“You surprise and interest me very much, monsieur. Shall I be indiscreet
if I ask you to tell me the facts of the case? If I am troubling you,
forget that I have said anything about the matter.”
The gentleman took my arm familiarly.
“Not at all, not at all. Let us linger a little behind the others, and
I will tell it you, although it is a very sad story. We have plenty
of time before getting to the cemetery, the trees of which you see up
yonder, for it is a stiff pull up this hill.”
And he began:
“This young woman, Madame Paul Hamot, was the daughter of a wealthy
merchant in the neighborhood, Monsieur Fontanelle. When she was a mere
child of eleven, she had a shocking adventure; a footman attacked her
and she nearly died. A terrible criminal case was the result, and the
man was sentenced to penal servitude for life.
“The little girl grew up, stigmatized by disgrace, isolated, without
any companions; and grown-up people would scarcely kiss her, for they
thought that they would soil their lips if they touched her forehead,
and she became a sort of monster, a phenomenon to all the town. People
said to each other in a whisper: 'You know, little Fontanelle,' and
everybody turned away in the streets when she passed. Her parents could
not even get a nurse to take her out for a walk, as the other servants
held aloof from her, as if contact with her would poison everybody who
came near her.
“It was pitiable to see the poor child go and play every afternoon. She
remained quite by herself, standing by her maid and looking at the other
children amusing themselves. Sometimes, yielding to an irresistible
desire to mix with the other children, she advanced timidly, with
nervous gestures, and mingled with a group, with furtive steps, as if
conscious of her own disgrace. And immediately the mothers, aunts
and nurses would come running from every seat and take the children
entrusted to their care by the hand and drag them brutally away.
“Little Fontanelle remained isolated, wretched, without understanding
what it meant, and then she began to cry, nearly heartbroken with grief,
and then she used to run and hide her head in her nurse's lap, sobbing.
“As she grew up, it was worse still. They kept the girls from her, as
if she were stricken with the plague. Remember that she had nothing
to learn, nothing; that she no longer had the right to the symbolical
wreath of orange-flowers; that almost before she could read she had
penetrated that redoubtable mystery which mothers scarcely allow their
daughters to guess at, trembling as they enlighten them on the night of
their marriage.
“When she went through the streets, always accompanied by her governess,
as if, her parents feared some fresh, terrible adventure, with her eyes
cast down under the load of that mysterious disgrace which she felt
was always weighing upon her, the other girls, who were not nearly so
innocent as people thought, whispered and giggled as they looked at her
knowingly, and immediately turned their heads absently, if she happened
to look at them. People scarcely greeted her; only a few men bowed
to her, and the mothers pretended not to see her, while some young
blackguards called her Madame Baptiste, after the name of the footman
who had attacked her.
“Nobody knew the secret torture of her mind, for she hardly ever spoke,
and never laughed, and her parents themselves appeared uncomfortable in
her presence, as if they bore her a constant grudge for some irreparable
fault.
“An honest man would not willingly give his hand to a liberated convict,
would he, even if that convict were his own son? And Monsieur and Madame
Fontanelle looked on their daughter as they would have done on a son who
had just been released from the hulks. She was pretty and pale, tall,
slender, distinguished-looking, and she would have pleased me very much,
monsieur, but for that unfortunate affair.
“Well, when a new sub-prefect was appointed here, eighteen months
ago, he brought his private secretary with him. He was a queer sort
of fellow, who had lived in the Latin Quarter, it appears. He saw
Mademoiselle Fontanelle and fell in love with her, and when told of what
occurred, he merely said:
“'Bah! That is just a guarantee for the future, and I would rather it
should have happened before I married her than afterward. I shall live
tranquilly with that woman.'
“He paid his addresses to her, asked for her hand and married her, and
then, not being deficient in assurance, he paid wedding calls, as if
nothing had happened. Some people returned them, others did not; but, at
last, the affair began to be forgotten, and she took her proper place in
society.
“She adored her husband as if he had been a god; for, you must remember,
he had restored her to honor and to social life, had braved public
opinion, faced insults, and, in a word, performed such a courageous act
as few men would undertake, and she felt the most exalted and tender
love for him.
“When she became enceinte, and it was known, the most particular people
and the greatest sticklers opened their doors to her, as if she had been
definitely purified by maternity.
“It is strange, but so it is, and thus everything was going on as well
as possible until the other day, which was the feast of the patron saint
of our town. The prefect, surrounded by his staff and the authorities,
presided at the musical competition, and when he had finished his
speech the distribution of medals began, which Paul Hamot, his private
secretary, handed to those who were entitled to them.
“As you know, there are always jealousies and rivalries, which make
people forget all propriety. All the ladies of the town were there
on the platform, and, in his turn, the bandmaster from the village of
Mourmillon came up. This band was only to receive a second-class medal,
for one cannot give first-class medals to everybody, can one? But when
the private secretary handed him his badge, the man threw it in his face
and exclaimed:
“'You may keep your medal for Baptiste. You owe him a first-class one,
also, just as you do me.'
“There were a number of people there who began to laugh. The common herd
are neither charitable nor refined, and every eye was turned toward that
poor lady. Have you ever seen a woman going mad, monsieur? Well, we were
present at the sight! She got up and fell back on her chair three times
in succession, as if she wished to make her escape, but saw that she
could not make her way through the crowd, and then another voice in the
crowd exclaimed:
“'Oh! Oh! Madame Baptiste!'
“And a great uproar, partly of laughter and partly of indignation,
arose. The word was repeated over and over again; people stood on tiptoe
to see the unhappy woman's face; husbands lifted their wives up in their
arms, so that they might see her, and people asked:
“'Which is she? The one in blue?'
“The boys crowed like cocks, and laughter was heard all over the place.
“She did not move now on her state chair, but sat just as if she had
been put there for the crowd to look at. She could not move, nor conceal
herself, nor hide her face. Her eyelids blinked quickly, as if a vivid
light were shining on them, and she breathed heavily, like a horse that
is going up a steep hill, so that it almost broke one's heart to see
her. Meanwhile, however, Monsieur Hamot had seized the ruffian by the
throat, and they were rolling on the ground together, amid a scene of
indescribable confusion, and the ceremony was interrupted.
“An hour later, as the Hamots were returning home, the young woman, who
had not uttered a word since the insult, but who was trembling as if all
her nerves had been set in motion by springs, suddenly sprang over
the parapet of the bridge and threw herself into the river before her
husband could prevent her. The water is very deep under the arches,
and it was two hours before her body was recovered. Of course, she was
dead.”
The narrator stopped and then added:
“It was, perhaps, the best thing she could do under the circumstances.
There are some things which cannot be wiped out, and now you understand
why the clergy refused to have her taken into church. Ah! If it had been
a religious funeral the whole town would have been present, but you can
understand that her suicide added to the other affair and made families
abstain from attending her funeral; and then, it is not an easy matter
here to attend a funeral which is performed without religious rites.”
We passed through the cemetery gates and I waited, much moved by what
I had heard, until the coffin had been lowered into the grave, before I
went up to the poor fellow who was sobbing violently, to press his hand
warmly. He looked at me in surprise through his tears and then said:
“Thank you, monsieur.” And I was not sorry that I had followed the
funeral.