That evening, there was a reception and concert at the Duveyriers.
Towards nine o’clock, Octave, who had been invited for the first time,
was just finishing dressing. He was grave, and felt irritated with
himself. Why had he missed fire with Valérie, a woman so well
connected? And Berthe Josserand, ought he not to have reflected before
refusing her? At the moment he was tying his white tie, the thought of
Marie Pichon had become unbearable to him: five months in Paris, and
nothing but that wretched adventure! It was as painful to him as a
disgrace, for he well saw the emptiness and the uselessness of such a
connection. And he vowed to himself, as he took up his gloves, that he
would no longer waste his time in such a manner. He was decided to act,
as he had at length got into society, where opportunities were
certainly not wanting.
But, at the end of the passage, Marie was watching for him. Pichon not
being there, he was obliged to go in for a moment.
“How smart you are!” murmured she.
They had never been invited to the Duveyriers’, and that filled her
with respect for the first floor drawing-room. Besides, she was jealous
of no one, she had neither the strength nor the will to be so.
“I shall wait for you,” resumed she holding up her forehead. “D° not
come up too late; you can tell me how you amused yourself.”
Octave had to deposit a kiss on her hair. Though relations were
established between them, according to his fancy, whenever a desire or
want of something to do drew him to her, they did not as yet address
each other very familiarly. He at length went downstairs; and she,
leaning over the balustrade, followed him with her eyes.
At the same minute, quite a drama was enacting at the Josserands’. In
the mind of the mother, the Duveyriers’ party to which they were going,
was to decide the question of a marriage between Berthe and Auguste
Vabre. The latter, who had been vigorously attacked for a fortnight
past, still hesitated, evidently entertaining doubts with respect to
the dowry. So Madame Josserand, for the purpose of striking a decisive
blow, had written to her brother, informing him of the contemplated
marriage and reminding him of his promises, with the hope that, in his
answer, he might say something that she could turn to account. And all
the family were awaiting nine o’clock before the dining-room stove,
dressed ready to go down, when Monsieur Gourd brought up a letter from
uncle Bachelard which had been forgotten under Madame Gourd’s snuff-box
since the last delivery.
“Ah! at last!” said Madame Josserand, tearing open the envelope.
The father and the two daughters watched her anxiously as she read.
Adèle, who had had to dress the ladies, was moving heavily about,
clearing the table still covered with the dirty crockery from the
dinner. But Madame Josserand turned ghastly pale.
“Nothing! nothing!” stuttered she, “not a clear sentence! He will see
later on, at the time of the marriage. And he adds that he loves us
very much all the same. What a confounded scoundrel!”
Monsieur Josserand in his evening dress sank into a chair. Hortense and
Berthe also sat down, their legs feeling worn out; and they remained
there, the one in blue, the other in pink, in their eternal costumes,
altered once again.
“I have always said,” murmured the father, “that Bachelard is imposing
upon us. He will never give a sou.”
Standing up in her flaring dress, Madame Josserand was reading the
letter over again. Then, her anger burst out, “Ah! men! men! That one,
one would think him an idiot, he leads such a life. Well! not a bit of
it! Though he never seems to be in his right mind, he opens his eye the
moment any one speaks to him of money. Ah! men! men!”
She turned towards her daughters, to whom this lesson was addressed.
“It has come to the point, you see, that I ask myself why it is you
have such a mania for getting married. Ah! if you had been worried out
of your lives by it as I have! Not a fellow who loves you for
yourselves and who would bring you a fortune without haggling!
Millionaire uncles who, after having been fed for twenty years, will
not even give their nieces a dowry! Husbands who are quite incompetent,
oh! yes, sir, incompetent!”
Monsieur Josserand bowed his head. Adèle, who was not even listening,
was quietly finishing clearing the table. But Madame Josserand suddenly
turned angrily upon her.
“What are you doing there, spying upon us? Go into your kitchen and see
if I am there!”
And she wound up by saying:
“In short, everything for those wretched beings, the men; and for us,
not even enough to satisfy our hunger. Listen! they are only fit for
being taken in! Remember my words!”
Hortense and Berthe nodded their heads, as though deeply penetrated by
what their mother had been saying. For a long time past she had
completely convinced them of man’s utter inferiority, his unique part
in life being to marry and to pay. A long silence ensued in the smoky
dining-room, where the remainder of the things left on the table by
Adèle emitted a stuffy smell of food. The Josserands, gorgeously
arrayed, scattered on different chairs and overwhelmed, were forgetting
the Duveyriers’ concert as they reflected on the continual deceptions
of life From the depths of the adjoining chamber, one could hear the
snoring of Saturnin, whom they had sent to bed early.
At length, Berthe spoke:
“So it is all up. Shall we take our things off?”
But, at this, Madame Josserand’s energy at once returned to her. Eh?
what? take their things off! and why pray! were they not respectable
people, was not an alliance with their family as good as with any
other? The marriage should take place all the same, she would die
rather. And she rapidly distributed their parts to each: the two young
ladies were instructed to be very amiable to Auguste, and not to leave
him until he had taken the leap; the father received the mission of
overcoming old Vabre and Duveyrier, by agreeing with everything they
said, if his intelligence was sufficient to enable him to do such a
thing; as for herself, desirous of neglecting nothing, she undertook
the women, she would know how to get them all on her side. Then,
collecting her thoughts and casting a last glance round the
dining-room, as though to make sure that no weapon had been forgotten,
she put on the terrible look of a man of war about to lead his
daughters to massacre, and uttered these words in a powerful voice:
“Let us go down!”
And down they went. In the solemnity of the staircase, Monsieur
Josserand was full of uneasiness, for he foresaw many disagreeable
things for the too narrow conscience of a worthy man like himself.
When they entered, there was already a crush at the Duveyriers’.
The enormous grand piano occupied one entire end of the drawing-room,
the ladies being seated in front of it on rows of chairs, like at the
theatre; and two dense masses of black coats filled up the doorways
leading to the dining-room and the parlour. The chandelier and the
candelabra, and the six lamps standing on side-tables, lit up with a
blinding light the white and gold room in which the red silk of the
furniture and of the hangings showed up vividly. It was very warm, the
fans produced a breeze at regular intervals, impregnated with the
penetrating odours of bodices and bare shoulders.
Just at that moment, Madame Duveyrier was taking her seat at the piano.
With a gesture, Madame Josserand smilingly begged she would not disturb
herself; and she left her daughters in the midst of the men, as she
accepted a chair for herself between Valérie and Madame Juzeur.
Monsieur Josserand had made for the parlour, where the landlord,
Monsieur Vabre, was dozing at his usual place, in the corner of a sofa.
There were also Campardon, Théophile and Auguste Vabre, Doctor
Juillerat and the Abbé Mauduit, forming a group; whilst Trublot and
Octave, who had rejoined each other, had flown from the music to the
end of the dining-room. Near them, and behind the stream of black
coats, Duveyrier, thin and tall of stature, was looking fixedly at his
wife seated at the piano waiting for silence. In the button-hole of his
coat he wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in a neat little
rosette.
“Hush! hush! silence!” murmured some friendly voices.
Then, Clotilde Duveyrier commenced one of Chopin’s most difficult
serenades. Tall and handsome, with magnificent red hair, she had a long
face, as pale and cold as snow; and, in her grey eyes, music alone
kindled a flame, an exaggerated passion on which she existed without
any other desire either of the flesh or the spirit. Duveyrier continued
watching her; then, after the first bars, a nervous exasperation
contracted his lips, he drew aside and kept himself at the farthest end
of the dining-room. On his clean-shaven face, with its pointed chin and
eyes all askew, large red blotches indicated a bad blood, quite a
pollution festering just beneath the skin.
Trublot, who was examining him, quietly observed:
“He does not like music.”
“Nor I either,” replied Octave.
“Oh! the unpleasantness is not the same for you. A man, my dear fellow,
who was always lucky. Not a whit more intelligent than another, but who
was helped along by every one. Belonging to an old middle-class family,
the father an ex-presiding judge, called to the bar the moment he had
completed his studies, then appointed, deputy judge at Reims, from
whence he was removed to Paris and made judge of the Court of First
Instance, decorated, and now a counsellor before he is forty-five years
of age. It’s stiff, isn’t it? But he does not like music, that piano
has been the bane of his life. One cannot have everything.”
Meanwhile, Clotilde was knocking off the difficult passages with
extraordinary composure. She handled her piano like a circus-rider her
horse. Octave’s attention was solely occupied with the furious working
of her hands.
“Just look at her fingers,” said he, “it is astonishing! A quarter of
an hour of that must hurt her immensely.”
And they both fell to talking of women without troubling themselves any
further with what she was playing. Octave felt rather embarrassed on
catching sight of Valérie: what line of conduct should he pursue? ought
he to speak to her or pretend not to see her? Trublot affected a great
disdain: there was still not one to take his fancy; and, as his
companion protested, looking about, and saying that there was surely
one amongst the number who would suit him, he learnedly declared:
“Well! take your choice, and you will see afterwards, when the gloss is
off. Eh? not the one with the feathers over there; nor the blonde in
the mauve dress; nor that old party, though she at least has the merit
of being fat. I tell you, my dear fellow, it is absurd to seek for
anything of the kind in society. Plenty of airs, but not a particle of
pleasure!”
Octave smiled. He had to make his position in the world; he could not
afford merely to consider his taste, like Trublot, whose father was so
rich. The sight of those rows of women set him musing, he asked himself
which among them he would have chosen for his fortune and his pleasure,
if he had been allowed to take one of them away. As he was weighing
them with a glance, one after the other, he suddenly exclaimed:
“Hallo! my employer’s wife! She visits here then?”
“Did you not know it?” asked Trublot. “In spite of the difference in
their ages, Madame Hédouin and Madame Duveyrier are two school friends.
They used to be inseparable, and were called the polar bears, because
they were always fully twenty degrees below freezing point. They are
some more of the ornamental class! Duveyrier would be in a sad plight
if he had not some other hot water-bottle for his feet in winter time!”
But Octave had now become serious. For the first time, he beheld Madame
Hédouin in a low neck dress, her shoulders and arms bare, with her
black hair plaited in front; and she appeared in the ardent light as
the realisation of his desires: a superb woman, extremely healthy and
calmly beautiful, who would be a benefit in every way to a man.
Complicated plans were already absorbing him, when an awful din awoke
him from his dream.
“What a relief! it is finished!” said Trublot.
Compliments were being showered upon Clotilde. Madame Josserand, who
had hastened to her, was pressing her hands; whilst the men resumed
their conversation, and the ladies fanned themselves more vigorously.
Duveyrier then ventured back into the parlour, where Trublot and Octave
followed him. Whilst in the midst of the skirts, the former whispered
into the latter’s ear:
“Look on your right. The angling has commenced.”
It was Madame Josserand who was setting Berthe on to Auguste. He had
imprudently gone up to the ladies to wish them good evening. His head
was not bothering him so much just then; he merely felt a touch of
neuralgia in his left eye; but he dreaded the end of the party, for
there was going to be singing, and nothing was worse for him than this.
“Berthe,” said the mother, “tell Monsieur Vabre of the remedy you
copied for him out of that book. Oh! it is a sovereign cure for
headaches!”
And, having started the affair, she left them standing beside a window.
“By Jove! they are going in for chemistry!” murmured Trublot.
In the parlour, Monsieur Josserand, desirous of pleasing his wife, had
remained seated before Monsieur Vabre, feeling very embarrassed, for
the old gentleman was asleep, and he did not dare awake him to do the
amiable. But, when the music ceased, Monsieur Vabre raised his
eye-lids. Short and stout, and completely bald, save for two tufts of
white hair over his ears, he had a ruddy face, with thick lips, and
round eyes almost at the top of his head. Monsieur Josserand having
politely inquired after his health, the conversation began. The retired
notary, whose four or five ideas always followed the same order,
commenced by making an observation about Versailles, where he had
practiced during forty years; then, he talked of his sons, once more
regretting that neither the one nor the other had shown himself capable
of carrying on the practice, so that he had decided to sell it and
inhabit Paris; after which, he came to the history of his house, the
building of which was the romance of his life.
“I have buried three hundred thousand francs in it, sir. A superb
speculation, my architect said. But to-day I have great difficulty in
getting the value of my money; more especially as all my children have
come to live here, with the idea of not paying me, and I should never
have a quarter’s rent, if I did not apply for it myself on the
fifteenth. Fortunately, I have work to console me.”
“Do you still work much?” asked Monsieur Josserand.
“Always, always, sir!” replied the old gentleman with the energy of
despair. “Work is life to me.”
And he explained his great task. For ten years past, he had every year
waded through the official catalogue of the exhibition of paintings,
writing on tickets each painter’s name, and the paintings exhibited. He
spoke of it with an air of weariness and anguish; the whole year
scarcely gave him sufficient time, the task was often so arduous, that
it sometimes proved too much for him; for instance, when a lady artist
married, and then exhibited under her husband’s name, how was he to see
his way clearly?
“My work will never be complete, it is that which is killing me,”
murmured he.
“You take a great interest in art, do you not?” resumed Monsieur
Josserand, to flatter him.
Monsieur Vabre looked at him, full of surprise.
“No, I do not require to see the paintings. It is merely a matter of
statistics. There now! I had better go to bed, my head will be all the
clearer to-morrow. Good-night, sir.”
He leant on a walking-stick, which he used even in the house, and
withdrew, walking painfully, the lower part of his back already
succumbing to paralysis. Monsieur Josserand felt perplexed: he had not
understood very clearly, he feared he had not spoken of the tickets
with sufficient enthusiasm.
But a slight hubbub coming from the drawing-room, attracted
Trublot and Octave again to the door. They saw a lady of about fifty
enter, very stout, and still handsome, followed by a young man,
correctly attired, and with a serious air about him.
“What! they arrive together!” murmured Trublot. “Well! I never!”
The new-comers were Madame Dambreville and Léon Josserand. She had
undertaken to find him a wife; then, whilst waiting, she had kept him
for her own personal use; and they were now in their full honeymoon,
attracting general attention in the middle-class drawing-rooms. There
were whisperings amongst the mothers who had daughters to marry. But
Madame Duveyrier was advancing to meet Madame Dambreville, who supplied
her with young men for her choruses. Madame Josserand at once
supplanted her, and overwhelmed her son’s friend with all sorts of
attentions, reflecting that she might have need of her. Léon coldly
exchanged a few words with his mother; yet, she was now beginning to
think that he would after all be able to do something for himself.
“Berthe does not see you,” said she to Madame Dambreville. “Excuse her,
she is telling Monsieur Auguste of some remedy.”
“But they are very well together, we must leave them alone,” replied
the lady, understanding at a glance.
They both watched Berthe maternally. She had ended by pushing Auguste
into the recess caused by the window, and was keeping him there with
her pretty gestures. He was becoming animated, and running the risk of
a bad headache.
Meanwhile, a group of grave men were talking politics in the parlour.
There had been a stormy sitting of the Senate the day before, where
they were discussing the address respecting the Roman question; and
Doctor Juillerat, whose opinions were atheistical and revolutionary,
was maintaining that Rome ought to be given to the king of Italy;
whilst the Abbé Mauduit, one of the heads of the Ultramontane party
prophesied the most awful catastrophes, if Frenchmen did not shed the
last drop of their blood in supporting the temporal power of the pope.
“Perhaps some _modus vivendi_ may be found which will prove acceptable
to both parties,” observed Léon Josserand arriving.
He was just then the secretary of a celebrated barrister, one of the
deputies of the left. During two years, having nothing to expect from
his parents, whose mediocrity moreover exasperated him, he had
frequented the students’ quarter in the guise of a ferocious demagogue.
But, since his acquaintance with the Dambrevilles, at whose expense he
was satisfying his first appetites, he was calming down, and drifting
into the learned Republican.
“No, no agreement is possible,” said the priest. “The Church could not
make terms.”
“Then, it shall vanish!” exclaimed the doctor.
And, though great friends, having met at the bedsides of all the
departing souls of the Saint-Roch district, they seemed irreconcilable,
the doctor thin and nervous, the priest fat and affable. The latter
preserved a polite smile, even when making his most absolute
statements, like a man of the world, tolerant for the shortcomings of
existence, but also like a Catholic who did not intend to abandon any
of his religions belief.
“The Church vanish, pooh!” said Campardon with a furious air, just to
be well with the priest, from whom he was expecting a large order.
Besides, it was the opinion of almost all the gentlemen: it could not
vanish. Théophile Vabre, who, coughing and spitting, and shaking with
fever, dreamed of universal happiness through the organization of a
humanitarian republic, alone maintained that, perhaps, it would be
transformed.
The priest resumed in his gentle voice:
“The Empire is committing suicide. You will see it is so, next year,
when the elections come on.”
“Oh! as for the Empire, we permit you to rid us of it,” said the doctor
boldly. “You will be rendering us a precious service.”
Then, Duveyrier, who seemed listening profoundly, shook his head. He
belonged to an Orleanist family; but he owed everything to the Empire
and considered he ought to defend it.
“Believe me,” he at length declared severely, “do not shake the
foundations of society, or everything will collapse. It is we, as sure
as fate, who suffer from every catastrophe.”
“Very true!” observed Monsieur Josserand, who entertained no opinion,
but remembered his wife’s instructions.
All spoke at once. None of them liked the Empire. Doctor Juillerat
condemned the Mexican expedition, the Abbé Mauduit blamed the
recognition of the kingdom of Italy. Yet, Théophile Vabre and even Léon
felt anxious when Duveyrier threatened them with another ’93. What was
the use of those continual revolutions? had not liberty been obtained?
and the hatred of new ideas, the fear of the people wishing their
share, calmed the liberalism of those satisfied middle-class men. They
all declared, however, that they would vote against the Emperor, for he
was in need of a lesson.
“Ah! how they bore me!” said Trublot, who had been trying to understand
for some minutes past.
Octave persuaded him to return to the ladies. In the recess of the
window, Berthe was deafening Auguste with her laughter. This big
fellow, with his pale blood, was forgetting his fear of women, and was
becoming quite red, beneath the attacks of the lovely girl, whose
breath warmed his face. Madame Josserand, however, probably considered
that the affair was dragging, for she looked fixedly at Hortense; and
the latter obediently went and gave her sister her assistance.
“Are you quite recovered, madame?” Octave dared to ask Valérie. “Quite,
sir, thank you,” replied she coolly, as though she remembered nothing.
Madame Juzeur spoke to the young man about some old lace which she
wished to show him, to have his opinion of it; and he had to promise to
look in on her for a moment on the morrow. Then, as the Abbé Mauduit
re-entered the drawing-room, she called him and made him sit beside her
with an air of rapture.
The conversation had again resumed. The ladies were discussing their
servants.
“Well! yes,” continued Madame Duveyrier, “I am satisfied with Clémenee,
she is a very clean and very active girl.”
“And your Hippolyte,” asked Madamo Josserand, “had you not the
intention of discharging him?”
Just then, Hippolyte, the footman, was handing round some ices. When he
had withdrawn, tall, strong, and with a florid complexion, Clotilde
answered in an embarrassed way:
“We have decided to keep him. It is so unpleasant changing! You know,
servants get used to one another, and I should not like to part with
Clémence.”
Madame Josserand hastened to agree with her, feeling that they were on
delicate ground. There was some hope of marrying the two together, some
day; and the Abbé Mauduit, whom the Duveyriers’ had consulted in the
matter, slowly wagged his head, as though to dissemble a state of
affairs known to all the house, but of which no one ever spoke. All the
ladies now opened their hearts: Valérie had sent another servant about
her business that very morning, and that made three in a week; Madamo
Juzeur had decided to take a young girl of fifteen from the foundling
hospital so as to teach her herself; as for Madame Josserand, her
complaints of Adèle seemed never likely to cease, a slut, a
good-for-nothing, whose goings-on were most extraordinary. And they
all, feeling languid in the blaze of the candles and the perfume of the
flowers, sank deeper into these ante-room stories, wading through
greasy account-books, and taking a delight in relating the insolence of
a coachman or of a scullery-maid.
“Have you seen Julie?” abruptly asked Trublot of Octave, in a
mysterious tone of voice.
And, as the other looked at him in amazement, he added:
“My dear fellow, she is stunning. Go and see her. Just pretend you want
to go somewhere, and then slip into the kitchen. She is stunning!”
He was speaking of the Duveyriers’ cook. The ladies’ conversation was
taking a turn: Madame Josserand was describing, with overflowing
admiration, a very modest estate which the Duveyriers had near
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and which she had merely caught a glimpse of
from the train, one day when she was going to Fontainebleau. But
Clotilde did not like the country, she lived there as little as
possible, merely during the holidays of her son, Gustave, who was then
studying rhetoric at the Lycée Bonaparte.
“Caroline is right in not wishing to have any children,” declared she,
turning towards Madame Hédouin, seated two chairs away from her. “The
little things interfere with all your habits!”
Madame Hédouin said that she liked them a good deal. But she was much
too busy; her husband was constantly away, and she had everything to
look after.
Octave, standing up behind her chair, searched with a side glance the
little curly hairs, as black as ink, on the nape of her neck, and the
snowy whiteness of her bosom, which—her dress being open very
low—disappeared in a mass of lace. She ended by completely confusing
him, as she sat there so calm, speaking but rarely and with a
continuous smile on her handsome face; he had never before seen so
superb a creature, even at Marseilles. Decidedly, it was worth trying,
though it would be a long task.
“Having children robs women of their good looks so quickly!” said he in
her ear, leaning over, feeling an absolute necessity to speak to her,
and yet finding nothing else to say.
She slowly raised her large eyes, and then replied with the simple air
with which she would give him an order at the warehouse.
“Oh! no, Monsieur Octave; with me it is not for that. One must have the
time, that is all.”
But Madame Duveyrier intervened. She had merely greeted the young man
with a slight bow, when Campardon had introduced him to her; and now
she was examining him, and listening to him, without seeking to hide a
sudden interest. When she heard him conversing with her friend, she
could not help asking:
“Pray, excuse me, sir. What voice have you?”
He did not understand immediately; but he ended by saying that his was
a tenor voice. Then, Clotilde became quite enthusiastic: a tenor voice,
really! what a piece of luck, tenor voices were becoming so rare! For
instance, for the “Blessing of the Daggers,” which they were going to
sing by-and-by, she had never been able to find more than three tenors
among her acquaintances, when at least five were required. And,
suddenly excited, her eyes sparkling, she had to restrain herself from
going at once to the piano to try his voice. He was obliged to promise
to come one evening for the purpose. Trublot, who was behind him, kept
nudging him with his elbow, ferociously enjoying himself in his
impassibility.
“Ah! so you are in for it too!” murmured he, when she had moved away.
“For myself, my dear fellow, she first of all thought I had a barytone
voice; then, seeing that I did not get on all right, she tried me as a
tenor; but as I went no better, she has decided to use me to-night as
bass. I am one of the monks.”
But he had to leave Octave as Madame Duveyrier was just then calling
him; they were about to sing the chorus, the great piece of the
evening. There was quite a commotion. Some fifteen men, all amateurs,
and all recruited among the guests of the house, painfully opened a
passage for themselves through the groups of ladies, to form in front
of the piano. They were constantly brought to a standstill, and asked
to be excused, in voices drowned by the hum of conversations; whilst
the fans were moved more rapidly in the increasing heat. At length,
Madame Duveyrier counted them; they were all there, and she distributed
them their parts, which she had copied out herself. Campardon took the
part of Saint-Bris; a young auditor attached to the Council of State
was intrusted with De Nevers’s few bars; then came eight nobles, four
aldermen, and three monks, represented by barristers, clerks, and
simple householders. She, who accompanied, had also reserved herself
the part of Valentine, passionate cries which she uttered whilst
striking chords; for she would have no lady amongst the gentlemen, the
resigned troop of whom she directed with all the severity of a
conductor of an orchestra.
The conversations continued, an intolerable noise issued from the
parlour especially, where the political discussions were evidently
entering on a disagreeable phase. Then Clotilde, taking a key from her
pocket, tapped gently with it on the piano. A murmur ran through the
room, the voices dropped, two streams of black coats again flowed to
the doors; and, looking over the heads, one beheld for a moment
Duveyrier’s red spotted face wearing an agonised expression. Octave had
remained standing behind Madame Hédouin, the glances from his lowered
eyes losing themselves, in the shadows of her bosom, in the depths of
the lace. But when the silence was almost complete, there was a burst
of laughter, and he raised his head. It was Berthe, who was amused at
some joke of Auguste’s; she had heated his poor blood to such a point
that he was becoming quite jovial. Every person in the drawing-room
looked at them, mothers became grave, members of the family exchanged a
glance.
“She has such spirits!” murmured Madame Josserand tenderly, in such a
way as to be heard.
Hortense, close to her sister, was assisting her with complaisant
abnegation, joining in her laughter, and pushing her up against the
young man; whilst the breeze which entered through the partly open
window behind them gently swelled the big crimson silk curtains.
But a sepulchral voice resounded, all the heads turned towards the
piano. Campardon, his mouth wide open, his beard spread out in a
lyrical blast, was giving the first line:
“Yes, we are here assembled by the queen’s command.”
Clotilde at once ran up a scale and down again; then, her eyes fixed on
the ceiling, a look of fright on her face, she uttered the cry:
“I tremble!”
And the whole thing followed, the eight barristers, clerks and
householders, their noses on their parts, in the postures of schoolboys
humming and hawing over a page of Greek, swore that they were ready to
deliver France. This opening was a surprise, for the voices were
stifled beneath the low ceiling, one was unable to catch more than a
sort of hum, like a noise of passing carts full of paving stones
causing the windows to rattle. But when Saint-Bris’s melodious line:
“For this holy cause—” unrolled the principal theme, some of the ladies
recognised it and nodded their heads knowingly. All were warming to the
work, the nobles shouted out at random: “We swear it!—We will follow
you!” and, each time, it was like an explosion which caught the guests
full in the chest.
“They sing too loud,” murmured Octave in Madame Hédouin’s ear.
She did not move. Then, as De Nevers’s and Valentine’s explanations
bored him, more especially as the auditor attached to the Council of
State was a false barytone, he corresponded by signs with Trublot who,
whilst awaiting the entrance of the monks, drew his attention with a
wink to the window where Berthe was continuing to keep Auguste
imprisoned. Now, they were alone, in the fresh breeze from outside;
whilst, with her ear pricked up, Hortense stood before them, leaning
against the curtain and mechanically twisting the loop. No one was
watching them now, even Madame Josserand and Madame Dambreville were
looking away, after an instinctive exchange of glances.
Meanwhile, Clotilde, her fingers on the keys, carried away and unable
to risk a gesture, stretehed her neck and addressed to the music stand
this oath intended for De Nevers:
“Ah! from to-day all my blood is yours!”
The aldermen had made their entrance, a substitute, two attorneys, and
a notary. The quartette was well delivered, the line: “For this holy
cause—” returned, spread out, supported by half the chorus, in a
continuous expansion. Cam pardon, his mouth opened wider and wider,
gave the orders for the combat, with a terrible roll of syllables. And,
suddenly, the chant of the monks burst forth: Trublot sang from his
stomach, so as to reach the low notes.
Octave, having had the curiosity to wateh him singing, was struck with
surprise, when he again cast his eyes in the direction of the window.
As though carried away by the chorus, Hortense had unfastened the loop,
by a movement which might have been unintentional; and, in falling, the
big crimson silk curtain had completely hidden Auguste and Berthe. They
were there behind it, leaning against the window bar, without a
movement betraying their presence. Octave no longer troubled himself
about Trublot, who was just then blessing the daggers: “Holy daggers,
by us be blessed.” Whatever could they be doing behind that curtain?
The fugue was commencing; to the deep tones of the monks, the chorus
replied: “Death! death! death!” And still they did not move; perhaps,
feeling the heat too much, they were simply watching the cabs pass. But
Saint-Bris’s melodious line had again returned, by degrees all the
voices uttered it with the whole strength of their lungs, progressively
and in a final outburst of extraordinary force. It was like a gust of
wind burying itself in the farthest corners of the too narrow room,
scaring the candles, making the guests turn pale and their ears bleed.
Clotilde furiously strummed away on the piano, carrying the gentlemen
along with her with a glance; then the voices quieted down, almost
whispering: “At midnight, let there be not a sound!” and she continued
on alone, using the soft pedal, and imitating the cadenced and distant
footsteps of some departing patrol.
Then, suddenly, in the midst of this expiring music, of this relief
after so much uproar, one heard a voice exclaim:
“You are hurting me!”
[Illustration]
All the heads again turned towards the window. Madame Dambreville
kindly made herself useful, by going and pulling the curtain aside. And
the whole drawing-room beheld Auguste looking very confused and Berthe
very red, still leaning against the bar of the window.
“What is the matter, my treasure?” asked Madame Josserand earnestly.
“Nothing, mamma. Monsieur Auguste knocked my arm with the window. I was
so warm!”
She turned redder still. There were, affected smiles and scandalized
pouts. Madame Duveyrier, who, for a month past, had been trying to keep
her brother out of Berthe’s way, turned quite pale, more especially as
the incident had spoilt the effect of her chorus. However, after the
first moment of surprise, the applause burst forth, she was
congratulated, and some amiable things were said about the gentlemen.
How delightfully they had sung! what pains she must have taken to get
them to sing so well in time! Really, it could not have been rendered
better at a theatre. But, beneath all this praise, she could not fail
to hear the whispering which went round the drawing-room: the young
girl was too much compromised, a marriage had become inevitable.
“Well! he is hooked!” observed Trublot as he rejoined Octave. “What a
ninny! as though he could not have pinched her whilst we were all
bellowing! I thought all the while that he was taking advantage of it.
You know, in drawing-rooms where they go in for singing, one pinches a
lady, and if she cries out it does not matter, no one hears!”
Berthe, now very calm, was again laughing, whilst Hortense looked at
Auguste with her crabbed air of a girl who had taken a diploma; and, in
their triumph, the mother’s lessons reappeared, the undisguised
contempt for man. All the gentlemen had now invaded the drawing-room,
mingling with the ladies, and raising their voices. Monsieur Josserand,
feeling sick at heart through Berthe’s adventure, had drawn near his
wife. He listened uneasily as she thanked Madame Dambreville for all
her kindness to their son Léon, whom she had most decidedly changed to
his advantage. But his uneasiness increased when he heard her again
refer to her daughters. She pretended to converse in low tones with
Madame Juzeur, though speaking all the while for Valérie and Clotilde,
who were standing up close beside her.
“Well, yes! her uncle mentioned it in a letter again to-day; Berthe
will have fifty thousand francs. It is not much, no doubt, but when the
money is there, and as safe as the bank too!”
This lie roused his indignation. He could not help stealthily touching
her shoulder. She looked at him, forcing him to lower his eyes before
the resolute expression of her face. Then, as Madame Duveyrier turned
round quite amiably, she asked her with great concern for news of her
father.
“Oh! papa has probably gone to bed,” replied the young woman, quite won
over. “He works so hard!”
Monsieur Josserand said that Monsieur Vabre had indeed retired, so as
to have his ideas clear on the morrow. And he mumbled a few words: a
most remarkable mind, extraordinary faculties; asking himself at the
same time where he would get that dowry from, and thinking what a
figure he would cut, the day the marriage contract had to be signed.
A great noise of chairs being moved now filled the drawingroom. The
ladies passed into the dining-room, where the tea was ready served.
Madame Josserand sailed victoriously in, surrounded by her daughters
and the Vabre family. Soon only the group of serious men remained
amidst the vacant chairs. Campardon had button-holed the Abbé Mauduit:
there was a question of some repairs to the calvary at Saint-Roch. The
architect said he was quite free, for the diocese of Evreux gave him
very little to do. All he had in hand there were a pulpit and a heating
apparatus, and also some new ranges to be placed in the bishop’s
kitchen, which work his inspector was quite competent to see after.
Then, the priest promised to have the matter definitely settled at the
next meeting of the vestry. And they both joined the group where
Duveyrier was being complimented on a judgment, of which he admitted
himself to be the author; the presiding judge, who was his friend,
reserved certain easy and brilliant tasks for him, so as to bring him
to the fore.
“Have you read this last novel?” asked Léon, looking through a number
of the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” lying on a table. “It is well written;
but there is another adultery, it is really becoming wearisome!”
And the conversation turned upon morality. Campardon said that there
were some very virtuous women. All the others agreed with him.
Moreover, according to the architect, one could always live peacefully
at home, if one only went the right way about it. Théophile Vabre
observed that it depended on the woman, without explaining himself
farther. They wished to have Doctor Juillerat’s opinion, but he smiled
and begged to be excused: he considered virtue was a question of
health. During this, Duveyrier had remained wrapped in thought.
“Dear me!” murmured he at length, “these authors exaggerate; adultery
is very rare amongst educated people. A woman who comes from a good
family, has in her soul a flower—”
He was for grand sentiments, he uttered the word “ideal” with an
emotion which brought a mist to his eyes. And he said that the Abbé
Mauduit was right when the latter spoke of the necessity for the wife
and mother having some religious belief. The conversation was thus
brought back to religion and politics, at the point where these
gentlemen had previously left it. The Church would never disappear,
because it was the foundation of all families, the same as it was the
natural support of governments.
“As a sort of police, perhaps it is,” murmured the doctor.
Duveyrier, however, did not like politics being discussed in his house,
and he contented himself with severely declaring, as he glanced into
the dining-room where Berthe and Hortense were stuffing Auguste with
sandwiches:
“There is one fact, gentlemen, which settles everything: religion
moralizes marriage.”
At the same moment, Trublot, seated on a sofa beside Octave, was
bending towards the latter.
“By the way,” asked he, “would you like me to get you invited to a
lady’s where there is plenty of amusement?”
And as his companion desired to know what kind of a lady, he added,
indicating the counsellor by a sign:
“His mistress.”
“Impossible!” said Octave in amazement.
Trublot slowly opened and closed his eyes. It was so. When one married
a woman who was disobliging and disgusted with one’s little ailments,
and who strummed on her piano to the point of making all the dogs of
the neighbourhood ill, one had to go elsewhere and be made a fool of!
“Let us moralize marriage, gentlemen, let us moralize marriage,”
repeated Duveyrier in his rigid way, with his inflamed face, where
Octave now distinguished the foul blood of secret vices.
The gentlemen were being called into the dining-room. The Abbé Mauduit,
left for a moment alone in the middle of the empty drawing-room, looked
from a distance at the crush of guests. His fat shrewd face bore an
expression of sadness. He who heard all those ladies, both old and
young, at confession, knew them all in the flesh, the same as Doctor
Juillerat, and he had had to end by merely watching over appearances,
like a master of the ceremonies throwing the mantle of religion over
the corruption of the middle classes, trembling at the certainty of a
final downfall, the day when the canker would appear in all its
hideousness. At times, in his ardent and sincere faith of a priest, his
indignation would overcome him. But his smile returned; he took the cup
of tea which Berthe came and offered him, and conversed a minute with
her so as to cover, as it were, the scandal of the window, with his
sacred character; and he again became the man of the world, resigned to
merely insisting upon a decent behaviour from those sinners, who were
escaping him, and who would have compromised providence.
“Well, these are fine goings-on!” murmured Octave, whose respect for
the house had received another shock.
And seeing Madame Hédouin move towards the ante-room, he wished to
reach there before her, and followed Trublot, who was also leaving. His
intention was to see her home. She refused; it was scarcely midnight,
and she lived so near. Then, a rose having fallen from the bouquet at
her breast, he picked it up in spite and made a pretence of keeping it.
The young woman’s beautiful eyebrows contracted; then, she said in her
quiet way:
“Pray open the door for me, Monsieur Octave. Thank you.” When she had
departed, the young man, who was rather confused, looked for Trublot.
But Trublot had disappeared, the same as he had done at the
Josserands’. This time also he must have slipped along the passage
leading to the kitchen.
Octave, greatly put out, went off to his room, his rose in his hand.
Upstairs, he beheld Marie leaning over the balustrade, at the place
where he had left her; she had been listening for his footstep, and had
hastened to see him come up. And when she had made him enter her room,
she said:
“Jules has not yet come home. Did you enjoy yourself? Were there any
pretty dresses?”
But she did not give him time to answer. She had caught sight of the
rose, and was seized with a childish delight. “Is that flower for me?
You have thought of me? Ah! how nice of you! how nice of you!”
And her eyes filled with tears, she became quite confused and very red.
Then Octave, suddenly moved, kissed her tenderly.
Towards one o’clock, the Josserands withdrew in their turn. Adèle
always left a candle and some matches on a chair. When the members of
the family, who had not exchanged a word coming upstairs, had entered
the dining-room, from whence they had gone down in despair, they
suddenly yielded to a mad delirious joy, holding each others’ hands,
and dancing like savages round the table; the father himself gave way
to the contagion, the mother cut capers, and the daughters uttered
little inarticulate cries; whilst the candle in the middle of them
showed up their huge shadows careering along the walls.
“At last, it is settled!” said Madame Josserand, out of breath,
dropping on to a chair.
But she jumped up again at once, in a fit of maternal affection, and
ran and imprinted two big kisses on Berthe’s cheeks.
“I am very pleased, very pleased indeed with you, my darling. You have
just rewarded me for all my efforts. My poor girl, my poor girl it is
true then, this time!”
Her voice was choking, her heart was in her mouth. She succumbed in her
flaring dress, beneath the weight of a deep and sincere emotion,
suddenly overwhelmed in the hour of her triumph by the fatigues of her
terrible campaign which had lasted three winters. Berthe had to swear
that she was not ill, for her mother thought she looked ill, and was
full of little attentions, almost insisting on making her a cup of
infusion. When the young girl was in bed, she went barefooted and
carefully tucked her in, like in the already distant days of her
childhood.
Meanwhile, Monsieur Josserand, his head on his pillow, awaited her. She
blew out the light, and stepped over him, to reach the side of the bed
nearest the wall. He was wrapped in thought, his uneasiness having
returned, his conscience all upset by that promise of a dowry of fifty
thousand francs. And he ventured to mention his scruples aloud. Why
make a promise, when one has a doubt of being able to keep it? It was
not honest.
“Not honest!” exclaimed Madame Josserand in the dark, her voice
resuming its ferocious tone. “It is not honest to let your daughters
become old maids, sir; yes, old maids, such was perhaps your dream! We
have plenty of time to turn about, we can talk the matter over, we will
end by persuading her uncle. And understand, sir, that in my family, we
have always been honest!”