Ludovic Halevy, born in Paris on January 1, 1834, was a nephew
of Jacques François Halevy, the famous operatic composer.
Beginning life in the Civil Service, he himself achieved
considerable distinction as a dramatic author, "Frou-Frou,"
written in collaboration with Meilhac, being one of the
greatest theatrical successes of his century. He soon,
however, forsook the drama for fiction. His first novel,
"Monsieur and Madame Cardinal," published in 1873, gave ample
promise of the inventive genius and gift of characterisation
that were fully realised nine years later in "L'Abbé
Constantin." The tale, an exquisite study of French provincial
life, came as a distinct revelation of French life and
character to English readers. It has reached 240 editions, and
has been translated into all European languages. In 1886
Halevy was elected to the French Academy. He died on May 8,
1908.
_I.--"The Good Days Are Gone"_
With footstep firm and strong, despite his weight of years, an old
priest was walking along a dusty country road one sunny day in May 1881.
It was more than thirty years since the Abbé Constantin had first become
_curé_ of the little village sleeping there in the sunny plain of
France, beside a dainty stream called the Lizotte. He had been walking
for a quarter of an hour along the wall of the Château de Longueval. As
he reached the massive entrance gates he stopped and gazed sadly at two
immense bills pasted on the pillars. They announced the sale by auction
that day of the Longueval estate, divided into four lots: (1) The
castle, with all its grounds and parks; (2) the farm of
Blanche-Couronne, 700 acres; (3) the farm of Rozeraie, 500 acres; (4)
the forest and woods of Mionne, 900 acres. The reserve prices totalled
the respectable sum of 2,050,000 francs!
So that magnificent estate, which for two centuries had passed intact
from father to son in the Longueval family, was to be divided. The bills
announced, it was true, that after the preliminary sale of the four lots
the highest bidder might bid for the whole estate. But it was an
enormous sum, and no purchaser was likely to present himself.
The Marquise de Longueval, dying six months since, had left three heirs,
her grandchildren, two of whom were under age, so that the estate had to
be put up for sale. Pierre, the eldest, an extravagant young man of
twenty-three, had foolishly squandered half his money, and was quite
unable to re-purchase Longueval.
It was twelve o'clock. In an hour the château would have a new master.
Who would he be? Who could take the place of the marquise, the old
friend of the country curé, and the kindly friend of all the villagers.
The old priest walked on, thinking sadly of the habits of thirty years
suddenly interrupted. Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at
the château. How much had they made of him! Curé of Longueval! All his
life he had been that, had dreamed of nothing else. He loved his little
church, the little village, and his little vicarage.
Still in pensive mood, he was passing the park of Lavardens when he
heard some one calling him. Looking up, he saw the Countess of Lavardens
and her son Paul. She was a widow; her son a handsome young man, who had
made a bad start in the world and now contented himself by spending some
months in Paris every year, when he dissipated the annual allowance from
his mother, and returned home for the rest of the year to loaf about in
idleness or in pursuit of stupid sports.
"Where are you off to, Monsieur le Curé?" asked the countess.
"To Souvigny, to learn the result of the sale."
"Stay here with us. M. de Larnac is there, and will hasten back with the
news. But I can tell you who are the new owners of the castle."
At this the abbé turned into the gates of the countess's grounds, and
joined that lady and her son on the terrace of their house. The new
owners, it appeared, were to be M. de Larnac, M. Gallard, a rich Paris
banker, and the countess herself, for the three had agreed to purchase
it between them.
"It is all settled," the lady assured him. But presently M. de Larnac
arrived with the news that they had been unable to buy it, as some
American had paid an enormous sum for the entire estate. The person who
was now to be the great lady of Longueval was named Madame Scott.
M. de Larnac had some further particulars to add. He had heard that the
Scotts were great upstarts, and that the new owner of the castle had
actually been a beggar in New York. A great lawsuit had resulted in
favour of her and her husband, making them the owners of a silver-mine.
"And we are to have such people for neighbours!" exclaimed the countess.
"An adventuress, and no doubt a Protestant, Monsieur le Curé!"
The abbé was very sore at heart, and, never doubting but that the new
mistress of the castle would be no friend of his, he took his way
homeward. In his imagination he saw this Madame Scott settled at the
castle and despising his little Catholic church and all his simple
services to the quiet village folk.
He was still brooding over the unhappy fate of Longueval when his
godson, Jean Reynaud--son of his old friend Dr. Reynaud--to whom he had
been as good as a father, and who was worthy of the old priest's love,
dismounted at his door. For Jean was now a lieutenant in the artillery
stationed in the district, and much of his leisure was spent at the
abbé's house. Jean tried to console him by saying that even though this
American, Madame Scott, were not a Catholic, she was known to be
generous, and would no doubt give him money for the poor.
_II.--The New Parishioners_
The abbé and his godson were in the garden next day, when they heard a
carriage stop at the gate. Two ladies alighted, dressed in simple
travelling costumes. They came into the garden, and the elder of the
two, who seemed to be no more than twenty-five, came up to the Abbé
Constantin saying, with only the slightest foreign accent, "I am obliged
to introduce myself, M. le Curé. I am Madame Scott, in whose name
yesterday the castle and estate were bought, and if it is no
inconvenience I should be glad to take five minutes of your time." Then,
turning to her companion, she said, "This is my sister, Miss Bettina
Percival, as you may have guessed."
Greatly agitated, the abbé bowed his respects, and led into his little
vicarage the new mistress of Longueval and her sister. The cloth had
been laid for the simple meal of the old priest and the lieutenant, and
the ladies seemed charmed with the humble comfort of the place.
"Look now, Susie," said Miss Bettina, "isn't this just the sort of
vicarage you hoped it would be?"
"And the abbé also, if he will allow me to say so," said Madame Scott.
"For what did I say in the train this morning, Bettina, and only a
little while ago in the carriage?"
"My sister said to me, M. le Curé," said Miss Percival, "that she
desired, above all things, that the abbé should not be young, nor
melancholy, nor severe, but that he should be white-haired and gentle
and good."
"And that is you exactly, M. le Curé," said Madame Scott brightly. "I
find you just as I had hoped, and I trust you may be as well pleased
with your new parishioners."
"Parishioners!" exclaimed the abbé. "But then you are Catholics?"
"Certainly we are Catholics!" And noting the surprise of the old abbé,
she went on to say, "Ah, I understand! Our name and our country made you
expect we should be Protestants and unfriendly to you and your people.
But our mother was a Canadian and a Catholic, of French origin, and that
is why my sister and I speak French with just a little foreign accent.
My husband is a Protestant, but he leaves me full liberty, and so my two
children are being educated in my own faith. And that is why we have
come to see you the first day we have arrived."
The good old priest was overwhelmed by the news, but his joy almost
brought tears to his eyes when the ladies each presented him with a
thousand francs, and promised five hundred francs a month for the poor.
He had never handled so much money in all his life before.
"Why, there will be no poor left in all the district!" he stammered.
"And we should be glad if that were so," said Madame Scott, "for we have
plenty, and we could not do better with it."
Then followed the happiest little dinner party that had ever taken place
beneath the abbé's roof. Madame Scott explained how her husband had
bought the château as a surprise for her, and that neither she nor her
sister had seen it until that morning.
"Now, tell me," she suggested, "what they said about the new owner." The
old priest blushed, and was at a loss to answer. "Well, you are a
soldier," she continued, turning to Lieutenant Reynaud, "and you will
tell me. Did they say that I had been a beggar?"
"Yes, I heard that said."
"And that I had been a performer in a travelling circus?"
"That also I heard said," he admitted.
"I thank you for your frankness; and now let me tell you that, while I
can see nothing in either case that would be any disgrace to me, the
story does not happen to be true. I have known what it is to be poor,
for my parents died eight years ago, leaving us only a great lawsuit,
but my father's last wish was that we should fight it to the end. With
the aid of the son of one of his old friends, now my husband, we fought
and won. That is how I came into my fortune. The stories you have heard
were invented by spiteful Paris journalists."
After the ladies had taken their departure for Paris, the Abbé
Constantin was as happy as he had so lately been miserable. And as for
Lieutenant Reynaud, the vision of their fresh and charming faces was
with him all through the military manoeuvres in which he was now
engaged. But as both of them were equally charming in his mind, he
concluded he could not have fallen in love, or he would have known which
he admired the more.
He did not know how many were the suitors in Paris for Miss Bettina, and
possibly if he had seen the sisters among the fashionable people of that
gay city he would never have given them a second thought, for he was a
true son of the country, this healthy and manly young officer, whose
tastes were as simple as the surroundings in which he had grown up
demanded.
Miss Bettina, indeed, had only to say the word, and she might have been
the Princess Romanelli. "And I should like to be a princess, for the
name sounds well," she said to herself. "Oh, if I only loved him!" There
were many men of rank and title who would have been glad to have married
the wealthy young American lady, but she found herself in love with none
of them, and now she was looking forward to the fourteenth of June, when
she and her sister were to leave Paris for Longueval. During their stay
at the castle they were to entertain many friends, but for ten days they
were to be free to roam the woods and fields, and forget the
distractions of their fashionable life in the capital.
"But you forget," said Madame Scott, on their way to Longueval, "that we
are to have two people to dinner to-night."
"Ah, but I shall be glad to welcome both of them--particularly the young
lieutenant," Bettina confessed, with a touch of shyness.
_III.--Friendship Grows_
Great alterations had been made at the castle during the month that had
elapsed. The rooms had been refurnished, the stables and coach-houses
were stocked, the pleasure-grounds made trim and beautiful, and servants
were busy everywhere. When the abbé and Jean arrived, they were ushered
in by two tall and dignified footmen, but Madame Scott received them
with all the frankness she had shown at the vicarage, and presented her
son Harry and her daughter Bella, who were six and five years old. Then
Miss Percival joined them, and presently they were all talking together
like old friends. But the happiest of all was Abbé Constantin. He felt
at home again--too much at home--and when coffee was served on the
terrace in front of the château after dinner, he lost himself in an
agreeable reverie. Then--terrible catastrophe!--he fell into his old
habit, and sank into an after dinner doze, as he had so often done in
the days of the marquise.
Jean and Bettina found much to say to each other, and as the ladies were
looking forward to riding round the estates, Jean, who rode every day
for exercise, promised to join them. It was quite clear that Miss
Bettina was glad to see them both--"particularly the young lieutenant!"
And when Madame Scott and her sister walked up the avenue, after having
accompanied Jean and the abbé to the gate, Bettina confessed that she
expected to be scolded for being so friendly with Jean.
"But I shall not scold you," Madame Scott said, "for he has made a
favourable impression on me from the first. He inspires me with
confidence."
"That is just how I feel towards him," said Bettina quietly.
As for Jean, he talked so much to Paul about his visit that that gay
young man accused him of having fallen in love, but, of course, that was
mere nonsense! There was no fear of Jean falling in love! For a poor
lieutenant could never dream of winning an heiress for his wife. When
next he met Bettina they had a very long talk about their people, and it
appeared that they were both descendants of French peasants. That was
why Jean loved the country folk around Longueval. And when he had served
his time in the army, he thought he would retire on half-pay--an old
colonel, perhaps--and come back to live there.
"Always quite alone?" asked Bettina.
"Why, I hope not."
"Oh, then you intend to marry!"
"Well, one may think of that, though one need not always be seeking to
marry."
"Yet there are some who look for it, I know, and I have heard that you
might have married more than one girl with a handsome fortune if you had
wished."
"And how do you know that?" asked Jean.
"Monsieur le Curé told me. I soon found that nothing makes your
godfather happier than to talk of you, and in our morning walks he tells
me your history. Tell me why you refused these good marriages."
"Simply because I thought it better not to marry at all than to marry
without love," was Jean's frank avowal.
"I think so, too," said Bettina.
She looked at him. He looked at her, and suddenly, to the great surprise
of both, they found nothing more to say. Fortunately, at this moment
Harry and Bella burst into the room with an invitation to see their
ponies.
_IV.--Bettina's Confession_
Three weeks, during which Longueval has been crowded with visitors, have
passed, and the time has come for Jean to take the road for the annual
artillery practice. He will be away for twenty days, and, while he
wishes to be off, he wonders how those twenty days will pass without a
sight of Bettina, for now he frankly adores her. He is happy and he is
miserable. He knows by every action and every word that she loves him as
truly as he loves her. But he feels it his duty to fight against his own
heart's wish, lest the penniless lieutenant might be thought to covet
the riches of the young heiress.
But he could not drag himself away without one last meeting. Yet when he
saw how anxious Bettina was to please him and make him happy with her
friendship, he was afraid to hold her in his arms lest he might be
tempted to tell her how full his heart was with love for her. She
excused herself to Paul de Lavardens so that she might give his dance to
Jean, but Jean declined the favour on the plea that he was not feeling
well, and, to save himself, he hastened off without even shaking her
hand.
But all this only told his secret the more clearly to the heart that
loved him.
"I love him, dear Susie," said Bettina that night, "and I know that he
loves me for myself; not for the money I possess."
"You are sure, my dear?"
"Yes; for he will not speak; he tries to avoid me. My horrid money,
which attracts others to me, is the thing that keeps him from declaring
his love."
"Be very sure, my dear, for you know you might have been a marchioness
or a princess if you had wished. You are sure you will not mind being
plain Madame Reynaud?"
"Absolutely; for I love him!"
"Now let me make a proposal," Bettina went on. "Jean is going away
to-morrow; I shall not see him for three weeks, and that will be time to
know my own mind. In three weeks may I go and ask him myself if he will
have me for his wife? Tell me, Susie, may I?"
Of course her sister could but consent, and Bettina was happy.
Next morning she had a wild desire to wave Jean a good-bye. In the
pouring rain she made her way through the woods to the terrace by the
road, her dress torn by the thorns, and her umbrella lost, to wave to
him as he passed, saying to herself that this would show him how dear he
was in her thoughts.
Mr. Scott had come from Paris before Jean was back, and he, too,
approved of Bettina's plan, for they wished her to marry only one she
truly loved. But when the lieutenant came back with his regiment, he had
made up his mind to avoid meeting Bettina, and had even decided to
exchange into another regiment. He refused an invitation to the château,
but the good abbé begged of him not to leave the district.
"Wait a little, until the good God calls me. Do not go now."
Jean urged that honour made it clear to him he should go away. The abbé
told him that he was quite sure Bettina's heart was all for him as truly
as he believed Jean's love was all for her. Her money, Jean confessed,
was the great drawback, as it might make others think lightly of his
love for her. Besides, he was a soldier, and he could not condemn her to
the life of a soldier's wife.
The abbé was still trying to convince his godson, when there came a
knock at the door, and the old man, opening the door, admitted--Bettina!
She went straight to Jean and took him by both hands, saying, "I must go
to him first, for less than three weeks ago he was suffering!" The young
lieutenant stood speechless. "And now to you, M. le Curé, let me
confess. But do not go away, Jean, for it is a public confession. What I
have to say I would have said to-night at the château, but Jean has
declined our invitation, and So I come here to say it to M. le Curé."
"I am listening, mademoiselle," stammered the curé.
"I am rich, M. le Curé, and, to speak the truth, I like my money very
much. I like it selfishly, so to say, for the joy and pleasure I have in
giving. I have always said to myself, 'My husband must be worthy of
sharing this fortune,' and I have also said, 'I want to love the man who
will be my husband!' And now I am coming to my confession.... Here is a
man who for two months has done all he could to hide from me that he
loves me.... Jean, do you love me?"
"Yes," murmured Jean, his eyes cast down like a criminal, "I love you."
"I knew it." Bettina lost a little of her assurance; her voice trembled
slightly. She continued, however, with an effort. "M. le Curé, I do not
blame you entirely for what has happened, but certainly it is partly
your fault."
"My fault?"
"Yes, your fault. I am certain you have spoken to Jean too much of me,
much too much. And then you have told me too much of him. No, not too
much, but quite enough! I had so much confidence in you that I began to
consider him a little more closely. I began to compare him with those
who, for more than a year, have sought my hand. It seemed to me that he
was their superior in every way. Then, there came a day... an evening...
three weeks ago, the eve of your departure, Jean, and I found I loved
you. Yes, Jean, I love you!... I beg you, Jean, be still; do not come
near me.... I have still something to say, more important than all. I
know that you love me, but if you are to marry me I want your reason to
sanction it. Jean, I know you, and I know to what I should bind myself
in becoming your wife. I know what duties, what sacrifices, you have to
meet in your calling. Jean, do not doubt it, I would not turn you from
any one of these duties, these sacrifices. Never! Never would I ask you
to give up your career.
"And now, M. le Curé, it is not to him but to you that I speak. Tell me,
should he not agree to be my husband?"
"Jean," said the old priest gravely, "marry her. It is your duty, and it
will be your happiness."
Jean took Bettina in his arms, but she gently freed herself, and said to
the abbé, "I wish--I wish your blessing." And the old priest replied by
kissing her paternally.
One month later the abbé had the happiness of performing the marriage
ceremony in his little church, where he had consecrated all the
happiness and goodness of his life.
* * * * *