I
What a strange idea it was for me to choose Mademoiselle Pearl for queen
that evening!
Every year I celebrate Twelfth Night with my old friend Chantal. My
father, who was his most intimate friend, used to take me round there
when I was a child. I continued the custom, and I doubtless shall
continue it as long as I live and as long as there is a Chantal in this
world.
The Chantals lead a peculiar existence; they live in Paris as though
they were in Grasse, Evetot, or Pont-a-Mousson.
They have a house with a little garden near the observatory. They live
there as though they were in the country. Of Paris, the real Paris, they
know nothing at all, they suspect nothing; they are so far, so far
away! However, from time to time, they take a trip into it. Mademoiselle
Chantal goes to lay in her provisions, as it is called in the family.
This is how they go to purchase their provisions:
Mademoiselle Pearl, who has the keys to the kitchen closet (for the
linen closets are administered by the mistress herself), Mademoiselle
Pearl gives warning that the supply of sugar is low, that the preserves
are giving out, that there is not much left in the bottom of the coffee
bag. Thus warned against famine, Mademoiselle Chantal passes everything
in review, taking notes on a pad. Then she puts down a lot of figures
and goes through lengthy calculations and long discussions with
Mademoiselle Pearl. At last they manage to agree, and they decide upon
the quantity of each thing of which they will lay in a three months'
provision; sugar, rice, prunes, coffee, preserves, cans of peas, beans,
lobster, salt or smoked fish, etc., etc. After which the day for the
purchasing is determined on and they go in a cab with a railing round
the top and drive to a large grocery store on the other side of the
river in the new sections of the town.
Madame Chantal and Mademoiselle Pearl make this trip together,
mysteriously, and only return at dinner time, tired out, although still
excited, and shaken up by the cab, the roof of which is covered with
bundles and bags, like an express wagon.
For the Chantals all that part of Paris situated on the other side of
the Seine constitutes the new quarter, a section inhabited by a strange,
noisy population, which cares little for honor, spends its days in
dissipation, its nights in revelry, and which throws money out of the
windows. From time to time, however, the young girls are taken to the
Opera-Comique or the Theatre Francais, when the play is recommended by
the paper which is read by M. Chantal.
At present the young ladies are respectively nineteen and seventeen.
They are two pretty girls, tall and fresh, very well brought up, in
fact, too well brought up, so much so that they pass by unperceived like
two pretty dolls. Never would the idea come to me to pay the slightest
attention or to pay court to one of the young Chantal ladies; they are
so immaculate that one hardly dares speak to them; one almost feels
indecent when bowing to them.
As for the father, he is a charming man, well educated, frank, cordial,
but he likes calm and quiet above all else, and has thus contributed
greatly to the mummifying of his family in order to live as he pleased
in stagnant quiescence. He reads a lot, loves to talk and is readily
affected. Lack of contact and of elbowing with the world has made his
moral skin very tender and sensitive. The slightest thing moves him,
excites him, and makes him suffer.
The Chantals have limited connections carefully chosen in the
neighborhood. They also exchange two or three yearly visits with
relatives who live in the distance.
As for me, I take dinner with them on the fifteenth of August and on
Twelfth Night. That is as much one of my duties as Easter communion is
for a Catholic.
On the fifteenth of August a few friends are invited, but on Twelfth
Night I am the only stranger.
Well, this year, as every former year, I went to the Chantals' for my
Epiphany dinner.
According to my usual custom, I kissed M. Chantal, Madame Chantal and
Mademoiselle Pearl, and I made a deep bow to the Misses Louise and
Pauline. I was questioned about a thousand and one things, about what
had happened on the boulevards, about politics, about how matters
stood in Tong-King, and about our representatives in Parliament. Madame
Chantal, a fat lady, whose ideas always gave me the impression of being
carved out square like building stones, was accustomed to exclaiming at
the end of every political discussion: “All that is seed which does not
promise much for the future!” Why have I always imagined that Madame
Chantal's ideas are square? I don't know; but everything that she says
takes that shape in my head: a big square, with four symmetrical angles.
There are other people whose ideas always strike me as being round and
rolling like a hoop. As soon as they begin a sentence on any subject it
rolls on and on, coming out in ten, twenty, fifty round ideas, large and
small, which I see rolling along, one behind the other, to the end of
the horizon. Other people have pointed ideas--but enough of this.
We sat down as usual and finished our dinner without anything out of the
ordinary being said. At dessert the Twelfth Night cake was brought on.
Now, M. Chantal had been king every year. I don't know whether this
was the result of continued chance or a family convention, but he
unfailingly found the bean in his piece of cake, and he would proclaim
Madame Chantal to be queen. Therefore, I was greatly surprised to find
something very hard, which almost made me break a tooth, in a mouthful
of cake. Gently I took this thing from my mouth and I saw that it was
a little porcelain doll, no bigger than a bean. Surprise caused me to
exclaim:
“Ah!” All looked at me, and Chantal clapped his hands and cried: “It's
Gaston! It's Gaston! Long live the king! Long live the king!”
All took up the chorus: “Long live the king!” And I blushed to the tip
of my ears, as one often does, without any reason at all, in situations
which are a little foolish. I sat there looking at my plate, with this
absurd little bit of pottery in my fingers, forcing myself to laugh and
not knowing what to do or say, when Chantal once more cried out: “Now,
you must choose a queen!”
Then I was thunderstruck. In a second a thousand thoughts and
suppositions flashed through my mind. Did they expect me to pick out one
of the young Chantal ladies? Was that a trick to make me say which one
I prefer? Was it a gentle, light, direct hint of the parents toward a
possible marriage? The idea of marriage roams continually in houses with
grown-up girls, and takes every shape and disguise, and employs every
subterfuge. A dread of compromising myself took hold of me as well as an
extreme timidity before the obstinately correct and reserved attitude
of the Misses Louise and Pauline. To choose one of them in preference
to the other seemed to me as difficult as choosing between two drops of
water; and then the fear of launching myself into an affair which might,
in spite of me, lead me gently into matrimonial ties, by means as wary
and imperceptible and as calm as this insignificant royalty--the fear of
all this haunted me.
Suddenly I had an inspiration, and I held out to Mademoiselle Pearl the
symbolical emblem. At first every one was surprised, then they doubtless
appreciated my delicacy and discretion, for they applauded furiously.
Everybody was crying: “Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”
As for herself, poor old maid, she was so amazed that she completely
lost control of herself; she was trembling and stammering: “No--no--oh!
no--not me--please--not me--I beg of you----”
Then for the first time in my life I looked at Mademoiselle Pearl and
wondered what she was.
I was accustomed to seeing her in this house, just as one sees old
upholstered armchairs on which one has been sitting since childhood
without ever noticing them. One day, with no reason at all, because a
ray of sunshine happens to strike the seat, you suddenly think: “Why,
that chair is very curious”; and then you discover that the wood has
been worked by a real artist and that the material is remarkable. I had
never taken any notice of Mademoiselle Pearl.
She was a part of the Chantal family, that was all. But how? By
what right? She was a tall, thin person who tried to remain in the
background, but who was by no means insignificant. She was treated in a
friendly manner, better than a housekeeper, not so well as a relative.
I suddenly observed several shades of distinction which I had never
noticed before. Madame Chantal said: “Pearl.” The young ladies:
“Mademoiselle Pearl,” and Chantal only addressed her as “Mademoiselle,”
with an air of greater respect, perhaps.
I began to observe her. How old could she be? Forty? Yes, forty. She was
not old, she made herself old. I was suddenly struck by this fact. She
fixed her hair and dressed in a ridiculous manner, and, notwithstanding
all that, she was not in the least ridiculous, she had such simple,
natural gracefulness, veiled and hidden. Truly, what a strange creature!
How was it I had never observed her before? She dressed her hair in a
grotesque manner with little old maid curls, most absurd; but beneath
this one could see a large, calm brow, cut by two deep lines, two
wrinkles of long sadness, then two blue eyes, large and tender, so
timid, so bashful, so humble, two beautiful eyes which had kept the
expression of naive wonder of a young girl, of youthful sensations, and
also of sorrow, which had softened without spoiling them.
Her whole face was refined and discreet, a face the expression of which
seemed to have gone out without being used up or faded by the fatigues
and great emotions of life.
What a dainty mouth! and such pretty teeth! But one would have thought
that she did not dare smile.
Suddenly I compared her to Madame Chantal! Undoubtedly Mademoiselle
Pearl was the better of the two, a hundred times better, daintier,
prouder, more noble. I was surprised at my observation. They were
pouring out champagne. I held my glass up to the queen and, with a
well-turned compliment, I drank to her health. I could see that she felt
inclined to hide her head in her napkin. Then, as she was dipping her
lips in the clear wine, everybody cried: “The queen drinks! the queen
drinks!” She almost turned purple and choked. Everybody was laughing;
but I could see that all loved her.
As soon as dinner was over Chantal took me by the arm. It was time
for his cigar, a sacred hour. When alone he would smoke it out in the
street; when guests came to dinner he would take them to the billiard
room and smoke while playing. That evening they had built a fire to
celebrate Twelfth Night; my old friend took his cue, a very fine one,
and chalked it with great care; then he said:
“You break, my boy!”
He called me “my boy,” although I was twenty-five, but he had known me
as a young child.
I started the game and made a few carroms. I missed some others, but as
the thought of Mademoiselle Pearl kept returning to my mind, I suddenly
asked:
“By the way, Monsieur Chantal, is Mademoiselle Pearl a relative of
yours?”
Greatly surprised, he stopped playing and looked at me:
“What! Don't you know? Haven't you heard about Mademoiselle Pearl?”
“No.”
“Didn't your father ever tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, well, that's funny! That certainly is funny! Why, it's a regular
romance!”
He paused, and then continued:
“And if you only knew how peculiar it is that you should ask me that
to-day, on Twelfth Night!”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, listen. Forty-one years ago to day, the day of the Epiphany,
the following events occurred: We were then living at Roily-le-Tors, on
the ramparts; but in order that you may understand, I must first explain
the house. Roily is built on a hill, or, rather, on a mound which
overlooks a great stretch of prairie. We had a house there with a
beautiful hanging garden supported by the old battlemented wall; so that
the house was in the town on the streets, while the garden overlooked
the plain. There was a door leading from the garden to the open country,
at the bottom of a secret stairway in the thick wall--the kind you read
about in novels. A road passed in front of this door, which was provided
with a big bell; for the peasants, in order to avoid the roundabout way,
would bring their provisions up this way.
“You now understand the place, don't you? Well, this year, at Epiphany,
it had been snowing for a week. One might have thought that the world
was coming to an end. When we went to the ramparts to look over the
plain, this immense white, frozen country, which shone like varnish,
would chill our very souls. One might have thought that the Lord had
packed the world in cotton to put it away in the storeroom for old
worlds. I can assure you that it was dreary looking.
“We were a very numerous family at that time my father, my mother,
my uncle and aunt, my two brothers and four cousins; they were pretty
little girls; I married the youngest. Of all that crowd, there are
only three of us left: my wife, I, and my sister-in-law, who lives in
Marseilles. Zounds! how quickly a family like that dwindles away! I
tremble when I think of it! I was fifteen years old then, since I am
fifty-six now.
“We were going to celebrate the Epiphany, and we were all happy, very
happy! Everybody was in the parlor, awaiting dinner, and my oldest
brother, Jacques, said: 'There has been a dog howling out in the plain
for about ten minutes; the poor beast must be lost.'
“He had hardly stopped talking when the garden bell began to ring. It
had the deep sound of a church bell, which made one think of death. A
shiver ran through everybody. My father called the servant and told him
to go outside and look. We waited in complete silence; we were thinking
of the snow which covered the ground. When the man returned he declared
that he had seen nothing. The dog kept up its ceaseless howling, and
always from the same spot.
“We sat down to dinner; but we were all uneasy, especially the young
people. Everything went well up to the roast, then the bell began to
ring again, three times in succession, three heavy, long strokes which
vibrated to the tips of our fingers and which stopped our conversation
short. We sat there looking at each other, fork in the air, still
listening, and shaken by a kind of supernatural fear.
“At last my mother spoke: 'It's surprising that they should have waited
so long to come back. Do not go alone, Baptiste; one of these gentlemen
will accompany you.'
“My Uncle Francois arose. He was a kind of Hercules, very proud of his
strength, and feared nothing in the world. My father said to him: 'Take
a gun. There is no telling what it might be.'
“But my uncle only took a cane and went out with the servant.
“We others remained there trembling with fear and apprehension, without
eating or speaking. My father tried to reassure us: 'Just wait and see,'
he said; 'it will be some beggar or some traveller lost in the snow.
After ringing once, seeing that the door was not immediately opened, he
attempted again to find his way, and being unable to, he has returned to
our door.'
“Our uncle seemed to stay away an hour. At last he came back, furious,
swearing: 'Nothing at all; it's some practical joker! There is nothing
but that damned dog howling away at about a hundred yards from the
walls. If I had taken a gun I would have killed him to make him keep
quiet.'
“We sat down to dinner again, but every one was excited; we felt that
all was not over, that something was going to happen, that the bell
would soon ring again.
“It rang just as the Twelfth Night cake was being cut. All the men
jumped up together. My Uncle, Francois, who had been drinking champagne,
swore so furiously that he would murder it, whatever it might be, that
my mother and my aunt threw themselves on him to prevent his going. My
father, although very calm and a little helpless (he limped ever since
he had broken his leg when thrown by a horse), declared, in turn, that
he wished to find out what was the matter and that he was going. My
brothers, aged eighteen and twenty, ran to get their guns; and as no
one was paying any attention to me I snatched up a little rifle that was
used in the garden and got ready to accompany the expedition.
“It started out immediately. My father and uncle were walking ahead with
Baptiste, who was carrying a lantern. My brothers, Jacques and Paul,
followed, and I trailed on behind in spite of the prayers of my mother,
who stood in front of the house with her sister and my cousins.
“It had been snowing again for the last hour, and the trees were
weighted down. The pines were bending under this heavy, white garment,
and looked like white pyramids or enormous sugar cones, and through the
gray curtains of small hurrying flakes could be seen the lighter bushes
which stood out pale in the shadow. The snow was falling so thick that
we could hardly see ten feet ahead of us. But the lantern threw a bright
light around us. When we began to go down the winding stairway in the
wall I really grew frightened. I felt as though some one were walking
behind me, were going to grab me by the shoulders and carry me away, and
I felt a strong desire to return; but, as I would have had to cross
the garden all alone, I did not dare. I heard some one opening the door
leading to the plain; my uncle began to swear again, exclaiming: 'By---!
He has gone again! If I can catch sight of even his shadow, I'll take
care not to miss him, the swine!'
“It was a discouraging thing to see this great expanse of plain, or,
rather, to feel it before us, for we could not see it; we could only see
a thick, endless veil of snow, above, below, opposite us, to the right,
to the left, everywhere. My uncle continued:
“'Listen! There is the dog howling again; I will teach him how I shoot.
That will be something gained, anyhow.'
“But my father, who was kind-hearted, went on:
“'It will be much better to go on and get the poor animal, who is crying
for hunger. The poor fellow is barking for help; he is calling like a
man in distress. Let us go to him.'
“So we started out through this mist, through this thick continuous fall
of snow, which filled the air, which moved, floated, fell, and chilled
the skin with a burning sensation like a sharp, rapid pain as each flake
melted. We were sinking in up to our knees in this soft, cold mass, and
we had to lift our feet very high in order to walk. As we advanced the
dog's voice became clearer and stronger. My uncle cried: 'Here he is!'
We stopped to observe him as one does when he meets an enemy at night.
“I could see nothing, so I ran up to the others, and I caught sight of
him; he was frightful and weird-looking; he was a big black shepherd's
dog with long hair and a wolf's head, standing just within the gleam of
light cast by our lantern on the snow. He did not move; he was silently
watching us.
“My uncle said: 'That's peculiar, he is neither advancing nor
retreating. I feel like taking a shot at him.'
“My father answered in a firm voice: 'No, we must capture him.'
“Then my brother Jacques added: 'But he is not alone. There is something
behind him.”
“There was indeed something behind him, something gray, impossible to
distinguish. We started out again cautiously. When he saw us approaching
the dog sat down. He did not look wicked. Instead, he seemed pleased at
having been able to attract the attention of some one.
“My father went straight to him and petted him. The dog licked his
hands. We saw that he was tied to the wheel of a little carriage, a sort
of toy carriage entirely wrapped up in three or four woolen blankets.
We carefully took off these coverings, and as Baptiste approached his
lantern to the front of this little vehicle, which looked like a rolling
kennel, we saw in it a little baby sleeping peacefully.
“We were so astonished that we couldn't speak.
“My father was the first to collect his wits, and as he had a warm heart
and a broad mind, he stretched his hand over the roof of the carriage
and said: 'Poor little waif, you shall be one of us!' And he ordered my
brother Jacques to roll the foundling ahead of us. Thinking out loud, my
father continued:
“'Some child of love whose poor mother rang at my door on this night of
Epiphany in memory of the Child of God.'
“He once more stopped and called at the top of his lungs through the
night to the four corners of the heavens: 'We have found it!' Then,
putting his hand on his brother's shoulder, he murmured: 'What if you
had shot the dog, Francois?'
“My uncle did not answer, but in the darkness he crossed himself, for,
notwithstanding his blustering manner, he was very religious.
“The dog, which had been untied, was following us.
“Ah! But you should have seen us when we got to the house! At first
we had a lot of trouble in getting the carriage up through the winding
stairway; but we succeeded and even rolled it into the vestibule.
“How funny mamma was! How happy and astonished! And my four little
cousins (the youngest was only six), they looked like four chickens
around a nest. At last we took the child from the carriage. It was still
sleeping. It was a girl about six weeks old. In its clothes we found ten
thousand francs in gold, yes, my boy, ten thousand francs!--which papa
saved for her dowry. Therefore, it was not a child of poor people,
but, perhaps, the child of some nobleman and a little bourgeoise of the
town--or again--we made a thousand suppositions, but we never found out
anything-never the slightest clue. The dog himself was recognized by no
one. He was a stranger in the country. At any rate, the person who rang
three times at our door must have known my parents well, to have chosen
them thus.
“That is how, at the age of six weeks, Mademoiselle Pearl entered the
Chantal household.
“It was not until later that she was called Mademoiselle Pearl. She was
at first baptized 'Marie Simonne Claire,' Claire being intended, for her
family name.
“I can assure you that our return to the diningroom was amusing, with
this baby now awake and looking round her at these people and these
lights with her vague blue questioning eyes.
“We sat down to dinner again and the cake was cut. I was king, and for
queen I took Mademoiselle Pearl, just as you did to-day. On that day she
did not appreciate the honor that was being shown her.
“Well, the child was adopted and brought up in the family. She grew, and
the years flew by. She was so gentle and loving and minded so well that
every one would have spoiled her abominably had not my mother prevented
it.
“My mother was an orderly woman with a great respect for class
distinctions. She consented to treat little Claire as she did her own
sons, but, nevertheless, she wished the distance which separated us to
be well marked, and our positions well established. Therefore, as soon
as the child could understand, she acquainted her with her story and
gently, even tenderly, impressed on the little one's mind that, for the
Chantals, she was an adopted daughter, taken in, but, nevertheless, a
stranger. Claire understood the situation with peculiar intelligence
and with surprising instinct; she knew how to take the place which
was allotted her, and to keep it with so much tact, gracefulness and
gentleness that she often brought tears to my father's eyes. My mother
herself was often moved by the passionate gratitude and timid devotion
of this dainty and loving little creature that she began calling her:
'My daughter.' At times, when the little one had done something kind
and good, my mother would raise her spectacles on her forehead, a thing
which always indicated emotion with her, and she would repeat: 'This
child is a pearl, a perfect pearl!' This name stuck to the little
Claire, who became and remained for us Mademoiselle Pearl.”