that two or three times have sufficed.--In a word, stupefaction of the
mother; stupefaction of the father. They tell the story to Madame de
Bec-Crespin, their cousin, who tells it to her mother, Madame de Contay,
who tells it to Jaubourg, who tells it to me; and as such a
daughter-in-law would suit me marvellously, and as I have a horror of
beating about the bush, I invited them all three, mother, father and
daughter, and I sent for you. The mother sent her excuses. She's a
little put out; she won't see you. She knows you, plant and root, I
venture to say.--Ah! everything is there: wit, spirit, charm,--I don't
say great beauty, but what a figure, and what eyes! A hundred thousand
francs a year at this moment, of her own, if you please, left her by her
uncle Prosny. Later, three hundred thousand more. And such relations! No
more mésalliances in that family than in ours. One of those superb
trees that resemble a noble action continued for seven hundred years:
all the younger sons officers, bishops or knights of Malta; all the
unmarried daughters nuns, abbesses or prioresses; twenty of the name
killed in foreign wars. I have not often annoyed you with suggestions of
marriage, my boy. Your dear mother would have known so well how to
choose a wife for you! I waited a while for you to open your heart to
me. But you are approaching thirty. I am sixty-five. Your three brothers
are dead. I have no one but you to keep up the family. I should like not
to go away before I have put in the saddle a Geoffroy IX of
Claviers-Grandchamp. You are Landri X. We must look to it that the
Geoffroys overtake the Landris. Well! what do you say?"
"I say, father," Landri replied, "that I came to Grandchamp to-day,
myself, with the purpose of speaking to you about a project of
marriage--a different one," he added.
"With some one whom I know?" inquired the marquis.
"No, father, a young woman of twenty-seven, the widow of one of my
fellow officers in the regiment, who has a child, and no fortune, or
very little. It's a far cry from the marriage-portion of Mademoiselle de
Charlus. But I love her passionately, and have for more than three
years."
"Another chapter of a novel," said M. de Claviers, still without losing
his good-humour. "This does not displease me. I will not deny that I
have been just a little disgusted with you. I was afraid that you had
some wretched liaison in your life. You have a real love. That's a
different matter. I love to have people love, you see--love long and
dearly and faithfully. No fortune?" He repeated, "No fortune? My dear
boy, how I would like to be able to say to you: 'Don't let that disturb
you!'" A cloud had passed over his face, which was as transparent as the
blue sky of that waning afternoon, stretching above his beloved forest,
all turned to gold by the autumn.--"This is not the time to discuss that
question, which I have wanted to talk to you about for a long while. We
have many charges on the estate. If it still produced what it did once,
we could extricate ourselves more easily--and, perhaps, if I had known
better how to handle our interests. Consider that there have been two
generations over which this outrageous Civil Code has passed, with its
compulsory partitions, which are grinding France to powder. Of the
income of a million which your great-grandmother saved during the
Revolution by not emigrating, and demanding her pretended divorce, how
much have I had? Three hundred thousand francs a year, and, in addition,
all the burdens of the old days! I say again, this is not the time to
talk about it.--For three years?" he added, after a pause. "Who is it?
What is her name?"
"Madame Olier," replied the young man.
"Ah!" exclaimed the father, "and she was born--?"
"Mademoiselle Barral."
"Olier?--Barral?--Why, in that case, she is not a person of your own
rank? Answer me frankly, my boy. I am your father, the head of your
family. You owe it to me. You are her lover? You have a misstep to
repair? The child is yours?"
"No, father, I give you my word of honor. Twice in my life I have told
her that I loved her. Once when her husband was alive. She refused to
see me again except on my promise that I would never speak to her again
of my sentiments. The second time was to-day. That was the reason of my
being late."
M. de Claviers had listened to this confession with contracted brow and
lips tightly closed. His blue eyes took on that sombre hue which his son
knew too well. It indicated the clash of profound emotions in that
violent temperament. There was between the two men a further pause
coincident with the stopping of the motor before the Mauchaussées'
house, a dainty structure which the châtelain of Grandchamp placed at
the disposal of his former retainer, without rent. The curtains at the
windows and the thread of smoke issuing from the chimney bore witness to
the physical well-being of these vassals of his charity. He had,
however, the countenance of a magistrate rather than an alms-giver as he
alighted from the automobile, without speaking to his son, who did not
follow him.
The ten minutes which his father passed in the little house seemed
immeasurably long to Landri. To be sure he felt as if a weight had been
lifted from his heart: the first part of his confession was made, the
part that had seemed to him the most formidable to put in words. It
touched such a sensitive spot in his heart! Would he have the courage to
make the second part, and to inflict another blow upon that man, whom he
felt once more to be so impassioned, so loving and so impetuous? By what
sort of an explosion would the wrath vent itself, with which he had seen
that powerful brow suddenly overcast? Other questions arose in his mind:
why had the marquis, whose repugnance for financial affairs was so
intense, spoken with such detail of the wealth of the Charluses, and of
his own with that reserve laden with hidden meaning? Landri was too
unselfish to think of his own future and of the possible diminution of
his inheritance. He knew that his father was very wealthy, and he had
never wondered at a lavish expenditure which the marquis had seemed
always able to support. He had never even asked for his own property
after the guardianship accounts were once settled. The marquis gave him
an allowance which represented the fifteen hundred thousand francs he
had inherited from his mother. Did this enigmatic plaint mean that the
_grand seigneur_ would be compelled eventually to reduce an
establishment which was as necessary to him as breathing and moving? At
the same time that he revolved this question in his mind without putting
it to himself so plainly, the young man was thinking of the negotiator
of the Charlus marriage.
"What an idea of Jaubourg's to meddle again in my affairs! It's just as
it was before about Saint-Cyr. He has never shown anything but antipathy
to me, and he is always putting himself between my father and me. That
is why he wanted them to send me up to him.--But the door is opening--I
must prepare to sustain the assault!--Courage! it's for Valentine."
The charming image passed before his mind. It was exorcised instantly by
a chorus of voices saying in the accent of the countryside: "Bonjour,
Monsieur le Comte. Is everything right with you. Monsieur le Comte?"--It
was the five Mauchaussée children, their mother, grandmother and
grandfather, whom the marquis was driving before him toward his son. The
wondering, laughing eyes of the little boys and girls, the timid and
humble bearing of the two women, the jovial bloated face of the
drunkard, supplied a comic illustration of the speech with which M. de
Claviers presented them to their future patron.
"Do you recognize them?" he said. "The little monkeys are growing. They
are pushing us aside, Mauchaussée, and you too, Madame Martine. Soon
they'll be pushing you too, Landri, but you have the time. Come,
children, shout, 'Vive Monsieur le Comte!'"
"Vive Monsieur le Comte!" chirped the five children.
"And vive Monsieur le Marquis!" exclaimed Mauchaussée. It was amid
acclamations as paradoxical, in the year 1906, as the existence of M. de
Claviers himself, that the automobile resumed its journey.
"To the château," he said to Auguste. Then, taking his son's hand and
pressing it: "That is why you cannot make the marriage of which you
spoke to me just now. It is because of the Mauchaussées and their
like,--and they are legion,--who live on us, on the house of
Claviers-Grandchamp; for there is a house of Claviers-Grandchamp. Surely
you cannot wish to assist in destroying it. When one demolishes a roof,
one destroys all the nests in that roof. When one cuts the trunk of one
of these trees, all the branches die. Our family, as I told you just
now, is like that of the Charluses. Not a mésalliance since 1260. One
can count them on one's fingers, such lineages as that. You will not
demean yourself."
"Is it demeaning myself," demanded Landri impatiently, "to bring you as
your daughter-in-law a woman of irreproachable character, whom I love
profoundly and who loves me,--pretty, refined and intelligent? One
demeans one's self by lacking a sense of honor. Does it show such a lack
to marry according to one's heart, without regard to money, without any
secret prompting of ambition? In what way would Madame Olier, having
become Comtesse de Claviers-Grandchamp, embarrass the Mauchaussées and
all this generous task of supporting traditionary dependents, which
forms one of the moral appanages of great families and a _raison
d'être_ of the nobility, I fully agree with you;--in what way?"
"In this,--that she is Madame Olier, born Barral, simply; that her child
has Olier uncles and aunts and Olier cousins, and she has Barral
cousins, perhaps brother and sisters,--a whole social circle. That
circle, by marrying her, you make akin to us. That family you ally with
ours. You ally it! Dig into that word, so profound in its significance,
like all those in which the language simply translates instinctively the
experience of ages. That means that between the Oliers, the Barrals, and
the Claviers-Grandchamps, you establish a bond of fellowship, that all
those existences are bound together.--I will suggest but one question to
you: tell the Mauchaussées that Madame de Claviers' cousin keeps a
shop, for instance, that he is like one of their own relations. Do you
think that Madame de Claviers will retain the same prestige in their
eyes? And let us assume that there are no Oliers, no Barrals in this
case,--do you think that our kinsfolk, the Candales, the Vardes, the
Nançays, the Tillières, in France, and all the others, and the
Ardrahans in Scotland, the Gorkas in Poland, and the Stenos in Italy,
will be altogether the same to your wife as if she were a Charlus? So
that our family unity will be impaired. You will have diminished the
importance of the house of Claviers, without failing in honor--that goes
without saying. But, do you see, a name like ours is honor with
something more."
"Or less," retorted Landri. "Why, yes," he insisted, as his father
recoiled in amazement, "less life, life, to which all men have a right,
but not I. No right to individual happiness,--you just told me so. No
right to individual action. How much it cost you to allow me even to
enter the army! What else is there for us to do? Defend tombs? You have
the strength for that, but I haven't."
He had never said so much concerning his secret thoughts. It had been
too painful to him to hear from the marquis's lips the same objections,
in almost the same words, as from Valentine's. He had felt too strongly
their implacable and brutal truth. The pain had been all the keener. He
had no sooner uttered that cry of rebellion, than he had a passionate
reflux of emotion toward his father. He took his hand, saying: "Forgive
me!" while M. de Claviers returned the pressure, and answered in an
affectionate voice, but so firm, so virile,--the voice of a man who,
having reached the evening of his days, girds up his loins and declares
that he has not gone astray in his faith.
"Forgive you, and for what, my poor boy? For loving, and for feeling an
impulse of rebellion of your whole heart before an obstacle in which all
boys of your age, and even of your class, would see to-day, as you do,
only a prejudice? For being young, and for having this longing to employ
your energy to some purpose, which you cheat by playing at
soldiering,--for it is only a game and you know it perfectly well?
Suppose that to-morrow the people who rule us order you to execute one
of their infamous jobs, the burglarizing of a church, what shall you
do?"
As he uttered these words, which by their unconscious divination proved
how much he thought about his son, the marquis was looking at his idea.
He did not notice the young man's sudden start. On the latter's lips was
an exclamation which he did not utter. He listened to the words in which
his father continued, with an interest all the more intense, because M.
de Claviers was not in the habit of discussing his convictions. He
asserted them by his mere presence. Doubtless his affection for Landri
warned him that that was a fateful moment, such as most frequently
occurs unexpectedly, in the relations of a father and son, when a word
misunderstood may lead to tragic dissensions; and as if he were
determined to justify in advance the sternness of his veto by arguments
impossible of refutation even by him who was destined to be their
victim, he explained himself, he confessed himself, or, better still, he
thought aloud:--
"Do you think that I have not gone through such rebellions? Do you think
that I, too, when my father spoke to me as I am speaking to you, did not
ask myself if he were not a man of another century, who did not
understand his epoch and who wished to involve me in his error? Do you
think that I was not attracted by action, by actions of all sorts, by
war, diplomacy, the tribune? that I never heard the voice of the tempter
whispering: 'One does not serve the government, one serves France?' How
many of my friends listened to that voice! I do not judge them. I could
not do it, and I do not repent. This is why. Listen. What I am going to
say will seem to you a long way from the starting-point of our
conversation. But I do not lose sight of it.--No, I could not do it,
because by dint of studying her, I realized that this France, offspring
of the Revolution, had other workmen than me to employ, in its barracks,
its public offices, its assemblies, and that we were very little able to
serve her elsewhere. You have told me sometimes that I had the heart of
an 'émigré.' It is true. But who saved France from dismemberment in
1815, if not the 'émigrés,' and Louis XVIII, first of all. Had there
been no 'émigrés,' had not the King, supported by that handful of
loyal subjects, made himself felt during twenty years in the councils of
the coalition, the country would have been partitioned. What did they
preserve for it, for that country which was so cruelly hostile to
them?--_A principle_. Who will measure the strength of principles, of
social truths, maintained by a group of men, by a single man sometimes,
if he is called the King? Ah, well! the disease of France, offspring of
the Revolution, does not lie in facts, nor in men, but in lack of
principles, or in false principles, which is worse. I am not unjust to
her, to this France I speak of. She has worked hard during these hundred
years. She is working hard. And what endurance, what a sturdy will, what
impetuosity! With all these is she bankrupt in all her aspirations--yes
or no? Yes or no, does this country hold in Europe an inferior place to
that she held in the worst days of the old monarchy? She is no older
than England, however, her great rival in the Middle Ages! Has she
progressed in social tranquillity? Has she found stability, that test of
all political doctrines, as the regular beating of the pulse is the test
of health? The fact is that the Revolution tried to base society on the
individual, and that nature insists that it be based on the family. When
I understood that great law, I understood the nobility. I understood
then that our prejudices were profound social truths, elaborated by that
result of experience during long ages which is called custom, and
transformed into instinct. It is a profound social truth that there is
no increase in the strength of a country unless the efforts of
successive generations are combined, unless the living consider
themselves as enjoying the usufruct only, between their dead and their
descendants. But that is the law of primogeniture and entails! Another
profound social truth: families must be deeply rooted in order to
endure; they must have territorial interests, they must be amalgamated
with the soil. But that means patrimonial domains, which are left
undivided that they may not be sold!--Another profound social truth:
there must be diverse environments, in order that there may be morals,
and there are no environments unless there are classes, and distinct
classes. But that means the three estates! Another profound social
truth: every individual is simply the sum of those who have preceded
him, a single moment in a long lineage. By marrying him to another
individual at the same stage of development of her family, there is the
chance of obtaining a superior creature, of solidifying acquired
characteristics. But that means race!--All these truths the old France
put in practice, and they were incarnate in the great Houses! The great
Houses! On the instant that I realized their importance and that they
were a working-out of the very laws of the family, the rôle of the
noble in the presence of the Revolution was made clear to me: to
maintain his House first of all. If we had all acted on that theory,
what a reserve force France would have had for the hour of the
inevitable crisis! However, there are still enough of us who fulfilled
that duty, each as he could, especially in the provinces, and in that
sturdy rural aristocracy which you will find in existence to-day, as in
'71. But, even if I were alone of my kind, I should be no less assured
of my duty. If we are fated never to be wanted again, let us at least
make a noble end. _Decenter mori_. An aristocrat should either remain an
aristocrat or die. I have remained one. The misfortunes of the time have
not allowed me to add a page to the history of the Claviers-Grandchamps,
but I have written that history, and I have maintained our house in its
place. I have sounded the splendor of the name, as our ancestors said.
What more can I say, Landri? Your father has continued his father, who
had continued his. They all ask you by my mouth: 'Will you continue
us?'"
"I revere you and love you," replied the young man; and it was true that
that profession of faith, pronounced by the old nobleman among the trees
of the hereditary domain, assumed an almost painful grandeur. After an
interval of a hundred years the Claviers-Grandchamp of Condé's army
expressed his thoughts by the mouth of his grandson with that
self-consciousness which is one of the characteristics of the
thoroughbred. He realized that, before they disappear, the social
species like the animal species spend their last vigor in producing most
perfect types in which all the excellences of all that have gone before
are consummated. Once more Landri had a realizing sense of the
superiority of that man who, for lack of a suitable environment, had
spent his long life in attitudinizing, and for motives so profound, so
blended with the most generous idealism! He was too intelligent not to
understand the bearing of the lofty philosophy amassed by M. de Claviers
in his solemn harangue. In spite of himself, as was so often the case,
his mind acquiesced in ideas which, none the less, he did not choose to
accept. In what utter solitude they had confined his father! His heart,
too, rebelled against it. "The profound social truths," as the marquis
had said, are but cold friends of mature years. A lover of less than
thirty will always sacrifice them to a glance from two bright blue eyes,
to a reflection of the light upon golden hair. Images of that sort were
still floating before Landri's eyes; they gave him strength to argue
with his father.
"But in that old France, which you claim to continue, the classes
intermingled, and by marriages, too. Colbert's daughter was a duchess,
Monsieur de Mesmes' daughter a duchess, Gilles Ruellan's daughter a
duchess, and Colbert's father was a draper, Monsieur de Mesmes' father a
peasant of Mont-de-Marsan, and Gilles Ruellan had been a carter."
"That is true," rejoined M. de Claviers. "But in those days France was
sound. She was like those strong constitutions which can safely indulge
in deviations from a regular diet. The great houses were not attacked.
The great social truths which their existence alone represents to-day
did not need to be defended in every detail. There is not enough
'irreconcilability' in our time, even among us, for me to renounce mine.
I admired nothing so much in my youth as the attitude of the Comte de
Chambord, when he carried his white banner,--and how many understood it,
even among our friends? No, Landri, one does not compromise in the
defence of a vanquished principle. One can never defend it too
vigorously."
"Then, if I should come some day to ask your consent--" the young man
queried, with a tremor.
"To marry Madame Olier? I shall refuse to give it."
"And if I should do without it?" he ventured to say.
"You will not do without it. She is the one, do you hear, she is the one
who will not allow it. I know you, my Landri," continued the father, in
an affectionate tone in striking contrast to the evident inflexibility
of his decision. "For you to love this woman so dearly, she must be very
pure and of a very delicate sense of honor. It was she who insisted that
you should speak to me before she gave you her answer, was it not? Such
a woman will never consent to marry you against your father's declared
wish. If she were not magnanimous and high-minded to that degree, you
would not love her."
"And if it were so, you would not be touched?"
"There is no question here of my emotions, my son, nor of yours. It is a
question of our name. Military heroism is not the only sort. There is a
family heroism. As a soldier, you would consider it a perfectly natural
thing to sacrifice your life. A man of a certain name should consider it
natural to sacrifice his happiness. But is there really so much at
stake? It is a crisis, and it will pass away. In any event," he added,
in a tone of affectionate banter, "you haven't asked for my consent. So
that I have not refused it. We have talked about plans, probabilities,
supposititious cases--nothing more. All the same, be agreeable to Marie
de Charlus this evening. Don't be too angry with her for having
distinguished you, as our grandmothers used so prettily to say. And now
let us enjoy what my grandmother left us. Here we are out of the forest
and in the park. If the fearless woman had not stayed here, during the
Terror, everything would have been cut down, devastated, burned,
pillaged. I never return to Grandchamp without giving her a thought."
He ceased to speak, and his blue eyes were filled with pious veneration
as he looked at the château, a sedate and grandiose structure in
Mansart's very earliest manner. In the eighteenth century a
Claviers-Grandchamp, to whom a friend, in gratitude for a service
rendered him, had bequeathed a fortune made in the Compagnie des Indes,
had reconstructed it inside without touching the façade. In front lay
an immense garden _à la française_. Twelve gardeners were required to
keep up this marvel, laid out in flower-beds, ponds and tree-lined
paths, with many bronze groups about the ponds, and stone statues in the
paths. In that closing hour of a lovely day, in that atmosphere now so
delicately tinged with gray, the garden was a beautiful sight. Like
those of Versailles, and of the whole seventeenth century, it bore the
physiognomy of nature respected in its strength and at the same time
guided, regulated and harmonized in its expansions. It was in truth
visible "order," the order of the society of olden time whence the
Claviers-Grandchamps had sprung. The trees, which were still vigorous,
but pruned and trimmed, did not put forth their leaves until they had
been disciplined.