In 1829 the old noblesse had recovered as to manners and customs
something of the prestige it had irrevocably lost in politics. Moreover,
the sentiment which governs parents and grandparents in all that relates
to matrimonial conventions is an imperishable sentiment, closely allied
to the very existence of civilized societies and springing from the
spirit of family. It rules in Geneva as in Vienna and in Nemours,
where, as we have seen, Zelie Minoret refused her consent to a possible
marriage of her son with the daughter of a bastard. Still, all social
laws have their exceptions. Savinien thought he might bend his mother’s
pride before the inborn nobility of Ursula. The struggle began at once.
As soon as they were seated at table his mother told him of the horrible
letters, as she called them, which the Kergarouets and the Portendueres
had written her.
“There is no such thing as family in these days, mother,” replied
Savinien, “nothing but individuals! The nobles are no longer a compact
body. No one asks or cares whether I am a Portenduere, or brave, or a
statesmen; all they ask now-a-days is, ‘What taxes does he pay?’”
“But the king?” asked the old lady.
“The king is caught between the two Chambers like a man between his wife
and his mistress. So I shall have to marry some rich girl without
regard to family,--the daughter of a peasant if she has a million and is
sufficiently well brought-up--that is to say, if she has been taught in
school.”
“Oh! there’s no need to talk of that,” said the old lady.
Savinien frowned as he heard the words. He knew the granite will, called
Breton obstinacy, that distinguished his mother, and he resolved to know
at once her opinion on this delicate matter.
“So,” he went on, “if I loved a young girl,--take for instance your
neighbour’s godchild, little Ursula,--would you oppose my marriage?”
“Yes, as long as I live,” she replied; “and after my death you would
be responsible for the honor and the blood of the Kergarouets and the
Portendueres.”
“Would you let me die of hunger and despair for the chimera of nobility,
which has no reality to-day unless it has the lustre of great wealth?”
“You could serve France and put faith in God.”
“Would you postpone my happiness till after your death?”
“It would be horrible if you took it then,--that is all I have to say.”
“Louis XIV. came very near marrying the niece of Mazarin, a parvenu.”
“Mazarin himself opposed it.”
“Remember the widow Scarron.”
“She was a d’Aubigne. Besides, the marriage was in secret. But I am very
old, my son,” she said, shaking her head. “When I am no more you can, as
you say, marry whom you please.”
Savinien both loved and respected his mother; but he instantly, though
silently, set himself in opposition to her with an obstinacy equal
to her own, resolving to have no other wife than Ursula, to whom this
opposition gave, as often happens in similar circumstances, the value of
a forbidden thing.
When, after vespers, the doctor, with Ursula, who was dressed in pink
and white, entered the cold, stiff salon, the girl was seized with
nervous trembling, as though she had entered the presence of the queen
of France and had a favor to beg of her. Since her confession to the
doctor this little house had assumed the proportions of a palace in her
eyes, and the old lady herself the social value which a duchess of the
Middle Ages might have had to the daughter of a serf. Never had Ursula
measured as she did at that moment the distance which separated Vicomte
de Portenduere from the daughter of a regimental musician, a former
opera-singer and the natural son of an organist.
“What is the matter, my dear?” said the old lady, making the girl sit
down beside her.
“Madame, I am confused by the honor you have done me--”
“My little girl,” said Madame de Portenduere, in her sharpest tone. “I
know how fond your uncle is of you, and I wished to be agreeable to him,
for he has brought back my prodigal son.”
“But, my dear mother,” said Savinien cut to the heart by seeing the
color fly into Ursula’s face as she struggled to keep back her tears,
“even if we were under no obligations to Monsieur le Chevalier Minoret,
I think we should always be most grateful for the pleasure Mademoiselle
has given us by accepting your invitation.”
The young man pressed the doctor’s hand in a significant manner, adding:
“I see you wear, monsieur, the order of Saint-Michel, the oldest order
in France, and one which confers nobility.”
Ursula’s extreme beauty, to which her almost hopeless love gave a depth
which great painters have sometimes conveyed in pictures where the
soul is brought into strong relief, had struck Madame de Portenduere
suddenly, and made her suspect that the doctor’s apparent generosity
masked an ambitious scheme. She had made the speech to which Savinien
replied with the intention of wounding the doctor in that which was
dearest to him; and she succeeded, though the old man could hardly
restrain a smile as he heard himself styled a “chevalier,” amused to
observe how the eagerness of a lover did not shrink from absurdity.
“The order of Saint-Michel which in former days men committed follies to
obtain,” he said, “has now, Monsieur le vicomte, gone the way of other
privileges! It is given only to doctors and poor artists. The kings have
done well to join it to that of Saint-Lazare who was, I believe, a poor
devil recalled to life by a miracle. From this point of view the order
of Saint-Michel and Saint-Lazare may be, for many of us, symbolic.”
After this reply, at once sarcastic and dignified, silence reigned,
which, as no one seemed inclined to break it, was becoming awkward, when
there was a rap at the door.
“There is our dear abbe,” said the old lady, who rose, leaving Ursula
alone, and advancing to meet the Abbe Chaperon,--an honor she had not
paid to the doctor and his niece.
The old man smiled to himself as he looked from his goddaughter to
Savinien. To show offence or to complain of Madame de Portenduere’s
manners was a rock on which a man of small mind might have struck, but
Minoret was too accomplished in the ways of the world not to avoid
it. He began to talk to the viscount of the danger Charles X. was
then running by confiding the affairs of the nation to the Prince de
Polignac. When sufficient time had been spent on the subject to avoid
all appearance of revenging himself by so doing, he handed the old lady,
in an easy, jesting way, a packet of legal papers and receipted bills,
together with the account of his notary.
“Has my son verified them?” she said, giving Savinien a look, to which
he replied by bending his head. “Well, then the rest is my notary’s
business,” she added, pushing away the papers and treating the affair
with the disdain she wished to show for money.
To abase wealth was, according to Madame de Portenduere’s ideas, to
elevate the nobility and rob the bourgeoisie of their importance.
A few moments later Goupil came from his employer, Dionis, to ask for
the accounts of the transaction between the doctor and Savinien.
“Why do you want them?” said the old lady.
“To put the matter in legal form; there have been no cash payments.”
Ursula and Savinien, who both for the first time exchanged a glance with
offensive personage, were conscious of a sensation like that of touching
a toad, aggravated by a dark presentiment of evil. They both had the
same indefinable and confused vision into the future, which has no name
in any language, but which is capable of explanation as the action of
the inward being of which the mysterious Swedenborgian had spoken to
Doctor Minoret. The certainty that the venomous Goupil would in some
way be fatal to them made Ursula tremble; but she controlled herself,
conscious of unspeakable pleasure in seeing that Savinien shared her
emotion.
“He is not handsome, that clerk of Monsieur Dionis,” said Savinien, when
Goupil had closed the door.
“What does it signify whether such persons are handsome or ugly?” said
Madame de Portenduere.
“I don’t complain of his ugliness,” said the abbe, “but I do of his
wickedness, which passes all bounds; he is a villain.”
The doctor, in spite of his desire to be amiable, grew cold and
dignified. The lovers were embarrassed. If it had not been for the
kindly good-humor of the abbe, whose gentle gayety enlivened the
dinner, the position of the doctor and his niece would have been almost
intolerable. At dessert, seeing Ursula turn pale, he said to her:--
“If you don’t feel well, dear child, we have only the street to cross.”
“What is the matter, my dear?” said the old lady to the girl.
“Madame,” said the doctor severely, “her soul is chilled, accustomed as
she is to be met by smiles.”
“A very bad education, monsieur,” said Madame de Portenduere. “Is it
not, Monsieur l’abbe?”
“Yes,” answered Minoret, with a look at the abbe, who knew not how
to reply. “I have, it is true, rendered life unbearable to an angelic
spirit if she has to pass it in the world; but I trust I shall not die
until I place her in security, safe from coldness, indifference, and
hatred--”
“Oh, godfather--I beg of you--say no more. There is nothing the matter
with me,” cried Ursula, meeting Madame de Portenduere’s eyes rather than
give too much meaning to her words by looking at Savinien.
“I cannot know, madame,” said Savinien to his mother, “whether
Mademoiselle Ursula suffers, but I do know that you are torturing me.”
Hearing these words, dragged from the generous young man by his
mother’s treatment of herself, Ursula turned pale and begged Madame de
Portenduere to excuse her; then she took her uncle’s arm, bowed, left
the room, and returned home. Once there, she rushed to the salon and sat
down to the piano, put her head in her hands, and burst into tears.
“Why don’t you leave the management of your affairs to my old
experience, cruel child?” cried the doctor in despair. “Nobles never
think themselves under any obligations to the bourgeoisie. When we
do them a service they consider that we do our duty, and that’s all.
Besides, the old lady saw that you looked favorably on Savinien; she is
afraid he will love you.”
“At any rate he is saved!” said Ursula. “But ah! to try to humiliate a
man like you!”
“Wait till I return, my child,” said the old man leaving her.
When the doctor re-entered Madame de Portenduere’s salon he found Dionis
the notary, accompanied by Monsieur Bongrand and the mayor of Nemours,
witnesses required by law for the validity of deeds in all communes
where there is but one notary. Minoret took Monsieur Dionis aside and
said a word in his ear, after which the notary read the deeds aloud
officially; from which it appeared that Madame de Portenduere gave a
mortgage on all her property to secure payment of the hundred thousand
francs, the interest on which was fixed at five per cent. At the reading
of this last clause the abbe looked at Minoret, who answered with an
approving nod. The poor priest whispered something in the old lady’s ear
to which she replied,--
“I will owe nothing to such persons.”
“My mother leaves me the nobler part,” said Savinien to the doctor; “she
will repay the money and charges me to show our gratitude.”
“But you will have to pay eleven thousand francs the first year to meet
the interest and the legal costs,” said the abbe.
“Monsieur,” said Minoret to Dionis, “as Monsieur and Madame de
Portenduere are not in a condition to pay those costs, add them to the
amount of the mortgage and I will pay them.”
Dionis made the change and the sum borrowed was fixed at one hundred and
seven thousand francs. When the papers were all signed, Minoret made his
fatigue an excuse to leave the house at the same time as the notary and
witnesses.
“Madame,” said the abbe, “why did you affront the excellent Monsieur
Minoret, who saved you at least twenty-five thousand francs on those
debts in Paris, and had the delicacy to give twenty thousand to your son
for his debts of honor?”
“Your Minoret is sly,” she said, taking a pinch of snuff. “He knows what
he is about.”
“My mother thinks he wishes to force me into marrying his niece by
getting hold of our farm,” said Savinien; “as if a Portenduere, son of a
Kergarouet, could be made to marry against his will.”
An hour later, Savinien presented himself at the doctor’s house, where
all the relatives had assembled, enticed by curiosity. The arrival of
the young viscount produced a lively sensation, all the more because its
effect was different on each person present. Mesdemoiselles Cremiere and
Massin whispered together and looked at Ursula, who blushed. The mothers
said to Desire that Goupil was right about the marriage. The eyes of all
present turned towards the doctor, who did not rise to receive the young
nobleman, but merely bowed his head without laying down the dice-box,
for he was playing a game of backgammon with Monsieur Bongrand. The
doctor’s cold manner surprised every one.
“Ursula, my child,” he said, “give us a little music.”
While the young girl, delighted to have something to do to keep her
in countenance, went to the piano and began to move the green-covered
music-books, the heirs resigned themselves, with many demonstrations of
pleasure, to the torture and the silence about to be inflicted on them,
so eager were they to find out what was going on between their uncle and
the Portendueres.
In sometimes happens that a piece of music, poor in itself, when
played by a young girl under the influence of deep feeling, makes more
impression than a fine overture played by a full orchestra. In all
music there is, besides the thought of the composer, the soul of the
performer, who, by a privilege granted to this art only, can give both
meaning and poetry to passages which are in themselves of no great
value. Chopin proves, for that unresponsive instrument the piano, the
truth of this fact, already proved by Paganini on the violin. That
fine genius is less a musician than a soul which makes itself felt, and
communicates itself through all species of music, even simple chords.
Ursula, by her exquisite and sensitive organization, belonged to this
rare class of beings, and old Schmucke, the master, who came every
Saturday and who, during Ursula’s stay in Paris was with her every
day, had brought his pupil’s talent to its full perfection. “Rousseau’s
Dream,” the piece now chosen by Ursula, composed by Herold in his young
days, is not without a certain depth which is capable of being developed
by execution. Ursula threw into it the feelings which were agitating her
being, and justified the term “caprice” given by Herold to the fragment.
With soft and dreamy touch her soul spoke to the young man’s soul and
wrapped it, as in a cloud, with ideas that were almost visible.
Sitting at the end of the piano, his elbow resting on the cover and his
head on his left hand, Savinien admired Ursula, whose eyes, fixed on the
paneling of the wall beyond him, seemed to be questioning another world.
Many a man would have fallen deeply in love for a less reason. Genuine
feelings have a magnetism of their own, and Ursula was willing to show
her soul, as a coquette her dresses to be admired. Savinien entered
that delightful kingdom, led by this pure heart, which, to interpret its
feelings, borrowed the power of the only art that speaks to thought by
thought, without the help of words, or color, or form. Candor, openness
of heart have the same power over a man that childhood has; the same
charm, the same irresistible seductions. Ursula was never more honest
and candid than at this moment, when she was born again into a new life.
The abbe came to tear Savinien from his dream, requesting him to take
a fourth hand at whist. Ursula went on playing; the heirs departed, all
except Desire, who was resolved to find out the intentions of his uncle
and the viscount and Ursula.
“You have as much talent as soul, mademoiselle,” he said, when the young
girl closed the piano and sat down beside her godfather. “Who is your
master?”
“A German, living close to the Rue Dauphine on the quai Conti,” said the
doctor. “If he had not given Ursula a lesson every day during her stay
in Paris he would have been here to-day.”
“He is not only a great musician,” said Ursula, “but a man of adorable
simplicity of nature.”
“Those lessons must cost a great deal,” remarked Desire.
The players smiled ironically. When the game was over the doctor, who
had hitherto seemed anxious and pensive, turned to Savinien with the air
of a man who fulfills a duty.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I am grateful for the feeling which leads you
to make me this early visit; but your mother attributes unworthy and
underhand motives to what I have done, and I should give her the right
to call them true if I did not request you to refrain from coming here,
in spite of the honor your visits are to me, and the pleasure I should
otherwise feel in cultivating your society. Tell your mother that if
I do not beg her, in my niece’s name and my own, to do us the honor of
dining here next Sunday it is because I am very certain that she would
find herself indisposed on that day.”
The old man held out his hand to the young viscount, who pressed it
respectfully, saying:--
“You are quite right, monsieur.”
He then withdrew; but not without a bow to Ursula, in which there was
more of sadness than disappointment.
Desire left the house at the same time; but he found it impossible to
exchange even a word with the young nobleman, who rushed into his own
house precipitately.