"Ah, what's that mean? Where in the world are you going?" asked M.
Mauperin in the morning as Mme. Mauperin stood at the glass putting on a
black lace cape.
"Where am I going?" said Mme. Mauperin, fastening the cape to her
shoulder with one of the two pins she was holding in her mouth. "Is my
cape too low down? Just look."
"No."
"Pull it a little."
"How fine you are!" said M. Mauperin, stepping back and examining his
wife's dress.
She was wearing a black dress of the most elegant style, in excellent
taste though somewhat severe looking.
"I am going to Paris."
"Oh! you are going to Paris? What are you going to do in Paris?"
"Oh, dear, how you do worry always with your questions: 'Where are you
going? What are you going to do?' You really want to know, do you?"
"Well, I was only asking you----"
"My dear, I am going to confession," said Mme. Mauperin, looking down.
M. Mauperin was speechless. His wife in the early days of her married
life had gone regularly on Sundays to church. Later she had accompanied
her daughters to their catechism class, and these were all the religious
duties he had ever known her to accomplish. For the last ten years it
seemed to him that she had been as indifferent as he was about such
things--naturally and frankly indifferent. When the first moment of
stupefaction had passed, he opened his mouth to speak, looked at her,
said nothing, and, turning suddenly on his heels, went out of the room
humming a kind of air to which music and words were about all that were
missing.
* * * * *
On arriving at a handsome, cheerful-looking house in the Rue de la
Madeleine, Mme. Mauperin went upstairs to the fourth story and rang at a
door where there was no attempt at any style. It was opened promptly.
"M. l'Abbé Blampoix?"
"Yes, madame," answered a servant-man in black livery.
He spoke with a Belgian accent and bowed as he spoke. He took Mme.
Mauperin across the entrance-hall, where a faint odour was just dying
away, and through a dining-room flooded with sunshine, where the cloth
was simply laid for one person. Mme. Mauperin then found herself in a
drawing-room decorated and scented with flowers. Above a harmonium with
rich inlaid work was a copy of Correggio's "Night." On another panel,
framed in black, was the Communion of Marie Antoinette and of her
gendarmes at the Conciergerie, lithographed according to a story that
was told about her. Keepsakes, a hundred little things that might have
been New Year's gifts, filled the brackets. A small bronze statue of
Canova's "Madeleine" was on a table in the middle of the room.
The tapestry chairs, each one of a different design and piously worked
by hand, were evidently presents which devoted women had done for the
abbé.
There were men and women waiting there, and each by turn went into the
abbé's room, stayed a few minutes, then came out again and went away.
The last person waiting, a woman, stayed a long time, and when she came
out of the room Mme. Mauperin could not see her face through her double
veil.
The abbé was standing by his chimney-piece when Mme. Mauperin entered.
He was holding apart the flaps of his cassock like the tails of a coat.
* * * * *
The Abbé Blampoix had neither benefice nor parish. He had a large
connection and a specialty: he was the priest of society people, of the
fashionable world, and of the aristocracy. He confessed the frequenters
of drawing-rooms, he was the spiritual director of well-born
consciences, and he comforted those souls that were worth the trouble of
comforting. He brought Jesus Christ within reach of the wealthy. "Every
one has his work to do in the Lord's vineyard," he used often to say,
appearing to groan and bend beneath the burden of saving the Faubourg
Saint-Germain, the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and the Chaussée-d'Antin.
He was a man of common sense and intellect, an obliging sort of priest
who adapted everything to the precept, "_The letter killeth, and the
spirit maketh alive._" He was tolerant and intelligent, could comprehend
things and could smile. He measured faith out according to the
temperament of the people and only gave it in small doses. He made the
penances light, he loosened the bonds of the cross and sprinkled the way
of salvation with sand. From the hard, unlovely, stern religion of the
poor he had evolved a pleasant religion for the rich; it was easy,
charming, elastic, adapting itself to things and to people, to all the
ways and manners of society, to its customs and habits, and even to its
prejudices. Of the idea of God he had made something quite comfortable
and elegant.
The Abbé Blampoix had all the fascination of the priest who is well
educated, talented, and accomplished. He could talk well during
confession, and could put some wit into his exhortations and a certain
graciousness into his unction. He knew how to move and interest his
hearers. He was well versed in words that touch the heart and in
speeches that are flattering and pleasing to the ear. His voice was
musical and his style flowery. He called the devil "_the Prince of
evil_," and the eucharist "_the Divine aliment_"! He abounded in
periphrases as highly coloured as sacred pictures. He talked of Rossini,
quoted Racine, and spoke of "_the Bois_" for the Bois de Boulogne. He
talked of divine love in words which were somewhat disconcerting, of
present-day vices with piquant details, and of society in society
language. Occasionally, expressions which were in vogue and which had
only recently been invented, expressions only known among worldly
people, would slip into his spiritual consultations and had the same
effect as extracts from a newspaper in an ascetic book. There was a
pleasant odour of the century about him. His priestly robe seemed to be
impregnated with all the pretty little sins which had approached it. He
was very well up and always to the point with regard to subtle
temptations, admirably shrewd, keen, and tactful in his discussions on
sensuality. Women doted on him.
His first step, his _début_ in the ecclesiastical career, had been
distinguished by a veritable seduction and capturing of souls, by a
success which had been a perfect triumph and indeed almost a scandal.
After taking the catechism classes for a year in the parish of B----,
the archbishop had appointed him to other work, putting another priest
in his place. The result of this was a rebellion, as all the girls who
had attended the catechism classes refused to speak or listen to the
newcomer. They had lost their young hearts and heads, and there were
tears shed by all the flock, a regular riot of wailing and sorrow, which
before long changed into revolt. The elder girls, the chief members of
the society, kept up the struggle several months. They agreed together
not to go to the classes, and they went so far as to refuse to hand over
to the curé the cash-box which had been intrusted to them. It was with
the greatest difficulty that they were appeased.
The success which all this augured to the Abbé Blampoix had not failed
him. His fame had quickly spread. That great force, Fashion, which in
Paris affects everything, even a priest's cassock, had taken him up and
launched him. People came to him from all parts. The ordinary,
commonplace confessions were heard by other priests; but all the choice
sins were brought to him. Around him was always to be heard a hubbub of
great names, of large fortunes, of pretty contritions, and the rustling
of beautiful dresses. Mothers consulted him about taking their
daughters out, and the daughters were instructed by him before going
into society. He was appealed to for permission to wear low-necked
dresses, and he was the man who regulated the modesty of ball costumes
and the propriety of reading certain books. He was also asked for titles
of novels and lists of moral plays. He prepared candidates for
confirmation and led them on to marriage. He baptized children and
listened to the confession of the adulterous in thought. Wives who
considered themselves slighted or misunderstood came to him to lament
over the materiality of their husbands, and he supplied them with a
little idealism to take back to their homes. All who were in trouble or
despair had recourse to him, and he ordered a trip to Italy for them,
with music and painting for diversions and a good confession in Rome.
Wives who were separated from their husbands addressed themselves to him
when they wanted to return quietly to their home. His conciliations came
between the love of wives and the jealousy of mothers-in-law. He found
governesses for the mothers and lady's maids of forty years of age for
young wives. Newly married wives learned from him to secure their
happiness and to keep their husband's affection by their discreet and
dainty toilettes, by cleanliness and care, by the spotlessness and
elegance of their linen. "My dear child," he would say sometimes, "a
wife should have just a faint perfume of the _lorette_ about her." His
experience intervened in questions of the hygiene of marriage. He was
consulted on such matters as maternity and pregnancy. He would decide
whether a wife should become a mother and whether a mother should suckle
her child.
This vogue and rôle, the dealings that he had with women and the
possession of all their secrets, so many confidences and so much
knowledge on all subjects, his intercourse of all kinds with the
dignitaries and lady-treasurers of various societies, and the
acquaintance he had, thanks to the steps he was obliged to take in the
interests of charity, with all the important personages of Paris, all
the influence that, as a clever, discreet, and obliging priest, he had
succeeded in obtaining, had given to the Abbé Blampoix an immense power
and authority which radiated silently and unseen. Worldly interests and
social ambitions were confessed to him. Nearly all the marriageable
individuals in society were recommended to this priest, who professed no
political preferences, who mixed with every one, and who was admirably
placed for bringing families together, for uniting houses, arranging
matches of expediency or balancing social positions, pairing off money
with money, or joining an ancient title to a newly made fortune. It was
as though marriages in Paris had an occult Providence in the person of
this rare sort of man in whom were blended the priest and the lawyer,
the apostle and the diplomatist--Fénelon and M. de Foy. The Abbé
Blampoix had an income of sixteen hundred pounds, the half of which he
gave to the poor. He had refused a bishopric for the sake of remaining
what he was--a priest.
"To whom have I the honour," began the abbé, who appeared to be
searching his memory for a name.
"Mme. Mauperin, the mother of Mme. Davarande."
"Oh, excuse me, madame, excuse me. Your family are not persons whom one
could forget. Do sit down, please--let me give you this arm-chair."
And then, taking a seat himself with his back to the light, he
continued:
"I like to think of that marriage, which gave me the opportunity of
making your acquaintance--the marriage of your daughter with M.
Davarande. You and I, madame, you, with the devotion of a mother, and
I--well, with just the feeble insight of a humble priest--brought about
a truly Christian marriage, a marriage which has satisfied the needs of
the dear child as regards her religion and her affection and which was
also in accordance with her social position. Mme. Davarande is one of my
model penitents; I am thoroughly satisfied with her. M. Davarande is an
excellent young man who shares the religious beliefs of his wife, and
that is a rare thing nowadays. One's mind is easy about such happy and
superior young couples, and I am quite convinced beforehand that you
have not come about either of these dear children----"
"You are right. I am quite satisfied as regards them, and their
happiness is a great joy in my life. It is such a responsibility to get
one's children married. No, monsieur, it is not for them that I have
come; it is for myself."
"For yourself--madame?"
And the abbé glanced quickly at her with an expression which softened
just as quickly.
"Ah, monsieur, time brings many changes. One has a hundred things to
think about before one reaches my age. There are the people one meets,
and society ties, and all that is very entertaining. We give ourselves
up to such things, enjoy them and count on them. We fancy we shall never
need anything beyond. Well, now, monsieur, I have reached the age when
one does need something beyond. You will understand me, I am sure. I
have begun to feel the emptiness of the world. Nothing interests me, and
I should like to come back to what I had given up. I know how indulgent
and charitable you are. I need your counsel and your hand to lead me
back to duties that I have neglected far too long, although I have
always remembered and respected them. You must know how wretched I am,
monsieur."
While speaking thus, with that easy flow of words so natural to a woman,
and especially to a Parisian woman, and which in Parisian slang is known
as _bagou_, Mme. Mauperin, who had avoided meeting the priest's eyes,
which she had felt fixed on her, now glanced mechanically at a light
which was being stirred by the abbé's hands and which flamed up under a
ray of sunshine, shining brightly in the midst of this room--the
severe-looking, solemn, cold room of a man of business. This light came
from a casket containing some diamonds with which the abbé was idly
playing.
"Ah, you are looking at this!" said the abbé, catching Mme. Mauperin's
eye and answering her thoughts instead of her phrases. "You are
surprised to see it, are you not? Yes, a jewel-case, a case of
diamonds--and just look at them--rather good ones, too." He passed her
the necklace. "It's odd for that to be here, isn't it? But what was I to
do? This is our modern society. We are obliged to see a little of all
sorts. Such a pitiful scene! I don't feel myself again yet, after
it--such sobs and tears! Perhaps you heard--a poor young wife throwing
herself down here at my feet--a mother of a family, madame! Alas! that's
how the world is--this is what the love of finery and the fondness of
admiration will lead to. People spend and spend, until finally they can
only pay the interest of what they owe at the shops. Yes, indeed,
madame, that happens constantly. I could mention the shops. People hope
to be able to pay the capital some day; they count on a son-in-law to
whom they can tell everything and who will only be too happy to pay his
mother-in-law's debts. But in the meantime the shops get impatient; and
at last they threaten to tell the husband everything. Then--oh, just
think of the anguish then! Do you know that this woman talked just now
of throwing herself into the river? I had to promise to find her twelve
hundred pounds. I beg your pardon, though--a thousand times. Here I am
talking of my own affairs. Let us go back to yours. You had another
daughter--a charming girl. I prepared her for confirmation. Let me see,
now, what was her name?"
"Renée."
"Oh, yes, of course, a very intelligent child, very quick--quite an
exceptional character. Tell me now, isn't she married?"
"No, monsieur, and it's a great trouble to me. You've no idea what a
headstrong girl she is. She is nothing like her sister. It's very
unfortunate for a mother to have a daughter with a character like hers.
I would rather she were a little less intelligent. We have found most
suitable matches for her, and she refuses them in the most thoughtless,
foolish way. There was another one yesterday. And her father spoils her
so."
"Ah, that's a pity. You have no idea what a maternal affection we have
for these dear children that we have led to Christ. But you don't say
anything about your son, a delightful young man, so good-looking--and
just the age to marry, it seems to me----"
"Do you know him, monsieur?"
"I had the pleasure of meeting him once at his sister's, at Mme.
Davarande's, when I went to see her during her illness; those are the
only visits we pay, you know--visits to the sick. Then, too, I have
heard all sorts of good reports about him. You are a fortunate mother,
madame. Your son goes to church, and at Easter he took communion with
the Jesuit Fathers. He has not told you, probably, but he was one of
those society men, true Christians, who waited nearly all night to get
to the confessional--there was such a crowd. Yes, people do not believe
it, but, thank God, it is quite true. Some of the young men waited until
five o'clock in the morning to confess. I need not tell you how deeply
the Church is touched by such zeal, how thankful she is to those who
give her this consolation and who pay her this homage in these sad times
of demoralization and incredulity. We are drawn towards young men who
set such a good example and who are so willing to do what is right, and
we are always ready to give them what help we can and to use any
influence that we may have in certain families in their favour."
"Oh, monsieur, you are too good. And our gratitude--mine and my
son's--if only you would interest yourself on his behalf. What a happy
thought it was to come to you! You see I came to you as a woman, but as
a mother too. My son is angelic--and then, monsieur, you can do so
much."
The abbé shook his head with a deprecatory smile of mingled modesty and
melancholy.
"No, madame, you overestimate our power. We are far from all that you
say. We are able to do a little good sometimes, but it is with great
difficulty. If only you knew how little a priest can do in these days.
People are afraid of our influence; they do not care to meet us outside
the church, nor to speak to us except in the confessional. You yourself,
madame, would be surprised if your confessor ventured to speak to you
about your daily conduct. Thanks to the deplorable prejudices of people
with regard to us, every one's object is to keep us at a distance and to
stand on the defensive."
"Oh, dear, why, it is one o'clock--and I saw that your table was laid
when I came. I'm quite ashamed of myself. May I come again in a few
days?"
"My luncheon can always wait," said the Abbé Blampoix, and turning to a
desk covered with papers at his side, he made a sign to Mme. Mauperin to
sit down again. There was a moment's silence, broken only by the rustle
of papers which the abbé was turning over. Finally he drew out a
visiting-card, turned down at the corner, from under a pile of papers,
held it to the light, and read:
"Twelve thousand pounds in deeds and preference shares. Six hundred
pounds a year from the day of marriage; father and mother dead.
Twenty-four thousand pounds on the death of some uncles and aunts who
will never marry. Young girl, nineteen, charming, much prettier than she
imagines herself to be. You see," said the abbé, putting the card back
among the papers. "Think it over. Anyhow, you will see. I have, too, at
this very moment a thousand pounds a year on her marriage--an
orphan--Ah, no, that would not do--her guardian wants to find some one
who is influential. He is sub-referendary judge on the Board of Finance
and he will only marry his ward to a son-in-law who can get him
promoted. Ah, wait a minute--this would do, perhaps," and he read aloud
from some notes: "Twenty-two years of age, not pretty, accomplished,
intelligent, dresses well, father sixty thousand pounds, three children,
substantial fortune. He owns the house in the Rue de Provence, where the
offices of the _Security_ are, an estate in the Orne, eight thousand
pounds in the Crédit Foncier. Rather an opinionated sort of man, of
Portuguese descent. The mother is a mere cipher in the house. There is
no family, and the father would be annoyed if you went to see his
relatives. I am not keeping anything back, as you see; a family dinner
party once a year and that is all. The father will give twelve thousand
pounds for the dowry; he wants his daughter to live in the same house.
"Yes," continued the abbé, looking through his notes, "that's all I see
that would do for you just now. Will you talk it over with your son,
madame, and consult your husband? I am quite at your service. When I
have the pleasure of seeing you here again, will you bring with you just
a few figures, a little note that would give me an idea of your
intentions with regard to settling your son. And bring your daughter
with you. I should be delighted to see the dear child again."
"Would you mind fixing some time when I should not disturb you quite so
much as I have done to-day, monsieur?"
"Oh, madame, my time belongs to every one who has need of me, and I am
only too much honoured. The thing is that in a fortnight's time--if you
came then, I should be in the country, and I only come one day a week to
Paris, then. Yes, it's a sheer necessity, and so I have had to make up
my mind to it. By the end of the winter I get so worn out; I have so
much to attend to, and then these four flights of stairs kill me. But
what am I to do? I am obliged to pay in some way for the right of
having my chapel, for the precious privilege of being able to have mass
in my own home. No one could sleep over a chapel, you see. Ah, an idea
has just struck me: why should you not come to see me in the country--at
Colombes? It would be a little excursion. I have plenty of fruit, and I
take a landowner's pride in my fruit. I could offer you luncheon, a very
informal luncheon. Will you come, madame--and your daughter? Would your
son give me the pleasure of his company too?"