It was three o’clock in the afternoon; the drawing-room of the Chateau
de Bergenheim presented its usual aspect and occupants. The fire on the
hearth, lighted during the morning, was slowly dying, and a beautiful
autumn sun threw its rays upon the floor through the half-opened
windows. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, stretched on the couch before the
fireplace with Constance at her feet, was reading, according to her
habit, the newspapers which had just arrived. Madame de Bergenheim
seemed very busily occupied with a piece of tapestry in her lap; but
the slow manner in which her needle moved, and the singular mistakes
she made, showed that her mind was far away from the flowers she was
working. She had just finished a beautiful dark lily, which contrasted
strangely with its neighbors, when a servant entered.
“Madame,” said he, “there is a person here inquiring for Monsieur le
Baron de Bergenheim.”
“Is Monsieur de Bergenheim not at home?” asked Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil.
“Monsieur has gone to ride with Mademoiselle Aline.”
“Who is this person?”
“It is a gentleman; but I did not ask his name.”
“Let him enter.”
Clemence arose at the servant’s first words and threw her work upon a
chair, making a movement as if to leave the room; but after a moment’s
reflection, she resumed her seat and her work, apparently indifferent as
to who might enter.
“Monsieur de Marillac,” announced the lackey, as he opened the door a
second time.
Madame de Bergenheim darted a rapid glance at the individual who
presented himself, and then breathed freely again.
After setting to rights his coiffure ‘a la Perinet’, the artist entered
the room, throwing back his shoulders. Tightly buttoned up in his
travelling redingote, and balancing with ease a small gray hat, he bowed
respectfully to the two ladies and then assumed a pose a la Van Dyke.
Constance was so frightened at the sight of this imposing figure that,
instead of jumping at the newcomer’s legs, as was her custom, she
sheltered herself under her mistress’s chair, uttering low growls; at
first glance the latter shared, if not the terror, at least the aversion
of her dog. Among her numerous antipathies, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil
detested a beard. This was a common sentiment with all old ladies, who
barely tolerated moustaches: “Gentlemen did not wear them in 1780,” they
would say.
Marillac’s eyes turned involuntarily toward the portraits, and other
picturesque details of a room which was worthy the attention of a
connoisseur; but he felt that the moment was not opportune for indulging
in artistic contemplation, and that he must leave the dead for the
living.
“Ladies,” said he, “I ought, first of all, to ask your pardon for thus
intruding without having had the honor of an introduction. I hoped to
find here Monsieur de Bergenheim, with whom I am on very intimate terms.
I was told that he was at the chateau.”
“My husband’s friends do not need to be presented at his house,” said
Clemence; “Monsieur de Bergenheim probably will return soon.” And with a
gracious gesture she motioned the visitor to a seat.
“Your name is not unknown to me,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil in
her turn, having succeeded in calming Constance’s agitation. “I remember
having heard Monsieur de Bergenheim mention you often.”
“We were at college together, although I am a few years younger than
Christian.”
“But,” exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim, struck by some sudden thought,
“there is more than a college friendship between you. Are you not,
Monsieur, the person who saved my husband’s life in 1830?”
Marillac smiled, bowed his head, and seated himself. Mademoiselle
de Corandeuil herself could not but graciously greet her nephew’s
preserver, had he had a moustache as long as that of the Shah of Persia,
who ties his in a bow behind his neck.
After the exchange of a few compliments, Madame de Bergenheim, with the
amiability of a mistress of the house who seeks subjects of conversation
that may show off to best advantage the persons she receives, continued:
“My husband does not like to talk of himself, and never has told us the
details of this adventure, in which he ran such great danger. Will you
be kind enough to gratify our curiosity on this point?”
Marillac, among his other pretensions, had that of being able to relate
a story in an impressive manner. These words were as pleasing to
his ears as the request for a song is to a lady who requires urging,
although she is dying to sing.
“Ladies,” said he, crossing one leg over the other and leaning upon
one arm of his chair, “it was on the twenty-eighth of July, 1830; the
disastrous decrees had produced their effects; the volcano which--”
“Pardon me, Monsieur, if I interrupt you,” said Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil, quickly; “according to my opinion, and that of many others,
the royal decrees you speak of were good and necessary. The only mistake
of Charles Tenth was not to have fifty thousand men around Paris to
force their acceptance. I am only a woman, Monsieur, but if I had had
under my command twenty cannon upon the quays, and as many upon the
boulevards, I assure you that your tricolored flag never should have
floated over the Tuileries.”
“Pitt and Cobourg!” said the artist between his teeth, as, with an
astonished air, he gazed at the old lady; but his common-sense told
him that republicanism was not acceptable within this castle. Besides,
remembering the mission with which he was charged, he did not think
his conscience would feel much hurt if he made a little concession of
principles and manoeuvred diplomatically.
“Madame,” replied he, “I call the decrees disastrous when I think of
their result. You will certainly admit that our situation to-day ought
to make everybody regret the causes which brought it about.”
“We are exactly of the same opinion regarding that point, Monsieur,”
said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, resuming her serenity.
“The open volcano beneath our feet,” continued Marillac, who still stuck
to his point, “warned us by deep rumblings of the hot lava which was
about to gush forth. The excitement of the people was intense. Several
engagements with the soldiers had already taken place at different
points. I stood on the Boulevard Poissonniere, where I had just taken
my luncheon, and was gazing with an artist’s eye upon the dramatic
scene spread out before me. Men with bare arms and women panting with
excitement were tearing up the pavements or felling trees. An omnibus
had just been upset; the rioters added cabriolets, furniture, and casks
to it; everything became means of defence. The crashing of the trees as
they fell, the blows of crowbars on the stones, the confused roaring of
thousands of voices, the Marseillaise sung in chorus, and the irregular
cannonading which resounded from the direction of the Rue Saint-Denis,
all composed a strident, stupefying, tempestuous harmony, beside which
Beethoven’s Tempest would have seemed like the buzzing of a bee.
“I was listening to the roaring of the people, who were gnawing at their
chains before breaking them, when my eyes happened to fall upon a window
of a second-floor apartment opposite me. A man about sixty years of age,
with gray hair, a fresh, plump face, an honest, placid countenance, and
wearing a mouse-colored silk dressing-gown, was seated before a small,
round table. The window opened to the floor, and I could see him in this
frame like a full-length portrait. There was a bowl of coffee upon the
table, in which he dipped his roll as he read his journal. I beg your
pardon, ladies, for entering into these petty details, but the habit of
writing--”
“I assure you, Monsieur, your story interests me very much,” said Madame
de Bergenheim, kindly.
“A King Charles spaniel, like yours, Mademoiselle, was standing near the
window with his paws resting upon it; he was gazing with curiosity
at the revolution of July, while his master was reading his paper and
sipping his coffee, as indifferent to all that passed as if he had been
in Pekin or New York.
“‘Oh, the calm of a pure, sincere soul!’ I exclaimed to myself, at
the sight of this little tableau worthy of Greuze; ‘oh, patriarchal
philosophy! in a few minutes perhaps blood will flow in the streets, and
here sits a handsome old man quietly sipping his coffee.’ He seemed like
a lamb browsing upon a volcano.”
Marillac loved volcanoes, and never lost an opportunity to bring one in
at every possible opportunity.
“Suddenly a commotion ran through the crowd; the people rushed in every
direction, and in an instant the boulevard was empty. Plumes waving from
high caps, red-and-white flags floating from the ends of long lances,
and the cavalcade that I saw approaching through the trees told me the
cause of this panic. A squadron of lancers was charging. Have you ever
seen a charge of lancers?”
“Never!” said both of the ladies at once.
“It is a very grand sight, I assure you. Fancy, ladies, a legion of
demons galloping along upon their horses, thrusting to the right and
left with long pikes, whose steel points are eighteen inches long. That
is a charge of lancers. I beg you to believe that I had shown before
this the mettle there was in me, but I will not conceal from you that at
this moment I shared with the crowd the impression which the coming of
these gentlemen made. I had only time to jump over the sidewalk and
to dart up a staircase which ran on the outside of a house, every door
being closed. I never shall forget the face of one of those men who
thrust the point of a lance at me, long enough to pierce through six men
at once. I admit that I felt excited then! The jinn having passed--”
“The--what?” asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who was not familiar with
Eastern terms.
“I beg a thousand pardons, it was a poetical reminiscence. The lancers,
having rushed through the boulevard like an avalanche, a laggard rider,
a hundred steps behind the others, galloped proudly by, erect in
his stirrups and flourishing his sword. Suddenly the report of a gun
resounded, the lancer reeled backward, then forward, and finally fell
upon his horse’s neck; a moment later he turned in his saddle and lay
stretched upon the ground, his foot caught in the stirrup; the horse,
still galloping, dragged the man and the lance, which was fastened to
his arm by a leather band.”
“How horrible!” said Clemence, clasping her hands.
Marillac, much pleased with the effect of his narration, leaned back in
his chair and continued his tale with his usual assurance.
“I looked to the neighboring roofs to discover whence came this shot;
as I was glancing to the right and left I saw smoke issuing through the
blinds of the room on the second floor, which had been closed at the
approach of the lancers.
“‘Good God!’ I exclaimed; ‘it must be this handsome old man in the
mouse-colored silk dressing-gown who amuses himself by firing upon the
lancers, as if they were rabbits in a warren!’
“Just then the blinds were opened, and the strange fellow with the
unruffled countenance leaned out and gazed with a smiling face in the
direction the horse was taking, dragging his master’s body after him.
The patriarch had killed his man between two sips of his coffee.”
“And that is the cowardly way in which members of the royal guard were
assassinated by the ‘heroes’ of your glorious insurrection!” exclaimed
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, indignantly.
“When the troops had passed,” Marillac continued, “the crowd returned,
more excited and noisy than ever. Barricades were erected with wonderful
rapidity; two of those were on the boulevard close to the place where I
was. I saw a horseman suddenly bound over the first; he wore a tuft of
red-and-white feathers in his hat. I saw that it was a staff officer,
doubtless carrying some despatch to headquarters. He continued his
way, sabre in its sheath, head erect, proud and calm in the midst of
insulting shouts from the crowd; stones were thrown at him and sticks
at his horse’s legs; he looked as if he were parading upon the Place du
Carrousel.
“When he reached the second barricade, he drew his horse up, as if it
were merely a question of jumping a hurdle in a steeplechase just then
I saw the window on the first floor open again. ‘Ah! you old rascal!’
I exclaimed. The report of a gun drowned my voice; the horse which had
just made the leap, fell on his knees; the horseman tried to pull him
up, but after making one effort the animal fell over upon his side. The
ball had gone through the steed’s head.”
“It was that poor Fidele that I gave your husband,” said Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil, who was always very sentimental in the choice of names she
gave to animals.
“He merited his name, Mademoiselle, for the poor beast died for his
master, for whom the shot was in tended. Several of those horrible
faces, which upon riot days suddenly appear as if they came out of the
ground, darted toward the unhorsed officer. I, and several other young
men who were as little disposed as myself to allow a defenceless man to
be slaughtered, ran toward him. I recognized Christian as I approached;
his right leg was caught under the horse, and he was trying to unsheath
his sword with his left hand. Sticks and stones were showered at him.
I drew out the sword, which his position prevented him from doing, and
exclaimed as I waved it in the air: ‘The first rascal who advances, I
will cut open like a dog.’
“I accompanied these words with a flourish which kept the cannibals at a
distance for the time being.
“The young fellows who were with me followed my example. One took a
pickaxe, another seized the branch of a tree, while others tried to
release Christian from his horse. During this time the crowd increased
around us; the shouts redoubled: ‘Down with the ordinances! These are
disguised gendarmes! Vive la liberte!--We must kill them! Let’s hang the
spies to the lamp-posts!’
“Danger was imminent, and I realized that only a patriotic harangue
would get us out of the scrape. While they were releasing Christian, I
jumped upon Fidele so as to be seen by all and shouted:
“‘Vive la liberte!’
“‘Vive la liberte!’ replied the crowd.
“‘Down with Charles Tenth! Down with the ministers! Down with the
ordinances!’
“‘Down!’ shouted a thousand voices at once.
“You understand, ladies, this was a sort of bait, intended to close the
mouths of these brutes.
“‘We are all citizens, we are all Frenchmen,’ I continued; ‘we must not
soil our hands with the blood of one of our disarmed brothers. After
a victory there are no enemies. This officer was doing his duty in
fulfilling his chief’s commands; let us do ours by dying, if necessary,
for our country and the preservation of our rights.’
“‘Vive la liberte! vive la liberte!’ shouted the crowd. ‘He is right;
the officer was doing his duty. It would be assassination!’ exclaimed
numerous voices.
“‘Thanks, Marillac,’ said Bergenheim to me, as I took his hand to lead
him away, availing ourselves of the effect of my harangue; ‘but do not
press me so hard, for I really believe that my right arm is broken; only
for that, I should ask you to return me my sword that I might show this
rabble that they can not kill a Bergenheim as they would a chicken.’
“‘Let him cry: Vive la Charte!’ roared out a man, with a ferocious face.
“‘I receive orders from nobody,’ Christian replied, in a very loud
voice, as he glared at him with eyes which would have put a rhinoceros
to flight.”
“Your husband is really a very brave man,” said Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil, addressing Clemence.
“Brave as an old warrior. This time he pushed his courage to the verge
of imprudence; I do not know what the result might have been if the
crowd had not been dispersed a second time by the approach of the
lancers, who were returning through the boulevard. I led Bergenheim into
a cafe; fortunately, his arm was only sprained.” Just at this moment
Marillac’s story was interrupted by a sound of voices and hurried steps.
The door opened suddenly, and Aline burst into the room with her usual
impetuosity.
“What has happened to you, Aline?” exclaimed Madame de Bergenheim,
hurrying to her sister’s side. The young girl’s riding-habit and hat
were covered with splashes of mud.
“Oh, nothing,” replied the young girl, in a broken voice; “it was
only Titania, who wanted to throw me into the river. Do you know where
Rousselet is? They say it is necessary to bleed him; and he is the only
one who knows how to do it.”
“Whom do you mean, child? Is my husband wounded?” asked Clemence,
turning pale.
“No, not Christian; it is a gentleman I do not know; only for him I
should have been drowned. Mon Dieu! can not Rousselet be found?”
Aline left the room in great agitation. They all went over to the
windows that opened out into the court, whence the sound of voices
seemed to arise, and where they could hear the master’s voice thundering
out his commands. Several servants had gone to his assistance: one of
them held Titania by the bridle; she was covered with foam and mud, and
was trembling, with distended nostrils, like a beast that knows it has
just committed a wicked action. A young man was seated upon a stone
bench, wiping away blood which streamed from his forehead. It was
Monsieur de Gerfaut.
At this sight Clemence supported herself against the framework of the
window, and Marillac hurriedly left the room.
Pere Rousselet, who had at last been found in the kitchen, advanced
majestically, eating an enormous slice of bread and butter.
“Good heavens! have you arrived at last?” exclaimed Bergenheim. “Here
is a gentleman this crazy mare has thrown against a tree, and who has
received a violent blow on the head. Do you not think it would be the
proper thing to bleed him?”
“A slight phlebotomy might be very advantageous in stopping the
extravasation of blood in the frontal region,” replied the peasant,
calling to his aid all the technical terms he had learned when he was a
hospital nurse.
“Are you sure you can do this bleeding well?”
“I’ll take the liberty of saying to Monsieur le Baron that I
phlebotomized Perdreau last week and Mascareau only a month ago, without
any complaint from them.”
“Indeed! I believe you,” sneered the groom, “both are on their last
legs.”
“I am neither Perdreau nor Mascareau,” observed the wounded man with a
smile.
Rousselet drew himself up at full height, with the dignity of a man of
talent who scorns to reply to either criticism or mistrust.
“Monsieur,” said Gerfaut, turning to the Baron, “I am really causing you
too much trouble. This trifle does not merit the attention you give it.
I do not suffer in the least. Some water and a napkin are all that
I need. I fancy that I resemble an Iroquois Indian who has just been
scalped; my pride is really what is most hurt,” he added, with a smile,
“when I think of the grotesque sight I must present to the ladies whom I
notice at the window.”
“Why, it is Monsieur de Gerfaut!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,
toward whom he raised his eyes.
Octave bowed to her with a gracious air. His glance wandered from the
old lady to Clemence, who did not seem to have the strength to leave
the window. M. de Bergenheim, after hurriedly greeting Marillac, finally
yielded to the assurance that a surgeon was unnecessary, and conducted
the two friends to his own room, where the wounded man could find
everything that he needed.
“What the devil was the use in sending me as ambassador, since you were
to make such a fine entrance upon the stage?” murmured Marillac in his
friend’s ear.
“Silence!” replied the latter as he pressed his hand; “I am only behind
the scenes as yet.”
During this time Clemence and her aunt had led Aline to her room.
“Now, tell us what all this means?” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,
while the young girl was changing her dress.
“It was Christian’s fault,” replied Aline. “We were galloping along
beside the river when Titania became frightened by the branch of a
tree. ‘Do not be afraid!’ exclaimed my brother. I was not in the least
frightened; but when he saw that my horse was about to run away, he
urged his on in order to join me. When Titania heard the galloping
behind her she did run away in earnest; she left the road and started
straight for the river. Then I began to be a little frightened. Just
fancy, Clemence, I bounded in the saddle at each leap, sometimes upon
the mare’s neck, sometimes upon the crupper; it was terrible! I tried
to withdraw my foot from the stirrup as Christian had told me to do;
but just then Titania ran against the trunk of a tree, and I rolled over
with her. A gentleman, whom I had not seen before, and who, I believe,
actually jumped out of the ground, raised me from the saddle, where I
was held by something, I do not know what; then that naughty Titania
threw him against the tree as he was helping me to my feet, and when
I was able to look at him his face was covered with blood. Christian
rushed on the scene, and, when he saw that I was not badly hurt, he ran
after Titania and beat her! Oh! how he beat her! Mon Dieu! how cruel men
are! It was in vain for me to cry for mercy; he would not listen to me.
Then we came home, and, since this gentleman is not badly wounded, it
seems that my poor dress has fared worst of all.”
The young girl took her riding-habit from the chair as she said these
words, and could not restrain a cry of horror when she saw an enormous
rent in it.
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, as she showed it to her sister-in-law. It was
all that she had strength to articulate.
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil took the skirt in her turn, and looked at
it with the practised eye of a person who had made a special study of
little disasters of the toilet and the ways of remedying them.
“It is in the fullness,” said she, “and by putting in a new breadth it
will never be seen.”
Aline, once convinced that the evil could be repaired, soon recovered
her serenity.
When the three ladies entered the drawing-room they found the Baron and
his two guests chatting amicably. Gerfaut had his forehead tied up with
a black silk band which gave him a slight resemblance to Cupid with his
bandage just off his eyes. His sparkling glance showed that blindness
was not what there was in common between him and the charming little
god. After the first greetings, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who was
always strict as to etiquette, and who thought that Titania had been a
rather unceremonious master of ceremonies between her nephew and M. de
Gerfaut, advanced toward the latter in order to introduce them formally
to each other.
“I do not think,” said she, “that Monsieur de Bergenheim has had the
honor of meeting you before today; allow me then to present you to him.
Baron, this is Monsieur le Vicomte de Gerfaut, one of my relatives.”
When Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was in good humor, she treated Gerfaut
as a relative on account of their family alliance of 1569. At this
moment the poet felt profoundly grateful for this kindness.
“Monsieur has presented himself so well,” said Christian frankly, “that
your recommendation, my dear aunt, in spite of the respect I have for
it, will not add to my gratitude. Only for Monsieur de Gerfaut, here is
a madcap little girl whom we should be obliged to look for now at the
bottom of the river.”
As he said these words, he passed his arm about his sister’s waist and
kissed her tenderly, while Aline was obliged to stand upon the tips of
her toes to reach her brother’s lips.
“These gentlemen,” he continued, “have agreed to sacrifice for us the
pleasure of the Femme-sans-Tete, as well as Mademoiselle Gobillot’s
civilities, and establish their headquarters in my house. They can
pursue their picturesque and romantic studies from here just as well; I
suppose, Marillac, that you are still a determined dauber of canvas?”
“To tell the truth,” replied the poet, “art absorbs me a great deal.”
“As to myself, I never succeeded in drawing a nose that did not resemble
an ear and vice versa. But for that worthy Baringnier, who was kind
enough to look over my plans, I ran a great risk of leaving Saint Cyr
without a graduating diploma. But seriously, gentlemen, when you are
tired of sketching trees and tumbledown houses, I can give you some good
boar hunting. Are you a hunter, Monsieur de Gerfaut?”
“I like hunting very much,” replied the lover, with rare effrontery.
The conversation continued thus upon the topics that occupy people
who meet for the first time. When the Baron spoke of the two friends
installing themselves at the chateau, Octave darted a glance at Madame
de Bergenheim, as if soliciting a tacit approbation of his conduct; but
met with no response. Clemence, with a gloomy, sombre air fulfilled the
duties that politeness imposed upon her as mistress of the house. Her
conduct did not change during the rest of the evening, and Gerfaut
no longer tried by a single glance to soften the severity she seemed
determined to adopt toward him. All his attentions were reserved for
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil and Aline, who listened with unconcealed
pleasure to the man whom she regarded as her saviour; for the young
girl’s remembrance of the danger which she had run excited her more and
more.
After supper Mademoiselle de Corandeuil proposed a game of whist to M.
de Gerfaut, whose talent for the game had made a lasting impression upon
her. The poet accepted this diversion with an enthusiasm equal to that
he had shown for hunting, and quite as sincere too. Christian and his
sister--a little gamester in embryo, like all of her family--completed
the party, while Clemence took up her work and listened with an
absentminded air to Marillac’s conversation. It was in vain for the
latter to call art and the Middle Ages to his aid, using the very
quintessence of his brightest speeches--success did not attend his
effort. After the end of an hour, he had a firm conviction that Madame
de Bergenheim was, everything considered, only a woman of ordinary
intelligence and entirely unworthy of the passion she had inspired in
his friend.
“Upon my soul,” he thought, “I would a hundred times rather have
Reine Gobillot for a sweetheart. I must take a trip in that direction
tomorrow.”
When they separated for the night, Gerfaut, bored by his evening and
wounded by his reception from Clemence, which, he thought, surpassed
anything he could have expected of her capricious disposition, addressed
to the young woman a profound bow and a look which said:
“I am here in spite of you; I shall stay here in spite of you; you shall
love me in spite of yourself.”
Madame de Bergenheim replied by a glance none the less expressive, in
which a lover the most prone to conceit could read:
“Do as you like; I have as much indifference for your love as disdain
for your presumption.”
This was the last shot in this preliminary skirmish.