A light carriage, drawn by one horse, was conveying the Mauperin family
along the Sannois road. Renée had taken the reins and the whip from her
brother, who was seated at her side smoking. Animated by the drive, the
air, and the movement, M. Mauperin was joking about the people they met
and bowing gaily to any acquaintances they passed. Mme. Mauperin was
silent and absorbed. She was buried in herself, thinking out and
preparing her amiability for the approaching visit.
"Why, mamma," remarked Renée, "you don't say a word. Are you not well?"
"Oh, yes, very well, quite well," answered Mme. Mauperin; "but the fact
is I'm worrying rather about this visit--and if it had not been for
Henri--There's something so stiff and cold about Mme. Bourjot--they are
all so high and mighty. Oh, it isn't that they impress me at all--their
money indeed! I know too well where they had it from. They made their
money from some invention they bought from an unfortunate working-man
for a mere nothing--a few coppers."
"Come, come, Mme. Mauperin," put in her husband, "they must have bought
more than----"
"Well, anyhow, I don't feel at ease with these people."
"You are very foolish to trouble yourself----"
"We can tell them we don't care a hang for their fine airs!" said Mlle.
Mauperin, whipping up the horse so that her slang was lost in the sound
of the animal's gallop.
* * * * *
There was some reason for Mme. Mauperin's uneasiness. Her feeling of
constraint was certainly justified. Everything in the house to which she
was going was calculated to intimidate people, to set them down, crush
them, penetrate and overwhelm them with a sense of their own
inferiority. There was an ostentatious and studied show of money, a
clever display of wealth. Opulence aimed at the humiliation of less
fortunate beings, by all possible means of intimidation, by outrageous
or refined forms of luxury, by the height of the ceilings, by the
impertinent airs of the lackeys, by the footman with his silver chain,
stationed in the entrance-hall, by the silver plate on which everything
was served, by all kinds of princely ways and customs, such as the
strict observance of evening dress, even when mother and daughter were
dining alone, by an etiquette as rigid as that of a small German court.
The master and mistress were in harmony with and maintained the style
of their house. The spirit of their home and life was as it were
incarnate in them.
The man, with all that he had copied from the English gentry, his
manners, his dress, his curled whiskers, his outward distinction; the
woman, with her grand manners, her supreme elegance, all the stiffness
and formality of the upper middle class, represented admirably the pride
of money. Their disdainful politeness, their haughty amiability, seemed
to come down to people. There was a kind of insolence which was visible
in their tastes even. M. Bourjot had neither any pictures nor any
objects of art; his collection was a collection of precious stones,
among which he pointed out a ruby worth a thousand pounds, one of the
finest in Europe.
People had overlooked all this display of wealth, and the Bourjot's
_salon_ was now very much in vogue and conspicuous on account of its
pronounced tendencies in favour of the Opposition party. It had become,
in fact, one of the three or four important _salons_ of Paris. It had
been peopled after two or three winters which Mme. Bourjot had spent in
Nice under pretext of benefitting her health. She had converted her
house there into a kind of hotel on the road to Italy, open to all who
passed by provided they were great, wealthy, celebrated, or that they
had a name. At her musical evenings, when Mme. Bourjot gave every one
an opportunity for admiring her beautiful voice and her great musical
talent, the celebrities of Europe and Parisians of repute met in her
drawing-room. Scientists, great philosophers and æsthetes mingled with
politicians. The latter were represented by a compact group of
Orleanists and a band of Liberals not pledged to any party, in whose
ranks Henri Mauperin had figured most assiduously for the past year. A
few Legitimists whom the husband brought to his wife's _salon_ were also
to be seen, M. Bourjot himself being a Legitimist.
Under the Restoration he had been a Carbonaro. He was the son of a
draper, and his birth and name of Bourjot had from his earliest
childhood exasperated him against the nobility, grand houses, and the
Bourbons. He had been in various conspiracies, and had met with M.
Mauperin at Carbonari reunions. He had figured in all the tumults, and
had been fond of quoting Berville, Saint-Just, and Dupin the elder.
After 1830 he had calmed down and had contented himself with sulking
with royalty for having cheated him of his republic. He read the
_National_, pitied the people of all lands, despised the Chambers,
railed at M. Guizot, and was eloquent about the Pritchard affair.
The events of 1848 came upon him suddenly, and the landowner then woke
up alarmed and rose erect in the person of the Carbonaro of the
Restoration, the Liberal of Louis Philippe's reign. The fall in stocks,
the unproductiveness of houses, socialism, the proposed taxes, the
dangers to which State creditors were exposed, the eventful days of
June, and indeed everything which is calculated to strike terror to the
heart of a moneyed man during a revolution, disturbed M. Bourjot's
equanimity, and at the same time enlightened him. His ideas suddenly
underwent a change, and his political conscience veered completely
round. He hastened to adopt the doctrines of order, and turned to the
Church as he might have done to the police authorities, to the Divine
right as the supreme power and a providential security for his bills.
Unfortunately, in M. Bourjot's brusque but sincere conversion, his
education, his youth, his past, his whole life rose in revolt. He had
returned to the Bourbons, but he had not been able to come back to Jesus
Christ, and, old man as he now was, he would make all kinds of slips and
give utterance to the attacks and refrains to which he had been
accustomed. One felt, the nearer one came to him, that he was still
quite a Voltairean on certain points, and Beranger was constantly taking
the place of de Maistre with him.
* * * * *
"Give the reins to your brother, Renée," said Mme. Mauperin. "I
shouldn't like them to see you driving."
They were in front of a magnificent large gateway, opposite which were
two lamps that were always lighted and left burning all night. The
carriage turned up a drive, covered with red gravel and planted on each
side with huge clumps of rhododendrons, and drew up before a flight of
stone steps. Two footmen threw open the glass doors leading into a hall
paved with marble and with high windows nearly hidden by the verdure of
a wide screen of exotic shrubs.
The Mauperins were then introduced into a drawing-room, the walls of
which were covered with crimson silk. A portrait of Mme. Bourjot in
evening dress, signed by Ingres, was the only picture in the room.
Through the open windows could be seen a pool of water, and near it a
stork, the only creature that M. Bourjot would tolerate in his park, and
that on account of its heraldic form.
When the Mauperins entered the large drawing-room, Mme. Bourjot, seated
by herself on the divan, was listening to her daughter's governess who
was reading aloud. M. Bourjot was leaning against the chimney-piece
playing with his watch-chain. Mlle. Bourjot, near her governess, was
working at some tapestry on a frame.
Mme. Bourjot, with her large, rather hard blue eyes, her arched
eye-brows, and the lines of her eye-lids, her haughty and pronounced
nose, the supercilious prominence of the lower part of the face, and her
imperious grace, reminded one of Georges, when young, in the rôle of
Agrippina. Mlle. Bourjot had strongly marked brown eye-brows. Between
her long, curly lashes could be seen two blue eyes with an intense,
profound, dreamy expression in them. A slight down almost white could be
seen when the light was full on her, just above her lip at the two
corners. The governess was one of those retiring creatures, one of those
elderly women who have been knocked about and worn out in the battle of
life, outwardly and inwardly, and who finally have no more effigy left
than an old copper coin.
"Why, this is really charming!" said Mme. Bourjot, getting up and
advancing as far as a line of the polished floor in the centre of the
room. "What kind neighbours--and what a delightful surprise! It seems an
age since I had the pleasure of seeing you, dear madame, and if it were
not for your son, who is good enough not to forsake us, and who comes to
my Monday Evenings, we should not have known what had become of you--of
this charming girl--and her mamma----"
As she spoke Mme. Bourjot shook hands with Henri.
"Oh! you are very kind," began Mme. Mauperin, taking a seat at some
distance from Mme. Bourjot.
"But please come over here," said Mme. Bourjot, making room at her side.
"We have postponed our visit from day to day," continued Mme. Mauperin,
"as we wanted to come together."
"Oh! well, it's very bad of you," continued Mme. Bourjot. "We are not a
hundred miles away; and it is cruel to keep these two children apart,
when they grew up together. Why, how's this, they haven't kissed each
other yet?"
Noémi, who was still standing, presented her cheek coldly to Renée, who
kissed her as eagerly, as a child bites into fruit.
"What a long time ago it seems," observed Mme. Bourjot to Mme. Mauperin,
as she looked at the two girls, "since we used to take them to the Rue
de la Chaussée d'Antin to those lectures, that bored us as much as they
did the poor children. I can see them now, playing together. Yours was
just like quicksilver, a regular little turk, and mine--Oh, they were
like night and day! But yours always led mine on. Oh, dear, what a rage
they had at one time for charades--do you remember? They used to carry
off all the towels in the house to dress up with."
"Oh, yes," exclaimed Renée, laughing and turning to Noémi, "our finest
one was when we did _Marabout_; with _Marat_ in a bath that was too hot,
calling out, '_Je bous, je bous_!' Do you remember?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Noémi, trying to keep back a smile, "but it was
your idea."
"I am so glad, madame, to find you quite inclined beforehand for what I
wanted to ask you--for my visit is a selfish one. It was chiefly with
the idea of letting our daughters see something of each other that I
came. Renée wants to get up a play, and she naturally thought of her old
school-friend. If you would allow your daughter to take part in a piece
with my daughter--it would be just a little family affair--quite
informal."
As Mme. Mauperin made this request, Noémi, who had been talking to Renée
and had put her hand in her friend's, drew it away again abruptly.
"Thank you so much for the idea," answered Mme. Bourjot, "thanks, too,
to Renée. You could not have asked me anything that would have suited me
better and given me so much pleasure. I think it would be very good for
Noémi--the poor child is so shy that I am in despair! It would make her
talk and come out of herself. For her mind, too, it would be an
excellent stimulant----"
"Oh! but, mother, you know very well--why, I've no memory. And then,
too--why, the very idea of acting frightens me. Oh, no--I can't act----"
Mme. Bourjot glanced coldly at her daughter.
"But, mother, if I could--No, I should spoil the whole play, I'm sure."
"You will act--I wish you to do so."
Noémi looked down, and Mme. Mauperin, slightly embarrassed and by way of
changing the subject, glanced at a Review that was lying open on a
work-table at her side.
"Ah!" said Mme. Bourjot, turning to her again, "you've found something
you know there--that is your son's last article. And when do you intend
having this play?"
"Oh, but I should be so sorry to be the cause--to oblige your
daughter----"
"Oh! don't mention it. My daughter is always afraid of undertaking
anything."
"Well, but if Noémi really dislikes it," put in M. Bourjot, who had been
talking to M. Mauperin and Henri on the other side of the room.
"On the contrary she will be grateful to you," said Mme. Bourjot,
addressing Mme. Mauperin without answering M. Bourjot. "We are always
obliged to insist on her doing anything for her own enjoyment. Well,
when is this play?"
"Renée, when do you think?" asked Mme. Mauperin.
"Why, I should think about--well, we should want a month for the
rehearsals, with two a week. We could fix the days and the time that
would suit Noémi."
Renée turned towards Noémi, who remained silent.
"Very well, then," said Mme. Bourjot, "let us say Monday and Friday at
two o'clock, if that will suit you--shall we?" And turning to the
governess she continued: "Mlle. Gogois, you will accompany Noémi. M.
Bourjot--you hear--will you give orders for the horses and carriage and
the footman to take them to Briche? You can keep Terror for me, and
Jean. There, that's all settled. Now, then, you will stay and dine with
us, won't you?"
"Oh! we should like to very much; but it is quite impossible. We have
some people coming to us to-day," answered Mme. Mauperin.
"Oh, dear, how tiresome of them to come to-day! But I don't think you
have seen my husband's new conservatories. I'll make you a bouquet,
Renée. We have a flower--there are only two of them anywhere, and the
other is at Ferrières--it's a--it's very ugly anyhow--this way."
"Suppose we were to go in here," said M. Bourjot, pointing to the
billiard-room, which could be seen through the glass door. "M. Henri,
we'll leave you with the ladies. We can smoke here," added M. Bourjot,
offering a _cabanas_ to M. Mauperin. "Shall we have cannoning?"
"Yes," replied M. Mauperin.