“Perhaps I pronounce the name incorrectly; I mean the organist of

Saint-Louis-de-l’Ile.”

“I have never heard of any organist in this house.”

“Pardon me, monsieur, there is one, for the concierge has just told me

so. Besides I saw you leave the organ loft of that church followed by an

individual who--”

Before I could finish my sentence this singular individual cut short our

interview by entering his apartment and locking the door behind him. For

a moment I thought that I must have been mistaken; but on reflection

I saw that a mistake was impossible. I had to do with a man who, for

years, had proved his unremitting discretion. No, he was obstinately

bent on avoiding me; I was not mistaken in recognizing him.

I then began to pull the bell vigorously, being quite resolved to get

some answer at least to my demand. For some little time the besieged

took the racket I made patiently; then, all of a sudden, I noticed that

the bell had ceased to ring. Evidently, the wire was disconnected; the

besieged was secure, unless I kicked in the door; but that of course,

was not altogether the thing to do.

I returned to the porter and, without giving the reasons for my

discomfiture, I told him about it. In that way I won his confidence

and so obtained some little information about the impenetrable Monsieur

Jacques Bricheteau. Though readily given, this information did not

enlighten me at all as to the actual situation. Bricheteau was said

to be a quiet lodger, civil, but not communicative; though punctual in

paying his rent, his means seemed small; he kept no servant and took his

meals out of the house. Going out every morning before ten o’clock,

he seldom came in before night; the inference was that he was either a

clerk in some office, or that he gave music lessons in private houses.

One detail alone in the midst of this vague and useless information was

of interest. For the last few months Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau had

received a voluminous number of letters the postage on which indicated

that they came from foreign parts; but, in spite of his desires,

the worthy concierge had never, he said, been able to decipher the

post-mark. Thus this detail, which might have been very useful to me

became for the moment absolutely worthless.

I returned home, persuading myself that a pathetic letter addressed to

the refractory Bricheteau would induce him to receive me. Mingling with

my entreaties the touch of a threat, I let him know that I was firmly

resolved at all costs to get to the bottom of the mystery which weighed

upon my life; the secret of which he evidently knew. The next morning,

before nine o’clock, I went to his house, only to learn that after

paying the rent to the end of his term, he had packed up his furniture

and left the house in the early morning, without the porter being able

to discover from the men who removed his property (well-paid to keep

silence, no doubt) where they were ordered to carry it. These men being

strangers in the quarter, it was quite impossible to discover them

later.

I felt, however, that I still had a clue to him, through the organ at

Saint-Louis, and the following Sunday after high mass I posted myself

as before at the door of the organ loft, determined not to let go of

the sphinx until I had made him speak. But here again, disappointment!

Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau’s place was taken by a pupil. The same thing

happened on the three following Sundays. On the fourth, I accosted the

pupil and asked him if the master were ill.

“No, monsieur,” he replied. “Monsieur Bricheteau has asked for leave of

absence. He will be absent for some time; I believe on business.”

“Where, then, can I write to him?”

“I don’t rightly know; but I think you had better address your letter to

his house; not far from here, quai de Bethune.”

“But he has moved; didn’t you know it?”

“No, indeed; where does he live now?”

This was poor luck; to ask information of a man who asked it of me when

I questioned him. As if to put be quite beside myself while I was making

these inquiries, I saw that damned dwarf in the distance evidently

laughing at me.

Happily for my patience and my curiosity, which, under the pressure of

all this opposition was growing terrible, a certain amount of light was

given me. A few days after my last discomfiture, a letter reached me

bearing the post-mark Stockholm, Sweden; which address did not surprise

me because, while in Rome, I had been honored by the friendship of

Thorwaldsen, the great Swedish sculptor, and I had often met in his

studio many of his compatriots. Probably, therefore, this letter

conveyed an order from one of them, sent through Thorwaldsen. But, on

opening the letter what was my amazement, and my emotion, in presence of

its opening words:--

Monsieur my Son,--

The letter was long. I had no patience to read it until I knew the

name I bore. I turned to the signature; again my disappointment was

complete--there was no name!

Monsieur my Son,

said my anonymous father,--

I do not regret that by your passionate insistence on knowing the

secret of your birth, you have forced the person who has watched

over you from childhood to come here to confer with me as to the

course your vehement and dangerous curiosity requires us to

pursue.

For some time past, I have entertained a thought which I bring to

maturity to-day; the execution of which could have been more

satisfactorily settled by word of mouth than it can now be by

correspondence.

Immediately after your birth, which cost your mother’s life, being

forced to expatriate myself, I made in a foreign country a noble

fortune, and I occupy in the ministry of that country an eminent

position. I foresee the moment when, free to restore to you my

name, I shall also be able to secure to you the inheritance of my

titles and the position to which I have attained.

But, to reach that height, the reputation you have, I am told,

acquired in art is not a sufficient recommendation. It is my wish

that you should enter political life; and in that career, under

the present institutions of France, there are not two ways of

becoming a man of distinction: you must begin by being made a

deputy. I know that you are not yet of the legal age, and also

that you do not possess the property qualification. But, in

another year you will be thirty years old, and that is just the

necessary time required by law to be a land-owner before becoming

a candidate for election.

To-morrow, therefore, you can present yourself to Mongenod Bros.,

bankers, rue de la Victoire. A sum of two hundred and fifty

thousand francs will be paid to you; this you must immediately

employ in the purchase of real estate, applying part of the

surplus to obtain an interest in some newspaper which, when the

right time comes, will support your candidacy, and the rest in

another expense I shall presently explain to you.

Your political aptitude is guaranteed to me by the person who,

with a disinterested zeal for which I shall ever be grateful, has

watched over you since you were abandoned. For some time past he

has secretly followed you and listened to you, and he is certain

that you will make yourself a dignified position in the Chamber.

Your opinions of ardent yet moderate liberalism please me; without

being aware of it, you have very cleverly played into my game. I

cannot as yet tell you the place of your probable election. The

secret power which is preparing for that event is all the more

certain to succeed because its plans are pursued quietly and for

the present in the shade. But success will be greatly assisted by

the execution of a work which I shall now propose to you,

requesting you to accept its apparent strangeness without surprise

or comment.

For the time being you must continue to be a sculptor, and with

the talents of which you have already given proofs, I wish you to

make a statue of Saint-Ursula. That is a subject which does not

lack either interest or poesy. Saint-Ursula, virgin and martyr,

was, as is generally believed, a daughter of prince of Great

Britain. Becoming the abbess of a convent of unmarried women, who

were called with popular naivete the Eleven Thousand Virgins, she

was martyred by the Huns in the fifth century; later, she was

patroness of the order of the Ursulines, to which she gave its

name, and she was also patroness of the famous house of Sorbonne.

An able artist like yourself could, it seems to me, make much of

these details.

Without knowing the locality of which you will be made the

representative, it is expedient that you should from the present

moment, make known your political opinions and your intention of

becoming a candidate for election. But I cannot too strongly

insist on your keeping secret the communication now made to you;

at any rate as much as your patience will allow. Leave my agent in

peace, and await the slow and quiet development of the brilliant

future to which you are destined, without yielding to a curiosity

which might, I warn you, lead to great disasters.

If you refuse to enter my plans, you will take from yourself all

chance of ever penetrating a mystery which you have shown yourself

so eager to understand. But I do not admit even the supposition of

your resistance, and I prefer to believe in your deference to the

wishes of a father who will regard it as the finest day of his

life when at last it be granted to him to reveal himself to his

son.

P.S. Your statue, which is intended for a convent of Ursuline

nuns, must be in white marble. Height: one metre seven hundred and

six millimetres; in other words, five feet three inches. As it

will not be placed in a niche, you must carefully finish all sides

of it. The costs of the work are to be taken out of the two

hundred and fifty thousand francs mentioned above.

This letter chilled and pained me. In the first place, it took from me a

hope long cherished,--that of recovering a mother as loving as yours, of

whose adorable tenderness, dear friend, you have so often told me. After

all, it was a half-light thrown upon the fogs of my life without even

allowing me to know whether I was or was not the child of a legitimate

marriage. It also seemed to me that such paternal intimations addressed

to a man of my age were much too despotic and imperious. Was it not

a strange proceeding to change my whole life as if I were a boy just

leaving school! At first I employed to myself all the arguments against

this political vocation which you and my other friends have since

addressed to me. Nevertheless curiosity impelled me to go the

Mongenods’; and finding there, sure enough, in actual, living money,

the two hundred and fifty thousand francs announced to me, I was led to

reason in another way.

I reflected that a will which began by making such an outlay must have

something serious in it. And inasmuch as this mysterious father knew all

and I nothing, it seemed to me that to enter on a struggle with him was

neither reasonable nor opportune. In fact, had I any real repugnance to

the career suggested to me? No. Political interests have always roused

me to a certain degree; and if my electoral attempt should come to

nothing, I could always return to my art without being more ridiculous

than the other still-born ambitions which each new legislature produces.

Accordingly, I have bought the necessary piece of property, and

made myself a shareholder in the “National.” I have also made the

Saint-Ursula, and am now awaiting instructions, which seem to me rather

long in coming, as to her actual destination. Moreover, I have made

known my parliamentary ambition, and the fact that I intend to stand in

the coming elections.

I need not ask you to preserve the utmost secrecy about my present

confidence. Discretion is a virtue which you practise, to my knowledge,

in too signal a manner to need any exhorting thereto from me. But I am

wrong, dear friend, in making these unkind allusions to the past, for at

this moment I am, more perhaps than you know, the obliged party. Partly

out of interest in me, but more because of the general aversion your

brother-in-law’s extreme haughtiness inspires, the democratic party has

flocked to my door to make inquiries about my wound, and the talk and

excitement about this duel have served me well; there is no doubt that

my candidacy has gained much ground. Therefore, I say, a truce to your

gratitude; do you not see how much I owe to you?

X. DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON

Paris, April, 1839.

Dear Friend,--For better or for worse, I continue my candidacy without a

constituency to elect me. This surprises my friends and worries me, for

it is only a few weeks now to the general election; and if it happens

that all this mysterious “preparation” comes to nought, a pretty figure

I shall cut in the caricatures of Monsieur Bixiou, of whose malicious

remarks on the subject you lately wrote me.

One thing reassures me: it does not seem likely that any one would

have sown two hundred and fifty thousand francs in my electoral furrow

without feeling pretty sure of gathering a harvest. Perhaps, to take

a cheerful view of the matter, this very slowness may be considered as

showing great confidence of success.

However that may be, I am kept by this long delay in a state of inaction

which weighs upon me. Astride as it were of two existences,--one in

which I have not set foot, the other in which my foot still lingers,--I

have no heart to undertake real work; I am like a traveller who, having

arrived before the hour when the diligence starts, does not know what to

do with his person nor how to spend his time. You will not complain,

I think, that I turn this enforced _far niente_ to the profit of our

correspondence; and now that I am thus at leisure, I shall take up

two points in your last letter which did not seem to me of sufficient

importance to pay much attention to at the time: I refer to your warning

that my parliamentary pretensions did not meet the approval of Monsieur

Bixiou; and to your suggestion that I might expose myself to falling in

love with Madame de l’Estorade--if I were not in love with her

already. Let us discuss, in the first instance, Monsieur Bixiou’s grand

disapprobation--just as we used to talk in the olden time of the grand

treachery of Monsieur de Mirabeau.

I’ll describe that man to you in a single word. Envy. In Monsieur Bixiou

there is, unquestionably, the makings of a great artist; but in the

economy of his existence the belly has annihilated the heart and the

head, and he is now and forever under the dominion of sensual appetites;

he is riveted to the condition of a _caricaturist_,--that is to say, to

the condition of a man who from day to day discounts himself in petty

products, regular galley-slave pot-boilers, which, to be sure, give him

a lively living, but in themselves are worthless and have no future.

With talents misused and now impotent, he has in his mind, as he has

on his face, that everlasting and despairing _grin_ which human thought

instinctively attributes to fallen angels. Just as the Spirit of

darkness attacks, in preference, great saints because they recall to him

most bitterly the angelic nature from which he has fallen, so Monsieur

Bixiou delights to slaver the talents and characters of those who he

sees have courageously refused to squander their strength, sap, and aims

as he has done.

But the thing which ought to reassure you somewhat as to the danger of

his calumny and his slander (for he employs both forms of backbiting) is

that at the very time when he believes he is making a burlesque autopsy

of me he is actually an obedient puppet whose wire I hold in my hands,

and whom I am making talk as I please. Being convinced that a certain

amount of noisy discussion would advance my political career, I

looked about me for what I may call a public crier. Among these

circus trumpets, if I could have found one with a sharper tone, a more

deafening blare than Bixiou’s, I would have chosen it. As it was, I

have profited by the malevolent curiosity which induces that amiable

lepidopter to insinuate himself into all studios. I confided the whole

affair to him; even to the two hundred and fifty thousand francs (which

I attributed to a lucky stroke at the Bourse), I told him all my plans

of parliamentary conduct, down to the number of the house I have bought

to conform to the requirements of the electoral law. It is all jotted

down in his notebook.

That statement, I think, would somewhat reduce the admiration of

his hearers in the salon Montcornet did they know of it. As for the

political horoscope which he has been so kind as to draw for me, I

cannot honestly say that his astrology is at fault. It is very certain

that with my intention of following no set of fixed opinions, I must

reach the situation so admirably summed up by the lawyer of Monsieur de

la Palisse, when he exclaimed with burlesque emphasis: “What do you do,

gentlemen, when you place a man in solitude? You isolate him.”

Isolation will certainly be my lot, and the artist-life, in which a man

lives alone and draws from himself like the Great Creator whose work

he toils to imitate, has predisposed me to welcome the situation.

But although, in the beginning especially, it will deprive me of all

influence in the lobbies, it may serve me well in the tribune, where I

shall be able to speak with strength and _freedom_. Being bound by no

promises and by no party trammels, nothing will prevent me from being

the man I am, and expressing, in all their sacred crudity, the ideas

which I think sound and just. I know very well that before an audience

plain, honest truth may fail to be contagious or even welcome. But have

you never remarked that, by using our opportunities wisely, we finally

meet with days which may be called the festivals of morality and

intelligence, days on which, naturally and almost without effort, the

thought of good triumphs?

I do not, however, conceal from myself that, although I may reach

to some reputation as an orator, such a course will never lead to

a ministry, and that it does not bestow that reputation of being a

practical man to which it is now the fashion to sacrifice so much. But

if at arm’s length in the tribune I have but little influence, I shall

make my mark at a greater distance. I shall speak as it were from a

window, beyond the close and narrow sphere of parliamentary discussion,

and above the level of its petty passions and its petty interests. This

species of success appears to meet the views of the mysterious paternal

intentions toward me. What they seem to require is that I shall sound

and resound. From that point of view, i’ faith, politics have a poetic

side which is not out of keeping with my past life.

Now, to take up your other warning: that of my passion born or to be

born for Madame de l’Estorade. I quote your most judicious deductions

for the purpose of answering them fully.

In 1837, when you left for Italy, Madame de l’Estorade was, you say, in

the flower of her beauty; and the queer, audacious persistence which I

have shown in deriving inspiration from her shows that it has not faded.

Hence, if the evil be not already done, you warn me to be on my guard;

from the admiration of an artist to the adoration of the man there is

but a step, and the history of the late Pygmalion is commended to my

study.

In the first place, learned doctor and mythologian, allow me this

remark. Being on the spot and therefore much better placed than you

to judge of the dangers of the situation, I can assure you that the

principal person concerned does not appear to feel the least anxiety.

Monsieur de l’Estorade quarrels with me for one thing only: he thinks my

visits too few, and my reserve misanthropy.

_Parbleu_! I hear you say, a husband is always the last to know that

his wife is being courted. So be it. But the high renown of Madame de

l’Estorade’s virtue, her cold and rather calculating good sense, which

often served to balance the ardent and passionate impetuosity of one you

knew well,--what of that? And will you not grant that motherhood as it

appears in that lady--pushed to a degree of fervor which I might almost

call fanaticism--would be to her an infallible preservative?

So much for her. But it is not, I see, for her tranquillity, it is mine

for which your friendship is concerned; if Pygmalion had not succeeded

in giving life to his statue, a pretty life his love would have made

him!

To your charitable solicitude I must answer, (1) by asserting my

principles (though the word and the thing are utterly out of date); (2)

by a certain stupid respect that I feel for conjugal loyalty; (3) by the

natural preoccupation which the serious public enterprise I am about to

undertake must necessarily give to my mind and imagination. I must also

tell you that I belong, if not by spiritual height, at least by all the

tendencies of my mind and character, to that strong and serious school

of artists of another age who, finding that art is long and life is

short--_ars longa et vita brevis_--did not commit the mistake of wasting

their time and lessening their powers of creation by silly and insipid

intrigues.

But I have a better reason still to offer you. As Monsieur de l’Estorade

has told you of the really romantic incidents of my first meeting with

his wife, you know already that a _memory_ was the cause of my studying

her as a model. Well, that memory, while it attracted me to the

beautiful countess, is the strongest of all reasons to keep me from

her. This appears to you, I am sure, sufficiently enigmatical and

far-fetched; but wait till I explain it.

If you had not thought proper to break the thread of our intercourse, I

should not to-day be obliged to take up the arrears of our confidence;

as it is, my dear boy, you must now take your part in my past history

and listen to me bravely.

In 1835, the last year of my stay in Rome, I became quite intimate with

a comrade in the Academy named Desroziers. He was a musician and a man

of distinguished and very observing mind, who would probably have gone

far in his art if malarial fever had not put an end to him the following

year. Suddenly the idea took possession of us to go to Sicily, one of

the excursions permitted by the rules of the school; but as we were

radically “dry,” as they say, we walked about Rome for some time

endeavoring to find some means of recruiting our finances. On one of

these occasions we happened to pass before the Palazzo Braschi. Its

wide-open doors gave access to the passing and repassing of a crowd of

persons of all sorts.

“_Parbleu_!” exclaimed Desroziers, “here’s the very thing for us.”

And without explaining his words or where he was taking me, he made me

follow the crowd and enter the palace.

After mounting a magnificent marble staircase and crossing a very long

suite of apartments rather poorly furnished,--which is customary in

Italian palaces, all their luxury being put into ceilings, statues,

paintings, and other objects of art,--we reached a room that was wholly

hung with black and lighted by quantities of tapers. It was, of course,

a _chambre-ardente_. In the middle of it on a raised platform surmounted

by a baldaquin, lay a _thing_, the most hideous and grotesque thing you

can possibly conceive. Imagine a little old man whose hands and face had

reached such a stage of emaciation that a mummy would have seemed to you

in comparison plump and comely.

Clothed in black satin breeches, a violet velvet coat cut _a la

Francaise_, a white waistcoat embroidered in gold, from which issued

an enormous shirt-frill of point d’Angleterre, this skeleton had cheeks

covered with a thick layer of rouge which heightened still further the

parchment tones of the rest of his skin. Upon his head was a blond wig

frizzed into innumerable little curls, surmounted by an immense plumed

hat jauntily perched to one side in a manner which irresistibly provoked

the laughter of even the most respectful visitors.

After one glance given to this ridiculous and lamentable exhibition,--an

obligatory part of all funerals, according to the etiquette of the Roman

aristocracy,--Desroziers exclaimed: “There’s the end; now come and see

the beginning.”

Not replying to any of my questions, because he was arranging a dramatic

effect, he took me to the Albani gallery and placed me before a statue

representing Adonis stretched on a lion’s skin.

“What do you think of that?” he said.

“What?” I replied at a first glance; “why, it is as fine as an antique.”

“Antique as much as I am!” replied Desroziers. “It is a portrait in

youth of that wizened old being we have just seen dead.”

“Antique or not, it is a masterpiece,” I said. “But how is all this

beauty, or its hideous caricature, to get us to Sicily? That is the

question.”

“I’ll tell you,” replied Desroziers. “I know the family of that old

scarecrow. His niece married the Comte de Lanty, and they have long

wanted to buy this statue which the Albani museum won’t give up at any

price. They have tried to have it copied, but they never got anything

satisfactory. Now, you know the director of the museum well. Get him to

let you make a copy of it. I give music-lessons to the Comte de Lanty’s

daughter, Mademoiselle Marianina, and I’ll talk of your copy. If you

succeed, as of course you will, the count will buy it and pay you forty

times the cost of a trip to Sicily.”

Two days later I began the work, and, as it suited my taste, I worked so

hotly at it that by the end of three weeks the Lanty family, escorted

by Desroziers, came to see my copy. The count, who seemed to me a good

connoisseur, declared himself satisfied with the work and bought

it. Mademoiselle Marianina, who was the heiress and favorite of her

grand-uncle, was particularly delighted with it. Marianina was then

about twenty-one years old, and I shall not make you her portrait

because you know Madame de l’Estorade, to whom her likeness is

extraordinary. Already an accomplished musician, this charming girl had

a remarkable inclination for all the arts. Coming from time to time to

my studio to watch the completion of the statue, a taste for sculpture

seized her, as it did the Princesse Marie d’Orleans, and until the

departure of the family, which took place a few months before I myself

left Rome, Mademoiselle de Lanty took lessons from me in modelling.

I never dreamed of being another Saint-Preux or Abelard, but I must own

that I found rare happiness in imparting my knowledge. Marianina was so

gay and happy, her judgment of art so sound, her voice, when she sang,

so stirred my heart, that had it not been for her vast fortune, which

kept me at a distance, I should have run great danger to my peace

of mind. Admitted into the household on the footing of a certain

familiarity, I could see that my beautiful pupil took pleasure in our

intercourse, and when the family returned to Paris she expressed the

utmost regret at leaving Rome; I even fancied, God forgive me, that I

saw something like a tear in her eye when we parted.

On my return to Paris, some months later, my first visit was to the

hotel de Lanty. Marianina was too well bred and too kind at heart to

be discourteous to any one, but I felt at once that a cold restrained

manner was substituted for the gracious friendliness of the past. It

seemed to me probable that her evident liking, I will not say for me

personally, but for my conversation and acquirements, had been noticed

by her parents, who had doubtless taught her a lesson; in fact, the

stiff and forbidding manner of Monsieur and Madame de Lanty left me no

other supposition.

Naturally, I did not call again; but a few months later, when I

exhibited my Pandora in the salon of 1837, I one day saw the whole

Lanty family approach it. The mother was on the arm of Comte Maxime de

Trailles, a well-known lion. _Nil admirari_ is the natural instinct

of all men of the world; so, after a very cursory glance at my work,

Monsieur de Trailles began to find shocking faults in it, and in so

high and clear a voice that not a word was lost within a certain range.

Marianina shrugged her shoulders as she listened to this profound

discourse, and when it was ended she said,--

“How fortunate you came with us! Without your enlightened knowledge

I might, with the rest of the good public, have thought this statue

admirable. It is a pity the sculptor is not here to learn his business

from you.”

“He _is_ here, behind you,” said a stout woman, who had once been

my landlady, and was standing near, laughing heartily. Involuntarily

Marianina turned; when she saw me a vivid color came into her cheeks,

and I slipped away into the crowd. A girl who took my part so warmly,

and then showed such emotion on being detected in doing so, could not be

absolutely indifferent to me; and as on my first visit I had only, after

all, been coldly received, I decided, after my great success at the

Exhibition, in consequence of which I was made a chevalier of the Legion

of honor, to call again upon the Lantys; perhaps my new distinctions

would procure me a better reception.

Monsieur de Lanty received me without rising, and with the following

astounding apostrophe:--

“I think you very courageous, monsieur, to venture to present yourself

here.”

“I have never been received in a manner that seemed to require courage

on my part.”

“You have come, no doubt,” continued Monsieur de Lanty, “in search of

your property which you were careless enough to leave in our hands. I

shall return you that article of gallantry.”

So saying, he rose and took from a drawer in his secretary an elegant

little portfolio, which he gave to me.

As I looked at it in a sort of stupefaction, he added:

“Yes; I know the letters are not there; I presume you will allow me to

keep them.”

“This portfolio, the letters you mention--all this is an enigma to me,

monsieur.”

At this moment Madame de Lanty entered the room.

“What do you want?” said her husband, roughly.

“I knew monsieur was here, and as I feared some painful explanation, I

came to do my duty as a woman, and interpose.”

“You need fear nothing, madame,” I said; “evidently what is taking place

is the result of some misunderstanding.”

“Ah! this is too much!” cried Monsieur de Lanty, reopening the drawer

from which he had taken the portfolio, and taking out a packet of

letters tied with a rose-colored ribbon. “I think these will put an end

to your _misunderstanding_.”

I looked at the letters; they were not postmarked, and simply bore my

name, Monsieur Dorlange, in a woman’s handwriting, which was unknown to

me.

“Monsieur,” I said, “you know more than I do; you have in your

possession letters that seem to belong to me, but which I have never

received.”

“Upon my word,” cried Monsieur de Lanty, “you are an admirable comedian;

I never saw innocence better played.”

“But, monsieur,” I said, “who wrote those letters, and why are they

addressed to me?”

“It is useless to deny them, monsieur,” said Madame de Lanty; “Marianina

has confessed all.”

“Mademoiselle Marianina!” I exclaimed. “Then the matter is very simple;

have the goodness to bring us together; let me hear from her lips the

explanation of this singular affair.”

“The evasion is clever,” replied Monsieur de Lanty; “but my daughter

is no longer here: she is in a convent, forever sheltered from your

intrigues and the dangers of her own ridiculous passion. If that is

what you came to know, all is said. Let us part, for my patience and

moderation have a limit, if your insolence has none.”

“Monsieur!” I began, angrily; but Madame de Lanty, who was standing

behind her husband, made me a gesture as if she would fall upon her

knees; and reflecting that perhaps Marianina’s future depended on the

attitude I now took, I controlled myself and left the room without

further words.

The next morning, before I was out of bed, the Abbe Fontanon was

announced to me. When he entered he proved to be a tall old man with a

bilious skin and a sombre, stern expression, which he tried to soften by

a specious manner and a show of gentle but icy obsequiousness.

“Monsieur,” he said, “Madame la Comtesse de Lanty, whose confessor I

have the honor to be, requests me to give you a few explanations, to

which you have an incontestable right, as to the scene that took place

last evening between her husband and yourself.”

“I am ready to listen to you, monsieur,” I replied.

“Monsieur de Lanty,” continued the abbe, “is a bad sleeper; and one

night last summer he was awakened by the sound of cautious steps.

He opened his door, and called out to know who was there. He was not

mistaken; some one was there, but did not answer, and disappeared before

Monsieur de Lanty could obtain a light. At first it was thought to be

an attempt at robbery; but on further inquiry it appeared that a

_gentleman_ had taken a room in the neighborhood, and had frequently

been seen in company with Mademoiselle Marianina,--in short, the matter

concerned a love affair and not a robbery. Monsieur de Lanty has long

watched his daughter, whose ardent inclinations have given him much

anxiety; you yourself, monsieur, caused him some uneasiness in Rome--”

“Very needless, Monsieur l’abbe,” I said, interrupting him.

“Yes. I know that your relations to Mademoiselle de Lanty have always

been perfectly proper and becoming. But since their return to Paris

another individual has occupied her mind,--a bold and enterprising man,

capable of risking everything to compromise and thus win an heiress.

Being taxed with having encouraged this man and allowed these nocturnal

interviews, Mademoiselle de Lanty at first denied everything. Then,

evidently fearing that her father, a violent man, would take some

steps against her lover, she threw herself at his feet and admitted the

visits, but denied that the visitor was the man her father named to her.

At first she refused obstinately to substitute another name for the

one she disavowed. After some days passed in this struggle, she finally

confessed to her mother, under a pledge of secrecy, that her father was

right in his suspicions, but she dreaded the results to the family

if she acknowledged the truth to him. The man in question was a noted

duellist, and her father and brother would surely bring him to account

for his conduct. It was then, monsieur, that the idea occurred to this

imprudent girl to substitute another name for that of her real lover.”

“Ah! I understand,” I said; “the name of a nobody, an artist, a

sculptor, or some insignificant individual of that kind.”

“You do Mademoiselle de Lanty injustice by that remark,” replied the

abbe. “What decided her to make your name a refuge against the dangers

she foresaw was the fact that Monsieur de Lanty had formerly had

suspicions about you, and she thought that circumstance gave color to

her statement.”

“But, Monsieur l’abbe,” I said, “how do you explain those letters, that

portfolio, which her father produced yesterday?”

“That again was an invention of Marianina; and I may add that this

duplicity assures me that had she remained in the world her future might

have been terrible.”

“Am I to suppose that this tale has been told you by Madame de Lanty?”

“Confided to me, monsieur, yes. You yourself saw Madame de Lanty’s

desire to stop your explanations yesterday, lest the truth might

appear to her husband. I am requested by her to thank you for your

connivance--passive, of course--in this pious falsehood. She felt that

she could only show her profound gratitude by telling you the whole

truth and relying upon your discretion.”

“Where is Mademoiselle Marianina?”

“As Monsieur de Lanty told you, in a convent in Italy. To avoid scandal,

it was thought best to send her to some safe retreat. Her own conduct

will decide her future.”

Now what do you think of that history? Does it not seem to you very

improbable? Here are two explanations which have each come into my mind

with the force of a conviction. First, Marianina’s brother has just

married into a grand-ducal family of Germany. Immense sacrifices must

have been required of the de Lanty family to make such an alliance.

Was Marianina’s _dot_, and the fortune she inherited from that old

grand-uncle, required to pay the costs of that princely union? Secondly,

did Marianina really feel an attachment for me? And did she, in a

girlish way, express it on those letters which she never sent? To punish

her, had her parents sent her to a convent? And to disgust me, and throw

me off the track, had the mother invented this history of another love

in which she seemed to make me play so mortifying a part?

I may add that the intervention of the Abbe Fontanon authorizes such an

interpretation. I have made inquiries about him, and I find he is one

of those mischievous priests who worm themselves into the confidence of

families for their own ends; he has already destroyed the harmony of

one home,--that of Monsieur de Granville, attorney-general of the royal

court of Paris under the Restoration.

As to the truth or falsehood of these suppositions I know nothing, and,

in all probability, shall continue to know nothing. But, as you can

easily understand, the thought of Marianina is a luminous point to

which my eye is forever attached. Shall I love her? Shall I hate her and

despise her? That is the question perpetually in my mind. Uncertainty

of that kind is far more certain to fix a woman in a man’s soul than to

dislodge her.

Well, to sum up in two brief sentences my reply to your warnings: As

for the opinion of Monsieur Bixiou, I care as little for it as for last

year’s roses; and as for that other danger which you fear, I cannot tell

you whether I love Marianina or not, but this I know, I do _not_ love

Madame de l’Estorade. That, I think, is giving you a plain and honest

answer. And now, let us leave our master the Future to do what he likes.

XI. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, May, 1839.

Monsieur Dorlange came last evening to take leave of us. He starts

to-day for Arcis-sur-Aube, where the ceremony of inaugurating _his_

statue takes place. That is also the place selected by the Opposition

journals for his candidacy. Monsieur de l’Estorade declares that the

locality could not have been worse chosen, and that it leaves his

election without a chance.

Monsieur Dorlange paid his visit early. I was alone. Monsieur de

l’Estorade was dining with the Minister of the Interior, and the

children were in bed. The conversation interrupted by Madame de la

Bastie could now be renewed, as I was about to ask him to continue the

history, of which he had only told me the last words, when our old Lucas

brought me a letter. It was from my Armand, to let me know that he had

been ill since morning, and was then in the infirmary.

“Order the carriage,” I said to Lucas, in a state of agitation you can

easily conceive.

“But, madame,” replied Lucas, “monsieur has ordered the carriage to

fetch him at half-past nine o’clock, and Tony has already started.”

“Then send for a cab.”

“I don’t know that I can find one,” said our old servant, who is a man

of difficulties; “it is beginning to rain.”

Without noticing that remark and without thinking of Monsieur Dorlange,

I went hastily to my room to put on my bonnet and shawl. That done, I

returned to the salon, where my visitor still remained.

“You must excuse me, monsieur,” I said to him, “for leaving you so

abruptly. I must hasten to the Henri IV. College. I could not possibly

pass a night in the dreadful anxiety my son’s letter has caused me; he

tells me he has been ill since morning in the infirmary.”

“But,” replied Monsieur Dorlange, “surely you are not going alone in a

hired carriage to that lonely quarter?”

“Lucas will go with me.”

At that moment Lucas returned; his prediction was realized; there was

not a coach on the stand; it was raining in torrents. Time was passing;

already it was almost too late to enter the school, where masters and

pupils go to bed at nine o’clock.

“Put on thick shoes,” I said to Lucas, “and come with me on foot.”

Instantly I saw his face lengthen. He is no longer young and loves his

ease; moreover, he complains every winter of rheumatism. He made various

objections,--that it was very late; that we should “revolutionize” the

school; I should take cold; Monsieur Armand could not be very ill if he

wrote himself; in short, it was clear that my plan of campaign did not

suit my old retainer.

Monsieur Dorlange very obligingly offered to go himself in my place and

bring me word about Armand; but that did not suit me at all; I felt that

I _must_ see for myself. Having thanked him, I said to Lucas in a tone

of authority:--

“Get ready at once, for one thing is true in your remarks: it is getting

late.”

Seeing himself driven into a corner, Lucas raised the standard of

revolt.

“It is not possible that madame should go out in such weather; and I

don’t want monsieur to scold me for giving in to such a singular idea.”

“Then you do not intend to obey me?”

“Madame knows very well that for anything reasonable I would do what she

told me if I had to go through fire to obey her.”

“Heat is good for rheumatism, but rain is not,” I said; then, turning to

Monsieur Dorlange, I added: “As you were so kind as to offer to do this

errand alone, may I ask you to give me your arm and come with me?”

“I am like Lucas,” he said, “I do not think this excursion absolutely

necessary; but as I am not afraid of being scolded by Monsieur de

l’Estorade, I shall have the honor to accompany you.”

We started. The weather was frightful; we had hardly gone fifty steps

before we were soaked in spite of Lucas’s huge umbrella, with which

Monsieur Dorlange sheltered me at his own expense. Luckily a coach

happened to pass; Monsieur Dorlange hailed the driver; it was empty.

Of course I could not tell my companion that he was not to get in; such

distrust was extremely unbecoming and not for me to show. But you know,

my dear friend, that showers of rain have helped lovers from the days

of Dido down. However, Monsieur Dorlange said nothing: he saw my anxiety

and he had the good taste not to attempt conversation, breaking the

silence only from time to time with casual remarks. When we reached the

school, after getting out of the carriage to give me his hand he saw for

himself that he must not enter the house and he therefore got back into

the carriage to await my return.

Well, I found Monsieur Armand had hoaxed me. His illness reduced itself

to a headache, which departed soon after he had written me. The doctor,

for the sake of ordering something, had told him to take an infusion

of linden-leaves, telling him that the next day he could go back to his

studies. I had taken a club to kill a flea, and committed all sorts of

enormities to get there at an hour when the entire establishment were

going to bed, only to find my young gentleman perfectly well and playing

chess with one of the nurses.

On leaving the school I found the rain had ceased and the moon was

shining brightly. My heart was full; the reaction from my great anxiety

had set in and I felt a need of breathing the fresh air. I therefore

proposed to Monsieur Dorlange to dismiss the coach and return on foot.

Here was an opportunity for him to make me that long-delayed

explanation; but Monsieur Dorlange seemed so little inclined to take

advantage of it that, using Monsieur Armand’s freak as a text, he read

me a lecture on the danger of spoiling children: a subject which was not

at all agreeable to me, as he must have perceived from the rather stiff

manner with which I listened to him. Come, thought I, I must and will

get to the bottom of this history; it is like the tale of Sancho’s

herdsman, which had the faculty of never getting told. So, cutting short

my companion’s theories of education, I said distinctly:--

“This is a very good time, I think, to continue the confidence you were

about to make to me. Here we are sure of no interruption.”

“I am afraid I shall prove a poor story-teller,” replied Monsieur

Dorlange. “I have spent all my fire this very day in telling that tale

to Marie-Gaston.”

“That,” I answered laughing, “is against your own theory of secrecy, in

which a third party is one too many.”

“Oh, Marie-Gaston and I count for one only. Besides, I had to reply to

his odd ideas about you and me.”

“What about me?”

“Well, he imagined that in looking at the sun I should be dazzled by its

rays.”

“Which means, speaking less metaphorically--?”

“That, in view of the singularities which accompanied my first knowledge

of you and led me to the honor of your acquaintance, I might

expose myself to the danger, madame, of not retaining my reason and

self-possession.”

“And your history refutes this fear in the mind of Monsieur

Marie-Gaston?”

“You shall judge.”

And then, without further preamble, he told me a long tale which I need

not repeat here; the gist of it is, however, that Monsieur Dorlange is

in love with a woman who posed in his imagination for Saint-Ursula; but

as this woman appears to be forever lost to him it did not seem to me

impossible that in the long run he might transfer his sentiments for her

memory to me. When he had finished his tale he asked if I did not think

it a victorious answer to the ridiculous fears of our friend.

“Modesty,” I replied, “obliges me to share your security; but they say

that in the army shots frequently ricochet and kill their victims.”

“Then you think me capable of the impertinence Marie-Gaston is good

enough to suspect in me?”

“I don’t know about its being an impertinence,” I said stiffly, “but

if such a fancy came into your mind, I should think you very much to be

pitied.”

His answer was vehement.

“Madame,” he said, “you will not have to pity me. In my opinion, first

love is a vaccination which protects us from a second.”

The conversation stopped there. We had now reached my own door, and

I invited Monsieur Dorlange to come in. He accepted my politeness,

remarking that Monsieur de l’Estorade had probably returned and he could

thus take leave of him.

My husband was at home. I don’t know whether Lucas, forestalling the

rebuke I intended to give him, had made out a story to excuse himself,

or whether Monsieur de l’Estorade for the first time in his life, felt,

in view of my maternal escapade, a movement of jealousy. It is certain,

however, that his manner of receiving me was curt; he called it an

unheard-of thing to go out at such an hour, in such weather, to see

a boy who proved, by announcing his own illness, that it was nothing

serious. After letting him talk in this discourteous way for some little

time, I thought it was time to put an end to the scene, so I said in a

rather peremptory tone:--

“As I wanted to sleep at night, I went to the school in a pelting rain;

I came back by moonlight; and I beg you to remark that monsieur, who was

so good as to escort me, has come upstairs to bid you good-bye, because

he leaves Paris to-morrow morning.”

I have habitually enough power over Monsieur de l’Estorade to make this

call to order effective; but I saw that my husband was displeased, and

that instead of having made Monsieur Dorlange an easy diversion, I had

called down upon his head the ill-humor of my ogre, who instantly turned

upon him.

After telling him that much had been said about his candidacy during

dinner at the ministry, Monsieur de l’Estorade began to show him all

the reasons why he might expect an overwhelming defeat; namely, that

Arcis-sur-Aube was one of the boroughs where the administration felt

itself most secure; that a man of extraordinary political ability had

already been sent there to manipulate the election, and had made a

first report giving triumphant news of his success. These were only

generalities, to which Monsieur Dorlange replied with modesty, but also

with the air of a man who had resolved who take his chances against all

risks to which his election might be exposed. Monsieur de l’Estorade

then produced a final shaft which, under the circumstances, was

calculated to have a marvellous effect, because it attacked both the

candidate and his private life.

“Listen to me, my dear monsieur,” said my husband, “when a man starts

on an electoral career he must remember that he stakes everything; his

public life and also his private life. Your adversaries will ransack

your present and your past with a pitiless hand, and sorrow to him who

has any dark spots to hide. Now I ought not to conceal from you that

to-night, at the ministers’, much was said about a little scandal which,

while it may be venial in the life of an artist, takes proportions

altogether more serious in that of the people’s representative. You

understand me, of course. I refer to that handsome Italian woman whom

you have in your house. Take care; some puritanical elector whose own

morality may be more or less problematical, is likely to call you to

account for her presence.”

The reply made by Monsieur Dorlange was very dignified.

“To those,” he said, “who may arraign me on that detail of my private

life I wish but one thing--that they may have nothing worse upon their

consciences. If I had not already wearied madame on our way from the

school with an interminable story, I would tell you the facts relating

to my handsome Italian, and you would see, Monsieur le comte, that her

presence in my house reflects in no way upon me.

“But,” returned Monsieur de l’Estorade, softening his tone, “you take my

observation rather too seriously. As I said just now, an artist may have

a handsome model in his house--that may be natural enough--but she is

not a usual piece of furniture in that of a legislator.”

“No, what seems more to their liking,” replied Monsieur Dorlange, with

some heat, “is the good they can get for themselves out of a calumny

accepted eagerly and without examination. However, far from dreading

inquiry on the subject you mention, I desire it, and the ministry will

do me a great service if it will employ the extremely able political

personage you say they have put upon my path to bring that delicate

question before the electors.”

“Do you really start to-morrow?” asked Monsieur de l’Estorade, finding

that he had started a subject which not only did not confound Monsieur

Dorlange, but, on the contrary, gave him the opportunity to reply with a

certain hauteur of tone and speech.

“Yes, and very early too; so that I must now take leave of you, having

certain preparations still to make.”

So saying, Monsieur Dorlange rose, and after making me a rather

ceremonious bow and not bestowing his hand on Monsieur de l’Estorade,

who, in turn, did not hold out his own, he left the room.

“What was the matter with Armand?” asked my husband, as if to avoid any

other explanation.

“Never mind Armand,” I said, “it is far more interesting to know what

is the matter with you; for never did I see you so out of tune, so sharp

and uncivil.”

“What! because I told a ridiculous candidate that he would have to go

into mourning for his reputation?”

“In the first place, that was not complimentary; and in any case the

moment was ill-chosen with a man on whom my maternal anxiety had just

imposed a disagreeable service.”

“I don’t like meddlers,” retorted Monsieur de l’Estorade, raising his

voice more than I had ever known him do to me. “And after all, if he had

not been here to give you his arm you would not have gone.”

“You are mistaken; I should have gone alone; for your servant, being

master here, refused to accompany me.”

“But you must certainly admit that if any acquaintance had met you at

half-past nine o’clock walking arm-in-arm with Monsieur Dorlange the

thing would have seemed to them, to say the least, singular.”

Pretending to discover what I had known for the last hour, I

exclaimed:--

“Is it possible that after sixteen years of married life you do me

the honor to be jealous. Now I see why, in spite of your respect for

proprieties, you spoke to Monsieur Dorlange in my presence of that

Italian woman whom people think his mistress; that was a nice little

perfidy by which you meant to ruin him in my estimation.”

Thus exposed to the light, my poor husband talked at random for a

time, and finally had no resource but to ring for Lucas and lecture him

severely. That ended the explanation.

What do you think of this conjugal proceeding, by which my husband,

wishing to do a man some harm in my estimation, gave him the opportunity

to appear to the utmost advantage? For--there was no mistaking it--the

sort of emotion with which Monsieur Dorlange repelled the charge was the

cry of a conscience at peace with itself, and which knows itself able to

confound a calumny.

XII. DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON

Paris, May, 1839.

On my return this evening from the Estorades, on whom I had paid my

parting call, I found your letter, my dear friend, in which you announce

your coming arrival. I shall await you to-morrow during the day, but

in the evening I must, without further delay, start for Arcis-sur-Aube,

where, in the course of the next week my political matters will come

to a head. What particular hold I may have on that town, which, as it

appears, I have the ambition to represent, and on what co-operation

and assistance I may rely,--in a word, _who_ is making my electoral

bed,--all that I know as little about as I did last year when I was told

for the first time that I must enter political life.

A few days ago I received a second letter from my father, postmarked

Paris this time, and not Stockholm. Judging by the style of the

document, it would not surprise me if the “eminent services” rendered

in a Northern court by the mysterious author of my days turned out to be

those of a Prussian corporal. It would be impossible to issue orders

in a more imperative tone, or to dwell more minutely on trifling

particulars.

The note or memorandum was headed thus: _What my son is to do_.

On receipt of these instructions I am to send to its destination the

Saint-Ursula; to superintend the packing and boxing of it myself, and to

despatch it by the fastest carrier, to Mother Marie-des-Anges, superior

of the convent of the Ursulines at Arcis-sur-Aube.

The order went on to say that I was to follow the statue in a few days,

so as to arrive at the said Arcis-sur-Aube not later than the 3rd of

May. Even the inn at which I was to put up was dictated. I would find

myself expected at the Hotel de la Poste; so that if I happen to prefer

any of the others I must resign that fancy. I am also enjoined to

publish in the newspapers on the day of my departure the fact that

I present myself as candidate in the electoral arrondissement of

Arcis-sur-Aube; avoiding, however, to make any profession of political

faith, which would be both useless and premature. The document ended

with an injunction which, while it humiliated me somewhat, gave me a

certain faith in what was happening. The Mongenod Brothers, and draw for

another sum of two hundred and fifty thousand francs, which _is to

be_ deposited in my name, “taking the utmost care,” continued my

instructions, “when transporting this money from Paris to Arcis-sur-Aube

that it be not lost or stolen.”

What do you think of that last clause, dear friend? That sum _is to

be_ deposited; then it is not already there; and suppose it is not

there?--Besides, what am I to do with it in Arcis? Am I to stand my

election on English principles? if so, a profession of political faith

would certainly be useless and premature. As to the advice not to lose

or allow to be stolen the money in my possession, do you not think that

that is making me rather juvenile? I feel an inclination to suck my

thumb and cry for a rattle. However, I shall let myself go with the

current that is bearing me along, and, notwithstanding the news of your

coming arrival, after paying a visit to the Brothers Mongenod, I shall

valiantly start, imagining the stupefaction of the good people of

Arcis on seeing another candidate pop up in their midst like a

Jack-in-the-box.

In Paris I have already fired my gun. The “National” has announced my

candidacy in the warmest terms; and it seems that this evening, in the

house of the Minister of the Interior, where Monsieur de l’Estorade was

dining, I was discussed at some length. I ought to add that, according

to Monsieur de l’Estorade, the general impression is that I shall

certainly fail of election. The ministry might possibly fear a candidate

from the Left centre; but as for the democratic party to which I am

supposed to belong, they do not even allow that it exists. The Left

centre candidate has, however, been disposed of by a ministerial envoy

of the ablest and most active description, and at this moment, when I

set off my small balloon, the election of the Conservative candidate is

pretty well assured.

Among the elements of my inevitable defeat, Monsieur de l’Estorade

condescended to mention a matter about which, dear friend, I am rather

surprised that you have not already lectured me. It is one of those

agreeable calumnies put in circulation in the salon Montcornet by the

honored and honorable Monsieur Bixiou. The scandal concerns a handsome

Italian woman whom I brought back from Italy and with whom I am said to

be living in a manner not canonical. Come, tell me, what hindered you

from asking me to explain this important matter? Did you think the

charge so shameful that you feared to offend me by alluding to it? Or

have you such confidence in my morality that you felt no need of being

strengthened therein? I did not have time to enter upon the necessary

explanations to Monsieur de l’Estorade, neither have I the leisure to

write them to you now. If I speak of the incident it is for the purpose

of telling you of an observation I think I have made, into the truth of

which I want you to examine after you get here. It is this:--

I have an idea that it would not be agreeable to Monsieur de l’Estorade

to see me successful in my electoral campaign. He never gave much

approbation to the plan; in fact he tried to dissuade me, but always

from the point of view of my own interests. But to-day, when he

finds that the plan has taken shape, and is actually discussed in the

ministerial salon, my gentleman turns bitter, and he seems to feel

a malignant pleasure in prophesying my defeat and in producing this

charming little infamy under which he expects to bury our friendship.

Why so! I will tell you: while feeling some gratitude for the service I

did him, the worthy man also felt from the height of his social position

a superiority over me of which my entrance to the Chamber will now

dispossess him; and it is not agreeable to him to renounce that sense of

superiority. After all, what is an artist, even though he may be a man

of genius, compared to a peer of France, a personage who puts his hand

to the tiller and steers the great political and social system; a man

who has access to kings and ministers, and who would have the right

if, by impossibility, such audacity should seize upon his mind, of

depositing a black ball against the budget. Well, this privileged being

does not like that I, and others like me, should assume the importance

and authority of that insolent elective Chamber.

But that is not all. Hereditary statesmen have a foolish pretension:

that of being initiated by long study into a certain science represented

as arduous, which they call the science of public affairs and which they

(like physicians with medical science) alone have the right to practise.

They are not willing that an underling, a journalist for instance, or

lower than that, an artist, a cutter of images, should presume to slip

into their domain and speak out beside them. A poet, an artist, a writer

may be endowed with eminent faculties, they will agree to that; the

profession of such men presupposes it; but statesmen they cannot be.

Chateaubriand himself, though better placed than the rest of us to make

himself a niche in the Governmental Olympus, was turned out of doors one

morning by a concise little note, signed Joseph de Villele, dismissing

him, as was proper, to Rene, Atala, and other futilities.

I know that time and that tall posthumous daughter of ours whom we call

Posterity will some day do good justice and plead the right thing in the

right place. Towards the end of 2039, the world, if it deigns to last

till then, will know what Canalis, Joseph Bridau, Daniel d’Arthez,

Stidmann, and Leon de Lora were in 1839; whereas an infinitely small

number of persons will know that during the same period Monsieur le

Comte de l’Estorade was peer of France, and president of the Cour des

comptes; Monsieur le Comte de Rastignac minister of Public Works; and

his brother-in-law, Monsieur le Baron Martial de la Roche-Hugon was a

diplomat and Councillor of State employed on more or less extraordinary

services.

But while awaiting this tardy classification and distant reform, I think

it well to let our great governing class know from time to time

that unless their names are Richelieu or Colbert they are liable to

competition and are forced to accept it. So, with this aggravating

intention I begin to take pleasure in my enterprise; and if I am

elected, I shall, unless you assure me that I have mistaken de

l’Estorade’s meaning, find occasion to let him and others of his kind

know that one can, if so disposed, climb over the walls of their little

parks and strut as their equals.

But how is it, my dear friend, that I rattle on about myself and say no

word about the sad emotions which must attend your return to France? How

can you bear them? And instead of endeavoring to lay them aside, I fear

you are willingly nursing them and taking a melancholy pleasure in their

revival. Dear friend, I say to you of these great sorrows what I said

just now of our governing class--we should consider them from the point

of view of time and space, by the action of which they become after a

while imperceptible.

Do me a favor! On arriving in Paris without having a house prepared to

receive you, it would be very friendly--you would seem like the man of

old times--if you would take up your quarters with me, instead of going

to Ville d’Avray, which, indeed, I think dangerous and even bad for you.

Stay with me, and you can thus judge of my handsome housekeeper, and you

will see how much she has been calumniated and misunderstood. You

will also be near to the l’Estorades in whom I expect you to find

consolations; and besides, this act would be a charming expiation for

all the involuntary wrongs you have done me. At any rate, I have given

my orders, and your room is ready for you.

P.S. You have not yet arrived, dear friend, and I must close this

letter, which will be given to you by my housekeeper when you come by my

house, for I am certain that your first visit will be to me.

I went this morning to the Mongenods’; the two hundred and fifty

thousand francs were there, but with the accompaniment of a most

extraordinary circumstance; the money was in the name of the Comte de

Sallenauve, otherwise Dorlange, sculptor, 42 rue de l’Ouest. In spite

of an appellation which has never been mine, the money was mine, and was

paid to me without the slightest hesitation. I had enough presence of

mind not to seem stupefied by my new name and title before the cashier;

but I saw Monsieur Mongenod the elder in private, a man who enjoys the

highest reputation at the Bank, and to him I expressed my astonishment,

asking for whatever explanations he was able to give me. He could give

none; the money came to him through a Dutch banker, his correspondent

at Rotterdam, and he knew nothing beyond that. _Ah ca_! what does it

all mean? Am I to be a noble? Has the moment come for my father to

acknowledge me? I start in a state of agitation and of anxiety which you

can well understand. Until I hear from you, I shall address my letters

to you here. If you decide not to stay in my house, let me know

your address at once. Say nothing of what I have now told you to the

l’Estorades; let it remain secret between us.

XIII. DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 3, 1839.

Dear friend,--Last evening, before Maitre Achille Pigoult, notary of

this place, the burial of Charles Dorlange took place,--that individual

issuing to the world, like a butterfly from a grub, under the name

and estate of Charles de Sallenauve, son of Francois-Henri-Pantaleon

Dumirail, Marquis de Sallenauve. Here follows the tale of certain facts

which preceded this brilliant transformation.

Leaving Paris on the evening of May 1st, I arrived at Arcis, according

to my father’s directions, on the following day. You can believe my

surprise when I saw in the street where the diligence stopped the

elusive Jacques Bricheteau, whom I had not seen since our singular

meeting on the Ile Saint-Louis. This time I beheld him, instead of

behaving like the dog of Jean de Nivelle, come towards me with a smile

upon his lips, holding out his hand and saying:--

“At last, my dear monsieur, we are almost at the end of all our

mysteries, and soon, I hope, you will see that you have no cause to

complain of me. Have you brought the money?”

“Yes,” I replied, “neither lost nor stolen.” And I drew from my pocket

a wallet containing the two hundred and fifty thousand francs in bank

notes.

“Very good!” said Jacques Bricheteau. “Now let us go to the Hotel de la

Poste; no doubt you know who awaits you there.”

“No, indeed I do not,” I replied.

“You must have remarked the name and title under which that money was

paid to you?”

“Certainly; that strange circumstance struck me forcibly, and has, I

must own, stirred my imagination.”

“Well, we shall now completely lift the veil, one corner of which we

were careful to raise at first, so that you might not come too abruptly

to the great and fortunate event that is now before you.”

“Am I to see my father?”

“Yes,” replied Jacques Bricheteau; “your father is awaiting you; but I

must warn you against a probable cloud on his manner of receiving you.

The marquis has suffered much; the court life which he has always led

has trained him to show no outward emotions; besides, he has a horror of

everything bourgeois. You must not be surprised, therefore, at the cold

and dignified reception he will probably give you; at heart, he is good

and kind, and you will appreciate him better when you know him.”

“Here,” thought I, “are very comforting assurances, and as I myself am

not very ardently disposed, I foresee that this interview will be at

some degrees below zero.”

On going into the room where the Marquis awaited me, I saw a very tall,

very thin, very bald man, seated at a table on which he was arranging

papers. On hearing the door open, he pushed his spectacles up on his

forehead, rested his hands on the arms of his chair, and looking round

at us he waited.

“Monsieur le Comte de Sallenauve,” said Jacques Bricheteau, announcing

me with the solemnity of an usher of ambassadors or a groom of the

Chambers.

But in the presence of the man to whom I owed my life the ice in me was

instantly melted; I stepped forward with an eager impulse, feeling the

tears rise to my eyes. He did not move. There was not the faintest trace

of agitation in his face, which had that peculiar look of high dignity

that used to be called “the grand air”; he merely held out his hand,

limply grasped mine, and then said:

“Be seated, monsieur--for I have not yet the right to call you my son.”

When Jacques Bricheteau and I had taken chairs--

“Then you have no objection,” said this strange kind of father, “to

assuming the political position we are trying to secure for you?”

“None at all,” said I. “The notion startled me at first, but I soon grew

accustomed to it; and to ensure success, I have punctually carried out

all the instructions that were conveyed to me.”

“Excellent,” said the Marquis, taking up from the table a gold snuff-box

which he twirled in his fingers.

Then, after a short silence, he added:

“Now I owe you certain explanations. Our good friend Jacques Bricheteau,

if he will have the kindness, will lay them before you.”

This was equivalent to the royal formula of the old regime: “My

chamberlain will tell you the rest.”

“To go back to the origin of everything,” said Jacques Bricheteau,

accepting the duty thus put upon him, “I must first tell you that you

are not a legitimate Sallenauve. When Monsieur le marquis, here

present, returned after the emigration, in the year 1808, he made the

acquaintance of your mother, and in 1809 you were born as the fruit of

their intercourse. Your birth, as you already know, cost your mother her

life, and as misfortunes never come singly, Monsieur de Sallenauve was

compromised in a conspiracy against the imperial power and compelled to

fly the country. Brought up in Arcis with me, the marquis, wishing to

give me a proof of his friendship, confided to me, on his departure

to this new expatriation, the care of your childhood. I accepted that

charge, I will not say with alacrity, but certainly with gratitude.”

At these words the marquis held out his hand to Jacques Bricheteau, who

was seated near him, and after a silent pressure, which did not seem to

me remarkably warm, Jacques Bricheteau continued:--

“The mysterious precautions I was forced to take in carrying out my

trust are explained by Monsieur le marquis’s position towards the

various governments which have succeeded each other in France since

the period of your birth. Under the Empire, I feared that a government

little indulgent to attacks upon itself might send you to share your

father’s exile; it was then that the idea of giving you a sort of

anonymous existence first occurred to me. Under the Restoration I feared

for you another class of enemies; the Sallenauve family, which has no

other representatives at the present day than Monsieur le marquis, was

then powerful. In some way it got wind of your existence, and also of

the fact that the marquis had taken the precaution not to recognize you,

in order to retain the right to leave you his whole fortune, which, as a

natural child, the law would in part have deprived you. The obscurity in

which I kept you seemed to me the best security, against the schemes of

greedy relations, and certain mysterious steps taken by them from time

to time proved the wisdom of these precautions. Under the government

of July, on the other hand, it was I myself who I feared might endanger

you. I had seen the establishment of the new order of things with

the deepest regret, and not believing in its duration, I took part in

certain active hostilities against it, which brought me under the ban of

the police.”

Here the recollection that Jacques Bricheteau had been pointed out by

the waiter of the Cafe des Arts as a member of the police made me smile,

whereupon the speaker stopped and said with a very serious air:--

“Do these explanations which I have the honor to give you seem

improbable?”

I explained the meaning of my smile.

“That waiter,” said Jacques Bricheteau, “was not altogether mistaken;

for I have long been employed at the prefecture of police in the

health department; but I have nothing to do with police espial; on the

contrary, I have more than once come near being the victim of it.”

Here a rather ridiculous noise struck our ears, nothing less than a loud

snore from my father, who thus gave us to know that he did not take

a very keen interest in the explanations furnished in his name with

a certain prolixity. I don’t know whether Jacques Bricheteau’s vanity

being touched put him slightly out of temper, but he rose impatiently

and shook the arm of the sleeper, crying out:--

“Hey! marquis, if you sleep like this at the Council of state, upon my

soul, your country must be well governed!”

Monsieur de Sallenauve opened his eyes, shook himself, and then said,

turning to me:--

“Pardon me, Monsieur le comte, but for the last ten nights I have

travelled, without stopping, to meet you here; and though I spent the

last night in a bed, I am still much fatigued.”

So saying he rose, took a large pinch of snuff, and began to walk up and

down the room, while Jacques Bricheteau continued:--

“It is a little more than a year since I received a letter from your

father explaining his long silence, the plans he had made for you, and

the necessity he was under of keeping his incognito for a few years

longer. It was at that very time that you made your attempt to penetrate

a secret the existence of which had become apparent to you.”

“You made haste to escape me,” I said laughing. “It was then you went to

Stockholm.”

“No, I went to your father’s residence; I put the letter that he gave me

for you into the post at Stockholm.”

“I do not seize your--”

“Nothing is easier to understand,” interrupted the marquis. “I do not

reside in Sweden, and we wished to throw you off the track.”

“Will you continue the explanation yourself?” asked Jacques Bricheteau,

who spoke, as you may have observed, my dear friend, with elegance and

fluency.

“No, no, go on,” said the marquis; “you are giving it admirably.”

“Feeling certain that your equivocal position as to family would injure

the political career your father desired you to enter, I made that

remark to him in one of my letters. He agreed with me, and resolved

to hasten the period of your legal recognition, which, indeed, the

extinction of the family in its other branch rendered desirable. But the

recognition of a natural son is a serious act which the law surrounds

with many precautions. Deeds must be signed before a notary, and to do

this by power of attorney would involve both in a publicity which he

is anxious for the present to avoid, he being married, and, as it were,

naturalized in the country of his adoption. Hence, he decided to come

here himself, obtaining leave of absence for a few weeks, in order

to sign in person all papers necessary to secure to you his name and

property in this country. Now let me put to you a final question. Do you

consent to take the name of de Sallenauve and be recognized as his son?”

“I am not a lawyer,” I answered; “but it seems to me that, supposing I

do not feel honored by this recognition, it does not wholly depend on me

to decline it.”

“Pardon me,” replied Jacques Bricheteau; “under the circumstances

you could, if you chose, legally contest the paternity. I will also

add,--and in doing so I am sure that I express the intentions of your

father,--if you think that a man who has already spent half a million on

furthering your career is not a desirable father, we leave you free to

follow your own course, and shall not insist in any way.”

“Precisely, precisely,” said Monsieur de Sallenauve, uttering that

affirmation with the curt intonation and shrill voice peculiar to the

relics of the old aristocracy.

Politeness, to say the least, forced me to accept the paternity thus

offered to me. To the few words I uttered to that effect, Jacques

Bricheteau replied gaily:--

“We certainly do not intend to make you buy a father in a poke.

Monsieur le marquis is desirous of laying before you all title-deeds and

documents of every kind of which he is the present holder. Moreover, as

he has been so long absent from this country, he intends to prove his

identity by several of his contemporaries who are still living. For

instance, among the honorable personages who have already recognized

him I may mention the worthy superior of the Ursuline convent, Mother

Marie-des-Anges, for whom, by the bye, you have done a masterpiece.”

“Faith, yes,” said the marquis, “a pretty thing, and if you turn out as

well in politics--”

“Well, marquis,” interrupted Jacques Bricheteau, who seemed to me

inclined to manage the affair, “are you ready to proceed with our young

friend to the verification of the documents?”

“That is unnecessary,” I remarked, and did not think that by this

refusal I pledged my faith too much; for, after all, what signify papers

in the hands of a man who might have forged them or stolen them? But my

father would not consent; and for more than two hours they spread before

me parchments, genealogical trees, contracts, patents, documents of all

kinds, from which it appeared that the family of Sallenauve is, after

that of Cinq-Cygne, the most ancient family in the department of

the Aube. I ought to add that the exhibition of these archives was

accompanied by an infinite number of spoken details which seemed to make

the identity of the Marquis de Sallenauve indisputable. On all other

subjects my father is laconic; his mental capacity does not seem to me

remarkable, and he willingly allowed his _mouthpiece_ to talk for him.

But here, in the matter of his parchments, he was loquaciously full of

anecdotes, recollections, heraldic knowledge; in short, he was exactly

the old noble, ignorant and superficial in all things, but possessed of

Benedictine erudition where the genealogy of his family was concerned.

The _session_ would, I believe, be still going on, if Jacques Bricheteau

had not intervened. As the marquis was preparing to read a voluminous

memorandum refuting a chapter in Tallemant des Reaux’ “Historiettes”

which did not redound to the credit of the great house of Sallenauve,

the wise organist remarked that it was time we dined, if we intended

to keep an appointment already made for seven o’clock at the office of

Maitre Achille Pigoult the notary.

We dined, not at the table-d’hote, but in private, and the dinner seemed

very long on account of the silent preoccupation of the marquis, and the

slowness with which, owing to his loss of teeth, he swallowed his food.

At seven o’clock we went to the notary’s office; but as it is now two

o’clock in the morning, and I am heavy with sleep, I shall put off till

to-morrow an account of what happened there.

May 4, 5 A.M.

I reckoned on peaceful slumbers, embellished by dreams. On the contrary,

I did not sleep an hour, and I have waked up stung to the heart by an

odious thought. But before I transmit that thought to you, I must tell

you what happened at the notary’s.

Maitre Achille Pigoult, a puny little man, horribly pitted with the

small-pox, and afflicted with green spectacles, above which he darts

glances of vivacious intelligence, asked us if we felt warm enough, the

room having no fire. Politeness required us to say yes, although he had

already given signs of incendiarism by striking a match, when, from a

distant and dark corner of the room, a broken, feeble voice, the

owner of which we had not as yet perceived, interposed to prevent the

prodigality.

“No, Achille, no, don’t make a fire,” said an old man. “There are five

in the room, and the lamp gives out a good heat; before long the room

would be too hot to bear.”

Hearing these words, the marquis exclaimed:--

“Ah! this is the good Monsieur Pigoult, formerly justice of the peace.”

Thus recognized, the old man rose and went up to my father, into whose

face he peered.

“_Parbleu_!” he cried, “I recognize you for a Champagnard of the

_vieille roche_. Achille did not deceive me in declaring that I should

see two of my former acquaintances. You,” he said, addressing the

organist, “you are little Bricheteau, the nephew of our good abbess,

Mother Marie-des-Anges; but as for that tall skeleton, looking like

a duke and peer, I can’t recall his name. However, I don’t blame my

memory; after eighty-six years’ service it may well be rusty.”

“Come, grandfather,” said Achille Pigoult, “brush up your memory; and

you, gentlemen, not a word, not a gesture. I want to be clear in my own

mind. I have not the honor to know the client for whom I am asked to

draw certain deeds, and I must, as a matter of legal regularity, have

him identified.”

While his son spoke, the old man was evidently straining his memory.

My father, fortunately, has a nervous twitching of the face, which

increased under the fixed gaze his _certifier_ fastened upon him.

“Hey! _parbleu_! I have it!” he cried. “Monsieur is the Marquise de

Sallenauve, whom we used to call the ‘Grimacer,’ and who would now be

the owner of the Chateau d’Arcis if, instead of wandering off, like

the other fools, into emigration, he had stayed at home and married his

pretty cousin.”

“You are still _sans-culotte_, it seems,” said the marquis, laughing.

“Messieurs,” said the notary, gravely, “the proof I had arranged for

myself is conclusive. This proof, together with the title-deeds and

documents Monsieur le marquis has shown to me, and which he deposits in

my hands, together with the certificate of identity sent to me by Mother

Marie-des-Anges, who cannot, under the rules of her Order, come to

my office, are sufficient for the execution of the deeds which I have

here--already prepared. The presence of two witnesses is required for

one of them. Monsieur Bricheteau will, of course, be the witness on your

side and on the other my father, if agreeable to you; it is an honor

that, as I think, belongs to him of right, for, as one may say, this

matter has revived his memory.”

“Very good, messieurs, let us proceed,” said Jacques Bricheteau,

heartily.

The notary sat down at his desk; the rest of us sat in a circle around

him, and the reading of the first document began. Its purport

was to establish, authentically, the recognition made by

Francois-Henri-Pantaleon Dumirail, Marquis de Sallenauve, of me, his

son. But in the course of the reading a difficulty came up. Notarial

deeds must, under pain of being null and void, state the domicile of all

contracting parties. Now, where was my father’s domicile? This part had

been left in blank by the notary, who now insisted on filling it before

proceeding farther.

“As for this domicile,” said Achille Pigoult, “Monsieur le marquis

appears to have none in France, as he does not reside in this country,

and has owned no property here for a long time.”

“It is true,” said the marquis, seeming to put more meaning into his

words than they naturally carried, “I am a mere vagabond in France.”

“Ah!” said Jacques Bricheteau, “vagabonds like you, who can present

their sons with the necessary sums to buy estates, are not to be pitied.

Still, the remark is a just one, not only as to France, but as to your

residence in foreign countries. With your eternal mania for roving, it

is really very difficult to assign you a domicile.”

“Well,” said Achille Pigoult, “it does not seem worth while to let so

small a matter stop us. Monsieur,” he continued, motioning to me, “is

now the owner of the Chateau d’Arcis, for an engagement to sell is as

good as the sale itself. What more natural, therefore, than that

the father’s domicile should be stated as being on his son’s estate,

especially as this is really the family property now returned into

the hands of the family, being purchased by the father for the son,

particularly as that father is known and recognized by some of the

oldest and most important inhabitants of the place?”

“Yes, that is true,” said old Pigoult, adopting his son’s opinion

without hesitation.

“In short,” said Jacques Bricheteau, “you think the matter can go on.”

“You see that my father, a man of great experience, did not hesitate to

agree with me. We say, therefore,” continued the notary, taking up

his pen, “Francois-Henri-Pantaleon Dumirail, Marquis de Sallenauve,

domiciled with Monsieur Charles de Sallenauve, his natural son, by

him legally recognized, in the house known as the Chateau d’Arcis,

arrondissement of Arcis-sur-Aube, department of the Aube.”

The rest of the deed was read and executed without comment.

Then followed a rather ridiculous scene.

“Now, Monsieur le comte,” said Jacques Bricheteau, “embrace your

father.”