Every one had gone into the house, and in a corner of the drawing-room,
with its chintz hangings gay with bunches of wild flowers, Henri
Mauperin, Denoisel, and Reverchon were talking. Near to the
chimney-piece, Mme. Mauperin, with great demonstrations of affection,
was greeting her son-in-law and daughter, M. and Mme. Davarande, who had
just arrived. She felt obliged on this occasion to make a display of
family feeling and to exhibit her motherly love.
The greeting between Mme. Mauperin and Mme. Davarande was scarcely over
when a little old gentleman entered the drawing-room quietly, wished
Mme. Mauperin good-evening with his eyes as he passed, and walked
straight across to the group where Denoisel was.
This little gentleman wore a dress-coat and had white whiskers. He was
carrying a portfolio under his arm.
"Do you know that?" he asked Denoisel, taking him into a window recess
and half opening his folio.
"That? I should just think I do. It's the 'Mysterious Swing,' an
engraving after Lavrience's."
The little old gentleman smiled.
"Yes, but look," he said, and he half opened his portfolio again, but in
such a way that Denoisel could only just see inside.
"'Before letters.' It's a proof before letters! Can you see?"
"Perfectly."
"And margins!--a gem, isn't it? They didn't give it me, I can tell you,
the thieves! It was run up--and by a woman, too!"
"Oh, of course!"
"A _cocotte_, who asked to see it every time I went any higher. The
rascal of an auctioneer kept saying, 'Pass it to the lady.' At last I
got it for five pounds eight. Oh, I wouldn't have paid one halfpenny
more."
"I should think not! If I had only known--why, there's a proof like
that, exactly like it, at Spindler's, the artist's--and with larger
margins, too. He does not care about Louis Seize things, Spindler. If I
had only asked him!"
"Good heavens!--and before letters, like mine? Are you quite sure?"
"Before letters--before--Oh, yes, it's an earlier one than yours. It's
before--" and Denoisel whispered something to the old man which brought
a flush of pleasure to his face and a moisture to his lips.
Just at this moment M. Mauperin entered the drawing-room with his
daughter. She was leaning on his arm, her head slightly thrown back in
an indolent way, rubbing her hair against the sleeve of her father's
coat as a child does when it is being carried.
"How are you?" she said as she kissed her sister. She then held her
forehead to her mother's lips, shook hands with her brother-in-law, and
ran across to the little man with the portfolio.
"Can I see, god-papa?"
"No, little girl, you are not grown-up enough yet," he replied, patting
her cheek in an affectionate way.
"Ah, it's always like that with the things you buy!" said Renée, turning
her back on the old man, who tied up the ribbon of his portfolio with
the special little bow so familiar to the fingers of print collectors.
"Well, what's this I hear?" suddenly exclaimed Mme. Mauperin, turning to
her daughter.
Reverchon was sitting next her, so near that her dress touched him every
time she moved.
"You were both carried away by the current," she continued. "It was
dangerous, I am sure! Oh, that river! I really cannot understand how M.
Mauperin allows----"
"Mme. Mauperin," replied her husband, who was by the table looking
through an album with his daughter, "I do not allow anything--I
tolerate----"
"Coward!" whispered Renée to her father.
"I assure you, mamma, there was no danger," put in Henri Mauperin.
"There was no danger at all. They were just slightly carried along by
the current, and they preferred holding on to a boat to going half a
mile or so lower down the river. That was all! You see----"
"Ah, you comfort me," said Mme. Mauperin, the serenity of her expression
gradually returning at her son's words. "I know you are so prudent, but,
you see, M. Reverchon, our dear Renée is so foolish that I am always
afraid. Oh, dear, there are drops of water on her hair now. Come here
and let me brush them off."
"M. Dardouillet!" announced a servant.
"A neighbour of ours," said Mme. Mauperin in a low voice to Reverchon.
"Well, and where are you now?" asked M. Mauperin, as he shook hands with
the new arrival.
"Oh, we are getting on--we are getting on--three hundred stakes done
to-day."
"Three hundred?"
"Three hundred--I fancy it won't be bad. From the green-house, you see,
I am going straight along as far as the water, on account of the view.
Fourteen or sixteen inches of slope--not more. If we were on the spot I
shouldn't have to explain. On the other side, you know, I shall raise
the path about three feet. When all that's done, M. Mauperin, do you
know that there won't be an inch of my land that will not have been
turned over?"
"But when shall you plant anything, M. Dardouillet?" asked Mlle.
Mauperin. "For the last three years you have only had workmen in your
garden; sha'n't you have a few trees in some day?"
"Oh, as to trees, mademoiselle, that's nothing. There's plenty of time
for all that. The most important thing is the plan of the ground, the
hills and slopes, and then afterward trees--if we want them."
Some one had just come in by a door leading from another room. He had
bowed as he entered, but no one had seen him, and he was there now
without any one noticing him. He had an honest-looking face and a head
of hair like a pen-wiper. It was M. Mauperin's cashier, M. Bernard.
"We are all here; has M. Bernard come down? Ah, that's right!" said M.
Mauperin on seeing him. "Suppose we have dinner, Mme. Mauperin, these
young people must be hungry."
* * * * *
The solemnity of the first few moments when the appetite is keen had
worn off, and the buzz of conversation could be heard in place of the
silence with which a dinner usually commences, and which is followed by
the noise of spoons in the soup plates.
"M. Reverchon," began Mme. Mauperin. She had placed the young man by
her, in the seat of honour, and she was amiability itself, as far as he
was concerned. She was most attentive to him and most anxious to please.
Her smile covered her whole face, and even her voice was not her
every-day voice, but a high-pitched one which she assumed on state
occasions. She kept glancing from the young man to his plate and from
his plate to a servant. It was a case of a mother angling for a
son-in-law. "M. Reverchon, we met a lady just recently whom you
know--Mme. de Bonnières. She spoke so highly of you--oh, so highly!"
"I had the honour of meeting Mme. de Bonnières in Italy--I was even
fortunate enough to be able to render her a little service."
"Did you save her from brigands?" exclaimed Renée.
"No, it was much less romantic than that. Mme. de Bonnières had some
difficulty about the bill at her hotel. She was alone and I prevented
her from being robbed."
"It was a case of robbers, anyhow, then," said Renée.
"One might write a play on the subject," put in Denoisel, "and it would
be quite a new plot--the reduction of a bill leading to a marriage.
What a good title, too, 'The Romance of an Awkward Moment, _à la_
Rabelais!'"
"Mme. de Bonnières is a very nice woman," continued Mme. Mauperin. "I
like her face. Do you know her, M. Barousse?" she asked, turning to
Renée's godfather.
"Yes, she is very pleasant."
"Oh! why, god-papa, she's like a satyr!" exclaimed Renée.
When the word was out some of the guests smiled, and the young girl,
turning red, hastened to add: "I only mean she has a face like one."
"That's what I call mending matters!" said Denoisel.
"Did you stay long in Italy, monsieur?" asked M. Mauperin, by way of
changing the subject.
"Six months."
"And what did you think of it?"
"It's very interesting, but one has so much discomfort there. I never
could get used to drinking coffee out of glasses."
"Italy is the most wretched place to go to; it is the least practical of
all places," said Henri Mauperin. "What a state agriculture is in
there--and trade, too! One day in Florence at a masked ball I asked the
waiter at a restaurant if they would be open all night. 'Oh, no, sir,'
he said, 'we should have too many people here.' That's a fact, I heard
it myself, and that shows you what the country is. When one thinks of
England, of that wonderful initiative power of individuals and of the
whole nation, too; when one has seen the business genius of the London
citizen and the produce of a Yorkshire farm--Oh, a fine nation that!"
"I agree with Henri," said Mme. Davarande, "there is something so
distinguished about England. I like the politeness of the English
people, and I approve of their way of always introducing people. Then,
too, they wrap your change up in paper--and some of their dress
materials have quite a style of their own. My husband bought me a poplin
dress at the Exposition--Oh, mamma, I have quite decided about my cloak.
I was at Alberic's--it's most amusing. He lets one of the girls put a
cloak over your shoulders and then he walks round you and just marks
with an ebony ruler the places where it does not fit; he scarcely
touches you with it, but just gives little taps--like that--and the girl
marks each tap with chalk. Oh, he certainly has a lot of character, that
Alberic! And then he's the only one--there isn't another place--he has
such good style for cloaks. I recognised two of his yesterday at the
races. He is very expensive though."
"Oh, those people get what they like to ask," said Reverchon. "My
tailor, Edouard, has just retired--he's made over a hundred thousand
pounds."
"Oh, well, quite right," remarked M. Barousse. "I'm always very glad
when I see things like that. The workers get the money nowadays--that's
just what it is. It's the greatest revolution since the beginning of the
world."
"Yes," said Denoisel, "a revolution that makes one think of the words of
Chapon, the celebrated thief: 'Robbery, Monsieur le Président, is the
principal trade of the world!'"
"Were the races good?" asked Renée.
"Well, there were plenty of people," answered Mme. Davarande.
"Very good, mademoiselle," said Reverchon. "The Diana prize especially
was very well run. Plume de coq, that they reckoned at thirty-five, was
beaten by Basilicate by two lengths. It was very exciting. The hacks was
a very good race, too, although the ground was rather hard."
"Who is the Russian lady who drives four-in-hand, M. Reverchon?" asked
Mme. Davarande.
"Mme. de Rissleff. She has some splendid horses, some thoroughbred
Orloffs."
"You ought to join the Jockey Club, Jules, for the races," said Mme.
Davarande, turning to her husband. "I think it is so common to be with
everybody. Really if one has any respect for one's self--a woman I
mean--there is no place but the jockey stand."
"Ah, a mushroom patty!" exclaimed M. Barousse. "Your cook is surpassing
herself, she really is a veritable _cordon-bleu_. I shall have to pay
her my compliments before leaving."
"I thought you never eat that dish," said Mme. Mauperin.
"I did not eat it in 1848--and I did not eat it up to the second of
December. Do you think the police had time then to inspect mushrooms?
But now that there is order again."
"Henriette," said Mme. Mauperin to Mme. Davarande, "I must scold your
husband. He neglects us. We have not seen you for three weeks, M.
Davarande."
"Oh, my dear mother, if you only knew all I have had to do! You know I
am on very good terms with Georges. His father has his time taken up at
the Chamber and the business falls on Georges as principal. There are
hundreds of things that he can only trust to people in whom he has
confidence--friends, in fact. There was that big affair--that _début_ at
the Opéra. There was no end of interviews and parleyings and journeys
backward and forward. It would not have done to have had any strife
between the two ministries. Oh, we have been very busy lately. He is so
considerate that I could not----"
"So considerate?" put in Denoisel. "He might pay your cab-fares at
least. It's more than two years since he promised you a
sub-prefectship."
"My dear Denoisel, it's more difficult than you imagine. And then, too,
when one does not care about going too far from Paris. Besides, between
ourselves, I can tell you that it's almost arranged. In about a month
from now I have every reason to believe----"
"What _début_ were you speaking of?" asked Barousse.
"Bradizzi's," answered Davarande.
"Ah, Bradizzi! Isn't she astounding!" said Reverchon. "She has some runs
that are wonderfully light. The other day I was in the manager's box on
the stage and we couldn't hear her touch the ground when she was
dancing."
"We expected to see you yesterday evening, Henri," said Mme. Davarande
to her brother.
"Yesterday I was at my lecture," he answered.
"Henri has been appointed reporter," said Mme. Mauperin proudly.
"Ah," put in Denoisel, "the d'Aguesseau lecture? That's still going on
then, your speechifying affair? How many are there in it?"
"Two hundred."
"And all statesmen? It's quite alarming. What were you to report on?"
"A law that was proposed with reference to the National Guard."
"You go in for everything," said Denoisel.
"I am sure you do not belong to the National Guard, Denoisel?" observed
M. Barousse.
"No, indeed!"
"And yet it is an institution."
"The drums affirm that it is that, M. Barousse."
"And you do not vote either, I would wager?"
"I would not vote under any pretext."
"Denoisel, I am sorry to say so, but you are a bad citizen. You were
born as you are, I am not blaming you, but the fact remains----"
"A bad citizen--what do you mean?"
"Well, you are always in opposition to the laws."
"I am?"
"Yes, you are. Without going any farther back, take for instance the
money you came into from your Uncle Frédéric. You handed it over to his
illegitimate children----"
"What of that?"
"Well, that is what I call an illegal action, most deplorable and
blameworthy. What does the law mean? It is quite clear--the law means
that children not born in wedlock should not be able to inherit their
father's money. You were not ignorant of this, for I told you that it
was so; your lawyer told you and the code told you. What did you do?
Why, you let the children have the money. You ignored the code, the
spirit of the law, everything. To give up your uncle's fortune in that
way, Denoisel, was rendering homage to low morals. It was simply
encouraging----"
"I know your principles in the matter, M. Barousse. But what was I to
do? When I saw those three poor lads I said to myself that I should
never enjoy the cigars I smoked with their bread-money. No one is
perfect----"
"All that is not law. When there is a law there is some reason for it,
is there not? The law is against immorality. Suppose others imitated
you----"
"You need not fear that, Barousse," said M. Mauperin, smiling.
"We ought never to set a bad example," answered Barousse, sententiously.
"Do not misunderstand me," he continued, turning to Denoisel. "I do not
respect you any the less for it, on the contrary, I appreciate your
disinterestedness, but as to saying that you were right--no, I cannot
say that. It's the same with your way of living--that is not as it
should be. You ought to have your time occupied--hang it all! You ought
to do something, go in for something, take up some work, pay your debt
to your country. If you had begun in good time, with your intelligence,
you would perhaps have had a post bringing you in a thousand or
more----"
"I have had a better thing than that offered me, M. Barousse."
"More money?" asked Barousse.
"More money," answered Denoisel tranquilly.
Barousse looked at him in astonishment.
"Seriously," continued Denoisel, "I had the most brilliant
prospects--just for five minutes. It was on the twenty-fourth of
February, 1848. I did not know what to do with myself, for when one has
done the Tuileries in the morning it rather unsettles one for the rest
of the day. It occurred to me that I would go and call on one of my
friends who has a Government appointment--a Government appointment, you
know, on the other side of the water. I arrived, and there was no one
there. I went upstairs into the minister's office where my friend
worked--no friend there. I lighted a cigarette, intending to wait for
him. A gentleman came in while I was smoking, and seeing me seated,
imagined I belonged to the place. He had no hat on, so that I thought he
also did. He asked me very politely to show him the way about the house.
I took him round and then we came back. He gave me something to write
down, just telling me the sense of it. I took my friend's pen and wrote.
He then read it and was delighted. We talked; he admired my orthography.
He shook hands with me and found I had gloves on. To cut it short, at
the end of a quarter of an hour he was pressing me to be his secretary.
It was the new minister."
"And you did not accept?"
"My friend arrived and I accepted for him. He is at present quite a high
functionary in the Council of State. It was lucky for him to be
supernumerary only half a day."
They were having dessert, and M. Mauperin had pulled one of the dishes
nearer and was just helping himself in an absent-minded way.
"M. Mauperin!" exclaimed his wife, looking steadily at him.
"I beg pardon, my dear--symmetry--you are quite right. I wasn't
thinking," and he pushed the dish back to its place.
"You always do disarrange things----"
"I'm sorry, my dear, I'm very sorry. My wife is an excellent woman, you
know, gentlemen, but if you disarrange her symmetry for her--It's quite
a religion with my wife--symmetry is."
"How ridiculous you are, M. Mauperin!" said Mme. Mauperin, blushing at
being convicted of the most flagrant provincialism; and then, turning
upon her daughter, she exclaimed, "Oh, dear, Renée, how you stoop! Do
sit up, my child----"
"That's always the way," murmured the young girl, speaking to herself.
"Mamma avenges herself on me."
"Gentlemen," said M. Mauperin, when they had returned to the
drawing-room, "you can smoke here, you know. We owe that liberty to my
son. He has been lucky enough to obtain his mother's----"
"Coffee, god-papa?" asked Renée.
"No," answered M. Barousse, "I shouldn't be able to go to sleep----"
"Here," put in Renée, finishing his sentence for him.
"M. Reverchon?"
"I never take it, thank you very much."
She went backward and forward, the steam from the cup of hot coffee she
was carrying rising to her face and flushing it.
"Is every one served?" she asked, and without waiting for any reply she
sat down to the piano and struck the first notes of a polka.
"Are we going to dance?" she asked, breaking off. "Let us dance--oh, do
let us dance!"
"Let us smoke in peace!" said M. Mauperin.
"Yes, daddy," and going on with her polka she danced it herself on her
music-stool, only touching the floor with her tip-toes. She played
without looking at her notes, her face turned towards the drawing-room,
smiling and animated, her eyes lighted up and her cheeks flushed with
the excitement of the dance; like a little girl playing dance music for
other people and moving about herself as she watches them. She swung her
shoulders, her form swayed as though she were being guided along, while
her whole body marked the rhythm and her attitude seemed to indicate
the step she was dancing. Then she turned towards the piano again and
her eyes followed her hands over the black and white keys. Bending over
the music she was playing, she seemed to be striking the notes, then
caressing them, speaking to them, scolding them or smiling on them, and
then lulling them to sleep. She would sustain the loud parts, then
linger over the melody; there were movements that she would play with
tenderness and others with little bursts of passion. She bent over the
piano, then rose again, the light playing on the top of her
tortoise-shell comb one moment, while the next moment it could scarcely
be seen in her black hair. The two candles on the piano flickered to the
noise, throwing a light over her profile or sending their flame over her
forehead, her cheeks, and her chin. The shadow from her ear-rings--two
coral balls--trembled all the time on the delicate skin of her throat,
and her fingers ran so quickly over the keyboard that one could only see
something pink flying backward and forward.
"And it's her own composition," said M. Mauperin to Reverchon.
"She has had lessons from Quidant," added Mme. Mauperin.
"There--I've finished!" exclaimed Renée, suddenly leaving the piano and
planting herself in front of Denoisel. "Tell me a story now, Denoisel,
to amuse me--anything you like."
She was standing before him, her arms crossed and her head slightly
thrown back, the weight of her body supported on one leg, and a
mischievous, daring look on her face which lent additional grace to her
slightly masculine dress. She was wearing a high collar of piqué with a
cravat of black ribbon, and the revers of her white front turned back
over her jacket bodice of cloth. There were pockets on the front of her
skirt.
"When shall you cut your wisdom teeth, Renée?" asked Denoisel.
"Never!" she answered, laughing. "Well, what about my story?"
Denoisel looked round to see that no one was listening, and then
lowering his voice began:
"Once upon a time a papa and a mamma had a little daughter. The papa and
mamma wished her to marry, and they sent for some very nice-looking
gentlemen; but the little daughter, who was very nice-looking, too----"
"Oh, how stupid you are!--I'll get my work, there--" and taking her work
out of a basket on the table she went and sat down by her mother.
"Are we not going to have any whist to-night?" asked M. Mauperin.
"Yes, of course, my dear," answered Mme. Mauperin. "The table is
ready--you see there are only the candles to light."
"Going, going, gone!" called out Denoisel in M. Barousse's ear.
The old gentleman was just beginning to doze in a corner by the
chimney-piece and his head was nodding like a passenger's in a
stage-coach. M. Barousse started up and Denoisel handed him a card:
"The King of Spades! _before the letter!_ You are wanted at whist."
"You are not over-tired this evening, mademoiselle?" asked Reverchon,
approaching Renée.
"I? I could dance all night. That's how I feel."
"You are making something--very pretty----"
"This?--oh, yes, very pretty! It is a stocking--I am knitting for my
little poor children. It's warm, that's all it is. I am not very clever
with my needle, you know. With embroidery and wool-work you have to
think about what you are doing, but with this, you see, your fingers go;
it just makes itself when once you start, and you can think about
anything--the Grand Turk if you like----"
"I say, Renée," observed M. Mauperin, "it's odd; it's no good my losing,
I can't catch up again."
"Oh, that's clever--I shall remember that for my collection," answered
Renée. "Denoisel, come here," she called out, suddenly, "come here a
minute--nearer--nearer still. Will you come here at once--there
now--kneel down----"
"Are you mad, child?" exclaimed Mme. Mauperin.
"Renée," said Denoisel, "I believe you have made up your mind to prevent
my getting married."
"Come, come, Renée!" said M. Mauperin paternally from the card-table.
"Well--what is it?" asked Renée threatening Denoisel playfully with a
pair of scissors. "Now if you move! Denoisel's head always looks
untidy--his hair is badly cut--he always has a great, ugly lock that
falls over his forehead. It makes people squint when they look at him. I
want to cut that lock. There--he's afraid. Why, I cut hair very
well--you ask papa," and forthwith she gave two or three clips with her
scissors, and then crossing over to the fireplace, shook the hair into
the grate. "If you fancy it was for the sake of getting a lock of your
hair--" she said, turning round as she spoke.
She had paid no attention to the nudge her brother had given her as she
passed. Her mother, who an instant before was perfectly crimson, was now
pale, but Renée had not noticed that. Her father left the whist-table
and came across to her with an embarrassed expression, looking as though
he were vexed with her. She took the cigarette which he had lighted
from him, put it between her own lips, and drawing a puff of smoke,
blew it away again quickly, turning her head away, coughing and
blinking. "Ugh!--how horrid it is!"
"Well, really, Renée!" exclaimed Mme. Mauperin severely, and evidently
in great distress, "I really don't know--I have never seen you like
this----"
"Bring the tea in," said M. Mauperin to a servant who had entered in
answer to his peal at the bell.