"_M. Charles d'Athis, literary man, has the honour to inform you of the
birth of his son Robert._
"_The child is doing well._"
Some dozen years ago, all literary and artistic Paris received this
little note on the glossiest of paper, embossed with the arms of the
Counts of d'Athis-Mons, of whom the last Charles d'Athis had--while
still young--succeeded in making for himself a genuine reputation as a
poet.
"The child is doing well." And the mother? Of her there was no mention
in the note. Every one knew her but too well. She was the daughter of an
old poacher of Seine et Oise; a quondam model, named Irma Salle, whose
portrait had figured in every exhibition, as the original had in every
studio. Her low forehead, lip curled like an antique, this chance return
of the peasant's face to primitive lines--a turkey herd with Greek
features--the slightly tanned skin common to all whose childhood
is spent in the open air, giving to fair hair reflections of pale
silkiness, adorned this minx with a kind of wild originality, completed
by a pair of magnificently green eyes, burning beneath heavy eyebrows.
[Illustration: p196-207]
One night, on leaving a _bal de l'Opéra_, d'Athis had taken her to sup
with him, and though this was two years ago, the supper still continued.
But, whereas Irma had become completely a part of the poet's life,
this intimation of the child's birth, curt and haughty as it was,
sufficiently indicated how little she was considered by him. And in
truth, in this temporary household, the woman was scarcely more than a
housekeeper, showing in the management of the gentleman-poet's house
the hard shrewdness of her dual nature of peasant and courtesan; and
endeavouring, at no matter what price, to render herself indispensable.
[Illustration: p197-208]
Too rustic, and too stupid to understand anything of d'Athis' genius, of
those fine verses, fashionable and refined, which made of him a sort of
Parisian Tennyson, she nevertheless understood how to bend to all his
whims, and be silent under his contempt; as if in the depths of that
peasant nature lurked something of the boor's humble admiration for his
lord. The birth of the child only served to accentuate her unimportance
in the house.
When the dowager Comtesse d'Athis-Mons, the mother of the poet, a
distinguished and very great lady, learned that a grandson was born to
her, a sweet little Vicomte, duly recognized and authenticated by the
author of his being,* she was seized with a wish to see and kiss the
child. It was, to be sure, a rather bitter reflection for the former
reader to Queen Marie-Amélie to think that the heir of such a great name
should have such a mother; but, keeping strictly to the terms of
the _billets de faire pari_ the venerable lady could forget that the
creature existed.
* According to French law, an unmarried man recognizing his illegitimate
child, thereby confers on him all the rights of a legitimate one,
including both title and fortune.
When she went to see the child out at nurse, she chose the days on which
she would be sure not to meet any one; she admired him, spoilt him, took
him to her heart, worshipped him with that grandmotherly adoration which
is the last love of a woman's life, giving her an excuse for living
a few years longer in order to see the little ones springing up and
growing around her. Then when the baby Vicomte was a little bigger and
returned to live with his father and mother, a treaty was made, for
the Comtesse could not give up her beloved visits; at the sound of the
grandmother's ring, Irma humbly and silently disappeared, or else the
child was taken to his grandmother's house, and thus spoilt by his
two mothers. He loved them equally, somewhat astonished to feel in
the warmth of their caresses, a kind of exclusive-ness, a wish to
monopolize. D'Athis, careless of everything but his verses, absorbed by
his growing fame, was content to adore his little Robert, to talk of him
to everyone and to imagine that the child belonged to him, and him only.
This illusion did not last.
"I should like to see you married," his mother said to him one day.
"Yes, but how about the child?" "Don't worry yourself about that. I have
picked out for you a young girl of good family but poor, who adores you.
I have introduced Robert to her, and they are already great friends.
Besides, the first year I will keep the darling with me. Afterwards, we
shall see."
[Illustration: p200-211]
"And--the mother?" hesitated the poet, reddening a little, for it was
the first time that he had spoken of Irma to his mother.
[Illustration: p201-212]
"Pooh!" replied the old dowager, laughing, "we will settle something
handsome on her, and I am quite sure she will soon be married also. The
_bourgeois_ of Paris is not particular."
That very evening, d'Athis, who had never been desperately in love
with his mistress, spoke to her of these arrangements and found her as
usual--submissive and apparently docile to his will. But the next
day, when he returned home, he found that mother and child had flown.
Finally, they were discovered in a wretched hut on the borders of the
Forest of Rambouillet, with Irma's father; and when the poet arrived he
found his son, his young prince, in his velvet and lace, jumping on
the old poacher's knee, playing with his pipe, running after the hens,
delighted to shake his fair curls in the fresh air. D'Athis, though much
upset by emotion, pretended to laugh the affair off, and wished at once
to take his fugitives home with him. But Irma did not see the matter
in the same light. She had been dismissed; she took her child with her.
What more natural? Nothing short of the poet's promise that he would
give up all thoughts of marriage decided her to return. Moreover, she
made her own conditions. It had been too long forgotten that she was
Robert's mother. Always to disappear and hide whenever Madame d'Athis
appeared, was no longer possible for her. The child was growing too old
for her to be exposed to such humiliations before him. It was therefore
agreed that as Madame d'Athis had refused to be brought into contact
with her son's mistress, she should no longer go to his house, but that
the child should be brought to her every day.
Then began for the old grandmother a regular torture. Every day fresh
pretexts were made to keep the child away; he had coughed, it was too
cold, it was raining. Then came his walks, rides, gymnastic exercises.
The poor old lady never saw her grandson. At first she tried complaining
to d'Athis; but women alone have the secret of carrying on these little
warfares. Their ruses remain invisible, like the hidden stitches which
catch back the folds and laces of their dress. The poet could see
nothing of it; and the saddened grandmother spent her life in waiting
for her darling's visit, in watching for him in the street, when he
walked out with a servant; and these furtive kisses and hasty glances
only augmented her maternal passion without satisfying it.
During this time, Irma Salle--always by means of the child--succeeded in
gaining ground in the father's heart. She was the recognized head of the
house now, received visitors, gave parties, settled herself as a woman
who means to remain where she is. Still she took care to say from time
to time to the little Vicomte, before his father: "Do you remember the
chickens at Grandpapa Salle's? Shall we go back and see them?"
[Illustration: p204-215]
And by this everlasting threat of departure, she paved the way to the
end she had in view--marriage.
It took her five years to become a Comtesse, but at length she gained
her point. One day, the poet came in fear and trembling to announce to
his mother that he had decided to marry his mistress, and the old lady,
instead of being indignant hailed the calamity as a deliverance, seeing
but one thing in the marriage; the possibility of once more entering her
son's door, and of freely indulging her affection for her little Robert.
[Illustration: p205-216]
In truth, the real honeymoon was for the grandmother. D'Athis, after
this rash act, wished to be away from Paris for a time. He felt uneasy
there. And as the child, clinging to his mother's skirts ruled the
house, they all established themselves in Irma's native country, within
hail of old father Salle's chickens. It was indeed the most curious, the
most ill-assorted household that could be imagined. Grandmama d'Athis
and Grandpapa Salle met each night at the evening toilet of their
grandson. The old poacher, his short black pipe wedged into the corner
of his mouth; and the former reader at the Tuileries, with her silvery
hair, and her imposing manner, together watched the lovely child rolling
before them on the carpet, and admired him equally. The one brought
him from Paris the newest, most expensive, most showy toys; the other
manufactured for him the most splendid whistles from bits of elder; and,
by Jove! the Dauphin hesitated between them!
Upon the whole, among all these beings grouped as it were by force
around a cradle, the only really unhappy one was Charles d'Athis. His
elegant and patrician inspiration suffered from this life in the depths
of a forest, like a delicate Parisian woman for whom the country air is
too strong. He could no longer work, and far from that terrible Paris
who shuts her gates so quickly against the absent, he felt himself
already nearly forgotten. Fortunately the child was there, and when the
child smiled, the father thought no more of his successes as a poet, nor
of the past of Irma Salle.
And now, would you know the finale of this singular drama? Read the
brief note bordered with black, that I received only a few days ago, and
which is the last page of this truly Parisian adventure:
"_M. le Comte and Mme. la Comtesse d'Athis grieve to inform you of the
death of their son Robert!_"
Unhappy creatures! Imagine them all four gazing at each other before
that empty cradle!
[Illustration: p207-218]
[Illustration: p208-219]
[Illustration: p211-222]