Is it advantageous for a man not to know what will please his wife
after their marriage? Some women (this still occurs in the country) are
innocent enough to tell promptly what they want and what they like. But
in Paris, nearly every woman feels a kind of enjoyment in seeing a man
wistfully obedient to her heart, her desires, her caprices—three
expressions for the same thing!—and anxiously going round and round,
half crazy and desperate, like a dog that has lost his master.
They call this _being loved_, poor things! And a good many of them say
to themselves, as did Caroline, “How will he manage?”
Adolphe has come to this. In this situation of things, the worthy and
excellent Deschars, that model of the citizen husband, invites the
couple known as Adolphe and Caroline to help him and his wife
inaugurate a delightful country house. It is an opportunity that the
Deschars have seized upon, the folly of a man of letters, a charming
villa upon which he lavished one hundred thousand francs and which has
been sold at auction for eleven thousand. Caroline has a new dress to
air, or a hat with a weeping willow plume—things which a tilbury will
set off to a charm. Little Charles is left with his grandmother. The
servants have a holiday. The youthful pair start beneath the smile of a
blue sky, flecked with milk-while clouds merely to heighten the effect.
They breathe the pure air, through which trots the heavy Norman horse,
animated by the influence of spring. They soon reach Marnes, beyond
Ville d’Avray, where the Deschars are spreading themselves in a villa
copied from one at Florence, and surrounded by Swiss meadows, though
without all the objectionable features of the Alps.
“Dear me! what a delightful thing a country house like this must be!”
exclaims Caroline, as she walks in the admirable wood that skirts
Marnes and Ville d’Avray. “It makes your eyes as happy as if they had a
heart in them.”
Caroline, having no one to take but Adolphe, takes Adolphe, who becomes
her Adolphe again. And then you should see her run about like a fawn,
and act once more the sweet, pretty, innocent, adorable school-girl
that she was! Her braids come down! She takes off her bonnet, and holds
it by the strings! She is young, pink and white again. Her eyes smile,
her mouth is a pomegranate endowed with sensibility, with a sensibility
which seems quite fresh.
“So a country house would please you very much, would it, darling?”
says Adolphe, clasping Caroline round the waist, and noticing that she
leans upon him as if to show the flexibility of her form.
“What, will you be such a love as to buy me one? But remember, no
extravagance! Seize an opportunity like the Deschars.”
“To please you and to find out what is likely to give you pleasure,
such is the constant study of your own Dolph.”
They are alone, at liberty to call each other their little names of
endearment, and run over the whole list of their secret caresses.
“Does he really want to please his little girly?” says Caroline,
resting her head on the shoulder of Adolphe, who kisses her forehead,
saying to himself, “Gad! I’ve got her now!”
Axiom.—When a husband and a wife have got each other, the devil only
knows which has got the other.
The young couple are captivating, whereupon the stout Madame Deschars
gives utterance to a remark somewhat equivocal for her, usually so
stern, prudish and devout.
“Country air has one excellent property: it makes husbands very
amiable.”
M. Deschars points out an opportunity for Adolphe to seize. A house is
to be sold at Ville d’Avray, for a song, of course. Now, the country
house is a weakness peculiar to the inhabitant of Paris. This weakness,
or disease, has its course and its cure. Adolphe is a husband, but not
a doctor. He buys the house and takes possession with Caroline, who has
become once more his Caroline, his Carola, his fawn, his treasure, his
girly girl.
The following alarming symptoms now succeed each other with frightful
rapidity: a cup of milk, baptized, costs five sous; when it is
anhydrous, as the chemists say, ten sous. Meat costs more at Sevres
than at Paris, if you carefully examine the qualities. Fruit cannot be
had at any price. A fine pear costs more in the country than in the
(anhydrous!) garden that blooms in Chevet’s window.
Before being able to raise fruit for oneself, from a Swiss meadow
measuring two square yards, surrounded by a few green trees which look
as if they were borrowed from the scenic illusions of a theatre, the
most rural authorities, being consulted on the point, declare that you
must spend a great deal of money, and—wait five years! Vegetables dash
out of the husbandman’s garden to reappear at the city market. Madame
Deschars, who possesses a gate-keeper that is at the same time a
gardener, confesses that the vegetables raised on her land, beneath her
glass frames, by dint of compost and top-soil, cost her twice as much
as those she used to buy at Paris, of a woman who had rent and taxes to
pay, and whose husband was an elector. Despite the efforts and pledges
of the gate-keeper-gardener, early peas and things at Paris are a month
in advance of those in the country.
From eight in the evening to eleven our couple don’t know what to do,
on account of the insipidity of the neighbors, their small ideas, and
the questions of self-love which arise out of the merest trifles.
Monsieur Deschars remarks, with that profound knowledge of figures
which distinguishes the ex-notary, that the cost of going to Paris and
back, added to the interest of the cost of his villa, to the taxes,
wages of the gate-keeper and his wife, are equal to a rent of three
thousand francs a year. He does not see how he, an ex-notary, allowed
himself to be so caught! For he has often drawn up leases of chateaux
with parks and out-houses, for three thousand a year.
It is agreed by everybody in the parlor of Madame Deschars, that a
country house, so far from being a pleasure, is an unmitigated
nuisance.
“I don’t see how they sell a cabbage for one sou at market, which has
to be watered every day from its birth to the time you eat it,” says
Caroline.
“The way to get along in the country,” replies a little retired grocer,
“is to stay there, to live there, to become country-folks, and then
everything changes.”
On going home, Caroline says to her poor Adolphe, “What an idea that
was of yours, to buy a country house! The best way to do about the
country is to go there on visits to other people.”
Adolphe remembers an English proverb, which says, “Don’t have a
newspaper or a country seat of your own: there are plenty of idiots who
will have them for you.”
“Bah!” returns Adolph, who was enlightened once for all upon women’s
logic by the Matrimonial Gadfly, “you are right: but then you know the
baby is in splendid health, here.”
Though Adolphe has become prudent, this reply awakens Caroline’s
susceptibilities. A mother is very willing to think exclusively of her
child, but she does not want him to be preferred to herself. She is
silent; the next day, she is tired to death of the country. Adolphe
being absent on business, she waits for him from five o’clock to seven,
and goes alone with little Charles to the coach office. She talks for
three-quarters of an hour of her anxieties. She was afraid to go from
the house to the office. Is it proper for a young woman to be left
alone, so? She cannot support such an existence.
The country house now creates a very peculiar phase; one which deserves
a chapter to itself.