A LITTLE DINNER FOR FOUR
That same day, at half-past seven, Jean went to fetch the Cure, and the
two walked together up to the house. During the last month a perfect
army of workmen had taken possession of Longueval; all the inns in the
village were making their fortunes.
Enormous furniture wagons brought cargoes of furniture and decorations
from Paris. Forty-eight hours before the arrival of Mrs. Scott,
Mademoiselle Marbeau, the postmistress, and Madame Lormier, the mayoress,
had wormed themselves into the castle, and the account they gave of the
interior turned every one's head. The old furniture had disappeared,
banished to the attics; one moved among a perfect accumulation of
wonders. And the stables! and the coach-houses! A special train had
brought from Paris, under the high superintendence of Edwards, a dozen
carriages--and such carriages! Twenty horses--and such horses!
The Abbe Constantin thought that he knew what luxury was. Once a year he
dined with his bishop, Monseigneur Faubert, a rich and amiable prelate,
who entertained rather largely. The Cure, till now, had, thought that
there was nothing in the world more sumptuous than the Episcopal palace
of Souvigny, or the castles of Lavardens and Longueval.
He began to understand, from what he was told of the new splendors of
Longueval, that the luxury of the great houses of the present day must
surpass to a singular degree the sober and severe luxury of the great
houses of former times.
As soon as the Cure and Jean had entered the avenue in the park, which
led to the house:
"Look! Jean," said the Cure; "what a change! All this part of the park
used to be quite neglected, and now all the paths are gravelled and
raked. I shall not be able to feel myself at home as I used to do: it
will be too grand. I shall not find again my old brown velvet easy-
chair, in which I so often fell asleep after dinner, and if I fall asleep
this evening what will become of me? You will think of it, Jean, and if
you see that I begin to forget myself, you will come behind me and pinch
my arm gently, won't you? You promise me?"
"Certainly, certainly, I promise you."
Jean paid but slight attention to the conversation of the Cure. He felt
extremely impatient to see Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival again, but this
impatience was mingled with very keen anxiety. Would he find them in the
great salon at Longueval the same as he had seen them in the little
dining-room at the vicarage? Perhaps, instead of those two women, so
perfectly simple and familiar, amusing themselves with this little
improvised dinner, and who, the very first day, had treated him with so
much grace and cordiality, would he find two pretty dolls-worldly,
elegant, cold, and correct? Would his first impression be effaced?
Would it disappear? or, on the contrary, would the impression in his
heart become still sweeter and deeper?
They ascended the six steps at the entrance, and were received in the
hall by two tall footmen with the most dignified and imposing air. This
hall had formerly been a vast, frigid apartment, with bare stone walls.
These walls were now covered with admirable tapestry, representing
mythological subjects. The Cure dared scarcely glance at this tapestry;
it was enough for him to perceive that the goddesses who wandered through
these shades wore costumes of antique simplicity.
One of the footmen opened wide the folding-doors of the salon. It was
there that one had generally found the old Marquise, on the right of the
high chimney-piece, and on the left had stood the brown velvet easy-
chair.
No brown easy-chair now! That old relic of the Empire, which was the
basis of the arrangement of the salon, had been replaced by a marvellous
specimen of tapestry of the end of the last century. Then a crowd of
little easy-chairs, and ottomans of all forms and all colors, were
scattered here and there with an appearance of disorder which was the
perfection of art.
As soon as Mrs. Scott saw the Cure and Jean enter, she rose, and going to
meet them, said:
"How kind of you to come, Monsieur le Cure, and you, too, Monsieur Jean.
How pleased I am to see you, my first, my only friends down here!"
Jean breathed again. It was the same woman.
"Will you allow me," added Mrs. Scott, "to introduce my children to you?
Harry and Bella, come here."
Harry was a very pretty little boy of six, and Bella a very charming
little girl, five years old. They had their mother's large, dark eyes,
and her golden hair.
After the Cure had kissed the two children, Harry, who was looking with
admiration at Jean's uniform, said to his mother:
"And the soldier, mamma, must we kiss him, too?"
"If you like," replied Mrs. Scott, "and if he will allow it."
A moment after, the two children were installed upon Jean's knees, and
overwhelming him with questions.
"Are you an officer?"
"Yes, I am an officer."
"What in?"
"In the artillery."
"The artillery! Oh, you are one of the men who fire the cannon. Oh, how
I should like to be quite near when they fire the cannon!"
"Will you take us some day when they fire the cannon? Tell me, will
you?"
Meanwhile, Mrs. Scott chatted with the Cure, and Jean, while replying to
the children's questions, looked at Mrs. Scott. She wore a white muslin
frock, but the muslin disappeared under a complete avalanche of little
flounces of Valenciennes. The dress was cut out in front in a large
square, her arms were bare to the elbow, a large bouquet of red roses at
the opening of her dress, a red rose fixed in her hair, with a diamond
'agraffe'--nothing more.
Mrs. Scott suddenly perceived that the children had taken entire
possession of Jean, and exclaimed:
"Oh, I beg your pardon. Harry, Bella!"
"Oh, pray let them stay with me."
"I am so sorry to keep you waiting for dinner; my sister is not down yet.
Oh! here she is!"
Bettina entered. The same frock of white muslin, the same delicate mass
of lace, the same red roses, the same grace, the same beauty, and the
same smiling, amiable, candid manner.
"How do you do, Monsieur le Cure? I am delighted to see you. Have you
pardoned my dreadful intrusion of the other day?"
Then, turning toward Jean and offering him her hand:
"How do you do, Monsieur--Monsieur--Oh! I can not remember your name,
and yet we seem to be already old friends, Monsieur--"
"Jean Reynaud."
"Jean Reynaud, that is it. How do you do, Monsieur Reynaud? I warn you
faithfully that when we really are old friends--that is to say, in about
a week--I shall call you Monsieur Jean. It is a pretty name, Jean."
Up to the moment when Bettina appeared Jean had said to himself:
"Mrs. Scott is the prettier!"
When he felt Bettina's little hand slip into his arm, and when she turned
toward him her delicious face, he said:
"Miss Percival is the prettier!"
But his perplexities gathered round him again when he was seated between
the two sisters. If he looked to the right, love threatened him from
that direction, and if he looked to the left, the danger removed
immediately, and passed to the left.
Conversation began, easy, animated, confidential. The two sisters were
charmed; they had already walked in the park; they promised themselves a
long ride in the forest tomorrow. Riding was their passion, their
madness. It was also Jean's passion, so that after a quarter of an hour
they begged him to join them the next day. There was no one who knew the
country round better than he did; it was his native place. He should be
so happy to do the honors of it, and to show them numbers of delightful
little spots which, without him, they would never discover.
"Do you ride every day?" asked Bettina.
"Every day and sometimes twice. In the morning on duty, and in the
evening I am ride for my own pleasure."
"Early in the morning?"
"At half-past five."
"At half-past five every morning?"
"Yes, except Sunday."
"Then you get up--"
"At half-past four."
"And is it light?"
"Oh, just now, broad daylight."
"To get up at half-past four is admirable; we often finish our day just
when yours is beginning. And are you fond of your profession?"
"Very. It is an excellent thing to have one's life plain before one,
with exact and definite duties."
"And yet," said Mrs. Scott, "not to be one's own master--to be always
obliged to obey."
"That is perhaps what suits me best; there is nothing easier than to
obey, and then to learn to obey is the only way of learning to command."
"Ah! since you say so, it must be true."
"Yes, no doubt," added the Cure; "but he does not tell you that he is the
most distinguished officer in his regiment, that--"
"Oh! pray do not."
The Cure, in spite of the resistance of Jean, was about to launch into a
panegyric on his godson, when Bettina, interposing, said:
"It is unnecessary, Monsieur le Cure, do not say anything, we know
already all that you would tell us, we have been so indiscreet as to make
inquiries about Monsieur--oh, I was just going to say Monsieur Jean--
about Monsieur Reynaud. Well, the information we received was
excellent!"
"I am curious to know," said Jean.
"Nothing! nothing! you shall know nothing. I do not wish to make you
blush, and you would be obliged to blush."
Then turning toward the Cure, "And about you, too, Monsieur l'Abbe, we
have had some information. It appears that you are a saint."
"Oh! as to that, it is perfectly true," cried Jean.
It was the Cure this time who cut short the eloquence of Jean. Dinner
was almost over. The old priest had not got through this dinner without
experiencing many emotions. They had repeatedly presented to him
complicated and scientific constructions upon which he had only ventured
with a trembling hand. He was afraid of seeing the whole crumble beneath
his touch; the trembling castles of jelly, the pyramids of truffles, the
fortresses of cream, the bastions of pastry, the rocks of ice. Otherwise
the Abbe Constantin dined with an excellent appetite, and did not recoil
before two or three glasses of champagne. He was no foe to good cheer;
perfection is not of this world; and if gormandizing were, as they say, a
cardinal sin, how many good priests would be damned!
Coffee was served on the terrace in front of the house; in the distance
was heard the harsh voice of the old village clock striking nine. Woods
and fields were slumbering; the avenues in the park showed only as long,
undulating, and undecided lines. The moon slowly rose over the tops of
the great trees.
Bettina took a box of cigars from the table. "Do you smoke?" said she.
"Yes, Miss Percival."
"Take one, Monsieur Jean. It can't be helped. I have said it. Take
one--but no, listen to me first."
And speaking in a low voice, while offering him the box of cigars:
"It is getting dark, now you may blush at your ease. I will tell you
what I did not say at dinner. An old lawyer in Souvigny, who was your
guardian, came to see my sister in Paris, about the payment for the
place; he told us what you did after your father's death, when you were
only a child, what you did for that poor mother, and for that poor young
girl. Both my sister and I were much touched by it."
"Yes," continued Mrs. Scott, "and that is why we have received you to-day
with so much pleasure. We should not have given such a reception to
every one, of that you may be sure. Well, now take your cigar, my sister
is waiting."
Jean could not find a word in reply. Bettina stood there with the box of
cigars in her two hands, her eyes fixed frankly on the countenance of
Jean. At the moment, she tasted a true and keen pleasure which may be
expressed by this phrase:
"It seems to me that I see before me a man of honor."
"And now," said Mrs. Scott, "let us sit here and enjoy this delicious
night; take your coffee, smoke--"
"And do not let us talk, Susie, do not let us talk. This great silence
of the country, after the great noise and bustle of Paris, is delightful!
Let us sit here without speaking; let us look at the sky, the moon, and
the stars."
All four, with much pleasure, carried out this little programme. Susie
and Bettina, calm, reposeful, absolutely separated from their existence
of yesterday, already felt a tenderness for the place which had just
received them, and was going to keep them. Jean was less tranquil; the
words of Miss Percival had caused him profound emotion, his heart had not
yet quite regained its regular throb.
But the happiest of all was the Abbe Constantin.
This little episode which had caused Jean's modesty such a rude, yet
sweet trial, had brought him exquisite joy, the Abbe bore his godson such
affection. The most tender father never loved more warmly the dearest of
his children. When the old Cure looked at the young officer, he often
said to himself:
"Heaven has been too kind; I am a priest, and I have a son!"
The Abbe sank into a very agreeable reverie; he felt himself at home,
he felt himself too much at home; by degrees his ideas became hazy and
confused, reverie became drowsiness, drowsiness became slumber, the
disaster was soon complete, irreparable; the Cure slept, and slept
profoundly. This marvellous dinner, and the two or three glasses of
champagne may have had something to do with the catastrophe.
Jean perceived nothing; he had forgotten the promise made to his
godfather. And why had he forgotten it? Because Mrs. Scott and Miss
Percival had thought proper to put their feet on the footstools, placed
in front of their great wicker garden-chairs filled with cushions; then
they had thrown themselves lazily back in their chairs, and their muslin
skirts had become raised a little, a very little, but yet enough to
display four little feet, the lines of which showed very distinctly and
clearly beneath two pretty clouds of white lace. Jean looked at these
little feet, and asked himself this question:
"Which are the smaller?"
While he was trying to solve this problem, Bettina, all at once, said to
him in a low voice:
"Monsieur Jean! Monsieur Jean!"
"Miss Percival?"
"Look at the Cure, he is asleep."
"Oh! it is my fault."
"How your fault?" asked Mrs. Scott, also in a low voice.
"Yes; my godfather rises at daybreak, and goes to bed very early; he told
me to be sure and prevent his falling asleep; when Madame de Longueval
was here he very often had a nap after dinner. You have shown him so
much kindness that he has fallen back into his old habits."
"And he is perfectly right," said Bettina, "do not make a noise, do not
wake him."
"You are too good, Miss Percival, but the air is getting a little fresh."
"Ah! that is true, he might catch cold. Stay, I will go and fetch a
wrap for him."
"I think, Miss Percival, it would be better to try and wake him
skilfully, so that he should not suspect that you had seen him asleep."
"Let me do it," said Bettina. "Susie, let us sing together, very softly
at first, then we will raise our voices little by little, let us sing."
"Willingly, but what shall we sing?"
"Let us sing, 'Quelque chose d'enfantin,' the words are suitable."
Susie and Bettina began to sing:
If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
Their sweet and penetrating voices had an exquisite sonority in that
profound silence. The Abbe heard nothing, did not move. Charmed with
this little concert, Jean said to himself:
"Heaven grant that my godfather may not wake too soon!"
The voices became clearer and louder:
But in my sleep to you I fly,
I'm always with you in my sleep.
Yet the Abbe did not stir.
"How he sleeps," said Susie, "it is a crime to wake him."
"But we must; louder, Susie, louder."
Susie and Bettina both gave free scope to the power of their voices.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids,
So I love to wake ere break of day.
The Cure woke with a start. After a short moment of anxiety he breathed
again. Evidently no one had noticed that he had been asleep. He
collected himself, stretched himself prudently, slowly, he was saved!
A quarter of an hour later the two sisters accompanied the Cure and Jean
to the little gate of the park, which opened into the village a few yards
from the vicarage; they had nearly reached the gate when Bettina said all
at once to Jean:
"Ah! all this time I have had a question to ask you. This morning when
we arrived, we met on the way a slight young man, with a fair mustache,
he was riding a black horse, and bowed to us as we passed."
"It was Paul de Lavardens, one of my friends; he has already had the
honor of being introduced to you, but rather vaguely, and his ambition is
to be presented again."
"Well, you shall bring him one of these days," said Mrs. Scott.
"After the 25th!" cried Bettina. "Not before! not before! No one till
then; till then we will see no one but you, Monsieur Jean. But you, it
is very extraordinary, and I don't quite know how it has happened, you
don't seem anybody to us. The compliment is perhaps not very well
turned, but do not make a mistake, it is a compliment. I intended to be
excessively amiable in speaking to you thus."
"And so you are, Miss Percival."
"So much the better if I have been so fortunate as to make myself
understood. Good-by, Monsieur Jean--till tomorrow!"
Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival returned slowly toward the castle.
"And now, Susie," said Bettina, "scold me well, I expect it, I have
deserved it."
"Scold you! Why?"
"You are going to say, I am sure, that I have been too familiar with that
young man."
"No, I shall not say that. From the first day that young man has made
the most favorable impression upon me; he inspires me with perfect
confidence."
"And so he does me."
"I am persuaded that it would be well for us both to try to make a friend
of him."
"With all my heart, as far as I am concerned, so much the more as I have
seen many young men since we have lived in France. Oh! yes, I have,
indeed! Well! this is the first, positively the first, in whose eyes I
have not clearly read, 'Oh, how glad I should be to marry the millions of
that little person!' That was written in the eyes of all the others, but
not in his eyes. Now, here we are at home again. Good-night, Susie--
to-morrow."
Mrs. Scott went to see and kiss her sleeping children.
Bettina remained long, leaning on the balustrade of her balcony.
"It seems to me," said she, "that I am going to be very fond of this
place."
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