preferred to her daughter by amateurs of sunset beauty; for she had
not yet lost any of her charms, by one of those phenomena which are
especially rare in Paris, where Ninon was regarded as scandalous,
simply because she thus seemed to enjoy such an unfair advantage over
the plainer women of the seventeenth century.
Thinking of her daughter brought her back to the father; she saw him
sinking by degrees, day after day, down to the social mire, and even
dismissed some day from his appointment. The idea of her idol's fall,
with a vague vision of the disasters prophesied by Crevel, was such a
terror to the poor woman, that she became rapt in the contemplation
like an ecstatic.
Cousin Betty, from time to time, as she chatted with Hortense, looked
round to see when they might return to the drawing-room; but her young
cousin was pelting her with questions, and at the moment when the
Baroness opened the glass door she did not happen to be looking.
Lisbeth Fischer, though the daughter of the eldest of the three
brothers, was five years younger than Madame Hulot; she was far from
being as handsome as her cousin, and had been desperately jealous of
Adeline. Jealousy was the fundamental passion of this character,
marked by eccentricities--a word invented by the English to describe
the craziness not of the asylum, but of respectable households. A
native of the Vosges, a peasant in the fullest sense of the word,
lean, brown, with shining black hair and thick eyebrows joining in a
tuft, with long, strong arms, thick feet, and some moles on her narrow
simian face--such is a brief description of the elderly virgin.
The family, living all under one roof, had sacrificed the
common-looking girl to the beauty, the bitter fruit to the splendid
flower. Lisbeth worked in the fields, while her cousin was indulged;
and one day, when they were alone together, she had tried to destroy
Adeline's nose, a truly Greek nose, which the old mothers admired.
Though she was beaten for this misdeed, she persisted nevertheless in
tearing the favorite's gowns and crumpling her collars.
At the time of Adeline's wonderful marriage, Lisbeth had bowed to
fate, as Napoleon's brothers and sisters bowed before the splendor of
the throne and the force of authority.
Adeline, who was extremely sweet and kind, remembered Lisbeth when she
found herself in Paris, and invited her there in 1809, intending to
rescue her from poverty by finding her a husband. But seeing that it
was impossible to marry the girl out of hand, with her black eyes and
sooty brows, unable, too, to read or write, the Baron began by
apprenticing her to a business; he placed her as a learner with the
embroiderers to the Imperial Court, the well-known Pons Brothers.
Lisbeth, called Betty for short, having learned to embroider in gold
and silver, and possessing all the energy of a mountain race, had
determination enough to learn to read, write, and keep accounts; for
her cousin the Baron had pointed out the necessity for these
accomplishments if she hoped to set up in business as an embroiderer.
She was bent on making a fortune; in two years she was another
creature. In 1811 the peasant woman had become a very presentable,
skilled, and intelligent forewoman.
Her department, that of gold and silver lace-work, as it is called,
included epaulettes, sword-knots, aiguillettes; in short, the immense
mass of glittering ornaments that sparkled on the rich uniforms of the
French army and civil officials. The Emperor, a true Italian in his
love of dress, had overlaid the coats of all his servants with silver
and gold, and the Empire included a hundred and thirty-three
Departments. These ornaments, usually supplied to tailors who were
solvent and wealthy paymasters, were a very secure branch of trade.
Just when Cousin Betty, the best hand in the house of Pons Brothers,
where she was forewoman of the embroidery department, might have set
up in business on her own account, the Empire collapsed. The
olive-branch of peace held out by the Bourbons did not reassure Lisbeth;
she feared a diminution of this branch of trade, since henceforth there
were to be but eighty-six Departments to plunder, instead of a hundred
and thirty-three, to say nothing of the immense reduction of the army.
Utterly scared by the ups and downs of industry, she refused the
Baron's offers of help, and he thought she must be mad. She confirmed
this opinion by quarreling with Monsieur Rivet, who bought the
business of Pons Brothers, and with whom the Baron wished to place her
in partnership; she would be no more than a workwoman. Thus the
Fischer family had relapsed into the precarious mediocrity from which
Baron Hulot had raised it.
The three brothers Fischer, who had been ruined by the abdication at
Fontainebleau, in despair joined the irregular troops in 1815. The
eldest, Lisbeth's father, was killed. Adeline's father, sentenced to
death by court-martial, fled to Germany, and died at Treves in 1820.
Johann, the youngest, came to Paris, a petitioner to the queen of the
family, who was said to dine off gold and silver plate, and never to
be seen at a party but with diamonds in her hair as big as hazel-nuts,
given to her by the Emperor.
Johann Fischer, then aged forty-three, obtained from Baron Hulot a
capital of ten thousand francs with which to start a small business as
forage-dealer at Versailles, under the patronage of the War Office,
through the influence of the friends still in office, of the late
Commissary-General.
These family catastrophes, Baron Hulot's dismissal, and the knowledge
that he was a mere cipher in that immense stir of men and interests
and things which makes Paris at once a paradise and a hell, quite
quelled Lisbeth Fischer. She gave up all idea of rivalry and
comparison with her cousin after feeling her great superiority; but
envy still lurked in her heart, like a plague-germ that may hatch and
devastate a city if the fatal bale of wool is opened in which it is
concealed.
Now and again, indeed, she said to herself:
"Adeline and I are the same flesh and blood, our fathers were brothers
--and she is in a mansion, while I am in a garret."
But every New Year Lisbeth had presents from the Baron and Baroness;
the Baron, who was always good to her, paid for her firewood in the
winter; old General Hulot had her to dinner once a week; and there was
always a cover laid for her at her cousin's table. They laughed at her
no doubt, but they never were ashamed to own her. In short, they had
made her independent in Paris, where she lived as she pleased.
The old maid had, in fact, a terror of any kind of tie. Her cousin had
offered her a room in her own house--Lisbeth suspected the halter of
domestic servitude; several times the Baron had found a solution of
the difficult problem of her marriage; but though tempted in the first
instance, she would presently decline, fearing lest she should be
scorned for her want of education, her general ignorance, and her
poverty; finally, when the Baroness suggested that she should live
with their uncle Johann, and keep house for him, instead of the upper
servant, who must cost him dear, Lisbeth replied that that was the
very last way she should think of marrying.
Lisbeth Fischer had the sort of strangeness in her ideas which is
often noticeable in characters that have developed late, in savages,
who think much and speak little. Her peasant's wit had acquired a good
deal of Parisian asperity from hearing the talk of workshops and
mixing with workmen and workwomen. She, whose character had a marked
resemblance to that of the Corsicans, worked upon without fruition by
the instincts of a strong nature, would have liked to be the
protectress of a weak man; but, as a result of living in the capital,
the capital had altered her superficially. Parisian polish became rust
on this coarsely tempered soul. Gifted with a cunning which had become
unfathomable, as it always does in those whose celibacy is genuine,
with the originality and sharpness with which she clothed her ideas,
in any other position she would have been formidable. Full of spite,
she was capable of bringing discord into the most united family.
In early days, when she indulged in certain secret hopes which she
confided to none, she took to wearing stays, and dressing in the
fashion, and so shone in splendor for a short time, that the Baron
thought her marriageable. Lisbeth at that stage was the piquante
brunette of old-fashioned novels. Her piercing glance, her olive skin,
her reed-like figure, might invite a half-pay major; but she was
satisfied, she would say laughing, with her own admiration.
And, indeed, she found her life pleasant enough when she had freed it
from practical anxieties, for she dined out every evening after
working hard from sunrise. Thus she had only her rent and her midday
meal to provide for; she had most of her clothes given her, and a
variety of very acceptable stores, such as coffee, sugar, wine, and so
forth.
In 1837, after living for twenty-seven years, half maintained by the
Hulots and her Uncle Fischer, Cousin Betty, resigned to being nobody,
allowed herself to be treated so. She herself refused to appear at any
grand dinners, preferring the family party, where she held her own and
was spared all slights to her pride.
Wherever she went--at General Hulot's, at Crevel's, at the house of
the young Hulots, or at Rivet's (Pons' successor, with whom she made
up her quarrel, and who made much of her), and at the Baroness' table
--she was treated as one of the family; in fact, she managed to make
friends of the servants by making them an occasional small present,
and always gossiping with them for a few minutes before going into the
drawing-room. This familiarity, by which she uncompromisingly put
herself on their level, conciliated their servile good-nature, which
is indispensable to a parasite. "She is a good, steady woman," was
everybody's verdict.
Her willingness to oblige, which knew no bounds when it was not
demanded of her, was indeed, like her assumed bluntness, a necessity
of her position. She had at length understood what her life must be,
seeing that she was at everybody's mercy; and needing to please
everybody, she would laugh with young people, who liked her for a sort
of wheedling flattery which always wins them; guessing and taking part
with their fancies, she would make herself their spokeswoman, and they
thought her a delightful _confidante_, since she had no right to find
fault with them.
Her absolute secrecy also won her the confidence of their seniors;
for, like Ninon, she had certain manly qualities. As a rule, our
confidence is given to those below rather than above us. We employ our
inferiors rather than our betters in secret transactions, and they
thus become the recipients of our inmost thoughts, and look on at our
meditations; Richelieu thought he had achieved success when he was
admitted to the Council. This penniless woman was supposed to be so
dependent on every one about her, that she seemed doomed to perfect
silence. She herself called herself the Family Confessional.
The Baroness only, remembering her ill-usage in childhood by the
cousin who, though younger, was stronger than herself, never wholly
trusted her. Besides, out of sheer modesty, she would never have told
her domestic sorrows to any one but God.
It may here be well to add that the Baron's house preserved all its
magnificence in the eyes of Lisbeth Fischer, who was not struck, as
the parvenu perfumer had been, with the penury stamped on the shabby
chairs, the dirty hangings, and the ripped silk. The furniture we live
with is in some sort like our own person; seeing ourselves every day,
we end, like the Baron, by thinking ourselves but little altered, and
still youthful, when others see that our head is covered with
chinchilla, our forehead scarred with circumflex accents, our stomach
assuming the rotundity of a pumpkin. So these rooms, always blazing in
Betty's eyes with the Bengal fire of Imperial victory, were to her
perennially splendid.
As time went on, Lisbeth had contracted some rather strange
old-maidish habits. For instance, instead of following the fashions,
she expected the fashion to accept her ways and yield to her always
out-of-date notions. When the Baroness gave her a pretty new bonnet, or
a gown in the fashion of the day, Betty remade it completely at home,
and spoilt it by producing a dress of the style of the Empire or of
her old Lorraine costume. A thirty-franc bonnet came out a rag, and
the gown a disgrace. On this point, Lisbeth was as obstinate as a
mule; she would please no one but herself and believed herself
charming; whereas this assimilative process--harmonious, no doubt, in
so far as that it stamped her for an old maid from head to foot--made
her so ridiculous, that, with the best will in the world, no one could
admit her on any smart occasion.
This refractory, capricious, and independent spirit, and the
inexplicable wild shyness of the woman for whom the Baron had four
times found a match--an employe in his office, a retired major, an
army contractor, and a half-pay captain--while she had refused an army
lacemaker, who had since made his fortune, had won her the name of the
Nanny Goat, which the Baron gave her in jest. But this nickname only
met the peculiarities that lay on the surface, the eccentricities
which each of us displays to his neighbors in social life. This woman,
who, if closely studied, would have shown the most savage traits of
the peasant class, was still the girl who had clawed her cousin's
nose, and who, if she had not been trained to reason, would perhaps
have killed her in a fit of jealousy.
It was only her knowledge of the laws and of the world that enabled
her to control the swift instinct with which country folk, like wild
men, reduce impulse to action. In this alone, perhaps, lies the
difference between natural and civilized man. The savage has only
impulse; the civilized man has impulses and ideas. And in the savage
the brain retains, as we may say, but few impressions, it is wholly at
the mercy of the feeling that rushes in upon it; while in the
civilized man, ideas sink into the heart and change it; he has a
thousand interests and many feelings, where the savage has but one at
a time. This is the cause of the transient ascendency of a child over
its parents, which ceases as soon as it is satisfied; in the man who
is still one with nature, this contrast is constant. Cousin Betty, a
savage of Lorraine, somewhat treacherous too, was of this class of
natures, which are commoner among the lower orders than is supposed,
accounting for the conduct of the populace during revolutions.
At the time when this _Drama_ opens, if Cousin Betty would have
allowed herself to be dressed like other people; if, like the women of
Paris, she had been accustomed to wear each fashion in its turn, she
would have been presentable and acceptable, but she preserved the
stiffness of a stick. Now a woman devoid of all the graces, in Paris
simply does not exist. The fine but hard eyes, the severe features,
the Calabrian fixity of complexion which made Lisbeth like a figure by
Giotto, and of which a true Parisian would have taken advantage, above
all, her strange way of dressing, gave her such an extraordinary
appearance that she sometimes looked like one of those monkeys in
petticoats taken about by little Savoyards. As she was well known in
the houses connected by family which she frequented, and restricted
her social efforts to that little circle, as she liked her own home,
her singularities no longer astonished anybody; and out of doors they
were lost in the immense stir of Paris street-life, where only pretty
women are ever looked at.
Hortense's laughter was at this moment caused by a victory won over
her Cousin Lisbeth's perversity; she had just wrung from her an avowal
she had been hoping for these three years past. However secretive an
old maid may be, there is one sentiment which will always avail to
make her break her fast from words, and that is her vanity. For the
last three years, Hortense, having become very inquisitive on such
matters, had pestered her cousin with questions, which, however, bore
the stamp of perfect innocence. She wanted to know why her cousin had
never married. Hortense, who knew of the five offers that she had
refused, had constructed her little romance; she supposed that Lisbeth
had had a passionate attachment, and a war of banter was the result.
Hortense would talk of "We young girls!" when speaking of herself and
her cousin.
Cousin Betty had on several occasions answered in the same tone--"And
who says I have not a lover?" So Cousin Betty's lover, real or
fictitious, became a subject of mild jesting. At last, after two years
of this petty warfare, the last time Lisbeth had come to the house
Hortense's first question had been:
"And how is your lover?"
"Pretty well, thank you," was the answer. "He is rather ailing, poor
young man."
"He has delicate health?" asked the Baroness, laughing.
"I should think so! He is fair. A sooty thing like me can love none
but a fair man with a color like the moon."
"But who is he? What does he do?" asked Hortense. "Is he a prince?"
"A prince of artisans, as I am queen of the bobbin. Is a poor woman
like me likely to find a lover in a man with a fine house and money in
the funds, or in a duke of the realm, or some Prince Charming out of a
fairy tale?"
"Oh, I should so much like to see him!" cried Hortense, smiling.
"To see what a man can be like who can love the Nanny Goat?" retorted
Lisbeth.
"He must be some monster of an old clerk, with a goat's beard!"
Hortense said to her mother.
"Well, then, you are quite mistaken, mademoiselle."
"Then you mean that you really have a lover?" Hortense exclaimed in
triumph.
"As sure as you have not!" retorted Lisbeth, nettled.
"But if you have a lover, why don't you marry him, Lisbeth?" said the
Baroness, shaking her head at her daughter. "We have been hearing
rumors about him these three years. You have had time to study him;
and if he has been faithful so long, you should not persist in a delay
which must be hard upon him. After all, it is a matter of conscience;
and if he is young, it is time to take a brevet of dignity."
Cousin Betty had fixed her gaze on Adeline, and seeing that she was
jesting, she replied:
"It would be marrying hunger and thirst; he is a workman, I am a
workwoman. If we had children, they would be workmen.--No, no; we love
each other spiritually; it is less expensive."
"Why do you keep him in hiding?" Hortense asked.
"He wears a round jacket," replied the old maid, laughing.
"You truly love him?" the Baroness inquired.
"I believe you! I love him for his own sake, the dear cherub. For four
years his home has been in my heart."
"Well, then, if you love him for himself," said the Baroness gravely,
"and if he really exists, you are treating him criminally. You do not
know how to love truly."
"We all know that from our birth," said Lisbeth.
"No, there are women who love and yet are selfish, and that is your
case."
Cousin Betty's head fell, and her glance would have made any one
shiver who had seen it; but her eyes were on her reel of thread.
"If you would introduce your so-called lover to us, Hector might find
him employment, or put him in a position to make money."
"That is out of the question," said Cousin Betty.
"And why?"
"He is a sort of Pole--a refugee----"
"A conspirator?" cried Hortense. "What luck for you!--Has he had any
adventures?"
"He has fought for Poland. He was a professor in the school where the
students began the rebellion; and as he had been placed there by the
Grand Duke Constantine, he has no hope of mercy----"
"A professor of what?"
"Of fine arts."
"And he came to Paris when the rebellion was quelled?"
"In 1833. He came through Germany on foot."
"Poor young man! And how old is he?"
"He was just four-and-twenty when the insurrection broke out--he is
twenty-nine now."
"Fifteen years your junior," said the Baroness.
"And what does he live on?" asked Hortense.
"His talent."
"Oh, he gives lessons?"
"No," said Cousin Betty; "he gets them, and hard ones too!"
"And his Christian name--is it a pretty name?"
"Wenceslas."
"What a wonderful imagination you old maids have!" exclaimed the
Baroness. "To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one might really believe you."
"You see, mamma, he is a Pole, and so accustomed to the knout that
Lisbeth reminds him of the joys of his native land."
They all three laughed, and Hortense sang _Wenceslas! idole de mon
ame!_ instead of _O Mathilde_.
Then for a few minutes there was a truce.
"These children," said Cousin Betty, looking at Hortense as she went
up to her, "fancy that no one but themselves can have lovers."
"Listen," Hortense replied, finding herself alone with her cousin, "if
you prove to me that Wenceslas is not a pure invention, I will give
you my yellow cashmere shawl."
"He is a Count."
"Every Pole is a Count!"
"But he is not a Pole; he comes from Liva--Litha----"
"Lithuania?"
"No."
"Livonia?"
"Yes, that's it!"
"But what is his name?"
"I wonder if you are capable of keeping a secret."
"Cousin Betty, I will be as mute!----"
"As a fish?"
"As a fish."
"By your life eternal?"
"By my life eternal!"
"No, by your happiness in this world?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, his name is Wenceslas Steinbock."
"One of Charles XII.'s Generals was named Steinbock."
"He was his grand-uncle. His own father settled in Livonia after the
death of the King of Sweden; but he lost all his fortune during the
campaign of 1812, and died, leaving the poor boy at the age of eight
without a penny. The Grand Duke Constantine, for the honor of the name
of Steinbock, took him under his protection and sent him to school."
"I will not break my word," Hortense replied; "prove his existence,
and you shall have the yellow shawl. The color is most becoming to
dark skins."
"And you will keep my secret?"
"And tell you mine."
"Well, then, the next time I come you shall have the proof."
"But the proof will be the lover," said Hortense.
Cousin Betty, who, since her first arrival in Paris, had been bitten
by a mania for shawls, was bewitched by the idea of owning the yellow
cashmere given to his wife by the Baron in 1808, and handed down from
mother to daughter after the manner of some families in 1830. The
shawl had been a good deal worn ten years ago; but the costly object,
now always kept in its sandal-wood box, seemed to the old maid ever
new, like the drawing-room furniture. So she brought in her handbag a
present for the Baroness' birthday, by which she proposed to prove the
existence of her romantic lover.
This present was a silver seal formed of three little figures back to
back, wreathed with foliage, and supporting the Globe. They
represented Faith, Hope, and Charity; their feet rested on monsters
rending each other, among them the symbolical serpent. In 1846, now
that such immense strides have been made in the art of which Benvenuto
Cellini was the master, by Mademoiselle de Fauveau, Wagner, Jeanest,
Froment-Meurice, and wood-carvers like Lienard, this little
masterpiece would amaze nobody; but at that time a girl who understood
the silversmith's art stood astonished as she held the seal which
Lisbeth put into her hands, saying:
"There! what do you think of that?"
In design, attitude, and drapery the figures were of the school of
Raphael; but the execution was in the style of the Florentine metal
workers--the school created by Donatello, Brunelleschi, Ghiberti,
Benvenuto Cellini, John of Bologna, and others. The French masters of
the Renaissance had never invented more strangely twining monsters
than these that symbolized the evil passions. The palms, ferns, reeds,
and foliage that wreathed the Virtues showed a style, a taste, a
handling that might have driven a practised craftsman to despair; a
scroll floated above the three figures; and on its surface, between
the heads, were a W, a chamois, and the word _fecit_.
"Who carved this?" asked Hortense.
"Well, just my lover," replied Lisbeth. "There are ten months' work in
it; I could earn more at making sword-knots.--He told me that
Steinbock means a rock goat, a chamois, in German. And he intends to
mark all his work in that way.--Ah, ha! I shall have the shawl."