The Baronne de Bonmont had invited all the titled landowners and the
big manufacturers and financiers of the district to a charity fête
which she was giving on the 29th of the month, in the famous Château de
Montil which Bernard de Paves, Grand Master of Artillery in the reign
of Louis XII, had built in 1508 for Nicolette de Vaucelles, his fourth
wife, and which had been bought by Baron Jules after the French loan
of 1871. She had been tactful enough to send no invitations to the
Jewish landowners, although she had friends and relations among them.
After the death of her husband she was baptized, and had now been five
years naturalized. She was wholly devoted to her religion and country.
Like her brother Wallstein, of Vienna, she was careful to distinguish
herself from her former co-religionists by a sincere anti-Semitism. She
was quite unambitious, however, and her natural inclination was for the
pleasures of domestic life. She would have been satisfied with a modest
position among the Christian aristocracy of France, if her son had not
urged her to “make a splash.” It was the little Baron Ernest who had
induced her to get in with the Brécés; it was he who had inscribed the
entire aristocracy of the province on the list of the guests invited to
the projected fête. It was he who brought the little Duchesse de Mausac
to Montil to take part in the play. As she was given to remarking,
she was of good enough birth to sup with circus-riders and drink with
grooms.
The programme of the fête included a performance of _Joconde_ by
society amateurs, a fair in the park, a Venetian fête on the lake, and
illuminations.
It was already the 17th. The preparations were proceeding hurriedly,
amidst extreme confusion. The little company of actors were rehearsing
their play in the long Renaissance gallery, the panels of whose ceiling
bore, in an ingenious variety of design, the peacock of Bernard de
Paves tied by the foot to the lute of Nicolette de Vaucelles.
Monsieur Germaine was accompanying the singers on the piano, while
in the park the carpenters were putting together the framework of
the booths with great blows of their mallets. Largillière, from the
Opéra-Comique, was acting as stage manager.
“Your turn, Duchess.”
Monsieur Germaine’s hands, stripped of their rings, excepting one that
remained on his thumb, struck a chord.
“La, la.”
But, taking the glass handed her by young Bonmont, the Duchess cried:
“Let me drink my cocktail first.”
When she had finished, Largillière repeated:
“Come, Duchess.”
“Tout me seconde,
Je l’ai prévu....”
And Monsieur Germaine’s hands, despoiled of gold and gems save for an
amethyst on the thumb, once more struck a chord. But the Duchess did
not sing. She was staring with interest at the accompanist.
“My dear Germaine, I am lost in admiration! You _have_ grown a bust and
hips! I congratulate you! You’ve really done something! While as for
me—look!” She drew her hands down over her cloth costume. “I’ve got rid
of all that!” She made a half-turn. “Nothing left! It’s all gone! And
in the meantime you’ve been growing them! Now that’s really funny! But
there’s no harm in it. One thing makes up for another.”
But René Chartier, who was playing Joconde, was standing motionless
with his neck extended like a stove-pipe, thinking only of the velvet
and pearls of his voice, which was deep and just a little gloomy. He
grew impatient at last, remarking coldly:
“We shall never be in time; it’s deplorable!”
“Let us start from the quartette,” said Largillière.
“Tout me seconde,
Je l’ai prévu;
Pauvre Joconde!
Il est vaincu.”
“Come along, Monsieur Quatrebarbe.”
Monsieur Gérard Quatrebarbe was the son of the diocesan architect.
Since he had broken the windows of Mayer, the bootmaker, who was
supposed to be a Jew, he was received everywhere in society. He had
a good voice but he missed his cues, and René Chartier cast furious
glances at him.
“You are not in your place, Duchess,” said Largillière.
“No, I dare say not!” replied the Duchess.
René Chartier went up to young Bonmont and whispered in his ear:
“For goodness’ sake don’t give the Duchess any more cocktails, she will
spoil everything.”
Largillière was grumbling too; the choruses were confused and
unimpressive. However, they attacked the trio.
“Monsieur Lacrisse, you are not in your place.”
Joseph Lacrisse was not in his place, and it is only fair to say that
it was not his fault. Madame de Bonmont was perpetually enticing him
into corners and murmuring to him:
“Tell me you love me still; if you don’t still love me I feel I shall
die!”
She also asked him for news of the plot, and as the latter was not
going on at all well the question irritated him. He was annoyed with
her, too, because she had not given any money to the cause. He strode
off stiffly to join the chorus, while René Chartier sang as though he
meant it:
“Dans un délire extrême
On veut fuir ce qu’on aime.”
Young Bonmont went up to his mother.
“Don’t trust Lacrisse, mother.”
She started. Then, in a tone of affected indifference:
“What do you mean? He is very serious, more serious than is usual at
his age. He is occupied with important matters. He——”
The young Baron shrugged his strong crooked shoulders.
“I tell you, don’t trust him. He wants to come down on you for a
hundred thousand francs. He asked me to help to get the cheque out of
you. But at the present time I don’t see that it’s necessary. I am for
the King, but a hundred thousand francs is a large sum.”
René Chartier sang:
“On devient infidèle,
On court de belle en belle.”
A servant brought the Baronne a letter. It was from the Brécés, who
enclosed a contribution to the charity and expressed their regrets that
they would not be able to attend the fête, being obliged to go away
before the 29th.
She handed the letter to her son, who smiled unpleasantly, and asked:
“What about the Courtrais?”
“They refused yesterday, and Madame Cartier de Chalmot as well.”
“The cats!”
“We shall have the Terremondres and the Gromances.”
“The deuce, it’s part of their business to come to our house.”
They reviewed the situation; it was unsatisfactory. Terremondre had
not, as usual, promised to hunt up his cousins and his aunts and all
the rest of the small gentry. The big manufacturers themselves seemed
to be hesitating and seeking excuses for not coming. Young Bonmont
concluded:
“It’s all up with your fête, mother! We are in quarantine, that’s very
evident.”
These words grieved the gentle Elisabeth. Her beautiful face, always
adorned by a loving smile, seemed overcast.
At the other end of the room, above the confused babel of sounds,
Largillière’s voice reiterated:
“Not like that! That’s not the way! We shall never be ready in time.”
“Do you hear?” said the Baronne. “He says we shall not be ready in
time. Suppose we postpone the fête if it’s not going to be a success.”
“You are soft, mother! But I’m not blaming you. It’s your nature. You
are a forget-me-not and will always remain one. I am a fighting man, a
strong man. I’m pretty well played out, as far as my health goes, but—I
shall struggle on to the end.”
“My child!”
“Don’t let that worry you. I’m done for, but I shall struggle on.”
René Chartier’s voice flowed forth like a limpid fountain:
“On pense, on pense encore
A celle qu’on adore,
Et l’on revient toujours
A ses premières a ...”
Suddenly the accompanist ceased playing amidst a great uproar.
Monsieur Germaine was chasing the Duchess who was running off with his
rings. She fled into the monumental fireplace, where on the Angevin
slate were engraven the loves of the nymphs and the metamorphoses of
the gods. Then, pointing to a little pocket in her corsage she said:
“Here are your rings, my old Germaine. Come and fetch them. Look here!
Here’s a pair of Louis XIII tongs! You can use them!”
And she jangled an enormous pair of tongs under the musician’s nose.
René Chartier, savagely rolling his eyes, threw down his score, saying
that he returned his part.
“I don’t believe the Luzancourts are coming either,” said the Baronne,
with a sigh.
“All is not lost. I have an idea,” said the little Baron. “One must
know how to make a sacrifice when it’s useful. Say nothing to Lacrisse!”
“Nothing to Lacrisse?”
“Nothing that matters. Leave it to me.”
He left her and approached the noisy chorus. To the Duchess, who asked
him for another cocktail, he gently remarked:
“Don’t bother me.”
Then he sat down beside Joseph Lacrisse who was meditating apart, and
spoke to him for some time in a low voice. His manner was serious and
resolute.
“It’s true enough,” he said to the secretary of the Committee of Young
Royalists. “We must overthrow the Republic and save France. And to do
that we need money. My mother is of the same opinion. She is prepared
to pay fifty thousand francs to the King’s account for expenses of
propaganda.”
Joseph Lacrisse thanked him in the King’s name.
“Monseigneur,” he said, “will be happy to learn that your mother adds
her patriotic offering to that of the three French ladies who displayed
such chivalrous generosity. You may be sure that he will express his
gratitude in a letter written by his own hand.”
“It’s not worth speaking of,” said young Bonmont.
And after a short silence he added:
“When you see the Brécés and the Courtrais, my dear Lacrisse, you might
tell them to come to our little fête.”