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[Illustration]
_THE REPENTANT HUSBAND_
_Jacques no longer had the strength to spurn him; Edouard approached
Adeline and threw himself at her feet, placing his head against the
ground, and sobbing piteously._
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XVII
BROTHER JACQUES
[Illustration: PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE’S SONS]
THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK
I
A WEDDING PARTY AT THE CADRAN-BLEU.--THE MURVILLE FAMILY
It is midnight; whence come these joyful shouts, these bursts of
laughter, these outcries, this music, this singing, this uproar? Pause a
moment on the boulevard, in front of the Cadran-Bleu; follow the example
of those folk who look on at all the wedding parties, all the banquets,
which take place at the restaurants on Boulevard du Temple, by walking
in front of the windows, or in the roadway, and who enjoy comfortably
the spectacle of a ladies’ chain, a waltz, or a chocolate cream,--at the
risk, however, of being jostled by passers-by, splashed by carriages and
insulted by drivers. But at midnight the idlers, the loiterers, or the
loungers--whichever you may choose to call them--have returned home;
nothing remains in front of the door of the Cadran-Bleu except cabs or
private carriages, according as the guests choose to assume an air of
greater or less importance; but that is the hour at which the tableau
becomes more interesting, more varied, more animated; for not until then
do the guests begin to become really acquainted.
But, you will ask me, what is the occasion of this assemblage at the
Cadran-Bleu? Is it a birthday party, an anniversary, or a banquet of
some society? Better than any of these; it is a wedding party.
A wedding party! What a world of reflections those words arouse! To how
many thoughts, hopes, and memories they give rise! How fast they make
the young girl’s heart beat, who sighs for the moment to come when she
will be the heroine of that great day, when she will carry that pretty
white bouquet, that wreath of orange blossoms, the symbols of modesty
and of maidenhood, which have unhappily lied to more than one husband
who has never boasted about it, and for a good reason! But how the
thought of that ceremony saddens the young wife, but a few years
married, who already has ceased to know happiness except in her memory!
She trembles for the lot of the poor child who is pledging herself! She
remembers the day of her own wedding, the ardor and zealous attentions
of her husband; she compares that day with those that have followed, and
realizes how much confidence can be placed in the vows of man.
But let us leave such reflections. Let us enter the Cadran-Bleu, and
make the acquaintance of the principal persons at this function, whom,
probably, we shall have occasion to see more than once in the course of
this narrative, unless it happens that this chapter has no connection
with the plot, which is quite possible; we read many chapters of that
sort.
Edouard Murville was twenty-five years of age; he was of medium stature
but well-proportioned; his face was attractive, his voice soft, his
manners distinguished. He had all the social talents, played moderately
well on the violin, sang with expression, and danced gracefully; his
language was well-chosen, he was accustomed to society, and he knew how
to enter and leave a salon, which, be it said in passing, is not so easy
as one might think. What! I hear my readers say, does this fellow
suppose that we do not know how to walk, to enter a room, and to bow
gracefully? God forbid that I should express such a judgment upon the
nation which dances best! But there are degrees in everything, and it is
upon those degrees that I base my judgment. A very clever, but slightly
sarcastic woman, beside whom I was sitting not long ago, in the salon of
a banker, favored me with some of her observations, which in general are
very just.
“Come,” she said, “let us examine together the people who come into this
salon; I will wager that I can guess their dispositions, their humor, by
the way in which they enter.--See that tall lady passing through the
crowd, not deigning to notice anybody with even so much as a nod! Now
she is sitting down in front of the fireplace, she places her feet upon
the screen, and installs herself in the best place, without looking to
see whether she is in the way of the people behind her or not. What do
you think of that woman?”
“That she is very pretentious and desires to display her fine dress.”
“That is not all,--add that she is a fool. A clever woman has a thousand
ways of attracting attention without assuming ridiculous airs; and when
she desires to create a sensation, she goes about it skilfully at least,
and does not look with disdain upon people who are dressed in an
old-fashioned way, or whose toilet is slightly careless.--But what is
that noise in the reception room? Has some virtuoso arrived? Has a
sideboard been knocked over? The master of the house is hurrying in that
direction, and we shall soon know what the matter is. Ah! I recognize
that voice. It is Monsieur J----. Listen; you can easily hear him from
here.”
“Ah! my dear friend! I am terribly distressed to arrive so late! Upon my
honor, I am covered with confusion! I don’t know whether I ought to
come in! I am dressed like a thief! I must hide in some corner!”
“Well,” said my neighbor to me, “what do you think of this gentleman,
who does not want to be seen, and who so declares in such a loud voice
that he makes everybody in the salon turn his head?--Ah! he has made up
his mind to come in, nevertheless.”
I expected to see a young dandy, but I saw a man of between forty and
fifty, with a light wig, come forward with a mincing step, bowing to
right and to left and smiling almost agreeably.
“Who on earth is this man?” I asked my neighbor.
“Monsieur J---- is the universal man; he knows all Paris, he belongs to
all the clubs, especially those where they have music. He plays three or
four instruments; there is no amateur concert where he does not take
part; nor is there an artiste who does not know him. You have had an
opportunity of judging, by his method of entering this room, that his
happiness consists in making a sensation; I do not draw from that fact a
very favorable augury of his talents; for, as you know, merit is not in
the habit of seeking a brilliant light. Mediocrity, on the contrary,
makes a great deal of noise, thrusts itself forward, insists upon
pervading everything, and always succeeds in dazzling fools.
“But I see a new face, that of a young man; he at least makes no noise;
he comes in so softly that one can hardly hear him, he half bows, stands
near the door, then creeps along the wall, and finally seizes a chair,
upon which he seats himself very quickly, and from which he will not
stir throughout the evening, I promise you. Poor fellow, he twists his
mouth, winks and blinks, and does not know what to do with his hands. I
will wager that he thinks that all the women are looking at him and
discussing him. I have noticed, that as a general rule, timidity, yes,
even awkwardness, often results from excessive self-consciousness: the
fear of seeming ridiculous, or of not wearing a sufficiently fascinating
expression, imparts that embarrassment to the bearing, that almost
comical expression to the face; if you wish to convince yourself of it,
examine on the stage some _jeune premier_ who is rather good-looking,
and who would act well, perhaps, if he were not engrossed entirely by
his wig, his cravat, his attitude, and the effect which his face is
likely to produce in the hall.”
My neighbor continued her observations; and I would gladly communicate
them to you, reader, were it not that I am beginning to notice that you
opened this volume, not to hear me talk with her, but to learn of the
adventures of Brother Jacques.--A thousand pardons for taking you to a
banker’s salon. I return to the Cadran-Bleu.
You know now that the marriage of Edouard Murville is being celebrated
there, that the bridegroom is twenty-five years old and a very
good-looking fellow. But you do not yet know his wife, and I must hasten
to repair my neglect in that respect; for she is lovely, sweet,
attractive, and virtuous; it would be impossible to make her
acquaintance too soon.
Adeline Germeuil was eighteen years old, and she possessed all those
qualities which charm at first sight and attach one thereafter:
beautiful eyes, fine teeth, graceful manners, a fresh complexion, wit
unsullied by ill-temper, gaiety without coquetry, charm without
affectation, modesty without timidity. She knew that she was pretty, but
did not think that for that reason all men ought to do homage to her;
she loved pleasure but did not make that her sole occupation. In short,
she was a woman such as it is very pleasant to meet, especially when
one is a bachelor.
Adeline was devoted to Edouard, to whom she had given preference over
several much more advantageous offers, for Edouard’s only fortune was
the place which he occupied in one of the government departments, while
Adeline had about fifteen thousand francs a year. But Mademoiselle
Germeuil had no ambition, she considered happiness to consist in
delights of the heart, and not in more or less wealth. Moreover, with
fifteen thousand francs a year, one can live without privation,
especially when one is the wife of a man of orderly habits, who knows
how to regulate his household expenses. Now Murville seemed such a man,
he seemed to have all the estimable qualities, and he carried the day.
Mademoiselle Germeuil had no parent but her mother, a most estimable
woman, who adored her daughter and was never willing to thwart her
desires. However, it was her duty to look after Adeline’s future
welfare; and so, as soon as she discovered her daughter’s love for
Edouard Murville, she made haste to seek information concerning the
young man’s moral character, and concerning his family.
She found that he was born of well-to-do parents; that his father had
followed the profession of the law with honor, but that several
successive failures had reduced the family to the strict necessaries of
life. Edouard and Jacques were Monsieur Murville’s only children.
Jacques was a year younger than Edouard; but Madame Murville had not
divided her affections equally between her two sons. Edouard was the
favorite. A circumstance, apparently most trivial, had influenced Madame
Murville’s sentiments; she had little intellect and a great deal of
vanity; so that she was certain to set great store by all the petty,
puerile things which are of such great weight in society. When she first
became enceinte, she put her mind on the rack, to think what name she
should give to her child. Her desire was to find a name which should be
at once graceful, pleasant to the ear and distinguished; after long
discussions and profound reflections, she decided upon Edouard for a
boy, or Célénie for a girl, Monsieur Murville having left her entirely
free to decide that question.
The first-born was a boy, and he received the name of Edouard, with all
his mother’s affection. When she became enceinte again, she did not
doubt for an instant that she should bring into the world a pretty
little Célénie; the birth of a daughter would have filled her cup to
overflowing. But after long suffering, she brought into the world a
bouncing boy.
It will be understood that this one was not so warmly received as the
first. Moreover, they had not had the slightest expectation of a boy,
and they had not decided what name he should bear. But this time any
previous deliberation upon that subject would have been wasted, for
Monsieur Murville informed his wife that a friend of his desired to be
his son’s godfather. This friend was very rich and they were under some
obligation to him, so that they could not refuse him as godfather. So he
held the child at the altar, and to the great scandal of Madame
Murville, gave him the name of Jacques.
In truth, although Jacques is as good a name as another, it is not very
melodious, and it offended the delicate ear of Madame Murville, who
maintained that it was a name fit for a footman, a Savoyard, a
messenger, and that it was a shame to call her son by it. In vain did
her husband try to make her listen to reason, and recite to her again
and again the history of Scotland, where the throne had been occupied
by many Jacqueses. Madame Murville could never pronounce that name
without a sigh.
However, there was no way to change it, for the godfather, who was
naturally called Jacques also, and who came often to see his godson,
would have been deeply offended to hear him called by any other name.
So the little fellow remained Jacques, to the great distress of Madame
Murville. As for Edouard, whether from a spirit of mischief on his part,
or because the name pleased him, he called Brother Jacques every moment
during the day; and when he had done anything naughty, he always shifted
it to Brother Jacques’s shoulders.
The two brothers were entirely different in disposition; Edouard placid,
well-behaved, obliging, was glad to pass his day by his mother’s side;
Jacques, noisy, boisterous, quick-tempered, could not keep still, and
never went anywhere without turning everything upside down.
Edouard learned readily what was told him; Jacques would throw his books
and pens into the fire, and make a hoop or a wooden sword.
Finally, at sixteen, Edouard went into company with his parents; he had
already learned to listen to conversation and to smile pleasantly at a
pretty woman. At fifteen, Jacques left his parents’ roof, and
disappeared, leaving no letter behind, nothing to indicate his plans, or
the purpose of his departure. They made all possible investigation and
search; they put his description in the newspapers, but they never
learned what had become of him; they waited for news of him, but none
ever came.
Monsieur Murville was deeply grieved at the flight of the hare-brained
young man; even Madame Murville herself realized that she was a mother,
and that a boy might be named Jacques and still be her son; she repented
of her unjust prejudice, she reproached herself for it, but it was too
late. The unfortunate name had had its effect; it had closed to Jacques
his mother’s heart; it drew upon him the mockery of his brother; and
perhaps all these causes combined had driven the young man from the home
of his parents. Who knows? There is so much tossing to and fro in life!
“I caught the measles recently,” said a young man to me yesterday,
“because a man who makes shoes for a young lady friend of mine broke his
spectacles.”
“What connection is there?” said I, “between your measles and a
shoemaker’s spectacles?”
“It was like this, my dear fellow; the lady in question had given me her
word to sing with me that evening at the house of one of our
acquaintances. But she expected some pretty cherry slippers in the
morning, to wear with a dress of that color; the shoemaker in question
had broken his spectacles on the day that he took her measure, so that
he brought her some slippers, which, though they were lovely, were too
small. However, she could not resist the desire to try them on; they
hurt a great deal, but the shoemaker assured her that they would be all
right after she had worn them a while. Ladies think a great deal about
having a small foot. She limped a little when she left the house; when
she was on the boulevard, in the presence of some of her acquaintances,
she did not wish to seem to be limping, so she exerted herself to walk
lightly; but the foot became inflamed and swollen; she suffered
horribly, and was obliged to return home. There she threw the infernal
slippers aside, and examined her feet; they were raw and swollen, and
she could not hope to go out for a week. I, knowing nothing about this,
went to our rendezvous, expecting to employ my evening singing. I did
not find the lady; the mistress of the house was alone; she is very
agreeable, but she is forty years old. The time dragged terribly, I
became impatient, and after waiting for an hour, I went out, having no
idea where I should go. I passed a theatre, went in mechanically, and
solely to kill time, for I knew the plays by heart. I saw a pretty face,
and instinctively took a seat beside it; I said a few words and she
answered; she seemed fond of talking, and I was very glad to find an
opportunity to amuse myself. At last the play came to an end and I
offered my pretty talker my arm. After some slight parley she accepted;
I escorted my fair conquest to her home and did not leave her until I
had obtained permission to call upon her. I did not fail to do so the
next day. In a word, I soon became an intimate friend, and in one of my
visits I caught the measles, which the lady had, unknown to me. So you
see, if the shoemaker hadn’t broken his spectacles, it wouldn’t have
happened.”
My young friend was right: the most important events are often caused by
the most simple distractions, the most trivial circumstances. As for my
hero, there is no doubt that his baptismal name exerted an influence
over his whole destiny. How many men have owed to the splendors of a
famous name, which their ancestors have transmitted to them, a degree of
consideration which would never have been accorded their individuality!
Happy is the man who is able to make his own name famous, and to
transmit it to posterity with glory. But happier perhaps is he who lives
unknown, and whose name will never arouse hatred or envy!
Now you know the Murville family; it remains for me to tell you of the
death of Edouard’s father and mother, who followed each other to the
tomb after a short interval, carrying with them their regret as to the
fate of their son Jacques; and they enjoined upon Edouard to forgive
him his escapade in their name, if he should ever find him.
Edouard was left master of his actions. He was twenty-two years old, and
had a place worth two thousand francs a year; he could live respectably
by behaving himself. He loved pleasure; but society, music, the theatre,
offered him pleasures which cost him little; it never occurred to him to
gamble. He was fond of ladies’ society; but he was not bad-looking and
had no reason to complain of their severity. He allowed himself to be
led astray easily, and had not sufficient strength of character; but
luckily for him, he was not intimate with men of dissolute habits. In a
word, he could not be cited as a model to be followed, but on the other
hand, he had no very great faults.
So that Madame Germeuil readily decided to give her Adeline to Edouard
Murville.
“This young man will make my daughter happy,” she said to herself; “he
has not much strength of character; very good! then my dear child will
be the mistress, and households where the wives rule are often the best
conducted.”
And that is why there was a wedding party at the Cadran-Bleu.
II
GREAT EVENTS CAUSED BY A JIG AND A SNUFF BOX
“How pretty she is! What a fine figure she has! What charm and
freshness!” said the young men, and even the fathers, to one another, as
they watched the bride and followed her every motion when she danced.
“Ah! what a lucky fellow that Edouard is!”
Such was the general opinion.
Edouard heard all this; he was in fact as happy as a man can be when he
is on the point of becoming entirely happy. To conceal his desires, his
impatience, he skipped and danced about, and did not keep still one
minute. From time to time he went into the corridor to consult his
watch; it was still too early--not for him! but he must spare his wife’s
blushes; and what would the company say; what would his wife’s mother
say? Well! he must wait; oh! how long that day had been! Poor husband
and wife! It is the brightest day in all your lives, and yet you wish
that it were already passed! Man is never content.
“The bridegroom looks to be very much in love!” said all the married
ladies; the unmarried ones did not say so, but they thought it.
“Ah! Monsieur Volenville, that is the way you looked at me twenty-two
years ago,” said, with a sigh, to her husband, a lady of forty-five,
overladen with rouge, flowers, laces and ribbons, who sat in a corner of
the ball-room, where she had been waiting in vain since dinner for a
partner to present himself. Monsieur Volenville, formerly a frequent
attendant at the balls at Sceaux, and now an auctioneer in the Marais,
did not answer his wife, but took a pinch of snuff and went into the
next room to watch a game of écarté.
Madame Volenville testily changed her place, which she had done already
several times. She placed herself between two young women, hoping
apparently that that side of the room would be invited in a body, and
that she would thus be included in the dancers. But her hope was
disappointed once more; she saw young men coming toward her, she nodded
her head gracefully, smiled, and put out her foot, which was not
unshapely. They approached; but oh, woe! they addressed themselves to
her right or to her left, and seemed to pay no attention to her and her
soft glances and her pretty foot.
It is really most unpleasant to be a wall-flower, and Madame Volenville,
not knowing what method to employ to attract a partner, deliberated
whether to show the lower part of her leg; it had formerly performed
miracles, and it would be as well to try its power, as the foot produced
no effect.
She decided to do it; the lower part of the calf was about to be shown
as modestly as possible, when suddenly there was a loud call for a
fourth couple to fill up a quadrille. There were no more ladies
remaining; some had left the party, and all the rest were on the floor.
A young man, well-curled and well-perfumed, glanced about the ball-room;
he spied the auctioneer’s wife, resigned himself to his fate, and walked
gravely toward her to ask her to dance. Madame Volenville did not give
the young man time to finish his invitation; she rose, darted toward
him, seized his hand, and squeezed it so that she almost made him cry
out. Our dandy jumped back; he concluded that the poor woman was subject
to hysterical attacks; he gazed at her uneasily, not knowing what course
to pursue; but Madame Volenville gave him little time for reflection:
she dragged him roughly away toward the incomplete quadrille; she took
her place, bowed to her partner, and led him through the cat’s tail and
the ladies’ chain, before he had recovered from his bewilderment.
The heroic and free-and-easy manner of Madame Volenville’s dancing
created a sensation; a confused murmur ran through the salon and the
young men left the card-table for the place where our auctioneeress was
performing. She considered this eagerness to watch her very flattering,
and was enchanted by it; she danced with redoubled fire and animation,
and tried to electrify her partner, who did not seem to share her
vivacity; flushing with rage when he saw the circle which had formed
about him, and heard the sarcastic compliments which the young men
addressed to him, and the spiteful remarks of the young women, he bit
his lips, clenched his fists, and would have given all that he possessed
to have the quadrille come to a close. But Madame Volenville left him
but little time to himself; she was almost always in the air; she
insisted upon balancing, or going forward and back, all the time,
despite the remonstrances of her partner, who said to her until he was
hoarse:
“It isn’t our turn, madame; in a minute; that figure is finished; pray
stop!”
But Madame Volenville was started, and she was determined to make up to
herself for five hours of waiting; and when by chance she did pause for
a second, her glance rested complacently upon the large crowd which
surrounded her; and as with her handkerchief she wiped away the drops
of perspiration which stood on her brow, her eyes seemed to say to the
throng:
“You didn’t expect to see such dancing as this, eh? Another time,
perhaps you will ask me!”
Meanwhile the torture of Belcour--that was the name of Madame
Volenville’s partner--was approaching its end; the quadrille was almost
finished; already they had thrice performed the famous _chassez les
huit_; once more, and all would have been over, when a young notary’s
clerk, a mischievous joker, who loved a laugh, like most of his fellows,
conceived the idea of running to the orchestra, and asking for a jig in
the name of the whole company. The musicians at a wedding party never
refuse any request, and they began to play a jig at the moment that
Belcour bowed to Madame Volenville and attempted to slink away.
The voice of Orpheus imploring the gods of the infernal regions did not
produce so much effect upon Pluto as the strains of the violins and the
air of the jig produced upon Madame Volenville.
“Monsieur! monsieur! it isn’t over yet,” she cried to Belcour, who was
walking away. He pretended not to hear, and was already near the door of
the salon, when Madame Volenville ran after him, caught him and arrested
his steps.
“Monsieur, what are you doing? Don’t you hear the violins? Ah! what a
pretty tune! it’s a jig; come quickly!”
“A thousand pardons, madame, but I thought----”
“It is a jig, monsieur, and I love that dance to madness!”
“Madame, I do not feel very well, and----”
“You shall see my English steps; it was while dancing the jig that I
used to make so many conquests.”
“Madame, I would like a breath of fresh air----”
“And indeed that I fascinated--I attracted my husband, at the ball at
Sceaux.”
“But, madame----”
In vain did Belcour seek to resist; Madame Volenville would not let him
go, but dragged him toward the dance, paying no heed to his excuses.
Seeing that a longer discussion would intensify the absurdity of his
position, he yielded at last and returned to the quadrille. The crowd of
curious onlookers hastily stood aside to make room for the couple upon
whom all eyes were fixed.
The signal was given and everyone started off, the men to the right,
then the ladies, Madame Volenville among the first. With what ardor she
ran to the other men and swung them round as on a pivot! The
perspiration rolled down her cheeks, and streaked her rouge; two of her
_mouches_ fell from her temple to a spot below the ear; her curls became
loosened, her wreath of roses was detached and took the place of a
collar; but none of those things was capable of stopping her: in an
instant she had made the circuit of the quadrille and had returned to
her place. Belcour was no longer there. He had taken advantage of the
confusion occasioned by the figure, to steal away. But Madame Volenville
must have a partner, and she took the first one who came to hand; it was
an old attorney in a hammer wig, who happened to be standing opposite
her. The excellent man had joined the crowd, impelled by curiosity; he
had forced his way to the front and was gazing enviously at a pretty
little breast of twenty years, as white and fresh and solid as a rock,
that belonged to a pretty dancer. The old attorney remarked, with the
lecherous gaze of a connoisseur, that the exertion of dancing scarcely
shook the two lovely globes; he was amazed thereat, because it was a
long while since he had seen anything of the sort at a ball, whether
fancy dress, public, in fashionable or middle-class society, or even at
open air fêtes. Overjoyed by his discovery, and to manifest his
satisfaction to the pretty dancer, he displayed the tip of his tongue
and smiled pleasantly; a method adopted by old rakes to declare their
passion without words.
But the pretty dancer paid no heed to the attorney and his grimaces, and
he, tired of showing his tongue without obtaining a glance, was
deliberating whether, during a moment of crowding and confusion, he
might venture to take her hand, when Madame Volenville, with the
rapidity of a bomb, arrived between him and the young lady he was
admiring, and began to execute her English steps, accompanied by an
alluring simper.
The old libertine gazed with a bewildered air at the flushed, disfigured
face, the disordered headdress and the limp form of Madame Volenville;
he tried to retreat; but she took both his hands, whirled him about and
made him jump into the air.
“Madame, I don’t know this!” cried the attorney, struggling to free
himself.
“Come on, all the same, monsieur! I must have a partner!”
“Stop this, madame; I never waltzed in my life!”
“This isn’t a waltz, monsieur; it’s a jig.”
“Stop, madame, I beg! I am dizzy; I shall fall!”
“You dance like an angel!”
Madame Volenville was a very devil; she considered herself still as
fascinating as at twenty; she was persuaded that her steps, her graces,
her vivacity and her little mincing ways were calculated to fascinate
everybody; she did not realize that years entirely change the aspect of
things. That which is charming at twenty becomes affectation at forty;
the frivolity natural to youth seems folly in maturer years, and the
little simpering expressions which we forgive on a childish face, later
are mere absurdities and sometimes downright grimaces.
It is possible, nevertheless, for a woman of mature years to please; but
she does not succeed in so doing by aping the manners of youth. Nothing
can be more agreeable to the eye, more calculated to attract favorable
notice, than a mother dancing without any affectation of youthful
graces, opposite her daughter; nothing more absurd than an old coquette,
with her hair dressed as if she were sixteen, trying to rival girls of
that age in agility.
Madame Volenville was, as you see, an indefatigable dancer; she strove
to infect her partner with the ardor that animated her; but the old
attorney, red as a cherry, rolled his eyes wildly, unable to distinguish
objects; everything about him was going round and round; the jig, the
heat and his wrath combined to make him helplessly dizzy. He held his
face as far from his partner’s as possible; but, to put the finishing
touch to his discomfiture, his wig came off, fell to the floor, where it
was trampled under foot by the dancers, and the attorney’s head was
revealed to the eyes of the guests, as bare as one’s hand.
This last mishap, adding tenfold to the old fellow’s rage, gave him the
strength to break loose from his partner; he pushed her away with great
force. Madame Volenville fell into the lap of a stout clerk, who was
sitting peacefully on a bench at the end of the room, running over in
his mind with keen enjoyment the names of all the dishes he had eaten at
dinner.
The corpulent party uttered a sharp exclamation when Madame Volenville
landed on him; he swore that he was being suffocated; but she did not
stir, because no woman in good society ought to fall upon anyone
without swooning. Monsieur Tourte--that was the clerk’s name--called for
help, while Monsieur Robineau--our attorney--loudly demanded his wig,
which he sought in vain in every corner of the room, but could not find,
because the young notary’s clerk had obtained possession of it first and
had thrown it out of the window onto the boulevard, where it fell on the
nose of a cab-driver, who was looking at the sky to see if it was likely
to rain the next day.
Meanwhile Edouard and Madame Germeuil strove to restore tranquillity and
to bring order out of chaos. Adeline, for her part, could not help
laughing, with all the other young women, at Madame Volenville’s
attitude, Monsieur Tourte’s face and Monsieur Robineau’s fury.
Monsieur Volenville finally left his game of écarté, went to get a
carafe of water, and approached his wife, whom he did not recognize, so
great was the havoc wrought upon her dress and her face. After taking
his pinch of snuff, he relieved his wife of her wreath of roses and
began to slap her hands, while Madame Germeuil held a phial of salts
under her nose. But nothing availed, nothing had any effect on the
benumbed senses of the formidable dancer. Madame Germeuil was at her
wit’s end. Monsieur Tourte swore that he would bite Madame Volenville in
the arm or somewhere else, if somebody did not instantly remove the
burden that was suffocating him, and the auctioneer resorted to his
snuff-box in quest of ideas.
At that moment Monsieur Robineau was rushing about the ball-room in the
guise of a cherub, and feeling angrily under the furniture and even
under people’s feet, in search of his wig. He drew near the group
surrounding the auctioneer’s unconscious wife; he spied something gray
under the bench that supported his late partner and the stout clerk.
Instantly he darted forward, pushed aside Monsieur Volenville, who was
in front of him, threw himself on his hands and knees, and put his hand
between the auctioneer’s legs to grasp the object which he believed to
be his dear wig.
Monsieur Robineau’s manœuvre was executed so suddenly that Monsieur
Volenville lost his balance; as he was stooping forward, he fell almost
upon his wife, and the snuff-box, which he had just opened, emptied
itself entirely into his loving better half’s nose and mouth.
This accident recalled Madame Volenville to life; she sneezed five times
in rapid succession, rubbed her eyes, opened her mouth, swallowed a
large quantity of snuff, made such horrible faces that they put to
flight her husband and all the other persons who were near her, squirmed
about and spat violently into the face of Monsieur Robineau, who at that
moment withdrew his hand from under the bench and rose, swearing like
the damned--who swear a great deal in this world, to say nothing of what
they will do when they are roasting in hell like pork pies.
And why did Monsieur Robineau swear? Why, reader? Because, instead of
putting his hand on his wig, which, as you know, was reposing on the
boulevard, the unlucky attorney had seized the tail of a cat, which,
vexed at being pulled so violently by a sensitive part, had, in
accordance with the custom of its kind, buried its claws in the cruel
hand that had grasped it.
“It is very unpleasant to be unlucky!” said a worthy bourgeois of the
Marais the other evening at a performance of _La Pie Voleuse_, as he
wept over the misfortunes of Palaiseau’s little maid-servant. To
interpret what I presume to be that gentleman’s meaning, I will say that
it is very painful to experience so many misfortunes as Monsieur
Robineau did in one evening. When one has danced against one’s will and
has lost one’s wig; when one has been clawed on the hands and has been
spat upon, one is quite justified in being angry. The poor attorney was
so angry that he turned yellow, red and white, almost at the same
instant; in his frenzy, he had no idea what he was doing, and,
regardless of sex, was about to assault Madame Volenville, when some of
the guests interposed between him and the person whom he justly regarded
as the cause of all his misfortunes.
They had much difficulty in pacifying Monsieur Robineau and in making
him understand that madame had expectorated without malicious intent.
Edouard succeeded at last in calming him a little; and while he wiped
his face, the young bridegroom took from his pocket a dainty silk
handkerchief, which he offered the attorney to put over his head.
Monsieur Robineau accepted it, covered his head with the handkerchief,
and placed his round hat on top; which gave him the appearance of a
Spanish rebel, or a bandolero, or a guerilla, or battueca; or, if you
prefer, of one of those little dogs, dressed in human garb, which ride
majestically along the boulevard in baskets borne by a learned donkey.
The attorney left the salon without paying his respects to the ladies,
and without kissing the bride; he hurried from the Cadran-Bleu, but as
he passed the waiters and scullions from the restaurant he could not
help hearing their laughter and jests. He did not take a cab, because he
lived on Rue du Perche; and when he reached home, he went to bed,
cursing waltzes and jigs, and calculating what a new wig would cost him.
As for Madame Volenville, of whom Monsieur Tourte finally succeeded in
ridding himself, it was most essential to induce her to leave the
ball-room, for the snuff which she had swallowed produced a most
unpleasant effect on her stomach. The expectoration became more
frequent, and began to change to hiccoughs and symptoms of nausea, that
presaged an accident which one is never desirous to witness, and which,
moreover, it is prudent to avert in a room where people are dancing.
So the poor woman was taken away, almost carried, from the scene of her
exploits. When she passed a mirror, she thought that she would die of
chagrin, or swoon again; in truth, her snuff-besmeared face, her
dishevelled hair, her disordered clothing, were well adapted to drive to
despair a woman with pretensions; and we have seen that Madame
Volenville possessed rather a large supply for her years.
They looked for her husband, and had some difficulty in inducing him to
go to his wife, upon whom he insisted that someone had put a mask. At
last they were placed in a cab, which took them home, where, if you
please, we will leave them, to return to the newly-married pair.
Terpsichore had banished cruel Discord, who, since the nuptials of
Peleus and Thetis, to which, foolishly enough, she was not bidden, has
adopted the habit of coming unexpectedly to sow confusion in marriage
festivities; that was the reason, I presume, that she deigned to attend
the bourgeois wedding at the Cadran-Bleu; for it is said that a couple
can never escape a visit from the ill-omened goddess; and if she does
not appear on the first day, she makes up for it during the year.
But let us leave Terpsichore, Discord and all mythology; let us abandon
metaphors and figures of speech; let us leave to the authors of octavo
romances, flowers, cascades, the moon, the stars, and above all, those
poetical inversions of language which tell you at the end of a sentence
what the hero meant to say at the beginning; those delightful détours,
whereby a father will say: “At last toward me stepped forth my
daughter;” instead of saying simply: “My daughter stepped toward me;”
which, in my judgment, would be much more clear, but which would
resemble the ordinary way of talking in the world, in society; a vulgar
jargon, which should not be employed by persons who live in underground
dungeons without breaking their necks, or who constantly scale
perpendicular cliffs without being tired when they reach the top.
Moreover, will our lovely women, our _petites-maîtresses_ extol a novel
to the clouds, if the hero does not speak another language than that of
their husbands and lovers?--”Bah! that is a book for the servants’
hall!” they will say, as they disdainfully cast aside a novel which is
neither English, nor German, nor romantic! “It is an insufferable sort
of work! forbidden words are used in it! I find the word _cuckold_
there! Mon Dieu! it is shocking! But our newspaper critic will belabor
that author soundly for us!”
And in fact the critic reads the work and considers it revoltingly
immoral! The author’s cynicism, his obscenity are beyond words! he uses
the word _cuckold_ when he finds it necessary! Did anyone ever hear of
such indecency?--To be sure, Molière often used the same word, and some
others even stronger, in several of his works; but what a difference!
one must be very careful not to print in a novel what one may say on the
stage before a large audience!--Make your inversions, ye novelists; go
back to the Syntax; adopt a style _ad usum tyronum linguæ Latinæ_;
monopolize mythology, astronomy, mineralogy, ornithology, zoology, aye,
even conchology; mingle with it all a little ancient and sacred history,
much about dreams and ghosts, minstrels, druids, or hermits, according
to the scene of your plot; indulge in sonorous phrases, which used to be
called fustian, and you will surely have a fashionable success! Some
ladies will faint when they are reading you, others after they read you;
there will even be some who will not understand you; but you will appear
all the nobler to them! To be unintelligible is to be sublime in your
kind. Great geniuses wrap themselves in mystery.--Ask Cagliostro
rather,--he ought not to be dead, as he was a sorcerer,--or Lord Byron,
or Mademoiselle Lenormand.
As for you, young authors, who claim to be simple and natural, who seek
to arouse laughter or interest with events which may happen any day
before our eyes, and who describe them for us in such wise as to be
readily understood, away with you to oblivion! or go to see _George
Dandin_ and _Le Malade Imaginaire_; those plays are worthy of you; but
you will never be read by our vaporish ladies, and you will not cause
the hundred mouths of Renown to sound.
Despite all this, we have the unfortunate habit of writing as we should
speak, and we shall continue so to do; you are at liberty, reader, to
drop us here and now if our method does not suit you.
So the dancing continued at the Cadran-Bleu; but the fête drew toward
its close, to the great satisfaction of Edouard, and doubtless of
Adeline, who blushed and smiled whenever her fond husband glanced at
her.
At last the clock struck the hour to retire; Madame Germeuil herself
took her daughter away; they entered a carriage, drove off, and in due
time arrived at Boulevard Montmartre, where the young couple were to
live, and with them the dear mamma, who did not wish to part from her
Adeline, who, she hoped, would close her eyes.
A dainty apartment was all arranged. Madame Germeuil embraced her
daughter lovingly, then went to her own room, not without a sigh. That
was quite natural; the rights of a mother cease when those of a husband
begin! But what do rights matter when hearts remain the same? Nature and
love easily find lodgment in a sensitive heart, and have no power over a
cold and selfish one. Men make the laws, but the feelings are not to be
commanded.
Luckily for Edouard, the charming Adeline loved him because he pleased
her, and not simply because the Church ordered her to love him. That is
why, when she was alone with her husband, she threw herself into his
arms without a tear; that is why she did not make a great fuss about
allowing herself to be undressed, and why she was so soon in bed; and
lastly, that is why we shall say no more about it.
III
DUFRESNE
While our young husband and wife abandoned themselves to the
unrestrained enjoyment of their mutual love and indulged the legitimate
passion they felt; while Adeline readily yielded to her new situation,
as young wives do, let us leave them and make the acquaintance of a
person whom we shall meet again in the course of this narrative.
Among the crowd which had surrounded Madame Volenville and Monsieur
Robineau, and had laughed at the misfortunes of the auctioneer’s wife
and the attorney, there was one man who had remained indifferent to the
pranks of the other guests and had taken no part in the jests of the
young clerk and the tricks resorted to in order to prolong the famous
quadrille.
This man seemed to be not more than twenty-eight or thirty years old; he
was tall and well-shaped; his features were regular, and would have been
handsome if his eyes had been less shifty; but his vague glance, to
which he sought to give an expression of benevolence, inspired neither
friendship nor confidence; and the smile which sometimes played about
his lips seemed rather bitter than amiable.
Dufresne--such was this young man’s name--had been brought to Edouard
Murville’s wedding by a stout lady with three daughters, who had for a
long time been in the habit of taking half a dozen young men to all the
parties which she attended with her young ladies. Madame Devaux liked to
entertain a great deal of company, especially young men; and her motive
was easily divined: when one has three daughters, and no dowry to give
them, one does not find husbands for them by keeping them always in
their room; they must be introduced into society, and must wait until
chance inspires a very sincere little passion which ends in marriage.
Unfortunately, sincere passions are more infrequent in society than in
English novels; and often, in their search for husbands, the young
ladies meet gay deceivers instead, who are strong on the passions, but
weak in virtue! But still, something must be risked in order to catch a
husband.
So it was that Madame Devaux had received Dufresne, who had been
introduced to her by a friend of one of her neighbors; and as he was
young and rather good-looking, she had included him in the list of the
men whom she proposed to take to Edouard’s wedding, in order that her
young ladies might not lack partners.
Dufresne knew neither the bridegroom nor his wife; but it often happens
at a large party that one does not know the host; and now that our
French receptions are adopting the style of English _routs_, and are
becoming mere mobs, no one pays any heed to his neighbor, and it not
infrequently happens that you leave those noisy functions without even
saluting the host or the hostess.
Madame Devaux had made a mistake, however, in relying upon Dufresne to
dance with her daughters. He cared little for dancing; he made haste to
pay his debt by inviting each of the Devaux girls to dance once; but
after that, he contented himself with the rôle of simple spectator,
taking the precaution to go into the card room when the quadrilles were
not full. He cast his eyes over all the guests in the salons, but they
rested most frequently upon Edouard and Adeline; the sight of the
husband and wife seemed to attract all his attention; he followed their
movements; watched their slightest actions, and seemed to be trying to
read the inmost thoughts of their hearts. When Adeline smiled fondly at
her husband, Dufresne, standing a few steps away, observed that smile,
and his eyes eagerly followed its development.
“Really, mamma,” said Cleopatra, the oldest of the daughters, to Madame
Devaux, “we won’t take Monsieur Dufresne to a ball again; just see how
he acts! he doesn’t dance! he looks like a bear!”
“That is true, my child! If he would only come and sit down by us and
talk and pretend to be polite!”
“Oh, yes! why, he doesn’t pay the slightest attention to us! I should
like to know what he is doing in that corner, near Madame Germeuil!”
“He certainly is not agreeable, and I shall not take him to Monsieur
Verdure’s the day after to-morrow, where there is to be music, and
perhaps a collation. I will take little Godard; he is rather stupid, but
at all events he will dance as long as anybody wants him to.”
“Yes, and he is always on hand to give us something to drink.”
“By the way, Cleopatra, who will go home with us to-night?”
“Why, I don’t know. Two of our gentlemen have gone away already; one had
a headache, and the other wanted to go to bed early because he had an
appointment for to-morrow morning. But we must have someone.”
“Never fear, I will hide Monsieur Dufresne’s hat, and he won’t go away
without us, I promise you; that would be too much,--to be taken to a
party by ladies, and let them go home alone!”
“You know very well, mamma, that it wouldn’t be the first time that such
a thing had happened to us.”
“Never mind, Cleopatra, it won’t be so to-night, and Monsieur Dufresne
will pay for the cab.”
While the ladies were conversing, Dufresne continued his observations.
He had noticed that Madame Germeuil was on very intimate terms with a
young widow named Madame Dolban; thereafter this Madame Dolban became
the object of Dufresne’s attentions, and he easily succeeded in making
her acquaintance; for the widow was not at all pretty, and the homage of
an attractive man was certain to seem all the more flattering to her
because she rarely received anything of the sort.
When Dufresne wished to go, he fell into the trap which Madame Devaux
had set for him: he did not find his hat until the moment when the
mother and her three daughters were ready to go. It was impossible for
him to avoid the duty. Moreover, Madame Dolban had refused his escort;
but she had given him permission to call and pay her his respects, and
that was all that he wanted. So the young man performed with sufficient
good grace the service which was expected of him; he packed the Devaux
family into a cab, seated himself on the front seat between Cleopatra
and Césarine, and they started for Rue des Martyrs.