The marquis opened his arms rather indifferently, and I coldly fell into

them, vexed with myself for not being deeply moved and for not hearing

in my heart the voice of kindred. Was this barrenness of emotion the

result of my sudden accession to wealth? A moment later a second deed

made me possessor, on payment of one hundred and eighty thousand francs

in ready money, of the Chateau d’Arcis,--a grand edifice which had

caught my eye, on my first arrival in the town, by its lordly and feudal

air.

“You may congratulate yourselves,” said Achille Pigoult, “that you have

got that estate for a song.”

“Come, come!” said Jacques Bricheteau, “how long have you had it on

your hands to sell? Your client would have let it go for one hundred and

fifty thousand to others, but, as family property, you thought you could

get more from us. We shall have to spend twenty thousand to make the

house habitable; the land doesn’t return a rental of more than four

thousand; so that our money, all expenses deducted, won’t return us more

than two and a half per cent.”

“What are you complaining about?” returned Achille Pigoult. “You have

employment to give and money to pay in the neighborhood, and what can be

better for a candidate?”

“Ah! that electoral business,” said Jacques Bricheteau; “we will talk

about that to-morrow when we bring you the purchase-money and your

fees.”

Thereupon we took leave, and returned to the Hotel de la Poste, where I

bade good-night to my father and came to my room to write to you.

Now I must tell you the terrible idea that drove sleep from my brain

and put the pen once more in my hand,--although I am somewhat distracted

from it by writing the foregoing two pages, and I do not see quite as

much evidence for my notion as I did before I renewed this letter.

One thing is certain: during the last year many romantic incidents have

happened to me. You may say that adventure seems to be the logical way

of life for one in my position; that my birth, the chances that brought

you (whose fate is so like mine) and me together, my relations with

Marianina and my handsome housekeeper, and perhaps I might say with

Madame de l’Estorade, all point to the possession of a fickle star, and

that my present affair is only one of its caprices.

True; but what if, at the present moment under the influence of that

star, I were implicated without my knowledge in some infernal plot of

which I was made the passive instrument?

To put some order into my ideas, I begin by this half-million spent for

an interest which you must agree is very nebulous,--that of fitting me

to succeed my father in the ministry of some imaginary country, the name

of which is carefully concealed from me.

Next: who is spending these fabulous sums on me? Is it a father tenderly

attached to a child of love? No, it is a father who shows me the

utmost coldness, who goes to sleep when deeds which concern our mutual

existence are being drawn, and for whom I, on my side, am conscious of

no feeling; in fact, not to mince my words, I should think him a great

booby of an _emigre_ if it were not for the filial respect and duty I

force myself to feel for him.

_But_--suppose this man were not my father, not even the Marquis de

Sallenauve, as he asserts himself to be; suppose, like that unfortunate

Lucien de Rubempre, whose history has made so much noise, I were caught

in the toils of a serpent like that false abbe Don Carlos Herrera, and

had made myself liable to the same awful awakening. You may say to me

that you see no such likelihood; that Carlos Herrera had an object in

fascinating Lucien and making him his double; but that I, an older man

with solid principles and no love of luxury, who have lived a life of

thought and toil, should fear such influence, is nonsense.

So be it. But why should the man who recognizes me as his son conceal

the very country in which he lives, and the name by which he is known

in that equally nameless Northern land which it is intimated that he

governs? Why make such sacrifices for my benefit and show so little

confidence? And see the mystery with which Jacques Bricheteau has

surrounded my life! Do you think that that long-winded explanation of

his explained it?

All this, my dear friend, rolling in my head and clashing with that

half-million already paid to me, has given substance to a strange idea,

at which you may perhaps laugh, but which, nevertheless, is not without

precedent in criminal annals.

I told you just now that this thought invaded me as it were suddenly;

it came like an instinct upon me. Assuredly, if I had had the faintest

inkling of it last evening, I would have cut off my right hand sooner

than sign that deed by which I have henceforth bound my fate to that

of an unknown man whose past and future may be as gloomy as a canto of

Dante’s Hell, and who may drag me down with him into utter darkness.

In short, this idea--round which I am making you circle because I cannot

bring myself to let you enter it--here it is, in all its crudity; I

am afraid of being, without my knowledge, the agent, the tool of those

associations of false coiners who are known in criminal records to

concoct schemes as complicated and mysterious as the one I am now

involved in, in order to put into circulation the money they coin. In

all such cases you will find great coming and going of accomplices;

cheques drawn from a distance on the bankers in great commercial

centres like Paris, Stockholm, Rotterdam. Often one hears of poor dupes

compromised. In short, do you not see in the mysterious ways of this

Bricheteau something like an imitation, a reflection of the manoeuvres

to which these criminal workers are forced to have recourse, arranging

them with a talent and a richness of imagination to which a novelist can

scarcely attain?

One thing is certain: there is about me a thick unwholesome atmosphere,

in which I feel that air is lacking and I cannot breathe. However,

assure me, if you can, persuade me, I ask no better, that this is all an

empty dream. But in any case I am determined to have a full explanation

with these two men to-morrow, and to obtain, although so late, more

light than they have yet doled out to me....

Another and yet stranger fact! As I wrote those last words, a noise of

horses’ hoofs came from the street. Distrustful now of everything, I

opened my window, and in the dawning light I saw a travelling carriage

before the door of the inn, the postilion in the saddle, and Jacques

Bricheteau talking to some one who was seated in the vehicle. Deciding

quickly on my action, I ran rapidly downstairs; but before I reached the

bottom I heard the roll of wheels and the cracking of the postilion’s

whip. At the foot of the staircase I came face to face with Jacques

Bricheteau. Without seeming embarrassed, in fact with the most natural

air in the world, he said to me,--

“What! my dear ward already up?”

“Of course; the least I could do was to say farewell to my excellent

father.”

“He did not wish it,” replied that damned musician, with an

imperturbability and phlegm that deserved a thrashing; “he feared the

emotions of parting.”

“Is he so dreadfully hurried that he could not even give a day to his

new and ardent paternity?”

“The truth is, he is an original; what he came to do, he has done; after

that, to his mind, there is nothing to stay for.”

“Ah! I understand; he hastens to those high functions he performs at

that Northern court!”

Jacques Bricheteau could no longer mistake the ironical tone in which

these words were said.

“Until now,” he said, “you have shown more faith.”

“Yes; but I confess that faith begins to stagger under the weight of the

mysteries with which it is loaded down without relief.”

“Seeing you at this decisive moment in your career giving way to doubts

which our whole conduct pursued to you through many years ought to

refute, I should be almost in despair,” replied Jacques Bricheteau, “if

I had none but personal denials and asseverations to offer you. But, as

you will remember, old Pigoult spoke of an aunt of mine, living in this

neighborhood, where you will soon, I hope, find her position a most

honorable one. I had arranged that you should see her in the course of

the day; but now, if you will grant me the time to shave, I will take

you at once, early as it is, to the convent of the Ursulines. There you

shall question Mother Marie-des-Anges, who has the reputation of a saint

throughout this whole department, and I think that at the close of your

interview with her no doubt can remain upon your mind.”

While that devil of a man was speaking, his countenance had so perfect a

look of integrity and benevolence, his speech, always calm, elegant,

and self-possessed, so impressed the mind of his hearer, that I felt the

tide of my anger going down and my sense of security rising.

In fact, his answer _is_ irresistible. The convent of the Ursuline

sisters--heavens and earth! that can’t be the rendezvous of makers of

false coin; and if the Mother Marie-des-Anges guarantees my father

to me, as it appears she has already done to the notary, I should be

foolish indeed to persist in my doubts.

“Very good,” I said to Jacques Bricheteau, “I will go up and get my hat

and walk up and down the bank of the river until you are ready.”

“That’s right; and be sure you watch the door of the hotel to see that

I do not give you the slip as I did once upon a time on the Quai de

Bethune.”

Impossible to be more intelligent than that man; he seems to divine

one’s thoughts. I was ashamed of this last doubt of mine, and told him

that, on the whole, I would go and finish a letter while awaiting him.

It was this letter, dear friend, which I must now close if I wish it to

go by to-day’s post. I will write you soon of my visit to the convent.

XIV. MARIE-GASTON TO MADAME LA COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 6, 1839.

Madame,--In any case I should gladly have profited by the request you

were so good as to make that I should write to you during my stay in

this town; but in granting me this favor you could not really know the

full extent of your charity. Without you, madame, and the consolation

of writing to you sometimes, what would become of me under the habitual

weight of my sad thoughts in a town which has neither society, nor

commerce, nor curiosities, nor environs; and where all intellectual

activity spends itself on the making of pickled pork, soap-grease,

stockings, and cotton night-caps. Dorlange, whom I shall not long call

by that name (you shall presently know why) is so absorbed in steering

his electoral frigate that I scarcely see him.

I told you, madame, that I resolved to come down here and join our

mutual friend in consequence of a certain trouble of mind apparent in

one of his letters, which informed me of a great revolution taking place

in his life. I am able to-day to be more explicit. Dorlange at last

knows his father. He is the natural son of the Marquis de Sallenauve,

the last living scion of one of the best families in Champagne. Without

explaining the reasons which have hitherto induced him to keep his son’s

birth secret, the marquis has now recognized him legally. He has

also bought and presented to him an estate formerly belonging to the

Sallenauve family. This estate is situated in Arcis itself, and its

possession will assist the project of our friend’s election. That

project dates much farther back than we thought; and it did not take its

rise in the fancy of Dorlange.

A year ago, the marquis began to prepare for it by sending his son a sum

of money for the purchase of real estate in conformity with electoral

laws; and it is also for the furtherance of this purpose that he has now

made him doubly a landowner. The real object of all these sacrifices not

seeming plain to Charles de Sallenauve, doubts have arisen in his mind,

and it was to assist in dispelling them that my friendship for the poor

fellow brought me here.

The marquis appears to be as odd and whimsical as he is opulent; for,

instead of remaining in Arcis, where his presence and his name would

contribute to the success of the election he desires, the very day after

legal formalities attending the recognition of his son had been complied

with, he departed furtively for foreign countries, where he says he has

important interests, without so much as taking leave of his son. This

coldness has poisoned the happiness Charles would otherwise feel in

these events; but one must take fathers as they are, for Dorlange and I

are living proofs that all cannot have them as they want them.

Another eccentricity of the marquis is the choice he has made, as chief

assistant in his son’s election, of an old Ursuline nun, with whom

he seems to have made a bargain, in which, strange to say, you have

unconsciously played a part. Yes, madame, the Saint-Ursula for which,

unknown to yourself, you were posing, will have, to all appearances, a

considerable influence on the election of our friend. The case is this:

For many years Mother Marie-des-Anges, superior of the Ursuline convent

at Arcis-sur-Aube, has desired to install in the chapel of her convent

an image of its patron saint. But this abbess, who is a woman of taste

and intelligence, would not listen to the idea of one of those stock

figures which can be bought ready-made from the venders of church

decorations. On the other hand, she thought it was robbing her poor to

spend on this purpose the large sum necessary to procure a work of art.

The nephew of this excellent woman is an organist in Paris to whom the

Marquis de Sallenauve, then in emigration, had confided the care of his

son. When it became a question of making Charles a deputy, the marquis

naturally thought of Arcis, a place where his family had left so many

memories. The organist also recollected his aunt’s desire; he knew

how influential she was in that region because of her saintliness, and

having in his nature a touch of that intrigue which likes to undertake

things difficult and arduous, he went to see her, with the approval of

the Marquis de Sallenauve, and let her know that one of the most skilful

sculptors in Paris was ready to make her the statue of Saint-Ursula

if she, on her side, would promise to secure the artist’s election as

deputy from the arrondissement of Arcis.

The old nun did not think the undertaking beyond her powers. She now

possesses the object of her pious longings; the statue arrived some days

ago, and is already in the chapel of the convent, where she proposes to

give it, before long, a solemn inauguration. It now remains to be seen

whether the good nun will perform her part of the contract.

Well, madame, strange to say, after hearing and inquiring into the whole

matter I shall not be surprised if this remarkable woman should

carry the day. From the description our friend gives of her, Mother

Marie-des-Anges is a small woman, short and thick-set, whose face

is prepossessing and agreeable beneath its wrinkles and the mask of

saffron-tinted pallor which time and the austerities of a cloister have

placed upon it. Carrying very lightly the weight of her corpulence and

also that of her seventy-six years, she is lively, alert, and frisky

to a degree that shames the youngest of us. For fifty years she has

governed in a masterly manner her community, which has always been the

most regular, the best organized, and also the richest society in the

diocese of Troyes. Admirably fitted for the training of youth, she

has long conducted a school for girls, which is famous throughout the

department of the Aube and adjacent regions. Having thus superintended

the education of nearly all the daughters of the best houses in the

province, it is easy to imagine the influence she has acquired among the

aristocracy,--an influence she probably intends to use in the electoral

struggle she has promised to take part in.

On the other hand, it appears that this really extraordinary woman

is the sovereign disposer of the votes of the democratic party in the

arrondissement of Arcis. Until now, the existence of that party in Arcis

has been considered problematical; but it is actually, by its nature,

active and stirring, and our candidate proposes to present himself

under its banner. Evidently, therefore, the support the good mother has

promised will be useful and important.

I am sure you will admire with me the--as one might say--bicephalous

ability of this old nun, who has managed to keep well with the nobility

and the secular clergy on the one hand, and on the other to lead with

her wand the radical party, their sworn enemy. Admirable for her charity

and her lucid intellect, respected throughout the region as a saint,

exposed during the Revolution to a dreadful persecution, which she bore

with rare courage, one can easily understand her close relations with

the upper and conservative classes; but why she should be equally

welcome to democrats and to the subverters of order would seem, at

first, to pass all belief.

The power which she undoubtedly wields over the revolutionary party took

its rise, madame, in a struggle which they formerly had together. In

1793 that amiable party were bent on cutting her throat. Driven from

her convent, and convicted of harboring a “refractory” priest, she was

incarcerated, arraigned before the Revolutionary tribunal, and condemned

to death. The matter was reported to Danton, a native of Arcis, and

then a member of the National Convention. Danton had known Mother

Marie-des-Anges; he thought her the most virtuous and enlightened woman

he had ever met. Hearing of her condemnation, he was furiously angry,

and wrote, as they said in those days, a high-horse letter to the

Revolutionary tribunal, and, with an authority no human being in Arcis

would have dared to contest, he ordered a reprieve.

The same day he mounted the tribune, and after speaking in general terms

of the “bloody boobies” who by their foolish fury compromised the future

of the Revolution, he told who and what Mother Marie-des-Anges really

was; he dwelt on her marvellous aptitude for the training of youth, and

he presented a scheme in which she was placed at the head of a “grand

national gynaecium,” the organization of which was to be made the

subject of another decree. Robespierre, who would have thought the

intellect of an Ursuline nun only a more imperative reason for bringing

her under the revolutionary axe, was absent that day from the

session, and the motion was voted with enthusiasm. The head of Mother

Marie-des-Anges being indispensably necessary to the carrying out of

this decree of the sovereign people, she kept it on her shoulders, and

the headsman put aside his machine.

Though the other decree, organising the Grand National Gynaecium,

was lost sight of in the many other duties that devolved upon the

Convention, the excellent nun carried it out after her fashion. Instead

of something grand and Greek and national, she started in Arcis a

secular girl’s-school, and as soon as a little quiet was restored to the

minds of the community, pupils flocked in from all quarters. Under the

Empire Mother Marie-des-Anges was able to reconstitute her Ursuline

sisterhood, and the first act of her restored authority was a

recognition of gratitude. She decreed that on every year on the 5th of

April, the anniversary of Danton’s death, a service should be held

in the chapel of the convent for the repose of his soul. To those who

objected to this edict she answered: “Do you know many for whom it is

more necessary to implore God’s mercy?”

Under the Restoration, the celebration of this service became a sort of

scandal; but Mother Marie-des-Anges would never hear of suppressing it,

and the great veneration which has always surrounded her obliged these

cavillers to hold their tongues. This courageous obstinacy had its

reward, under the government of July. To-day Mother Marie-des-Anges is

high in court favor, and there is nothing she cannot obtain in the

most august regions of power; but it is only just to add that she asks

nothing,--not even for her charities, for she provides the means to do

them nobly by the wise manner in which she administers the property of

her convent.

Her gratitude, thus openly shown to the memory of the great

revolutionist, has been of course to the revolutionary party a potent

recommendation, but not the only one.

In Arcis the leader of the advanced Left is a rich miller named Laurent

Goussard, who possesses two or three mills on the river Aube. This man,

formerly a member of the revolutionary municipality of Arcis and the

intimate friend of Danton, was the one who wrote to the latter telling

him that the axe was suspended over the throat of the ex-superior of the

Ursulines. This, however, did not prevent the worthy _sans-culotte_

from buying up the greater part of the convent property when it was sold

under the name of national domain.

At the period when Mother Marie-des-Anges was authorized to reconstitute

her community, Laurent Goussard, who had not made much by his purchase,

went to see the good abbess, and proposed to her to buy back the former

property of her convent. Very shrewd in business, Laurent Goussard,

whose niece Mother Marie-des-Anges had educated gratuitously, seemed to

pique himself on the great liberality of his offer, the terms of

which were that the sisterhood should reimburse him the amount of his

purchase-money. The dear man was not however making a bad bargain, for

the difference in the value of assignats with which he had paid and

the good sound money he would receive made a pretty profit. But Mother

Marie-des-Anges, remembering that without his warning Danton could not

have saved her, did better still for her first helper. At the time when

Laurent Goussard made his offer the community of the Ursulines was,

financially speaking, in an excellent position. Having since its

restoration received many liberal gifts, it was also enriched by the

savings of its superior, made from the proceeds of her secular school,

which she generously made over to the common fund. Laurent Goussard must

therefore have been thunderstruck when he read the following letter:--

Your proposal does not suit me. My conscience will not allow me to

buy property below its proper value. Before the Revolution the

property of our abbey was estimated at--[so much]. That is the

price I choose to give, and not that to which it has fallen since

the great depreciation of all property called national. In a word,

my friend, I wish to pay you more than you ask; let me know if

that suits you.

Laurent Goussard thought at first that either she had misunderstood him

or he her. But when it became clear to him that owing to these pretended

scruples of Mother Marie-des-Anges, he was the gainer of fifty thousand

francs, he would not do violence to so tender a conscience, and he

pocketed this profit (which came to him literally from heaven), but he

went about relating everywhere the marvellous proceeding, which, as you

can well imagine, put Mother Marie-des-Anges on a pinnacle of respect

(especially from the holders of other national property) which leaves

her nothing to fear from any future revolution. Personally Laurent

Goussard has become her slave, her henchman. He does no business, he

takes no step, he never moves a sack of flour without going to her for

advice; and, as she said in joke the other day, if she took a fancy to

make a John the Baptist of the sub-prefect, Laurent Goussard would bring

her his head on a charger. That is proof enough that he will also bring

his vote and that of his friends to any candidate she may favor.

Among the clergy Mother Marie-des-Anges has, naturally, many

affiliations,--as much on account of her high reputation for goodness as

for the habit of her order, but she particularly counts among the

number of her most zealous servitors Monseigneur Troubert, bishop of the

diocese, who, though formerly a familiar of the Congregation [see “The

Vicar of Tours”], has nevertheless managed to secure from the dynasty of

July an archbishopric which will lead to a cardinalship.

When you have the clergy you have, or you are very near having, the

legitimist party with you,--a party which, while passionately desirous

of free education and filled with hatred for the July throne, is not

averse, when occasion offers, to yielding to a monstrous union with

the radical party. Now the head of the legitimists in Arcis and its

neighborhood is, of course, the family of Cinq-Cygne. Never does the old

marquise, whose haughty nature and powerful will you, madame, know well

[see “An Historical Mystery”],--never does she drive into Arcis from her

chateau of Cinq-Cygne, without paying a visit to Mother Marie-des-Anges,

who in former days educated her daughter Berthe, now the Duchesse

Georges de Maufrigneuse.

But now we come to the most opposing and resisting side,--that of

the conservatives, which must not be confounded with the party of the

administration. Here we find as its leader the Comte de Gondreville,

your husband’s colleague in the Chamber of peers. Closely allied to the

count is a very influential man, his old friend Grevin, formerly mayor

and notary of Arcis, who, in turn, draws after him another elector of

considerable influence, Maitre Achille Pigoult, to whom, on retiring

from active life, he sold his practice as notary.

But Mother Marie-des-Anges has a powerful means of access to the Comte

de Gondreville through his daughter, the Marechale de Carigliano. That

great lady, who, as you know, has taken to devotion, goes into retreat

every year at the Ursuline convent. More than that, the good Mother,

without giving any explanation, intimates that she has a lever of some

kind on the Comte de Gondreville known to herself only; in fact, the

life of that old regicide--turned senator, then count of the Empire,

then peer of France under two dynasties--has wormed itself through too

many tortuous underground ways not to allow us to suppose the existence

of secrets he might not care to have unmasked.

Now Gondreville is Grevin,--his confidant, and, as they say, his tool,

his catspaw for the last fifty years. But even supposing that by

an utter impossibility their close union should, under present

circumstances, be sundered, we are certainly sure of Achille Pigoult,

Grevin’s successor, on whom, when the purchase of the chateau d’Arcis

was made in his office by the Marquis de Sallenauve, a fee was bestowed

of such an unusual amount that to accept it was virtually to pledge

himself.

As for the ruck of the electors, our friend cannot fail to make recruits

there, by the work he is about to give in repairing the chateau, which,

fortunately for him, is falling into ruin in several places. We must

also count on the manifesto which Charles de Sallenauve has just issued,

in which he openly declares that he will accept neither favors

nor employment from the government. So that, really, taking into

consideration his own oratorical talent, the support of the Opposition

journals both here and in Paris, the insults and calumnies which the

ministerial journals are already beginning to fire upon him, I feel

great hopes of his success.

Forgive me for presenting to you in glowing colors the parliamentary

future of a man of whom, you said to me the other day, you felt

you could not safely make a friend, because of the lofty and rather

impertinent assumption of his personality. To tell the truth, madame,

whatever political success may be in store for Charles de Sallenauve,

I fear he may one day regret the calmer fame of which he was already

assured in the world of art. But neither he nor I was born under an

easy and accommodating star. Birth has been a costly thing to us; it is

therefore doubly cruel not to like us. You have been kind to me because

you fancy that a lingering fragrance of our dear Louise still clings to

me; give something, I beseech you, of the same kindness to him whom I

have not hesitated in this letter to call our friend.

XV. MARIE-GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 13, 1839.

Madame,--I see that the electoral fever is upon you, as you are good

enough to send me from Monsieur de l’Estorade so many _discouragements_

which certainly deserve consideration.

We knew already of the mission given to Comte Maxime de Trailles,--a

mission he endeavored at first to conceal under some irrigating project.

We even know what you, madame, seem not to know,--that this able

ministerial agent has found means to combine with the cares of electoral

politics those of his own private policy. Monsieur Maxime de Trailles,

if we are rightly informed, was on the point of succumbing to the

chronic malady with which he has been so long afflicted; I mean _debt_.

Not debts, for we say “the debt of Monsieur de Trailles,” as we say

“the debt of England.” In this extremity the patient, resolved on

heroic remedies, adopted that of marriage, which might perhaps be called

marriage _in extremis_.

To cut a long story short, Monsieur de Trailles was sent to Arcis to

put an end to the candidacy of an upstart of the Left centre, a certain

Simon Giguet; and having brought forward the mayor of the town as

the ministerial candidate, he finds the said mayor, named Beauvisage,

possessed of an only daughter, rather pretty, and able to bring

her husband five hundred thousand francs amassed in the honorable

manufacture of cotton night-caps. Now you see, I am sure, the mechanism

of the affair.

As for our own claims, we certainly do not make cotton night-caps, but

we make statues,--statues for which we are decorated with the Legion of

honor; religious statues, inaugurated with great pomp by Monseigneur the

bishop of the diocese and all the constituted authorities; statues, or

rather _a_ statue, which the whole population of the town has flocked

to the Ursuline convent to behold, where Mesdames the nuns, not a little

puffed up with this magnificent addition to their bijou of a chapel,

have kept their house and their oratory open to all comers for this

whole day. Is not that likely to popularize our candidacy?

This evening, to crown the ceremony of inaugurating our Saint-Ursula,

we give in our chateau of Arcis a banquet to fifty guests, among whom we

have had the malice to invite (with the chief inhabitants of the place)

all the ministerial functionaries and, above all, the ministerial

candidate. But, in view of our own declared candidacy, we feel pretty

well assured that the latter will not respond to the invitation. So much

the better! more room for others; and the missing guests, whose names

will be made known on the morrow, will be convicted of a _servilism_

which will, we think, injure their influence with the population.

Yesterday we paid a visit at the chateau de Cinq-Cygne, where d’Arthez

presented us, in the first place, to the Princesse de Cadignan, who is

wonderfully well preserved. Both she and the old Marquise de Cinq-Cygne

received Dorlange--I should say, Sallenauve--in the warmest manner.

It was from them that we learned the history of Monsieur Maxime de

Trailles’ mission and its present results. It seems that on his arrival

the ministerial agent received some attentions at Cinq-Cygne,--mere

floating sticks, to discover the set of his current. He evidently

flattered himself that he should find support at Cinq-Cygne for his

electioneering intrigue; which is so far from being the case that Duc

Georges de Maufrigneuse, to whom, as a Jockey Club comrade, he told all

his projects, gave us the information about them which I have now given

to you, and which, if you will be so kind, I should like you to make

over to Monsieur de l’Estorade.

May 12th.

The dinner has taken place, madame; it was magnificently served, and

Arcis will talk about it for some time to come. Sallenauve has in

that great organist (who, by the bye, showed his talent on the organ

admirably during the ceremony of inauguration) a sort of steward and

factotum who leaves all the Vatels of the world far behind him; he

would never have fallen on his sword for lack of a fish! Colored lamps,

garlands, draperies, decorated the dining-room; even fireworks were

provided; nothing was wanting to the fete, which lasted to a late hour

in the gardens of the chateau, where the populace danced and drank to

its heart’s content.

Nearly all the invited guests came except those we desired to

compromise. The invitations having been sent at short notice, it was

amusing to read the notes and letters of excuse, which Sallenauve

ordered to be brought to him in the salon as they arrived. As he opened

each he took care to say: “This is from Monsieur the sub-prefect; this

from the _procureur-du-roi_; this from Monsieur Vinet the substitute,

expressing regret that they cannot accept the invitation.” All these

concerted refusals were received with smiles and whispers by the

company; but when a letter arrived from Beauvisage, and Sallenauve read

aloud the “impossibility in which he found himself to _correspond_

to his politeness,” the hilarity grew noisy and general, and was only

stopped by the entrance of Monsieur Martener, examining judge, who

performed an act of courage in coming to the dinner which his colleagues

declined. We must remark, however, than an examining-judge has two sides

to him. On that of the judge he is irremovable; he can only be deprived

of the slight increase of salary he receives as an examiner and of the

privilege of signing warrants and questioning thieves,--splendid rights

of which the chancellor can mulct him by a stroke of his pen. But

allowing that Monsieur Martener was only semi-brave, he was greeted on

this occasion as a full moon.

The Duc de Maufrigneuse, d’Arthez, and Monseigneur the bishop, who was

staying at Cinq-Cygne for a few days, were all present, and this made

more noticeable the absence of one man, namely, Grevin, whose excuse,

sent earlier in the day, was not read to the company. The non-appearance

of the Comte de Gondreville was explained by the recent death of his

grandson, Charles Keller; and in sending the invitation Sallenauve had

been careful to let him know he should understand a refusal. But that

Grevin, the count’s right arm, should absent himself, seemed to show

that he and his patron were convinced of the probable election of

Beauvisage, and would have no intercourse with the new candidate.

The dinner being given in honor of Saint-Ursula’s installation, which

could not be celebrated by a banquet in the convent, Sallenauve had a

fine opportunity for the following toast:--

“To the Mother of the poor; the noble and saintly spirit which, for

fifty years, has shone on Champagne, and to which we owe the vast number

of distinguished and accomplished women who adorn this beautiful region

of our country.”

If you know, as I do, madame, what a forlorn, beggarly region Champagne

is, you would say, or something like it, that Sallenauve is a rascally

fellow, and that the passion to enter the legislature makes a man

capable of shocking deceit. Was it worth while, in fact, for a man who

usually respects himself to boldly tell a lie of criminal dimensions,

when a moment later a little unforeseen circumstance occurred which did

more than all the speeches ever uttered to commend him to the sympathy

of the electors?

You told me, madame, that your son Armand found a strong likeness to

the portraits of Danton in our friend Sallenauve; and it seems that the

boy’s remark was true, for several persons present who had known the

great revolutionist during his lifetime made the same observation.

Laurent Goussard, who, as I told you in a former letter, was Danton’s

friend, was also, in a way, his brother-in-law; for Danton, who was

something of a gallant, had been on close terms for several years with

the miller’s sister. Well, the likeness must be striking, for after

dinner, while we were taking our coffee, the worthy Goussard, whose

head was a little warmed by the fumes of wine, came up to Sallenauve

and asked him whether he was certain he had made no mistake about his

father, and could honestly declare that Danton had nothing to do with

his making.

Sallenauve took the matter gaily, and answered arithmetically,--

“Danton died April 5, 1794. To be his son, I must have been born no

later than January, 1795, which would make me forty-four years old

to-day. But the register of my birth, and I somewhat hope my face, make

me out exactly thirty.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Laurent Goussard; “figures demolish my idea;

but no matter,--we’ll vote for you all the same.”

I think the man is right; this chance resemblance is likely to have

great weight in the election. You must remember, madame, that, in spite

of the fatal facts which cling about his memory, Danton is not an object

of horror and execration in Arcis, where he was born and brought up. In

the first place time has purged him; his grand character and powerful

intellect remain, and the people are proud of their compatriot. In Arcis

they talk of Danton as in Marseilles they talk of Cannebiere. Fortunate,

therefore, is our candidate’s likeness to this demigod, the worship

of whom is not confined to the town, but extends to the surrounding

country.

These voters _extra muros_ are sometimes curiously simple-minded, and

obvious contradictions trouble them not at all. Some agents sent into

the adjacent districts have used this fancied resemblance; and as in a

rural propaganda the object is less to strike fair than to strike hard,

Laurent Goussard’s version, apocryphal as it is, is hawked about the

country villages with a coolness that admits of no contradiction.

While this pretended revolutionary origin is advancing our friend’s

prospects in one direction, in another the tale put forth to the worthy

voters whom it is desirable to entice is different, but truer and not

less striking to the minds of the country-people. This is the gentlemen,

they are told, who has bought the chateau of Arcis; and as the chateau

of Arcis stands high above the town and is known to all the country

round, it is to these simple folk a species of symbol. They are always

ready to return to memories of the past, which is much less dead and

buried than people suppose; “Ah! he’s the _seigneur_ of the chateau,”

they say.

This, madame, is how the electoral kitchen is carried on and the way in

which a deputy is cooked.

XVI. MARIE-GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 15, 1839.

Madame,--You do me the honor to say that my letters amuse you, and you

tell me not to fear that I send too many.

We are no longer at the Hotel de la Poste, having left it for the

chateau; but thanks to the rivalry existing between the two inns, the

Poste and the Mulet, in the latter of which Monsieur de Trailles has

established his headquarters, we are kept informed of what is going

on in the town and among our enemies. Since our departure, as our late

landlord informs us, a Parisian journalist has arrived at his hotel.

This individual, whose name I do not know, at once announced himself as

Jack-the-giant-killer, sent down to reinforce with his Parisian vim and

vigor the polemic which the local press, subsidized by the “bureau of

public spirit,” has directed against us.

In that there is nothing very grave or very gay; since the world was a

world, governments have always found pens for sale, and never have

they failed to buy them; but the comedy of this affair begins with the

co-arrival and the co-presence in the hotel of a young lady of very

problematical virtue. The name of this young lady as it appears on her

passport is Mademoiselle Chocardelle; but the journalist in speaking of

her calls her Antonia, or, when he wants to treat her with more respect,

Mademoiselle Antonia.

Now, what can bring Mademoiselle Chocardelle to Arcis? A pleasure trip,

you will say, offered to her by the journalist, who combines with

that object our daily defamation and his consequent earnings from

the secret-service fund of the government. Not at all; Mademoiselle

Chocardelle has come to Arcis on business of her own,--namely, to

enforce a claim.

It seems that Charles Keller before his departure for Africa, where

he met a glorious death, drew a note of hand, payable to Mademoiselle

Antonia on order, for ten thousand francs, “value received in

furniture,” a charming ambiguity, the furniture having been received by,

and not from, Mademoiselle Chocardelle, who estimated at ten thousand

francs the sacrifice she made in accepting it.

A few days after Charles Keller’s death, the note being almost due,

Mademoiselle Antonia went to the counting-room of the Keller Brothers

to inquire about its payment. The cashier, who is crabbed, like all

cashiers, replied that he did not see how Mademoiselle Antonia had the

face to present such a note; at any rate, the heads of the house were

at Gondreville, where the whole family had met after receiving the fatal

news, and he should pay no such note without referring the matter to

them.

“Very good, then I’ll refer it to them myself,” replied Mademoiselle

Antonia. Thereupon she was meditating a departure alone to Arcis, when

the government felt the need of insulting us with more wit and point

than provincial journalism can muster, and so confided that employment

to a middle-aged journalist to whom Mademoiselle Antonia had, during the

absence of Charles Keller, shown some kindness. “I am going to Arcis,”

seems to have been said at the same instant by writer and lady. The most

commonplace lives encounter similar coincidences.

Now, madame, admire the manner in which things link together. Setting

forth on a purely selfish financial enterprise, behold Mademoiselle

Chocardelle suddenly brought to the point of wielding an immense

electoral influence! And observe also that her influence is of a nature

to compensate for all the witty pin-pricks of her gallant companion.

Mademoiselle’s affair, it appears, hung fire. Twice she went to

Gondreville, and was not admitted. The journalist was busy,--partly

with his articles, and partly with certain commissions given to him by

Monsieur de Trailles, under whose orders he was told to place himself.

Mademoiselle Antonia was therefore much alone; and in the ennui of

such solitude, she was led to create for herself a really desperate

amusement.

A few steps from the Hotel de la Poste is a bridge across the Aube;

a path leads down beside it, by a steep incline, to the water’s edge,

which, being hidden from the roadway above and little frequented, offers

peace and solitude to whoever may like to dream there to the sound of

the rippling current. Mademoiselle Antonia at first took a book with

her; but books not being, as she says, in her line, she looked about for

other ways of killing her time, and bethought herself of fishing, for

which amusement the landlord of the inn supplied her with a rod. Much

pleased with her first successes, the pretty exile devoted herself to

an occupation which must be attractive,--witness the fanatics that it

makes; and the few persons who crossed the bridge could admire at all

hours a charming naiad in a flounced gown and a broad-brimmed straw hat,

engaged in fishing with the conscientious gravity of a _gamin de Paris_.

Up to this time Mademoiselle Antonia and her fishing have had nothing to

do with our election; but if you will recall, madame, in the history

of Don Quixote (which I have heard you admire for its common-sense and

jovial reasoning) the rather disagreeable adventures of Rosinante and

the muleteers, you will have a foretaste of the good luck which the

development of Mademoiselle Antonia’s new passion brought to us.

Our rival, Beauvisage, is not only a successful stocking-maker and an

exemplary mayor, but he is also a model husband, having never tripped in

loyalty to his wife, whom he respects and admires. Every evening, by her

orders, he goes to bed before ten o’clock, while Madame Beauvisage and

her daughter go into what Arcis is pleased to call society. But there is

no more treacherous water, they say, than still water, just as there

was nothing less proper and well-behaved than the calm and peaceable

Rosinante on the occasion referred to.

At any rate, while making the tour of his town according to his laudable

official habit, Beauvisage from the top of the bridge chanced to catch

sight of the fair Parisian who with outstretched arms and gracefully

bent body was pursuing her favorite pastime. A slight movement, the

charming impatience with which the pretty fisher twitched her line from

the water when the fish had not bitten, was perhaps the electric shock

which struck upon the heart of the magistrate, hitherto irreproachable.

No one can say, perhaps, how the thing really came about. But I ought to

remark that during the interregnum that occurred between the making of

socks and night-caps and the assumption of municipal duties, Beauvisage

himself had practised the art of fishing with a line with distinguished

success. Probably it occurred to him that the poor young lady, having

more ardor than science, was not going the right way to work, and the

thought of improving her method may have been the real cause of his

apparent degeneracy. However that may be, it is certain that, crossing

the bridge in company with her mother, Mademoiselle Beauvisage suddenly

cried out, like a true _enfant terrible_,--

“Goodness! there’s papa talking with that Parisian woman!”

To assure herself at a glance of the monstrous fact, to rush down the

bank and reach her husband (whom she found with laughing lips and the

happy air of a browsing sheep), to blast him with a stern “What are

you doing here?” to order his retreat to Arcis with the air of a queen,

while Mademoiselle Chocardelle, first astonished and then enlightened as

to what it all meant, went off into fits of laughter, took scarcely the

time I have taken to tell it. Such, madame, was the proceeding by which

Madame Beauvisage, _nee_ Grevin, rescued her husband; and though that

proceeding may be called justifiable, it was certainly injudicious,

for before night the whole town had heard of the catastrophe, and

Beauvisage, arraigned and convicted by common consent of deplorable

immorality, saw fresh desertions taking place in the already winnowed

phalanx of his partisans.

However, the Gondreville and Grevin side still held firm, and--would you

believe it, madame?--it was again Mademoiselle Antonia to whom we owe

the overthrow of their last rampart.

Here is the tale of that phenomenon: Mother Marie-des-Anges wanted an

interview with the Comte de Gondreville; but how to get it she did not

know, because to ask for it was not, as she thought, proper. Having, it

appears, unpleasant things to say to him, she did not wish to bring the

old man to the convent expressly to hear them; such a proceeding seemed

to her uncharitable. Besides, things comminatory delivered point-blank

will often provoke their recipient instead of alarming him; whereas the

same things slipped in sweetly never fail of their effect. Still, time

was passing; the election, as you know, takes place to-morrow, Sunday,

and the preparatory meeting of all the candidates and the electors,

to-night. The poor dear saintly woman did not know what course to take,

when a little matter occurred, most flattering to her vanity, which

solved her doubts. A pretty sinner, she was told, who had come to Arcis

to “do” Monsieur Keller the financier, then at Gondreville, out of some

money, had heard of the virtues and the inexhaustible kindness of Mother

Marie-des-Anges--in short, she regarded her, after Danton, as the most

interesting object of the place, and deeply regretted that she dared not

ask to be admitted to her presence.

An hour later the following note was left at the Hotel de la Poste:--

Mademoiselle,--I am told that you desire to see me, but that you

do not know how to accomplish it. Nothing is easier. Ring the

door-bell of my quiet house, ask to see me, and do not be alarmed

at my black robe and aged face. I am not one of those who force

their advice upon pretty young women who do not ask for it, and

who may become in time greater saints than I. That is the whole

mystery of obtaining an interview with Mother Marie-des-Anges, who

salutes you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. [Picture of

small cross.]

An invitation so graciously given was not to be resisted; and

Mademoiselle Antonia, after putting on the soberest costume she could

get together, went to the convent.

I wish I could give you the details of that interview, which must have

been curious; but no one was present, and nothing was known except what

the lost sheep, who returned in tears, told of it. When the journalist

tried to joke her on this conversion, Mademoiselle Antonia turned upon

him.

“Hold your tongue,” she said; “you never in your life wrote a sentence

like what she said to me.”

“What did she say to you?”

“‘Go, my child,’ said that old woman, ‘the ways of God are beautiful,

and little known; there is often more of a saint in a Magdalen than in a

nun.’”

The journalist laughed, but scenting danger he said,--

“When are you going again to Gondreville to see that Keller? If he

doesn’t pay the money soon, I’ll hit him a blow in some article, in

spite of all Maxime may say.”

“I don’t play dirty tricks myself,” replied Antonia, with dignity.

“Don’t you? Do you mean you are not going to present that note again?”

“Not now,” replied the admirer and probably the echo of Mother

Marie-des-Anges, but using her own language; “I don’t blackmail a family

in affliction. I should remember it on my death-bed, and doubt God’s

mercy.”

“Why don’t you make yourself an Ursuline, now that we are here?”

“Ha, if I only had the courage! I might be happier if I did. But, in

any case, I am not going to Gondreville; Mother Marie-des-Anges has

undertaken to arrange that matter for me.”

“Foolish girl! Have you given her that note?”

“I wanted to tear it up, but she prevented me, and told me to give it to

her and she would arrange it honestly for my interests.”

“Very fine! You were a creditor, and now you are a beggar.”

“No, for I have given the money in alms. I told madame to keep it for

her poor.”

“Oh! if you add the vice of patronizing convents to your other vice of

fishing in rivers, you will be a pleasant girl to frequent.”

“You won’t frequent me much longer, for I go to-night, and leave you to

your dirty work.”

“Bless me! so you retire to the Carmelites?”

“The Carmelites!” replied Antonia, wittily; “no, my old fellow, we don’t

retire to the Carmelites unless we leave a king.”

Such women, even the most ignorant, all know the story of La Valliere,

whom they would assuredly have made their patroness if Sister

Louise-of-the-Sacred-Mercy had been canonized.

I don’t know how Mother Marie-des-Anges managed it, but early this

morning the carriage of the old Comte de Gondreville stopped before the

gate of the convent; and when the count again entered it he was driven

to the office of his friend Grevin; and later in the day the latter said

to several friends that certainly his son-in-law was too much of a

fool, he had compromised himself with that Parisian woman, and would

undoubtedly lose his election.

I am told that the rectors of the two parishes in Arcis have each

received a thousand crowns for their poor from Mother Marie-des-Anges,

who informed them that it came from a benefactor who did not wish his

name known. Sallenauve is furious because our partisans are going about

saying that the money came from him. But when you are running before the

wind you can’t mathematically measure each sail, and you sometimes get

more of a breeze than you really want.

Monsieur Maxime de Trailles makes no sign, but there is every reason

to suppose that this failure of his candidate, which he must see is now

inevitable, will bury both him and his marriage. But, at any rate, he is

a clever fellow, who will manage to get his revenge.

What a curious man, madame, this organist is! His name is that of one

of our greatest physicians,--though they are not related to each

other,--Bricheteau. No one ever showed more activity, more presence of

mind, more devotion, more intelligence; and there are not two men in all

Europe who can play the organ as he does. You say you do not want Nais

to be a mere piano _strummer_; then I advise you to let this Bricheteau

teach her. He is a man who would show her what music really is; he will

not give himself airs, for I assure you he is as modest as he is gifted.

To Sallenauve he is like a little terrier; as watchful, as faithful, and

I may add as ugly,--if so good and frank a countenance as his can ever

be thought anything but handsome!

XVII. MARIE-GASTON TO MADAME LA COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 16, 1839.

Madame,--Last evening the preparatory meeting took place,--a ridiculous

ceremony, very annoying to the candidates, which cannot, however, be

avoided.

Perhaps it is natural that before pledging themselves to a man who is

to represent them for four or five years, voters should want to question

him, and discover, if possible, what he really is. Is he a man of

intelligence? Does he really sustain the ideas put forth about him? Will

he be cordial and affable to the various interests which may claim his

support? Is he firm in character? Can he defend his ideas--if he has

any? In a word, will the constituency be worthily, faithfully, and

honestly represented? That is the serious and respectable aspect of this

institution, which, not being a part of the law, must, in order to be so

firmly fixed in our customs, have a sound reason for its existence.

But every medal has its reverse; as may be seen in these meetings of

candidates with electors puffed up by their own self-importance, eager

to exercise for a moment the sovereignty they are about to delegate to

their deputy, and selling it as dearly as they can to him. Considering

the impertinence of certain questions addressed to a candidate, it would

really seem as if the latter were a serf over whom each elector had

rights of life and death. Not a corner of his private life where the

unhappy man is safe from prying curiosity. All things are possible

in the line of preposterous questioning; for instance: Why does the

candidate prefer the wine of Champagne to the wine of Bordeaux? At

Bordeaux, where wine is a religion, this preference implies an idea of

non-patriotism and may seriously affect the election. Many voters go

to these meetings solely to enjoy the embarrassment of the candidates.

Holding them as it were in the pillory, they play with them like a child

with a beetle, an old judge with the criminal he examines, or a young

surgeon at an autopsy.

Others have not such elevated tastes; they come merely to enjoy the

racket, the confusion of tongues which is certain to take place on such

occasions. Some see their opportunity to exhibit a choice talent; for

(as they say in the reports of the Chamber) when “the tumult is at its

height,” a cock is heard to crow or a dog to howl as if his paw were

trodden upon,--noises that are imitated with marvellous accuracy. But

truly, are not fools and stupid beings a majority in the world, and

ought they not to have their representative?

The meeting took place in a large dance-hall, the loft for the orchestra

forming a sort of private box to which non-voters were admitted, I

among the number. Some ladies had already taken the front seats; Madame

Marion, aunt of Simon Giguet, the Left centre candidate; Madame and

Mademoiselle Mollot, wife and daughter of the clerk of the court,

and some others whose names and position I did not catch. Madame and

Mademoiselle Beauvisage shone conspicuously, like Brutus and Cassius, by

their absence.

Before the candidacy of Monsieur Beauvisage was brought forward on the

ministerial side after the death of Charles Keller, that of Monsieur

Simon Giguet was thought to be certain of success. Now, in consequence

of that of our friend Sallenauve, who has in turn distanced Beauvisage,

Giguet has fallen a step lower still. His father, a former colonel

of the Empire, is greatly respected throughout this region. As an

expression of regret for not electing his son (according to all

probabilities), the electors made him, by acclamation, chairman of the

meeting.

The first candidate who was called upon to speak was Simon Giguet; he

made a long-winded address, full of commonplaces. Few questions were

asked him which deserve a place in the present report. The audience felt

that the tug of war was elsewhere.

Monsieur Beauvisage was then summoned; whereupon Maitre Achille Pigoult

the notary rose, and asked leave to make a statement.

“Monsieur le maire,” he said, “has, since yesterday, been attacked by--”

“Ha! ha!” derisive laughter on the part of the electors.

Colonel Giguet rang his bell repeatedly, without being able to enforce

silence. At the first lull Maitre Pigoult resumed,--

“I have the honor to inform you, gentlemen, that, attacked by an

indisposition which, not serious in itself--”

Fresh interruption, noisier than the first.

Like all military men, Colonel Giguet is not patient nor parliamentary;

he therefore rose and called out vehemently,--

“Messieurs, we are not at a circus. I request you to behave in a more

seemly manner; if not, I leave the chair.”

It is to be supposed that men in masses like to be handled roughly;

for this lesson was greeted with merry applause, after which silence

appeared to be firmly re-established.

“I regret to inform you,” began Maitre Achille Pigoult, varying his

formula for the third time, “that, attacked by an indisposition happily

not serious, which may confine him to his chamber--”

“Throat trouble,” suggested a voice.

“--our venerable and excellent mayor,” continued Achille Pigoult, taking

no notice of the interruption, “is unable to be present at this meeting.

Madame Beauvisage, with whom I have just had the honor of an interview,

requests me to inform you that, _for the present_, Monsieur Beauvisage

renounces the honor of receiving your suffrages, and requests those of

you who have given him your intelligent sympathy to transfer your votes

to Monsieur Simon Giguet.”

This Achille Pigoult is a malicious fellow, who intentionally brought in

the name of Madame Beauvisage to exhibit her conjugal sovereignty. But

the assembly was really too provincial to catch the meaning of that

little bit of treachery. Besides, in the provinces, women take part in

the most virile affairs of the men. The well-known saying of the vicar’s

old housekeeper, “We don’t say masses at that price,” would pass without

comment in Champagne.

At last came Sallenauve. I was struck with the ease and quiet dignity

of his manner. That is a very reassuring pledge, madame, of his conduct

under more trying circumstances; for when a man rises to speak it makes

but little difference who and what his audience are. To an orator goaded

by fear, great lords and porters are precisely the same thing. They are

eyes that look at you, ears that hear you. Individuals are not there,

only one huge being,--an assembly, felt as a mass, without analyzing the

elements.

After enumerating briefly the ties which connected him with this region,

slipping in as he did so an adroit and dignified allusion to his birth

which “was not like that of others,” Sallenauve stated clearly his

political ideas. A Republic he thought the finest of all governments;

but he did not believe it possible to establish one in France;

consequently, he did not desire it. He thought that a truly

parliamentary government, in which court influence should be so

vigorously muzzled that nothing need be feared from its tendency to

interference and caballing would best conduce to the dignity and the

welfare of the nation. Liberty and equality, the two great principles

that triumphed in ‘89, would obtain from such a government the strongest

guarantees. As to the manoeuvring of the royal power against

those principles, it was not for institutions to check it, but for

men,--customs, public opinion, rather than laws; and for himself,

Sallenauve, he should ever stand in the breach as a living obstacle.

He declared himself a warm partisan of free education; believed

that greater economy might be exercised in the budget; that too many

functionaries were attached to the government; and, above all, that

the court was too largely represented in the Chamber. To maintain his

independence he was firmly resolved to accept no post and no favors from

the government. Neither ought those who might elect him to expect that

he would ever take steps on their behalf which were not warranted by

reason and by justice. It was said that the word _impossible_ was not

French. Yet there was an impossibility by which he took pride in being

stopped--that of injustice, and that of disloyalty, even the faintest,

to the Right. [Loud applause.]

Silence being once more restored,--

“Monsieur,” said one of the electors, after obtaining the floor from the

chairman, “you say that you will accept no post under government. Does

not that imply reproach to public functionaries? My name is Godivet; I

am registrar of the archives, but I do not consider that a reason why I

should incur the contempt of my fellow-citizens.”

Sallenauve replied,--

“I am happy, monsieur, to learn that the government has invested a

man like you with functions which you fulfil, I am sure, with perfect

uprightness and great ability; but I venture to ask if you rose to your

present position at one jump?”

“Certainly not, monsieur; I began by being a supernumerary for three

years; after that I passed through all the grades; and I can show that

favor had nothing to do with my promotion.”

“Then, monsieur, what would you say if with my rank as deputy (supposing

that I obtain the suffrages of this arrondissement) I, who have never

been a supernumerary and never passed through any grades, and whose

only claim upon the administration is that of having voted for it,--what

would you say if I were suddenly appointed over your head as the

director-general of your department?”

“I should say--I should say, monsieur, that the choice was a good one,

because the king himself would have made it.”

“No, monsieur, you would not say it, or if you said it aloud, which I

scarcely think possible, you would think in your heart that the choice

was ridiculous and unjust. ‘How the devil,’ you would say to yourself,

‘could this man, this sculptor, know anything about the intricate

business of registering archives?’ And you would be right in condemning

such royal caprice; for what becomes of long and honorable services,

justly acquired rights, and steady promotion under such a system of

arbitrary choice? It is that I may not be the accomplice of this crying

abuse, because I think it neither just nor honest nor useful to obtain

in this way important public functions, that I denounce the system and

bind myself to accept no office. Is this, monsieur, pouring contempt on

public functions? Is it not rather lifting them to higher honor?”

Monsieur Godivet declared himself satisfied, and said no more.

“_Ah ca_! monsieur,” cried another elector, after demanding the floor

in the rather tipsy voice, “you say you will ask no favors for your

constituents; then what good will you be to us?”

“My friend, I did not say I would ask nothing for my constituents. I

said I would ask nothing but what was just; but that, I may add, I shall

ask with energy and perseverance, for that is how justice should be

followed up.”

“But,” persisted the voter, “there are various ways of doing justice;

witness the suit I was made to lose against Jean Remy, with whom I had

trouble about a boundary--”

Colonel Giguet, interrupting,--

“Come, come, you are not going, I hope to talk about your private

affairs, and speak disrespectfully of magistrates?”

The voter resumed,--

“Magistrates, colonel, I respect, for I was one myself for six months in

‘93, and I know the law. But, returning to my point, I ask monsieur, who

is here to answer questions, to me as well as to others, what he thinks

about tobacco licenses.”

“My opinion on tobacco licenses! That is rather difficult to formulate;

I can, however, say that, if my information is correct, they are usually

very well distributed.”

“Hey! hey! you’re a man, you!” cried the inebriate elector, “and I’ll

vote for you, for they can’t fool you,--no! But they do give those

licenses all wrong! Look at that daughter of Jean Remy. Bad neighbor.

Never owned anything but his cart, and fights every day with his wife--”

“But, my good fellow,” said the chairman, interposing, “you are abusing

the patience of this assembly.”

“No, no! let him talk!” cried voices from all parts of the room.

The voter was amusing, and Sallenauve himself seemed to let the chairman

know he would like to see what the man was driving at.

The elector, being allowed to continue, went on:--

“I was going to say, with due respect to you, colonel, about that

daughter of Jean Remy’s,--a man I’ll pursue to hell, for my bounds were

in their right place, and them experts was all wrong. Well! what did

that slut do? Left her father and mother and went to Paris! What did she

do there? I didn’t go to see, but I’m told she made acquaintance with

a deputy, and has got the tobacco license for the rue Mouffetard, the

longest street in Paris. But I’d like to see my wife, widow of an honest

man, doubled up with rheumatism for having slept in the woods during

that terror in 1815,--I’d like to see my poor widow get a license!”

“But you are not dead yet,” they shouted to him from all parts of the

room. The colonel, meantime, to put an end to the burlesque scene,

nodded to a little confectioner who was waiting for the floor, a

well-known Republican. The new questioner, in a falsetto voice, put the

following insidious question to the candidate,--a question which might,

by the way, be called national in Arcis,--

“What does Monsieur think of Danton?”

“Monsieur Dauphin,” said the chairman, “I have the honor to remind you

that Danton belongs to history.”

“To the Pantheon of history, monsieur; that is the proper expression.”

“Well, history, or the Pantheon of history, as you please; but Danton is

irrelevant here.”

“Permit me, Mr. Chairman,” said Sallenauve, “though the question does

not seem to have much purpose on the bearing of this meeting, I cannot

forego the opportunity thus given me to give proof of the impartiality

and independence with which I can judge that great memory, the fame of

which still echoes in this town.”

“Hear! hear!” cried the assembly, almost unanimously.

“I am firmly convinced,” resumed Sallenauve, “that if Danton had been

born in a calm and peaceful epoch like our own, he would have shown

himself, what in fact he was, a good father, a good husband, a warm and

faithful friend, a man of kindly temper, who, by the force of his great

talents, would have risen to some eminent place in the State and in

society.”

“Yes, yes! bravo! very good!”

“Born, on the contrary, in troublesome times, and amid the storm of

unchained passions, Danton was better constituted than others to kindle

the flame of that atmosphere of fire. Danton was the torch that fired;

his scarlet glare lent itself only too readily to scenes of blood

and horror which I must not recall. But, they said, the national

independence was at stake, traitors and dissemblers must be awed,--in

a word, a cruel and awful sacrifice was necessary for the public weal.

Messieurs, I do not accept that theory. To kill, without the necessity

demonstrated a score of times of legitimate defence, to kill women,

children, prisoners, unarmed men, was a crime,--a crime, look at it how

you will, that was execrable; those who ordered it, those who consented

to it, those who executed it are, to my mind, deserving of the same

reprobation.”

I wish I could give you an idea, madame, of the tone and expression

of Sallenauve as he uttered this anathema. You know how his face is

transfigured when an ardent thought comes into his mind. The assemblage

was mute and gloomy. Evidently he had wounded their sensibilities; but,

under the curb of his powerful hand, it dared not throw up its head.

“But,” he continued, “to all consummated and irreparable crimes there

are two issues,--repentance and expiation. His repentance Danton did not

utter,--he was too proud a man,--but he _acted_ it. He was the first,

to the sound of that axe falling without pity and without respite,--the

first, at the risk of his own head being the next victim,--to call for a

‘committee of mercy.’ It was the sure, the infallible means of bringing

him to expiation; and you all know whether, when that day of expiation

came, he quailed before it. Passing through death,--won by his

courageous effort to stop the effusion of blood,--it may be truly said

that the face and the memory of Danton have washed off the bloody stain

which September put upon them. Committed, at the age of thirty-five,

to the judgment of posterity, Danton has left us the memory of a great

intellect, a strong and powerful character, noble private qualities,

more than one generous action,--all derived from his own being; whereas

the bloody errors he committed were the contagion of his epoch. In a

word, with men of his quality, unjust would be the justice which does

not temper itself with mercy. And here, messieurs, you have in your

midst--better than you, better than I, better than all orators and

historians--a woman who has weighed and understood Danton, and who says

to the pitiless, with the impulse of her charity, ‘He has gone to God;

let us pray for him.’”

The trap thus avoided by this happy allusion to Mother Marie-des-Anges,

and the assembly evidently satisfied, it might be supposed that the

candidate had come to the end of his baiting. The colonel was even

preparing to pass to the vote, when several electors sprang up,

declaring that two important explanations were still required from the

candidate. He had said that he should ever be found an obstacle to all

attempts of the royal power to subvert our institutions. What did he

mean by such resistance? Was it armed resistance, the resistance of

riots and barricades?

“Barricades,” replied Sallenauve, “have nearly always seemed to me

machines which turned of themselves and crushed the men who raised them.

We must believe that in the nature of riots there is something which

serves the interests of the government, for I have invariably heard the

police accused of inciting them. My resistance, that which I spoke of,

will ever be a legal resistance, pursued by legal means, by the press,

by the tribune, and with patience,--that great force granted to the

oppressed and to the vanquished.”

If you knew Latin, madame, I should say to you, _In cauda venenum_;

which means, “In the tail of the serpent is its venom,”--a remark of

antiquity which modern science does not admit. Monsieur de l’Estorade

was not mistaken; Sallenauve’s private life was destined to be

ransacked, and, no doubt under the inspiration of the virtuous Maxime de

Trailles, the second question put to our friend was about the handsome

Italian woman said to be _hidden_ by him in his house in Paris.

Sallenauve showed no embarrassment at being thus interpellated. He

merely asked whether the assembly would think proper to spend its time

in listening to a romantic story in which there was no scandal.

But here comes Sallenauve himself; he tells me that the electoral

college is formed in a manner that leaves little doubt of his election.

I leave my pen to him, to tell you the romantic tale, already, I

believe, interrupted on several occasions. He will close this letter.

XVIII. CHARLES DE SALLENAUVE TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

7 P.M.

Madame,--The rather abrupt manner in which I parted from you and

Monsieur de l’Estorade the evening of our visit to Armand’s school, has

been explained to you by the preoccupations of all sorts to which at

that moment I was a victim. Marie-Gaston tells me that he has kept you

informed of the subsequent events.

I acknowledge that in the restless and agitated state of mind in which

I then was, the sort of belief which Monsieur de l’Estorade appeared to

give to the scandal which he mentioned caused me great displeasure and

some surprise. How, thought I, is it possible that a man of Monsieur de

l’Estorade’s morality and intellect can _a priori_ suppose me capable of

such disorder, when he sees me anxious to give to my life all the weight

and consideration which the respect of others alone can bestow? Only a

few moments before this painful conversation I had been on the point

of making you a confidence which would, I presume, have protected me

against the unfortunate impression which Monsieur de l’Estorade conveyed

to your mind. As for Monsieur de l’Estorade himself, I was, I confess,

so annoyed at seeing the careless manner in which he made himself the

echo of a calumny against which I felt he ought rather to have defended

me that I did not _deign_ to make any explanation to him. I now withdraw

that word, but it was then the true expression of a displeasure keenly

felt.

In the course of my electoral contest, I have been obliged to make

public the justification I did not make to you; and I have had the

satisfaction of finding that men in masses are more capable than

individuals of understanding generous impulses and of distinguishing the

honest language of truth. Here are the facts which I related, but more

briefly and with less detail, to my electors.

A few months before my departure from Rome, I was in a cafe frequented

by the pupils of the Academy, when an Italian musician, named Benedetto,

came in, as he usually did every evening. Nominally he was a musician

and a tolerable one; but we had been warned that he was also a spy of

the Roman police. However that might be, he was very amusing; and as we

cared nothing for the police, we not only endured but we encouraged his

visits,--which was not hard to do in view of his passion for _poncio

spongato_ and _spuma di latte_.

On his entrance one evening, a member of our party asked him who was the

woman with whom he had met him that morning.

“My wife, signore,” answered the Italian.

“Yours, Benedetto!--you the husband of such a beauty!”

“Si, signore.”

“Nonsense! you are ugly and drunken, and people say you are police spy;

but she, on the contrary, is as handsome as Diana the huntress.”

“I charmed her with my talent; she adores me.”

“Well, if she is your wife, make her pose to our friend here, Dorlange,

who wants a model for his Pandora. He can’t get a finer one.”

“That can be managed,” replied the Italian.

The next day I was in my studio in company with several young painters

and sculptors when Benedetto came in accompanied by a woman of rare

beauty, whom I need not describe, for you have seen her, madame, at my

house. A joyous hurrah greeted the Italian, who said to me,--

“_Ecco la Pandora_! Hey! what do you think of her?”

“Marvellously beautiful; but would she pose?”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Benedetto, with an air which seemed to say: “I’d like

to see her refuse.”

“But,” I remarked, “she would cost too much, a model of her beauty.”

“No; you need only make my bust--just a plaster cast--and give it to

her.”

“Very good,” I said. Then I told my friends to go and leave us alone

together.

Nobody minded me. Judging the wife by the husband, the eager young

fellows pressed round her; while she, wounded and angered by the

audacity of their eyes, looked like a caged panther irritated by

peasants at a fair.

Going up to her and pulling her aside, Benedetto told her in Italian

that I wanted to copy her from head to foot, and she must then and there

take off her clothes. The woman gave him one withering look, and

made for the door. Benedetto rushed forward to prevent her; while my

comrades, for the honor of the studio, endeavored to bar his way.

Then began an argument between the wife and the husband; but, as I saw

that Benedetto sustained his part of it with great brutality, I was

angry, and, having a pretty vigorous arm, I pushed him aside, and took

the wife, who was trembling all over, to the door. She said, in Italian,

a few words of thanks, and disappeared instantly.

Returning to Benedetto, who was gesticulating furiously, I told him to

leave the studio, that his conduct was infamous, and if I heard of his

ill-treating his wife I would have him punished.

“_Debole_!” (idiot!) he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and departing

amid derisive cheers.

Several days passed, and no signs of Benedetto. By the end of a week he

was forgotten. Three days before my departure from Rome his wife entered

my studio.

“You are leaving Rome,” she said, “and I want you to take me with you.”

“Take you with me!--but your husband?”

“Dead,” she answered tranquilly.

A thought crossed my mind.

“Did you kill him?” I said.

She made an affirmative sign, adding, “But I meant to die too.”

“How was it?” I asked.

“After he offered me that affront,” she replied, “he came home and beat

me, as he often did; then he went out and was gone all day. At night he

returned with a pistol and threatened to shoot me; but I got the pistol

away from him, for he was drunk. I threw him--the _briccone_!--on his

bed, and he fell asleep. Then I stuffed up the doors and windows, and

lighted the charcoal brazier. My head ached horribly, and I knew nothing

more till the next day, when I woke up in the hands of my neighbors.

They had smelt the charcoal, and burst in the door,--but he was dead.”

“And the law?”

“I told the judge everything. Besides, _he_ had tried to sell me to

an Englishman,--that’s why he wanted to disgrace me here with you; he

thought I would resist less. The judge told me I might go, I had done

right; then I confessed to a priest, and he gave me absolution.”

“But, _cara mia_, what can you do in France? Better stay in Italy;

besides, I am not rich.”

She smiled disdainfully.

“I shall not cost you much,” she said; “on the contrary, I can save you

money.”

“How so?”

“I can be the model for your statues if I choose. Besides which, I am a

capital housekeeper. If Benedetto had behaved properly, we should have

had a good home,--_per che_, I know how to make one; and I’ve another

great talent too!”

She ran to a guitar, which was hanging on the wall, and began to sing a

bravura air, accompanying herself with singular energy.

“In France,” she said, when she had finished, “I could take lessons and

go upon the stage, where I know I should succeed; that was Benedetto’s

idea.”

“But why not do that in Italy?”

“I am hiding from that Englishman,” she replied; “he wants to carry me

off. I am determined to go to France; I have learned to speak French. If

I stay here, I shall throw myself into the Tiber.”

By abandoning such a nature, more terrible than seductive, to itself,

Monsieur de l’Estorade will, I think, agree that I was likely to cause

some misfortune. I consented, therefore, that Signora Luigia should

accompany me to Paris. Since then she has managed my household with

discretion and economy. She even offered to pose for my Pandora; but the

memory of that scene with her husband has, as you may well believe, kept

me from accepting her offer. I have given her a singing-master, and she

is now almost prepared to make her appearance on the stage. But in spite

of her theatrical projects, she, pious like all Italians, has joined the

sisterhood of the Virgin in Saint-Sulpice, my parish church, and during

the month of May, which began a few days ago, the letter of chairs

counts on her beautiful voice for part of her receipts. She is assiduous

at the services, confesses, and takes the sacrament regularly. Her

confessor, a most respectable old man, came to see me lately to request

that she might not be required to pose for any more of my statues,

saying that she would not listen to him on that point, believing herself

bound in honor to me.

My own intention, if I am elected, which now seems probable, is to

separate from this woman. In a position which will place me more before

the public, she would become an object of remark as injurious to

her reputation and future prospects as to mine. I have talked with

Marie-Gaston about the difficulty I foresee in making this separation.

Until now, my house has been the whole of Paris to this poor woman;

and the thought of flinging her alone into the gulf, of which she knows

nothing, horrifies me.

Marie-Gaston thinks that the help and advice of a person of her own sex,

with a high reputation for virtue and good judgment, would be in such

a case most efficacious; and he declares that he and I both know a lady

who, at our earnest entreaty, might take this duty upon herself. The

person to whom Marie-Gaston makes allusion is but a recent acquaintance

of mine, and I could hardly ask even an old friend to take such a care

upon her shoulders. I know, however, that you once did me the honor to

say that “certain relations ripen rapidly.” Marie-Gaston insists that

this lady, being kind and pious and most charitable, will be attracted

by the idea of helping and advising a poor lonely woman. On our return

to Paris, madame, we shall venture to consult you, and you will tell us

whether we may ask for this precious assistance.

In any case, I will ask you to be my intermediary with Monsieur de

l’Estorade; tell him the facts I have now told you, and say that I hope

the little cloud between us may be effectually removed. If I am elected,

we shall be, I know, in opposite camps; but as my intention is not to

take a tone of systematic opposition in all the questions which may

arise between our parties, I do not think there _need_ be any break

between us.

By this time to-morrow, madame, I may have received a checkmate which

will send me back forever to my studio, or I shall have a foot in a

new career. Shall I tell you that the thought of the latter result

distresses me?--doubtless from a fear of the Unknown.

I was almost forgetting to give you another piece of news. I have

consulted Mother Marie-des-Anges (whose history Marie-Gaston tells me

he has related to you) on the subject of my doubts and fears as to the

violence done to Mademoiselle de Lanty, and she has promised that in

course of time she will discover the convent in which Marianina is a

prisoner. The worthy Mother, if she takes this into her head, is almost

certain to succeed in finding the original of her Saint-Ursula.

I am not feeling at all easy in mind about Marie-Gaston. He seems to me

in a state of feverish agitation, partly created by the immense interest

he takes in my success. But I greatly fear that his efforts will

result in a serious reaction. His own grief, which at this moment he is

repressing, has not in reality lost its sting. Have you not been struck

by the rather flighty and mocking tone of his letters, some of which he

has shown to me? That is not in his nature, for in his happiest days

he was never turbulently gay; and I am sadly afraid that when this

fictitious excitement about my election is over he may fall into utter

prostration. He has, however, consented to come and live with me,

and not to go to Ville d’Avray unless I am with him. Even this act of

prudence, which I asked without hoping to obtain it, makes me uneasy.

Evidently he is afraid of the memories that await him there. Have I the

power to lessen the shock? Old Philippe, who was left in charge of the

place when he went to Italy, had orders not to move or change anything

whatever in the house. Our friend is therefore likely to find himself,

in presence of those speaking objects, on the morrow as it were of his

wife’s death. Another alarming thing! he has only spoken of her once,

and will not suffer me to approach the subject. I hope, however, that

this may be a crisis; once passed, I trust we may, by all uniting,

succeed in composing his mind.

Victor or vanquished, I trust to meet you soon, madame, and always as

your most respectful and devoted servant,

Charles de Sallenauve.

XIX. MARIE-GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 17, 1839.

That stupid riot in Paris, the incredible particulars of which we heard

this morning by telegraph, came near causing us to lose the election.

The sub-prefect instantly placarded all over the town the news of this

attempt at insurrection--no doubt instigated by the government to affect

the elections. “What! elect a democrat!” was repeated everywhere in

Arcis, and doubtless elsewhere, “so that his speeches in the Chamber may

be made the ammunition of insurgents!”

That argument threw our phalanx into disorder and hesitation. But the

idea occurred to Jacques Bricheteau to turn the danger itself to good

account, and he hastily printed on a sheet of paper and distributed all

over the town in enormous quantities the following notice:--

A bloody riot took place yesterday in Paris. Questioned as to the

employment of such guilty and desperate means of opposition, one

of our candidates, Monsieur de Sallenauve, answered thus: “Riots

will always be found to serve the interests of the government; for

this reason the police are invariably accused of inciting them.

True resistance, that which I stand for, will always be legal

resistance, pursued by legal means, by the press, by the tribune,

and with Patience--that great force granted to the oppressed and

to the vanquished.”

These words, you will remember, madame, were those in which Sallenauve

answered his questioners at the preparatory meeting. Then followed in

large letters:--

THE RIOT HAS BEEN SUPPRESSED. WHO WILL PROFIT BY IT?

That sheet of paper did marvels; it completely foiled the efforts of

Monsieur de Trailles, who, throwing off the mask, had spent his day in

perorating, in white gloves, on the market-place and from the steps of

the electoral college.

This evening the result is known; namely, two hundred and one votes

cast: two for Beauvisage; twenty-nine for Simon Giguet; one hundred and

seventy for Sallenauve.

Consequently, Monsieur Charles de Sallenauve is proclaimed Deputy.