No one can tell how many shades and gradations there are in misfortune,
for everything depends upon the character of the individual, upon the
force of the imagination, upon the strength of the nerves. If it is
impossible to catch these so variable shades, we may at least point out
the most striking colors, and the principal attendant incidents. The
author has therefore reserved this petty trouble for the last, for it
is the only one that is at once comic and disastrous.
The author flatters himself that he has mentioned the principal
examples. Thus, women who have arrived safely at the haven, the happy
age of forty, the period when they are delivered from scandal, calumny,
suspicion, when their liberty begins: these women will certainly do him
the justice to state that all the critical situations of a family are
pointed out or represented in this book.
Caroline has her Chaumontel’s affair. She has learned how to induce
Adolphe to go out unexpectedly, and has an understanding with Madame de
Fischtaminel.
In every household, within a given time, ladies like Madame de
Fischtaminel become Caroline’s main resource.
Caroline pets Madame de Fischtaminel with all the tenderness that the
African army is now bestowing upon Abd-el-Kader: she is as solicitous
in her behalf as a physician is anxious to avoid curing a rich
hypochondriac. Between the two, Caroline and Madame de Fischtaminel
invent occupations for dear Adolphe, when neither of them desire the
presence of that demigod among their penates. Madame de Fischtaminel
and Caroline, who have become, through the efforts of Madame
Foullepointe, the best friends in the world, have even gone so far as
to learn and employ that feminine free-masonry, the rites of which
cannot be made familiar by any possible initiation.
If Caroline writes the following little note to Madame de Fischtaminel:
“Dearest Angel:
“You will probably see Adolphe to-morrow, but do not keep him too long,
for I want to go to ride with him at five: but if you are desirous of
taking him to ride yourself, do so and I will take him up. You ought to
teach me your secret for entertaining used-up people as you do.”
Madame de Fischtaminel says to herself: “Gracious! So I shall have that
fellow on my hands to-morrow from twelve o’clock to five.”
Axiom.—Men do not always know a woman’s positive request when they see
it; but another woman never mistakes it: she does the contrary.
Those sweet little beings called women, and especially Parisian women,
are the prettiest jewels that social industry has invented. Those who
do not adore them, those who do not feel a constant jubilation at
seeing them laying their plots while braiding their hair, creating
special idioms for themselves and constructing with their slender
fingers machines strong enough to destroy the most powerful fortunes,
must be wanting in a positive sense.
On one occasion Caroline takes the most minute precautions. She writes
the day before to Madame Foullepointe to go to St. Maur with Adolphe,
to look at a piece of property for sale there. Adolphe would go to
breakfast with her. She aids Adolphe in dressing. She twits him with
the care he bestows upon his toilet, and asks absurd questions about
Madame Foullepointe.
“She’s real nice, and I think she is quite tired of Charles: you’ll
inscribe her yet upon your catalogue, you old Don Juan: but you won’t
have any further need of Chaumontel’s affair; I’m no longer jealous,
you’ve got a passport. Do you like that better than being adored?
Monster, observe how considerate I am.”
So soon as her husband has gone, Caroline, who had not omitted, the
previous evening, to write to Ferdinand to come to breakfast with her,
equips herself in a costume which, in that charming eighteenth century
so calumniated by republicans, humanitarians and idiots, women of
quality called their fighting-dress.
Caroline has taken care of everything. Love is the first house servant
in the world, so the table is set with positively diabolic coquetry.
There is the white damask cloth, the little blue service, the silver
gilt urn, the chiseled milk pitcher, and flowers all round!
If it is winter, she has got some grapes, and has rummaged the cellar
for the very best old wine. The rolls are from the most famous baker’s.
The succulent dishes, the _pate de foie gras_, the whole of this
elegant entertainment, would have made the author of the Glutton’s
Almanac neigh with impatience: it would make a note-shaver smile, and
tell a professor of the old University what the matter in hand is.
Everything is prepared. Caroline has been ready since the night before:
she contemplates her work. Justine sighs and arranges the furniture.
Caroline picks off the yellow leaves of the plants in the windows. A
woman, in these cases, disguises what we may call the prancings of the
heart, by those meaningless occupations in which the fingers have all
the grip of pincers, when the pink nails burn, and when this unspoken
exclamation rasps the throat: “He hasn’t come yet!”
What a blow is this announcement by Justine: “Madame, here’s a letter!”
A letter in place of Ferdinand! How does she ever open it? What ages of
life slip by as she unfolds it! Women know this by experience! As to
men, when they are in such maddening passes, they murder their
shirt-frills.
“Justine, Monsieur Ferdinand is ill!” exclaims Caroline. “Send for a
carriage.”
As Justine goes down stairs, Adolphe comes up.
“My poor mistress!” observes Justine. “I guess she won’t want the
carriage now.”
“Oh my! Where have you come from?” cries Caroline, on seeing Adolphe
standing in ecstasy before her voluptuous breakfast.
Adolphe, whose wife long since gave up treating _him_ to such charming
banquets, does not answer. But he guesses what it all means, as he sees
the cloth inscribed with the delightful ideas which Madame de
Fischtaminel or the syndic of Chaumontel’s affair have often inscribed
for him upon tables quite as elegant.
“Whom are you expecting?” he asks in his turn.
“Who could it be, except Ferdinand?” replies Caroline.
“And is he keeping you waiting?”
“He is sick, poor fellow.”
A quizzical idea enters Adolphe’s head, and he replies, winking with
one eye only: “I have just seen him.”
“Where?”
“In front of the Cafe de Paris, with some friends.”
“But why have you come back?” says Caroline, trying to conceal her
murderous fury.
“Madame Foullepointe, who was tired of Charles, you said, has been with
him at Ville d’Avray since yesterday.”
Adolphe sits down, saying: “This has happened very appropriately, for
I’m as hungry as two bears.”
Caroline sits down, too, and looks at Adolphe stealthily: she weeps
internally: but she very soon asks, in a tone of voice that she manages
to render indifferent, “Who was Ferdinand with?”
“With some fellows who lead him into bad company. The young man is
getting spoiled: he goes to Madame Schontz’s. You ought to write to
your uncle. It was probably some breakfast or other, the result of a
bet made at M’lle Malaga’s.” He looks slyly at Caroline, who drops her
eyes to conceal her tears. “How beautiful you have made yourself this
morning,” Adolphe resumes. “Ah, you are a fair match for your
breakfast. I don’t think Ferdinand will make as good a meal as I
shall,” etc., etc.
Adolphe manages the joke so cleverly that he inspires his wife with the
idea of punishing Ferdinand. Adolphe, who claims to be as hungry as two
bears, causes Caroline to forget that a carriage waits for her at the
door.
The female that tends the gate at the house Ferdinand lives in, arrives
at about two o’clock, while Adolphe is asleep on a sofa. That Iris of
bachelors comes to say to Caroline that Monsieur Ferdinand is very much
in need of some one.
“He’s drunk, I suppose,” says Caroline in a rage.
“He fought a duel this morning, madame.”
Caroline swoons, gets up and rushes to Ferdinand, wishing Adolphe at
the bottom of the sea.
When women are the victims of these little inventions, which are quite
as adroit as their own, they are sure to exclaim, “What abominable
monsters men are!”