Madame Worms-Clavelin came along through the rainy darkness, holding
up her umbrella, and walking with the brisk, decided step which, for a
wonder, had not grown heavy from long years spent in provincial towns.
The door of the carriage that was waiting for her in front of the gates
of the Park Monceau, opened a little, and then stood wide, and Madame
Worms-Clavelin slipped calmly in and took a seat beside the young
secretary, who immediately inquired as to her health.
“I am always well,” she replied, adding, “What awful weather!”
Streams of rain were running down the carriage windows; the street
noises were drowned in the damp air, and all that could be heard was
the gentle drip of the raindrops.
When the carriage began to roll with a muffled sound over the paved
road, she asked:
“Where are we going?”
“Where you like.”
“I don’t mind--Neuilly way, I should think.”
Having given instructions to the driver, Maurice Cheiral turned to the
_préfet’s_ wife and said:
“I have much pleasure in informing you that the appointment of Abbé
Guitrel (Joachim) to the See of Tourcoing will be announced in
to-morrow’s _Officiel_. I do not want to boast, but I can assure you
that it has not been a very easy matter to arrange. The Nuncio is great
at procrastination. People of that description make use of a prodigious
amount of inactivity--Well, anyhow, everything is settled.”
“That’s good,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin. “I am sure you have
rendered a service to the progressive republican party, and that the
Moderates will have every reason to be pleased with their new bishop.”
“At any rate,” went on Maurice Cheiral, “you are satisfied.”
After a long silence he continued:
“Just think, I never slept all night. I was thinking of you, and
longing to see you again.”
The strange thing was that he was speaking the truth, and that the
expectation of this rendezvous had excited him. But he spoke in a
joking tone and drawling voice that made his words appear false,
besides which he was wanting both in assurance and decision.
Madame Worms-Clavelin quite thought she would leave the carriage as she
had entered it. Assuming a serious and gentle expression, she said in a
sympathetic tone:
“Thank you, dear M. Cheiral. Put me down here, if you please, and
remember me to your mother.”
And she held out her hand, a little, stumpy hand clad in an exceedingly
dirty glove. But he held it tightly, becoming tender and insistent,
full of desire and amour-propre.
“I am as muddy as a water spaniel,” she remarked, just as he was about
to find that out for himself.
While he adhered to his resolve, in spite of the obstacles of
circumstances and environment, she showed the most perfect good taste
and simplicity. With wonderful tact, she avoided all the unpleasantness
arising from an over-prolonged resistance or a too rapid resignation.
In like manner she avoided any remark that might reveal either ironical
indifference or interested participation. She behaved perfectly. She
had no feeling of dislike for the young statesman, who was so innocent
at the very moment when he believed himself to be so wicked, and
feelings of real regret came over her as she reflected that she might
have been more careful in selecting her _lingerie_ for the occasion;
she never had been careful enough of that, but of late years her
carelessness had become somewhat excessive. Her greatest merit on this
occasion was in keeping clear of all emphasis and exaggeration.
After a while, Maurice suddenly became quiet, indifferent, even a
trifle bored. He talked of things quite foreign to their present
situation, and peered through the blurred window-panes at the streets
that looked as though the carriage were going along at the bottom of an
aquarium; all that could be seen through the rain was the gas-jets, and
here and there the glass jars in the windows of the chemists’ shops.
“What awful rain!” sighed Madame Worms-Clavelin.
“The weather has been dreadful for the last week,” said Maurice
Cheiral, “simply rotten. Is it the same in your part of the country?”
“We get more rain in our department than in any other in France,”
replied Madame Worms-Clavelin with charming sweetness. “But there is
never any mud on the broad, gravelled garden paths of the Préfecture.
Then we country people wear clogs.”
“Do you know,” said Cheiral, “that I have never been to your town?”
“There are beautiful walks there,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin, “and
the surroundings are charming. Do come and see us. My husband would be
delighted.”
“Does your husband like living there?”
“Yes, he likes it because he has been successful there.”
In her turn, she tried to see through the clouded panes and to pierce
the thick darkness that was full of fugitive glimmers of light.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Far away from everywhere, I should think,” he replied eagerly. “Where
would you like me to put you down?”
She asked him to stop at a station, and he did not attempt to disguise
his anxiety to leave her.
“I must go to the Chambre,” he said. “I do not know what they have been
doing to-day.”
“Ah, they were sitting to-day?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but there was nothing of importance, I believe--an
increase of tariff. But one never knows. I had better just look in.”
They took leave of one another easily and amicably. As Madame
Worms-Clavelin stepped into a fiacre in the Boulevard de Courcelles,
near the fortifications, she heard the newsboys crying the evening
papers, and holding them out to the passers-by as they hurried
along. She caught sight of a heading in huge letters--“Fall of the
Government.”
Madame Worms-Clavelin stood for a moment looking at the men, and
listening to the voices dying away in the rainy night. She reflected
that, if Loyer were really going to send in his resignation to the
President of the Republic, there would be in all probability no notice
in to-morrow’s _Officiel_ of the new appointments in the Church. She
reflected that her husband’s decoration would not be included in the
last will and testament of the Minister of the Interior, and that hence
the half-hour she had spent in the blue-curtained fiacre was of no
avail. She had no regret over what had happened, but did not like doing
things to no purpose.
“Neuilly,” she said to the driver, “Boulevard Bineau, the Convent of
the Dames du Saint-Sang.”
And she sat pensive and solitary, while the cries of the newsvendors
filled her ears, and she tried to convince herself that the news was
true. She would not buy a paper, however, partly out of mistrust
and contempt for all newspaper matter, and partly because she was
determined not to rob herself of so much as a half-penny. She
reflected that if the Ministry really had fallen, just at the moment
when she was being so prodigal of her favours, it was a striking
example of the irony of things and the spite that hovers ceaselessly
about us, like the very atmosphere we breathe. She asked herself
whether Loyer’s secretary-in-chief had not known the news that was now
being shouted abroad while he waited for her at the park gates. At this
thought she grew scarlet, as though her chastity had been outraged
and her faith betrayed, for if that were the case Maurice Cheiral had
been making game of her, and that she could not endure. However, her
sound common sense and wide experience soon came to her aid, assuring
her that it was never safe to trust the newspapers. She thought of
Abbé Guitrel without a qualm, and congratulated herself on having
contributed in ever so small a degree to the elevation of the excellent
priest to the See of the Blessed Saint Loup. She arranged a few little
details of her toilet the while, so that she might present a good
appearance in the parlour of the Dames du Saint-Sang who were charged
with the education of her daughter.
The fog was paler and less dense in the deserted avenues, and the low,
damp streets of Neuilly. Through the gentle rain, the strong, graceful
outlines of the great bare trees were visible. Madame Worms-Clavelin
caught a glimpse of some poplars, and they reminded her of the country
which she loved more dearly every day.
She reached the barred doorway crowned with a stone shield bearing
the glove in which Joseph of Arimathea received the sacred blood of
the Saviour, and rang the bell. At her request, the portress sent for
Mademoiselle de Clavelin, and Madame Worms-Clavelin entered the bright
parlour with its horsehair chairs. As she sat there before a picture
of the Virgin extending her blessing-laden hands, the _préfet’s_ wife
was filled with a strong, sweet feeling of religion. She was not wholly
a Christian, because she had never been baptized. But her daughter
had been baptized, and was being brought up in the Catholic faith.
Together with the Republic, Madame Worms-Clavelin felt strong leanings
towards a conventional piety, and with a sincere uplifting of the heart
she saluted the kind, blue-veiled Virgin, to whom well-to-do ladies
like herself poured out their troubles and necessities. She thanked
Providence for all her blessings, as she sat before the picture of
Mary, with her outstretched arms, and she thanked the Virgin with a
mystical intensity that the Jewish religion had never been able to
satisfy. She was full of gratitude to God, who had guided her from the
miserable days of her childhood in Montmartre, when she had run about
the greasy streets of the outer boulevards in her worn-out shoes, until
the present time, when she mixed in the best society, belonged to
the ruling classes, and had a share in the affairs that governed the
country; and she thanked God that in all her negotiations--for life
is difficult, and one often needs the help of others--she had, at any
rate, never had to come into contact with any but men of position in
the world.
“Good evening, mother!”
Madame Worms-Clavelin drew her daughter under the lamp and examined her
teeth; that was always her first care. Then she looked at her eyes, to
see whether she were anæmic or not, saw that her back was straight and
that she did not bite her nails. When satisfied on all these points,
she inquired as to her work and her conduct. Her solicitude was full
of sound common sense and much experience, and altogether she was an
excellent mother.
When at last the bell rang for evening study, and it was time to
say good-bye, Madame Worms-Clavelin drew from her pocket a box of
chocolates. The box was crushed, broken, dilapidated, and as flat as a
pancake.
Mademoiselle de Clavelin took it, saying with a laugh:
“Oh, mother! It looks as if it had been in the wars!”
“It is this dreadful weather!” said Madame Worms-Clavelin, with a shrug
of her shoulders.
That evening after dinner at the boarding-house she found on the
drawing-room table a well-known evening paper whose information she
knew to be well authenticated. On reading it, she learned that the
Government had not fallen, and was not even in difficulties. It is true
that it had been in the minority at the commencement of the sitting,
but that was only on the order of the day, and it had immediately been
followed by a majority of 105.
The news delighted her, and as she thought of her husband, she said to
herself, “Lucien will be pleased to hear that Guitrel has been made
bishop.”