That year, as usual, M. Worms-Clavelin, the _préfet_, went shooting
at Valcombe, at the house of M. Delion, an iron-master and a member
of the General Council, who had the finest shooting in the district.
The _préfet_ enjoyed himself very much at Valcombe; he was flattered
at meeting there many people of good family, especially the Gromances
and the Terremondres, and he took a deep joy in winging pheasants.
Here he was to be seen pacing the woodland paths in exuberant spirits.
He shot with twisted body, with raised shoulders and bent head, with
one eye closed and brows knitted, in the style of the inhabitants of
Bois-Colombes, the bookmakers and restaurant-keepers, his original
shooting companions. He proclaimed noisily, with tactless delight,
the birds that he had brought down; and by now and then attributing
to himself those that had fallen to his neighbours’ guns, he aroused
an indignation which he immediately allayed by the placidity of his
temper and by entire ignorance of the fact that any one could possibly
be vexed with him. In all his behaviour he united pleasantly enough
the importance of an official with the familiarity of a cheerful
guest. He flung their titles at men as though they were nicknames,
and because, like all the department, he knew that M. de Gromance was
an oft-betrayed husband, at every meeting he would give this man of
ceremony several affectionate little taps without any apparent reason.
Among the company at Valcombe he imagined himself to be popular, and
he was not entirely wrong. When, despite his underbred manners and
toadying air, his companions had got off scot-free of both shot and
impertinences, he was considered dexterous, and they said that, at
bottom, he had tact.
This year he had succeeded better than ever in the capitalist circle.
It was known that he was opposed to the income tax, which in private
conversation he had felicitously described as inquisitorial. At
Valcombe, therefore, he was the recipient of the congratulations of a
grateful society, and Madame Delion smiled on him, softening for him
her steel-blue eyes and her majestic forehead crowned with bandeaux of
iron-grey.
On leaving his room, where he had been dressing for dinner, he saw the
lissom figure of Madame de Gromance gliding along the dark corridor,
with a rustle of clothes and jewels. In the dusk her bare shoulders
seemed barer than ever. He frisked forward to overtake her, seized
her by the waist and kissed her on the neck. When she freed herself
hurriedly, he said to her in reproachful accents:
“Why so cruel to _me_, Countess?”
Then she gave him a box on the ears which surprised him greatly.
On the ground-floor landing he came upon Noémi, who, very seemly in her
dress of black satin covered with black tulle, was slowly drawing her
long gloves over her arms. He made a friendly little sign to her with
his eye. He was a good husband, and regarded his wife with a good deal
of esteem and some admiration.
She deserved it, for she had need of rare tact not to ruffle the
anti-Jewish society of Valcombe. And she was not unpopular there. She
had even won their sympathy. And what was most astonishing, she did not
seem an outsider.
In that great cold provincial salon she assumed an awe-stricken face
and a placid demeanour which produced a doubt of her intelligence,
but proclaimed her honest, sweet, and good. With Madame Delion and
the other women, she admired, approved, and held her tongue. And if a
man of some intelligence and experience entered into a _tête-à-tête_
with her, she made herself still more demure, modest, and timid, with
downcast eyes; then suddenly she hurled some broad jest at him,
which tickled him by its unexpectedness, and which he regarded as a
special favour, coming from so prim a mouth and so reserved a mind. She
captivated the hearts of the old sparks. Without a gesture, without a
movement, without the flutter of a fan, with an imperceptible quiver
of her eyelashes and a swift pursing of the lips, she insinuated ideas
that flattered them. She made a conquest of M. Mauricet himself, who,
great connoisseur as he was, said of her:
“She has always been plain, she is no longer even attractive, but she
is a woman.”
M. Worms-Clavelin was placed at table between Madame Delion and Madame
Laprat-Teulet, wife of the senator of … Madame Laprat-Teulet was a
sallow little woman, whom one always seemed to be looking at through
gauze, so soft were her features. As a young girl, she had been steeped
in religion as if it had been oil. Now, the wife of a clever man who
had married her for her fortune, she wallowed in unctuous piety, while
her husband devoted his energies to the anti-clerical and secular
parties. She gave herself up to endless petty tasks. And deeply
attached as she was to her wedded condition, when a demand was lodged
before the Senate for the authorisation of judicial proceedings against
Laprat-Teulet and several other senators, she offered two candles
in the Church of Saint-Exupère, before the painted statue of Saint
Anthony, in order that by his good offices her husband’s opponents
might be non-suited. And it was in that way that the affair ended. A
pupil of Gambetta, M. Laprat-Teulet had in his possession certain small
documents, a photographic reproduction of which he had sent at a timely
moment to the Keeper of the Seals. Madame Laprat-Teulet, in the zeal of
her gratitude, had a marble slab put up, as a votive-offering, on the
wall of the chapel, with this inscription drawn up by the venerable M.
Laprune himself: _To Saint Anthony from a Christian wife, in gratitude
for an unexpected blessing._ Since then M. Laprat-Teulet had retrieved
his position. He had given serious pledges to the Conservatives, who
hoped to utilise his great financial talents in the struggle against
socialism. His political position had become satisfactory again,
provided he affronted no one and did not seize the reins of power for
himself.
And with her waxen fingers Madame Laprat-Teulet embroidered
altar-frontals.
“Well, madame,” said the _préfet_ to her, after the soup, “are your
good works prospering? Do you know that, after Madame Cartier de
Chalmot, you are the lady in the department who presides over the
largest number of charities?”
She made no answer. He recollected that she was deaf, and, turning
towards Madame Delion:
“Tell me, I beg you, madame, about Saint Anthony’s charity. It was this
poor Madame Laprat-Teulet who made me think of it. My wife tells me it
is a new cult that is becoming the rage in the department.”
“Madame Worms-Clavelin is right, my dear sir. We are all devoted to
Saint Anthony.”
Then they heard M. Mauricet, in reply to a sentence lost in the noise,
say to M. Delion:
“You flatter me, my dear sir. The Puits-du-Roi, very much neglected
since Louis XIV.’s time, is not to be compared with Valcombe for its
sport. There is very little game there. Still, a poacher of rare
skill, named Rivoire, who honours the Puits-du-Roi with his nocturnal
visits, kills plenty of pheasants there. And you’ve no idea what an
extraordinary old blunderbuss he shoots them with. It’s a specimen for
a museum! I owe him thanks for having one day allowed me to examine it
at leisure. Imagine a …”
“I am told, madame,” said the _préfet_, “that the worshippers address
their requests to Saint Anthony in a sealed paper, and that they make
no payment until after the blessing demanded has been received.”
“Don’t jest,” replied Madame Delion; “Saint Anthony grants many
favours.”
“It is,” continued M. Mauricet, “the barrel of an old musket which has
been cut through and mounted on a kind of hinge, so that it rocks up
and down, and …”
“I thought,” replied the _préfet_, “that Saint Anthony’s speciality was
finding lost articles.”
“That is why,” answered Madame Delion, “so many requests are made to
him.”
And she added, with a sigh:
“Who, in this world, has not lost a precious possession? Peace of
heart, a conscience at rest, a friendship formed in childhood or … a
husband’s love? It is then that one prays to Saint Anthony.”
“Or to his comrade,” added the _préfet_, whom the ironmaster’s wines
had elated, and who in his innocence was confusing Saint Anthony of
Padua with Saint Anthony the hermit.
“But,” asked M. de Terremondre, “this Rivoire is known as the poacher
to the prefecture, is he not?”
“You are mistaken, Monsieur de Terremondre,” replied the _préfet_.
“He has a still more honourable appointment as poacher to the
Archbishopric. He supplies Monseigneur’s table.”
“He also consents to put his skill at the service of the court,” said
President Peloux.
M. Delion and Madame Cartier de Chalmot were conversing together in low
tones:
“My son Gustave, dear lady, is going to serve his military term this
year. I should so much like him to be placed under General Cartier de
Chalmot.”
“Do not set your heart on that, monsieur. My husband hates favouritism,
and he is chary of granting leave; he expects lads of good family to
show an example of work. And he has imbued all his colonels with his
principles.”
“... And the barrel of this musket,” continued M. Mauricet,
“corresponds with no recognised bore, so that Rivoire can only make use
of undersized cartridges. You can easily imagine …”
The _préfet_ was unfolding certain arguments calculated to bring Madame
Delion completely over to the government, and he concluded with this
noble thought:
“At the moment when the Czar is coming on a visit to France, it is
necessary that the Republic should identify itself with the upper
classes of the nation in order to put them in touch with our great
ally, Russia.”
Meanwhile, with the calm of a Madonna, Noémi was kissing feet with M.
_le président_ Peloux, who had been feeling about for hers under the
table.
Young Gustave Delion was saying in a low voice to Madame de Gromance:
“I hope that this time you will not keep me hanging about as you did on
the day when you were playing the fool with that dotard of a Mauricet,
whilst I had no other amusement in your yellow drawing-room than to
potter with the works of the clock.”
“What an excellent woman Madame Laprat-Teulet is!” exclaimed Madame
Delion in a sudden outburst of affection.
“Excellent,” said the _préfet_, swallowing a quarter of a pear. “It is
a pity that she is as deaf as a post. Her husband also is an excellent
man, and very intelligent. I am glad to see that people are beginning
to readjust their views of him. He has gone through a difficult
time. The enemies of the Republic wanted to compromise him in order
to discredit the government. He has been the victim of schemes that
aimed at excluding from Parliament the leading men belonging to the
business world. Such an exclusion would lower the level of national
representation and would be in all respects deplorable.”
For a moment he remained thoughtful; then he said sadly:
“Besides, no further scandals can be hatched; no more charges are being
trumped up. And there we have one of the most grievous results of this
campaign of calumny, carried on with unheard-of audacity.”
“Perhaps it is as well!” sighed Madame Delion, thoughtfully and
meaningly.
Then suddenly, with a burst of fervour:
“Monsieur _le préfet_, give us back our dear religious orders, let our
Sisters of Charity return to the hospitals and our God to the schools
whence you have expelled Him. No longer prevent our rearing our sons as
Christians and … we shall be very near to a mutual understanding.”
Hearing these words, M. Worms-Clavelin flung up his hands, as well
as his knife, on which was a morsel of cheese, and exclaimed with
heartfelt sincerity: “Good God! madame, don’t you see that the streets
of the county town are black with curés, and that there are monks
behind all the gratings? And as for your young Gustave, damn it! it
isn’t I who prevent him from going to mass all day instead of running
after the girls!”
M. Mauricet was finishing his description of the marvellous
blunderbuss, amid the clatter of voices, the echo of laughter, and the
little tinkling taps of silver upon china.
M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, who was in a hurry to smoke, passed out
first into the billiard-room. He was soon joined there by President
Peloux, to whom he held out a cigar:
“Have one, do! They are capital.”
And in reply to M. Peloux’s thanks, showing the box of regalias, he
answered:
“Don’t thank me; it is one of our host’s cigars.”
This joke was one of his stock ones.
At last M. Delion appeared, leading the bulk of the guests, who with
greater gallantry had been chatting for a few minutes with the ladies.
He was listening approvingly to M. de Gromance, who was explaining to
him how necessary it was in shooting to calculate distances accurately.
“For instance,” he said, “on uneven ground a hare seems relatively
distant, whilst, on level ground, it seems nearer by more than fifty
metres. It is on this account that …”
“Come,” said M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin, taking down a cue from the
rack, “come, Peloux, shall we play a game?”
M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin was a pretty fair stroke at billiards;
but M. _le président_ Peloux gave him points. A little Norman attorney
who, at the close of a disastrous estate case, had been forced to
sell his practice, he had been appointed a judge at the time when the
Republic was purging the magistracy. Sent from one end of France to the
other, in courts where the knowledge of the law had almost disappeared,
his skill in sharp practice made him useful, and his ministerial
relations secured him advancement. Yet everywhere a vague rumour of his
past pursued him, and people refused to treat him with respect. But
luckily he was wise enough to know how to endure persistent rebuffs.
He bore affronts placidly. M. Lerond, deputy attorney-general, now a
barrister at the bar at …, said of him in the Salle des Pas-Perdus: “He
is a man of intelligence who knows the distance between his seat and
the prisoner’s dock.” Yet that public approval which he had not sought,
and which evaded him, had at length, by a sudden recoil, come of its
own accord. For the last two years the whole society of the district
had looked upon President Peloux as an upright magistrate. They admired
his courage when, smiling placidly between his two pale assessors, he
had condemned to five years’ imprisonment three confederate anarchists,
guilty of having distributed in the barracks bills exhorting the
nations to fraternise.
“Twelve—four,” announced M. _le président_ Peloux.
Having practised for a long time in the sleepy restaurant of a county
town in a rural canton, he had learnt a close professional game. He
raked his balls into a little corner of the billiard-table and brought
off a series of cannons. M. _le préfet_ Worms-Clavelin played in the
broad, splendid, reckless style of the artist-cafés of Montmartre and
Clichy. And laying the failure of his rash strokes to the charge of the
table, he complained of the hardness of the cushions.
“At la Tuilière,” said M. de Terremondre, “in my cousin Jacques’ house,
there is a billiard-table with pockets, which dates from Louis XV.’s
time, in a very low vaulted hall, of soft, whitewashed stone, where
this inscription is still to be read: ‘Gentlemen are requested not to
rub their cues on the walls.’ It is a request to which no one has paid
any attention, for the vaulting is pitted with a number of little round
holes, whose origin is accurately explained by this inscription.”
M. _le président_ Peloux was asked in several directions at once for
details as to the affair in Queen Marguerite’s house. The murder of
Madame Houssieu, which had excited all the district, was still arousing
interest. Every one knew that a crushing weight of evidence hung over a
butcher’s boy of nineteen, named Lecœur, whom folks used to see twice
a week entering the old lady’s house with his basket on his head. It
was also known that the prosecution was detaining two upholsterers’
apprentices of fourteen and sixteen years of age as accomplices, and it
was said that the crime had been committed in circumstances which made
the story of it a particularly delicate one.
Being questioned on this point, M. _le président_ Peloux lifted his
round, ruddy head from the billiard-table and winked.
“The case is being tried _in camera_. The scene of the murder has
been reconstructed in its entirety. I don’t believe that there is a
doubt left as to the acts of debauchery which preceded the crime and
facilitated the perpetration of it.”
He took up his liqueur glass, swallowed a mouthful of armagnac, smacked
his lips, and said:
“Heavens! what velvet!”
And, when a circle of inquirers crowded round him asking for details,
the magistrate, in a low voice, disclosed certain circumstances which
provoked murmurs of surprise and grunts of disgust.
“Is it possible?” was the comment. “A woman of eighty!”
“The case,” answered M. _le président_ Peloux, “is not unique. You may
take my word for it after my experience as a magistrate. And the young
scamps of the faubourgs know much more on this subject than we do. The
crime in Queen Marguerite’s house is of a well-known, classified sort;
I might call it a classic type. I immediately scented it out as senile
debauchery, and I saw quite clearly that Roquincourt, the prosecuting
counsel, was following a wrong track. He had naturally ordered the
arrest of all the vagabonds and tramps found wandering within a wide
circumference. Every one of them aroused suspicions; and what put the
crowning touch to his mistake was that one of them, Sieurin, nicknamed
Pied-d’Alouette, a regular old gaol-bird, made a confession.”
“How was that?”
“He was bored with solitary confinement. He had been promised a pipe
of canteen tobacco if he confessed. He did confess. He told them all
they wanted. This Sieurin, who has been sentenced thirty-seven times
for vagabondage, is incapable of killing a fly. He has never committed
robbery. He is a simpleton, an inoffensive creature. At the time of the
crime, the gendarmes saw him on Duroc hill making straw fountains and
cork boats for the school children.”