THE DEMOISELLES DE COATNAMPRUN
Across the way from our house in Landerneau lived two old maiden
ladies, the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun. The Marquis and Marquise de
Coatnamprun, their father and mother, had died many years ago, and
most of the small fortune had been filched from them in some
iniquitous lawsuit. I remember them very clearly, for I often went to
see them with _maman_ and Tante Rose, who watched over them and
protected them; gentle, austere figures, dressed always in threadbare
black, almost like nuns, with long, white bone rosaries hanging at
their sides, and on their breasts, tied with a red cord, great
crucifixes of brass and wood. Around their necks they wore white
handkerchiefs folded, the points behind, and when they went out,
old-fashioned black _capotes_, which were large bonnets mounted and
drawn on wires, a quilling of white inside around the face. The elder
was called Isménie, and the younger Suzette; they had the tenderest
love for each other.
Their house was one of the oldest in Landerneau and was covered with
strange carvings. The great knocker always fascinated me, for it
represented a devil with his pitchfork, and one lifted the pitchfork
to knock. Almost always it was one of the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun
who answered, and she always held a clean white handkerchief by the
center, the points shaken out, and always swept us, as she appeared
before us in the doorway, a wonderful, old-fashioned, stately court
curtsey. The sisters were plain, with dark, mild eyes, faded skins,
and pale, withered lips; but their teeth were beautiful, and they had
abundant hair. Isménie's features were harsh, and her half-closed,
near-sighted eyes gave her a cold and haughty expression; but in
reality she was a lamb of gentleness, and no one seeing the sisters in
their poverty would have taken them for anything but _grandes dames_.
[Illustration: "Gentle, austere figures, dressed always in threadbare
black"]
When we were ushered into the house it was usually into the
dining-room that we went. The drawing-room, which was called the
_salle de compagnie_, was used only on ceremonious occasions, Easter,
the bishop's visit, or when the _noblesse_ from the surrounding
country called, and the proudest among them were proud to do so. So in
the _salle de compagnie_, where engravings of the family coats of arms
hung along the walls, the ugly, massive mahogany furniture was usually
shrouded in cotton covers, and it was in the dining-room that the
sisters sat, making clothes for the poor. Here the pictures interested
me very much; they were _naif_, brightly colored prints bought at the
Landerneau fairs, and representing events in the lives of the saints.
St. Christopher, bending with his staff in the turbulent stream, bore
on his shoulder a child so tiny that I could never imagine why its
weight should incommode him, and another doll-like child stood on the
volume held by St. Anthony of Padua. The oil-cloth cover on the table
had all the kings and queens of France marching in procession round
its border, the dates of their reigns printed above their heads.
The chairs were common straw-bottomed kitchen chairs. _Maman_
sometimes tried to persuade the sisters to paint the chairs, saying
that if they were painted bright red, for instance, it would make the
room so much more cheerful. But to any such suggestion they would
reply, with an air of gentle surprise: "Oh, but _maman_ had them like
that. We can't change anything that _maman_ had." Their large bedroom
was on the first floor, looking out at the street. It was a most
dismal room. The two four-posted beds, side by side, had canopies and
curtains of old tapestry, but this was all covered with black cambric
muslin and had the most funereal air imaginable. At the head of
Isménie's bed, crossed against the black, were two bones that she had
brought from the family vault on some occasion when the coffins had
been moved or opened. The only cheerful thing I remember was a
childish little _étagère_ fastened in a corner and filled with the
waxen figures of the _petit Jésus_, and the tiny china dogs, cats and
birds that had been among their presents on Christmas mornings. To
give an idea of the extreme simplicity and innocence of the
Demoiselles de Coatnamprun I may say here that to the end of their
lives they firmly believed that _le petit Jésus_ himself came down
their kitchen chimney on Christmas eve and left their presents for
them on the kitchen table. _Le petit Jésus_, as a matter of fact, was
on these occasions impersonated by _maman_ and Tante Rose. Tante Rose
always had the key of the sisters' house, so that at any time she
could go in and see that nothing was amiss with _ses enfants_, as she
tenderly called them,--and indeed to the end they remained lovely and
ingenuous children,--so she and _maman_, when the sisters were safely
asleep, would steal into the house and pile every sort of good thing,
from legs of mutton to _galettes_, upon the table, and fill the garden
sabots that stood ready with bonbons, handkerchiefs, and the little
china figures of animals the sisters so cherished. And always there
was a waxen figure of _le petit Jésus_ and the card with which he made
his intention clear; for "_Aux Demoiselles de Coatnamprun, du petit
Jésus_" was written upon it.
[Illustration: Old Kerandraon]
Other instances of the sisters' ignorance of life and the world I
might give, but they would simply be received with incredulity. Such
types no longer exist, and even then the sisters were unique. I do not
believe that in all their lives they knew an evil thought; they were
incapable of any form of envy or malice or uncharitableness, and
filled with delight at any good fortune that came to others and with
gratitude for their own lot in life. Sometimes Suzette, in the
intimacy of friends, would refer with simple sadness to the one drama,
if such it can be called, that had befallen them. "_Oui_," she would
say, "_Isménie a eu un chagrin d'amour_." Once, when they were young,
in their parents' lifetime, an officer had been quartered with them, a
kindly, intelligent, honest young fellow of the _bourgeoisie_, and at
once aware of the atmosphere of distinction that surrounded him. He
showed every attention to the sisters, and poor Isménie found him
altogether charming. He never even guessed at her attachment. Indeed,
no such a marriage at that time would have been possible, but she was
broken-hearted when he went away. Her sister was her confidante, and
this was the _chagrin d'amour_ to which Suzette sometimes referred.
I have said that when they walked out they wore _capotes_. On one
occasion Mlle. Suzette found in a drawer, among old rubbish put away,
a crumpled artificial rose, a pink rose, and had the strange idea of
fastening it in front of her _capote_. Isménie, when her near-sighted
eyes caught sight of it, stopped short in the street and peered at her
sister in astonishment. "But, Suzette, what have you there?" she
asked. Suzette bashfully told her that she had found the rose and
thought it might look pretty. "No, no," said Isménie, turning with her
sister back to the house, "you must not wear it. _Maman_ never wore
anything in her _capote_." It required all my mother's skill to
persuade them to allow her to dress their hair for them on the
occasion of an evening party at Tante Rose's, to which, as usual, they
were going, as "_maman_" had gone, wearing black-lace caps.
"_Voyons_, but you have such pretty hair," said _maman_. "Let me only
show you how charmingly it can be done." They were tempted, yet
uncertain and very anxious, and then _maman_ had the opportune memory
of an old picture of the marquise in youth, her hair done in puffs
upon her forehead. She brought it out triumphantly, and the sisters
yielded. They could consent to have their hair done as "_maman's_" had
been done in her youth.
[Illustration: "They were buried together on the same day"]
We children always went with our parents to the evening parties in
Landerneau. _Maman_ did not like to leave us, and it will be
remembered that in those days one dined at five o'clock and that we
children had all our meals except breakfast with our parents. It was
at a dinner-party at Tante Rose's that Mlle. Suzette, next whom I sat,
said to me smiling, with her shy dignity, "I have a present here for a
little girl who has been good," and she drew a small paper parcel from
the silk reticule that hung beside the rosary at her side. I opened
it, and found, to my delight, a sugar mouse and a tiny pipe made of
red sugar such as I knew _maman_ would never allow us to eat when we
went to the confectioner's. But here, in the presence of Mlle.
Suzette, and the gift a gift from her, I felt that I was safe, and I
devoured mouse and pipe at once, quite aware of _maman's_ amused and
rallying glance from across the table. "I saw you," she said to me
afterward. "Little ne'er-do-well, you know that I could not forbid it
when Mademoiselle Suzette was there!"
The only flower that grew in the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun's garden
was heliotrope, for that had been "_maman's_" favorite flower. They
were poor gardeners, and the little _bonne_ who came in by the day to
do the housework could give them no help in the garden. So it was
Tante Rose, trotting on her high heels, a little garden fork on her
shoulder, who appeared to do battle with the moss and dandelions and
to restore a little order. She always gave to this service the air of
a delightful game, and indeed, in her constant care of the poor old
ladies, had the prettiest skill imaginable in making her gifts weigh
nothing.
"My dears," she would say, leaning forward to look at their black
robes, "aren't these dresses getting rather shabby? Hasn't the time
come for new ones?"
"They are shabby," Isménie would answer sadly, "but _que voulez-vous,
chère Madame_, our means, as you know, are so narrow. It costs so much
to buy a dress. We could hardly afford new ones now."
"But, on the contrary, it doesn't cost so much," Tante Rose would say.
"I know some excellent woolen material, the very thing for your
dresses, and only five francs for the length. You can well afford
that, can't you? So I'll buy it for you and bring it to-morrow."
And so she would, the innocent sisters imagining five francs the price
of material for which Tante Rose paid at least thirty. Since the
sisters were very proud, for all their gentleness, and could consent
to accept nothing in the nature of a charity, and since indeed they
could hardly have lived at all on what they had, Tante Rose had woven
a far-reaching conspiracy about them. Her tradespeople had orders to
sell their meat and vegetables to the Demoiselles de Coatnamprun at
about a fifth of their value. Packets of coffee and sugar arrived at
their door, and milk and cream every morning, and when they asked the
messenger what the price might be, he would say: "_Ces dames régleront
le compte avec Monsieur le Curé_," and since they did not like to
refuse gifts from the curé, the innocent plot was never discovered. Of
course fruits from Tante Rose's garden and cakes from her kitchen were
things that could be accepted. She would bring them herself, and have
a slice of _galette_ or a fig from the big basketful with them. They
were rather greedy, poor darlings, and since any money they could save
went to the poor, they could never buy such dainties for themselves.
One extravagance, however, they had: when they came out to pay a
visit, a piece of knitting was always drawn from the reticule, and
when one asked what it was one was told in a whisper: "Silk
stockings--a Christmas present for Suzette," or Isménie, as the case
might be. Beautifully knitted, fine, openwork stockings they were.
Another contrivance for their comfort was invented by Tante Rose. They
were great cowards, afraid of the dark and in deadly fear of the
possible robbers that might enter their house at night. Tante Rose
arranged that when they went to bed a lighted, shaded lamp should be
placed in their window, the shade turned toward their room, the light
toward the street, so that any robbers passing by would be deceived
into thinking the house still on foot and forego their schemes for
breaking in.
Their hearts were tender toward all forms of life. I can see one of
them rising from her work to rescue a fly that had fallen into trouble
and, holding it delicately by the wings, lift the _persiennes_ to let
it fly away. One day in their garden I cried out in disgust at the
sight of a great earthworm writhing across a border.
"Oh, the horrid worm! Quick! A trowel, Mademoiselle, to cut it in
two."
But Mademoiselle Suzette came to look with grieved eyes.
"And why kill the poor creature, Sophie? It does us no harm," she
said, and helped the worm to disappear in the soft earth.
The Demoiselles de Coatnamprun died one winter of some pulmonary
affection and within a day of one another. They died with the
simplicity and sincerity that had marked all their lives, and toward
the end they were heard to murmur continually, while they smiled as if
in sleep, "_Maman--Papa_."
Isménie died first; but since it was seen that Suzette had only a few
hours to live, the body was kept lying on the bed near hers, and she
did not know that her beloved sister had been taken from her. They
were buried together on the same day.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "In the days of the Terror ... it had been used ... as
a prison"]
There was another and very different old lady in Landerneau of whom I
was very fond and whom, since she took a great fancy to me, I saw
often. Her daughter was a friend of _maman's_ and made a _mésalliance_
that caused the doors of Landerneau to close upon her. _Maman_,
however, remained devoted to her, and continued to see as much of her
as ever, and her mother, my old friend, was entirely indifferent to
the doors, closed or open, of Landerneau. She wore a brightly colored
Turkish silk handkerchief tied turban-wise about her head, and soft
gray-leather riding boots,--men's boots,--so that she was known in her
quarter as _Chat-botté_. In her own house she wore men's
dress-breeches, short jacket, and high boots. Her feet were remarkably
small, and the wave of hair on her forehead was as black as jet. She
was very downright and ready of speech, and used to talk to me as
though I were a person of her own age. "Do you see, Sophie," she would
say, "my poor daughter is a great goose. She struggles to be received,
and gets only buffets for her pains. Why give oneself so much trouble
for nothing?"
The disconsolate daughter and the son-in-law made their home with her
in a great old house standing on the banks of the river. He was a
wholesale wine merchant, and barrels and casks of wine stood about the
entrance. My old friend lived almost entirely in her own room on the
first floor, the strangest room. It was at once spotlessly clean and
completely untidy. The bed had no posts or canopy and was shaped like
a cradle. Bottles of salad-oil stood on the mantel-shelf, and a bunch
of carrots might be lying on the table among bundles of newspapers.
From the windows one had beautiful views up and down the river and
could see the stone bridge that had old houses built upon it. Across
the river were her gardens, and she used often to row me over to them
and to show me the immense old cherry-tree, planted by her
grandfather, that grew far down the river against the walls of an old
tower. This tower had its story, and I could not sleep at night for
thinking of it. In her girlhood mad people were shut up there. There
was only a dungeon-room, and the water often rose in it so that the
forsaken creatures stood up to their knees in water. Food was thrown
to them through the iron bars of the windows, but it was quite
insufficient, and she gave me terrible descriptions of the faces she
used to see looking out, ravenous and imploring. She remembered that
the bones protruded from the knuckles of one old man as he clutched
the bars. She used to pile loaves of bread in her little boat, row
across to the tower, and fix the loaves on the end of an oar so that
she could pass them up to the window, and she would then see the mad
people snatching the bread apart and devouring it. And when the
cherries on the great tree were ripe she used to climb up into the
branches and bend them against the window so that they might gather
the fruit themselves from among the leaves, and she herself would
gather all she could reach and throw them in. They had not even straw
to sleep on. When one of them died, the body was taken out, and this
was all the care they had. Such were the horrors in a town where
people across the river quietly ate and slept, and the church-bells
rang all day.