm together, this very evening. I wish

to return as speedily as possible to the intimacy of conjugal life. Do

you hear how the wind blows and whistles through the doors? The fire

splutters, and your feet are frozen. (He takes her foot in his hands.)

Madame--But you are taking off my slipper, George.

Monsieur--Do you think, my white lamb, that I am going to leave your

poor little foot in that state? Let it stay in my hand to be warmed.

Nothing is so cold as silk. What! openwork stockings? My dear, you are

rather dainty about your foot-gear for a Friday. Do you know, pet, you

can not imagine how gay I wake up when the morning sun shines into my

room. You shall see. I am no longer a man; I am a chaffinch; all the

joys of spring recur to me. I laugh, I sing, I speechify, I tell tales

to make one die of laughter. Sometimes I even dance.

Madame--Come now! I who in the morning like neither noise nor broad

daylight--how little all that suits!

Monsieur--(suddenly changing his tone)--Did I say that I liked all that?

The morning sun? Never in autumn, my sweet dove, never. I awake, on the

contrary full of languor and poesy; I was like that in my very cradle.

We will prolong the night, and behind the drawn curtain, behind the

closed shutter, we will remain asleep without sleeping. Buried in

silence and shadow, delightfully stretched beneath your warm eider-down

coverlets, we will slowly enjoy the happiness of being together, and we

will wish one another good-morning only on the stroke of noon. You do

not like noise, dear. I will not say a word. Not a murmur to disturb

your unfinished dream and warn you that you are no longer sleeping;

not a breath to recall you to reality; not a movement to rustle the

coverings. I will be silent as a shade, motionless as a statue; and if

I kiss you--for, after all, I have my weaknesses--it will be done with

a thousand precautions, my lips will scarcely brush your sleeping

shoulder; and if you quiver with pleasure as you stretch out your arms,

if your eye half uncloses at the murmur of my kiss, if your lips smile

at me, if I kiss you, it would be because you would like me to, and I

shall have nothing to reproach myself with.

Madame--(her eyes half closed, leaning back in hey armchair, her head

bent with emotion, she places her hands before his mouth. In a low

voice)--Hush, hush! Don’t say that, dear; not another word! If you knew

how wrong it was!

Monsieur--Wrong! What is there that is wrong? Is your heart of marble or

adamant, that you do not see that I love you, you naughty child? That

I hold out my arms to you, that I long to clasp you to my heart, and to

fall asleep in your hair? What is there more sacred in the world than to

love one’s wife or love one’s husband? (Midnight strikes.)

Madame--(she suddenly changes hey expression at the sound, throws her

arms round her husband, and hurriedly kisses him thrice)--You thought I

did not love you, eh, dear? Oh, yes! I love you. Great baby! not to see

that I was waiting the time.

Monsieur--What time, dear?

Madame--The time. It has struck twelve, see. (She blushes crimson.)

Friday is over. (She holds out her hand for him to kiss.)

Monsieur--Are you sure the clock is not five minutes fast, love?

CHAPTER XIX. A LITTLE CHAT

MADAME F-----MADAME H------

(These ladies are seated at needlework as they talk.)

Madame F--For myself, you know, my dear, I fulfil my duties tolerably,

still I am not what would be called a devotee. By no means. Pass me your

scissors. Thanks.

Madame H--You are quite welcome, dear. What a time those little squares

of lace must take. I am like yourself in respect of religion; in the

first place, I think that nothing should be overdone. Have you ever-I

have never spoken to any one on the subject, but I see your ideas are so

in accordance with my own that--

Madame F--Come, speak out, dear; you trust me a little, I hope.

Madame H--Well, then, have you--tell me truly--ever had any doubts?

Madame F--(after reflecting for a moment)--Doubts! No. And you?

Madame H--I have had doubts, which has been a real grief to me. Heavens!

how I have wept.

Madame F--I should think so, my poor dear. For my own part, my faith is

very strong. These doubts must have made you very unhappy.

Madame H--Terribly so. You know, it seems as if everything failed you;

there is a vacancy all about you--I have never spoken about it to my

husband, of course--Leon is a jewel of a man, but he will not listen to

anything of that kind. I can still see him, the day after our marriage;

I was smoothing my hair--broad bands were then worn, you know.

Madame F--Yes, yes; they were charming. You will see that we shall go

back to them.

Madame H--I should not be surprised; fashion is a wheel that turns.

Leon, then, said to me the day after our wedding: “My dear child, I

shall not hinder you going to church, but I beg you, for mercy’s sake,

never to say a word to me about it.”

Madame F--Really, Monsieur H. said that to you?

Madame H--Upon my honor. Oh! my husband is all that is most--or, if you

prefer it, all that is least--

Madame F--Yes, yes, I understand. That is a grief, you know. Mine is

only indifferent. From time to time he says some disagreeable things to

me on the question, but I am sure he could be very easily brought back

to the right. At the first illness he has, you shall see. When he has

only a cold in the head, I notice the change. You have not seen my

thimble?

Madame H--Here it is. Do not be too sure of that, dear; men are not to

be brought back by going “chk, chk” to them, like little chickens. And

then, though I certainly greatly admire the men who observe religious

practices, you know me well enough not to doubt that--I think, as I told

you, that nothing should be exaggerated. And yourself, pet, should you

like to see your husband walking before the banner with a great wax

taper in his right hand and a bouquet of flowers in his left?

Madame F--Oh! no, indeed. Why not ask me at once whether I should like

to see Leon in a black silk skull cap, with cotton in his ears and a

holy water sprinkler in his hand? One has no need to go whining about a

church with one’s nose buried in a book to be a pious person; there is a

more elevated form of religion, which is that of--of refined people, you

know.

Madame H--Ah! when you speak like that, I am of your opinion. I think,

for instance, that there is nothing looks finer than a man while the

host is being elevated. Arms crossed, no book, head slightly bowed,

grave look, frock coat buttoned up. Have you seen Monsieur de P. at

mass? How well he looks!

Madame F--He is such a fine man, and, then, he dresses so well. Have

you seen him on horseback? Ah! so you have doubts; but tell me what they

are, seeing we are indulging in confidences.

Madame H--I can hardly tell you. Doubts, in short; about hell, for

instance, I have had horrible doubts. Oh! but do not let us speak about

that; I believe it is wrong even to think of it.

Madame F--I have very broad views on that point; I never think about it.

Besides, my late confessor helped me. “Do not seek too much,” he always

said to me, “do not try to understand that which is unfathomable.”

You did not know Father Gideon? He was a jewel of a confessor; I was

extremely pleased with him. Not too tedious, always discreet, and, above

all, well-bred. He turned monk from a romantic cause--a penitent was

madly in love with him.

Madame H--Impossible!

Madame F--Yes, really. What! did you not know about it? The success

of the monastery was due to that accident. Before the coming of Father

Gideon it vegetated, but on his coming the ladies soon flocked there

in crowds. They organized a little guild, entitled “The Ladies of the

Agony.” They prayed for the Chinese who had died without confession, and

wore little death’s heads in aluminum as sleeve-links. It became very

fashionable, as you are aware, and the good fathers organized, in turn,

a registry for men servants; and the result is that, from one thing

leading to another, the community has become extremely wealthy. I have

even heard that one of the most important railway stations in Paris is

shortly to be moved, so that the size of their garden can be increased,

which is rather restricted at present.

Madame H--As to that, it is natural enough that men should want a

place to walk in at home; but what I do not understand is that a woman,

however pious she may be, should fall in love with a priest. It is all

very well, but that is no longer piety; it is--fanaticism. I venerate

priests, I can say so truly, but after all I can not imagine myself--you

will laugh at me--ha, ha, ha!

Madame F--Not at all. Ha, ha, ha! what a child you are!

Madame H--(working with great briskness)--Well, I can not imagine that

they are men--like the others.

Madame F--(resuming work with equal ardor)--And yet, my dear, people say

they are.

Madame H--There are so many false reports set afloat. (A long silence.)

Madame F--(in a discreet tone of voice)--After all, there are priests

who have beards--the Capuchins, for instance.

Madame H--Madame de V. has a beard right up to her eyes, so that counts

for nothing, dear.

Madame F--That counts for nothing. I do not think so. In the first

place, Madame de V.’s beard is not a perennial beard; her niece told me

that she sheds her moustaches every autumn. What can a beard be that can

not stand the winter? A mere trifle.

Madame H--A mere trifle that is horribly ugly, my dear.

Madame F--Oh! if Madame de V. had only moustaches to frighten away

people, one might still look upon her without sorrow, but--

Madame H--I grant all that. Let us allow that the Countess’s moustache

and imperial are a nameless species of growth. I do not attach much

importance to the point, you understand. She has a chin of heartbreaking

fertility, that is all.

Madame F--To return to what we were saying, how is it that the men

who are strongest, most courageous, most manly--soldiers, in fact--are

precisely those who have most beard?

Madame H--That is nonsense, for then the pioneers would be braver than

the Generals; and, in any case, there is not in France, I am sure, a

General with as much beard as a Capuchin. You have never looked at a

Capuchin then?

Madame F--Oh, yes! I have looked at one quite close. It is a rather

funny story. Fancy Clementine’s cook having a brother a Capuchin--an

ex-jeweller, a very decent man. In consequence of misfortunes in

business--it was in 1848, business was at a stand-still--in short, he

lost his senses--no, he did not lose his senses, but he threw himself

into the arms of Heaven.

Madame H--Oh! I never knew that! When? Clementine--

Madame F--I was like you, I would not believe it, but one day Clementine

said to me: “Since you will not believe in my Capuchin, come and see me

tomorrow about three o’clock; he will be paying a visit to his sister.

Don’t have lunch first; we will lunch together.” Very good. I went the

next day with Louise, who absolutely insisted upon accompanying me, and

I found at Clementine’s five or six ladies installed in the drawing-room

and laughing like madcaps. They had all come to see the Capuchin.

“Well,” said I, as I went in, when they all began to make signs to me

and whisper, “Hush, hush!” He was in the kitchen.

Madame H--And what was he like?

Madame F--Oh! very nice, except his feet; you know how it always gives

one a chill to look at their feet; but, in short, he was very amiable.

He was sent for into the drawing-room, but he would not take anything

except a little biscuit and a glass of water, which took away our

appetites. He was very lively; told us that we were coquettes with our

little bonnets and our full skirts. He was very funny, always a little

bit of the jeweller at the bottom, but with plenty of good nature and

frankness. He imitated the buzzing of a fly for us; it was wonderful. He

also wanted to show us a little conjuring trick, but he needed two corks

for it, and unfortunately his sister could only find one.

Madame H--No matter, I can not understand Clementine engaging a servant

like that.

Madame F--Why? The brother is a guarantee.

Madame H--Of morality, I don’t say no; but it seems to me that a girl

like that can not be very discreet in her ways.

Madame F--How do you make that out?

Madame H--I don’t know, I can not reason the matter out, but it seems to

me that it must be so, that is all,... besides, I should not like to see

a monk in my kitchen, close to the soup. Oh, mercy! no!

Madame F--What a child you are!

Madame H--That has nothing to do with religious feelings, my dear; I do

not attack any dogma. Ah! if I were to say, for instance--come now, if I

were to say, what now?

Madame F--In point of fact, what really is dogma?

Madame H--Well, it is what can not be attacked. Thus, for instance, a

thing that is evident, you understand me, is unassailable,... or else it

should be assailed,... in short, it can not be attacked. That is why it

is monstrous to allow the Jewish religion and the Protestant religion in

France, because these religions can be assailed, for they have no dogma.

I give you this briefly, but in your prayer-book you will find the list

of dogmas. I am a rod of iron as regards dogmas. My husband, who, as I

said, has succeeded in inspiring me with doubts on many matters--without

imagining it, for he has never required anything of me; I must do him

that justice--but who, at any rate, has succeeded in making me neglect

many things belonging to religion, such as fasting, vespers, sermons,...

confession.

Madame F--Confession! Oh! my dear, I should never have believed that.

Madame H--It is in confidence, dear pet, that I tell you this. You will

swear never to speak of it?

Madame F--Confession! Oh! yes, I swear it. Come here, and let me kiss

you.

Madame H--You pity me, do you not?

Madame F--I can not pity you too much, for I am absolutely in the same

position.

Madame H--You, too! Good heavens! how I love you. What can one do, eh?

Must one not introduce some plan of conciliation into the household,

sacrifice one’s belief a little to that of one’s husband?

Madame F--No doubt. For instance, how would you have me go to high mass,

which is celebrated at my parish church at eleven o’clock exactly? That

is just our breakfast time. Can I let my husband breakfast alone? He

would never hinder me from going to high mass, he has said so a thousand

times, only he has always added, “When you want to go to mass during

breakfast time, I only ask one thing--it is to give me notice the day

before, so that I may invite some friends to keep me company.”

Madame H--But only fancy, pet, our two husbands could not be more alike

if they were brothers. Leon has always said, “My dear little chicken--”

Madame F--Ha! ha! ha!

Madame H--Yes, that is his name for me; you know how lively he is. He

has always said to me, then, “My dear little chicken, I am not a man to

do violence to your opinions, but in return give way to me as regards

some of your pious practices.” I only give you the mere gist of it; it

was said with a thousand delicacies, which I suppress. And I have agreed

by degrees,... so that, while only paying very little attention to the

outward observances of religion, I have remained, as I told you, a bar

of iron as regards dogmas. Oh! as to that, I would not give way an inch,

a hair-breadth, and Leon is the first to tell me that I am right. After

all, dogma is everything; practice, well, what would you? If I could

bring Leon round, it would be quite another thing. How glad I am to have

spoken to you about all this.

Madame F--Have we not been chattering? But it is half-past five, and I

must go and take my cinchona bark. Thirty minutes before meals, it is a

sacred duty. Will you come, pet?

Madame H--Stop a moment, I have lost my thimble again and must find it.

BOOK 3.