So this year, as in other years, I have been dining at the Chantals’ to
celebrate Epiphany.
According to custom I embraced M. Chantal, Madame Chantal and
Mademoiselle Perle, and made a profound bow to Mesdemoiselles Louise
and Pauline. They asked me a thousand questions, about town gossip,
about politics, about popular opinion on the events in Tonkin, and
about our representatives. Madame Chantal, a stout lady, whose ideas
always give me the impression that they are squared like so many hewn
stones, had a habit of enouncing the phrase, “That will bear evil
fruit some day,” as the conclusion of every political discussion. Why
have I always imagined that Madame Chantal’s ideas are square? I do
not know, the fact remains that everything she says assumes this shape
in my mind; a square, a big square with four equal angles. There are
other persons whose ideas always seem to be round and rolling like
circles. No sooner have they commenced a phrase on some subject, than
it goes rolling and issues in a dozen, a score, fifty round ideas, big
and little, which I see running one after the other to the farthest
horizon. Other persons, again, have pointed ideas.... But that is
neither here nor there.
We sat down to table as usual, and the dinner passed without anything
being said worth remembering.
At dessert, the Twelfth-cake was brought in. Now, every year M.
Chantal was king. Whether that was a repeated coincidence or a family
arrangement, I do not know, but he used infallibly to find the bean
in his share of the cake, and used to proclaim Madame Chantal queen.
So I was astounded to feel in a mouthful of cake something very hard,
which almost broke a tooth for me. I carefully removed the thing from
my mouth and saw a little china doll no bigger than a bean. In my
surprise, I exclaimed, “Ah!” They looked at me, and Chantal clapped his
hands and shouted, “Gaston’s got it! Gaston’s got it! Long live the
king! Long live the king!”
Everybody repeated in chorus, “Long live the king!” and I blushed up to
my ears, as one will blush, for no reason whatever, in rather foolish
situations. I sat looking down at the cloth, with the scrap of china in
my finger and thumb, forcing a laugh, and at a loss what to say or do,
when Chantal resumed, “Now, you must choose a queen.”
At that I was overwhelmed. In a second, a thousand thoughts, a thousand
suppositions flashed through my mind. Did they mean me to single out
one of the Chantal girls? Was this a plan for making me say which one I
preferred? Was it a gentle, slight, insensible impulse from the parents
towards a possible marriage? The notion of marriage is constantly
lurking in all those houses with grown-up daughters, and takes all
sorts of forms, all sorts of disguises, all sorts of measures. I felt
horribly afraid of compromising myself, and also excessively timid in
face of the obstinately correct and composed attitude of Mesdemoiselles
Louise and Pauline. To elect one of them to the detriment of the other
was, to my mind, as difficult as to choose between two drops of water;
and, besides, I was dreadfully scared by the fear of risking myself
in an affair where I should be led on to marriage against my will by
procedures so discreet, so imperceptible, and so calm as this trumpery
royalty.
But all at once I had an inspiration, and I offered the symbolical
doll to Mademoiselle Perle. They were all surprised at first; then
they undoubtedly appreciated my delicacy and my discretion, for they
applauded furiously. “Long live the queen, long live the queen!” they
shouted.
As for her, poor old maid, she had lost countenance entirely: she
trembled, quite scared, and stammered, “Oh no.... Oh no.... Oh no ...
not me.... I pray you ... not me.... I pray you!”
At that I considered Mademoiselle Perle for the first time in my life,
and began to ask myself what she was.
I was accustomed to seeing her in that house, as one sees the old
tapestry arm-chairs on which one has sat from childhood, without ever
noticing them. Some day, no one knows why, because a sunbeam falls on
the chair, one says, “Why, this is very interesting.” And one discovers
that the wood has been wrought by an artist, and that the covering is
remarkable. I had never taken any notice of Mademoiselle Perle.
She was a member of the Chantal household, and nothing more. But why,
on what footing?--She was a tall, thin person, who kept herself in
the background, but was not insignificant. They treated her friendly,
better than a housekeeper, not so well as a relative. Now, however,
on a sudden I grasped some fine distinctions which I had not troubled
about before! Madame Chantal said “Perle,” the girls, “Mademoiselle
Perle,” and Chantal always called her “Mademoiselle,” though perhaps
more respectfully than they did.
I began to consider her.--What was her age? Forty? Yes, forty.--She
was not an old maid, she was growing old. This observation suddenly
occurred to me. She did her hair, dressed, adorned herself in a
ridiculous fashion, yet for all that she was not ridiculous, she had
such a simple, natural grace about her, a veiled grace, studiously
concealed. What a strange creature, to be sure! Why had I never
observed her better? She did her hair in a grotesque fashion, in
little, droll, old-fashioned ringlets. Yet under this antiquated
Virgin’s hairdressing appeared a broad, calm forehead, scored by two
deep wrinkles, two wrinkles of long-continued griefs, then two blue
eyes, large and gentle, so timid, so startled, so humble, two beautiful
eyes that had remained so innocent; so full of maiden astonishment, of
youthful sensations, and also of disappointments that had entered into
them and softened without troubling them.
Her whole face was intelligent and discreet, one of those faces which
have toned down without being worn out or faded by the fatigues or the
great emotions of life.
What a pretty mouth! and what pretty teeth! Yet one would have said
that she dared not smile!
And suddenly I compared her with Madame Chantal! Why, to be sure!
Mademoiselle Perle was handsomer, a hundred times handsomer, more
intelligent, more noble, more dignified.
I was stupefied with the result of my observations. Champagne was
poured out. I held my glass towards the queen, and proposed her health
in a well-turned compliment. She would have liked, I could see, to
hide her face in her napkin. Then, as she dipped her lips in the clear
wine, every one cried, “The queen drinks, the queen drinks!” At that
she blushed all over and choked; but I could see that she was greatly
beloved in that house.