A SECOND HOME
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Clara Bell
To Madame la Comtesse Louise de Turheim as a token of
remembrance and affectionate respect.
A SECOND HOME
The Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, formerly one of the darkest and most
tortuous of the streets about the Hotel de Ville, zigzagged round the
little gardens of the Paris Prefecture, and ended at the Rue Martroi,
exactly at the angle of an old wall now pulled down. Here stood the
turnstile to which the street owed its name; it was not removed till 1823,
when the Municipality built a ballroom on the garden plot adjoining the
Hotel de Ville, for the fete given in honor of the Duc d'Angouleme on his
return from Spain.
The widest part of the Rue du Tourniquet was the end opening into the Rue
de la Tixeranderie, and even there it was less than six feet across. Hence
in rainy weather the gutter water was soon deep at the foot of the old
houses, sweeping down with it the dust and refuse deposited at the
corner-stones by the residents. As the dust-carts could not pass through,
the inhabitants trusted to storms to wash their always miry alley; for how
could it be clean? When the summer sun shed its perpendicular rays on
Paris like a sheet of gold, but as piercing as the point of a sword, it
lighted up the blackness of this street for a few minutes without drying
the permanent damp that rose from the ground-floor to the first story of
these dark and silent tenements.
The residents, who lighted their lamps at five o'clock in the month of
June, in winter never put them out. To this day the enterprising wayfarer
who should approach the Marais along the quays, past the end of the Rue du
Chaume, the Rues de l'Homme Arme, des Billettes, and des Deux-Portes, all
leading to the Rue du Tourniquet, might think he had passed through
cellars all the way.
Almost all the streets of old Paris, of which ancient chronicles laud the
magnificence, were like this damp and gloomy labyrinth, where the
antiquaries still find historical curiosities to admire. For instance, on
the house then forming the corner where the Rue du Tourniquet joined the
Rue de la Tixeranderie, the clamps might still be seen of two strong iron
rings fixed to the wall, the relics of the chains put up every night by
the watch to secure public safety.
This house, remarkable for its antiquity, had been constructed in a way
that bore witness to the unhealthiness of these old dwellings; for, to
preserve the ground-floor from damp, the arches of the cellars rose about
two feet above the soil, and the house was entered up three outside steps.
The door was crowned by a closed arch, of which the keystone bore a female
head and some time-eaten arabesques. Three windows, their sills about five
feet from the ground, belonged to a small set of rooms looking out on the
Rue du Tourniquet, whence they derived their light. These windows were
protected by strong iron bars, very wide apart, and ending below in an
outward curve like the bars of a baker's window.
If any passer-by during the day were curious enough to peep into the two
rooms forming this little dwelling, he could see nothing; for only under
the sun of July could he discern, in the second room, two beds hung with
green serge, placed side by side under the paneling of an old-fashioned
alcove; but in the afternoon, by about three o'clock, when the candles
were lighted, through the pane of the first room an old woman might be
seen sitting on a stool by the fireplace, where she nursed the fire in a
brazier, to simmer a stew, such as porters' wives are expert in. A few
kitchen utensils, hung up against the wall, were visible in the twilight.
At that hour an old table on trestles, but bare of linen, was laid with
pewter-spoons, and the dish concocted by the old woman. Three wretched
chairs were all the furniture of this room, which was at once the kitchen
and the dining-room. Over the chimney-piece were a piece of looking-glass,
a tinder-box, three glasses, some matches, and a large, cracked white jug.
Still, the floor, the utensils, the fireplace, all gave a pleasant sense
of the perfect cleanliness and thrift that pervaded the dull and gloomy
The old woman's pale, withered face was quite in harmony with the darkness
of the street and the mustiness of the place. As she sat there,
motionless, in her chair, it might have been thought that she was as
inseparable from the house as a snail from its brown shell; her face,
alert with a vague expression of mischief, was framed in a flat cap made
of net, which barely covered her white hair; her fine, gray eyes were as
quiet as the street, and the many wrinkles in her face might be compared
to the cracks in the walls. Whether she had been born to poverty, or had
fallen from some past splendor, she now seemed to have been long resigned
to her melancholy existence.
From sunrise till dark, excepting when she was getting a meal ready, or,
with a basket on her arm, was out purchasing provisions, the old woman sat
in the adjoining room by the further window, opposite a young girl. At any
hour of the day the passer-by could see the needlewoman seated in an old,
red velvet chair, bending over an embroidery frame, and stitching
Her mother had a green pillow on her knee, and busied herself with
hand-made net; but her fingers could move the bobbin but slowly; her sight
was feeble, for on her nose there rested a pair of those antiquated
spectacles which keep their place on the nostrils by the grip of a spring.
By night these two hardworking women set a lamp between them; and the
light, concentrated by two globe-shaped bottles of water, showed the elder
the fine network made by the threads on her pillow, and the younger the
most delicate details of the pattern she was embroidering. The outward
bend of the window had allowed the girl to rest a box of earth on the
window-sill, in which grew some sweet peas, nasturtiums, a sickly little
honeysuckle, and some convolvulus that twined its frail stems up the iron
bars. These etiolated plants produced a few pale flowers, and added a
touch of indescribable sadness and sweetness to the picture offered by
this window, in which the two figures were appropriately framed.
The most selfish soul who chanced to see this domestic scene would carry
away with him a perfect image of the life led in Paris by the working
class of women, for the embroideress evidently lived by her needle. Many,
as they passed through the turnstile, found themselves wondering how a
girl could preserve her color, living in such a cellar. A student of
lively imagination, going that way to cross to the Quartier-Latin, would
compare this obscure and vegetative life to that of the ivy that clung to
these chill walls, to that of the peasants born to labor, who are born,
toil, and die unknown to the world they have helped to feed. A
house-owner, after studying the house with the eye of a valuer, would have
said, "What will become of those two women if embroidery should go out of
fashion?" Among the men who, having some appointment at the Hotel de Ville
or the Palais de Justice, were obliged to go through this street at fixed
hours, either on their way to business or on their return home, there may
have been some charitable soul. Some widower or Adonis of forty, brought
so often into the secrets of these sad lives, may perhaps have reckoned on
the poverty of this mother and daughter, and have hoped to become the
master at no great cost of the innocent work-woman, whose nimble and
dimpled fingers, youthful figure, and white skin—a charm due, no
doubt, to living in this sunless street—had excited his admiration.
Perhaps, again, some honest clerk, with twelve hundred francs a year,
seeing every day the diligence the girl gave to her needle, and
appreciating the purity of her life, was only waiting for improved
prospects to unite one humble life with another, one form of toil to
another, and to bring at any rate a man's arm and a calm affection,
pale-hued like the flowers in the window, to uphold this home.
Vague hope certainly gave life to the mother's dim, gray eyes. Every
morning, after the most frugal breakfast, she took up her pillow, though
chiefly for the look of the thing, for she would lay her spectacles on a
little mahogany worktable as old as herself, and look out of the window
from about half-past eight till ten at the regular passers in the street;
she caught their glances, remarked on their gait, their dress, their
countenance, and almost seemed to be offering her daughter, her gossiping
eyes so evidently tried to attract some magnetic sympathy by manoeuvres
worthy of the stage. It was evident that this little review was as good as
a play to her, and perhaps her single amusement.
The daughter rarely looked up. Modesty, or a painful consciousness of
poverty, seemed to keep her eyes riveted to the work-frame; and only some
exclamation of surprise from her mother moved her to show her small
features. Then a clerk in a new coat, or who unexpectedly appeared with a
woman on his arm, might catch sight of the girl's slightly upturned nose,
her rosy mouth, and gray eyes, always bright and lively in spite of her
fatiguing toil. Her late hours had left a trace on her face by a pale
circle marked under each eye on the fresh rosiness of her cheeks. The poor
child looked as if she were made for love and cheerfulness—for love,
which had drawn two perfect arches above her eyelids, and had given her
such a mass of chestnut hair, that she might have hidden under it as under
a tent, impenetrable to the lover's eye—for cheerfulness, which gave
quivering animation to her nostrils, which carved two dimples in her rosy
cheeks, and made her quick to forget her troubles; cheerfulness, the
blossom of hope, which gave her strength to look out without shuddering on
the barren path of life.
The girl's hair was always carefully dressed. After the manner of Paris
needlewomen, her toilet seemed to her quite complete when she had brushed
her hair smooth and tucked up the little short curls that played on each
temple in contrast with the whiteness of her skin. The growth of it on the
back of her neck was so pretty, and the brown line, so clearly traced,
gave such a pleasing idea of her youth and charm, that the observer,
seeing her bent over her work, and unmoved by any sound, was inclined to
think of her as a coquette. Such inviting promise had excited the interest
of more than one young man, who turned round in the vain hope of seeing
that modest countenance.
"Caroline, there is a new face that passes regularly by, and not one of
the old ones to compare with it."
These words, spoken in a low voice by her mother one August morning in
1815, had vanquished the young needlewoman's indifference, and she looked
out on the street; but in vain, the stranger was gone.
"Where has he flown to?" said she.
"He will come back no doubt at four; I shall see him coming, and will
touch your foot with mine. I am sure he will come back; he has been
through the street regularly for the last three days; but his hours vary.
The first day he came by at six o'clock, the day before yesterday it was
four, yesterday as early as three. I remember seeing him occasionally some
time ago. He is some clerk in the Prefet's office who has moved to the
Marais.—Why!" she exclaimed, after glancing down the street, "our
gentleman of the brown coat has taken to wearing a wig; how much it alters
The gentleman of the brown coat was, it would seem, the individual who
commonly closed the daily procession, for the old woman put on her
spectacles and took up her work with a sigh, glancing at her daughter with
so strange a look that Lavater himself would have found it difficult to
interpret. Admiration, gratitude, a sort of hope for better days, were
mingled with pride at having such a pretty daughter.
At about four in the afternoon the old lady pushed her foot against
Caroline's, and the girl looked up quickly enough to see the new actor,
whose regular advent would thenceforth lend variety to the scene. He was
tall and thin, and wore black, a man of about forty, with a certain
solemnity of demeanor; as his piercing hazel eye met the old woman's dull
gaze, he made her quake, for she felt as though he had the gift of reading
hearts, or much practice in it, and his presence must surely be as icy as
the air of this dank street. Was the dull, sallow complexion of that
ominous face due to excess of work, or the result of delicate health?
The old woman supplied twenty different answers to this question; but
Caroline, next day, discerned the lines of long mental suffering on that
brow that was so prompt to frown. The rather hollow cheeks of the Unknown
bore the stamp of the seal which sorrow sets on its victims as if to grant
them the consolation of common recognition and brotherly union for
resistance. Though the girl's expression was at first one of lively but
innocent curiosity, it assumed a look of gentle sympathy as the stranger
receded from view, like a last relation following in a funeral train.
The heat of the weather was so great, and the gentleman was so
absent-minded, that he had taken off his hat and forgotten to put it on
again as he went down the squalid street. Caroline could see the stern
look given to his countenance by the way the hair was brushed from his
forehead. The strong impression, devoid of charm, made on the girl by this
man's appearance was totally unlike any sensation produced by the other
passengers who used the street; for the first time in her life she was
moved to pity for some one else than herself and her mother; she made no
reply to the absurd conjectures that supplied material for the old woman's
provoking volubility, and drew her long needle in silence through the web
of stretched net; she only regretted not having seen the stranger more
closely, and looked forward to the morrow to form a definite opinion of
It was the first time, indeed, that a man passing down the street had ever
given rise to much thought in her mind. She generally had nothing but a
smile in response to her mother's hypotheses, for the old woman looked on
every passer-by as a possible protector for her daughter. And if such
suggestions, so crudely presented, gave rise to no evil thoughts in
Caroline's mind, her indifference must be ascribed to the persistent and
unfortunately inevitable toil in which the energies of her sweet youth
were being spent, and which would infallibly mar the clearness of her eyes
or steal from her fresh cheeks the bloom that still colored them.
For two months or more the "Black Gentleman"—the name they had given
him—was erratic in his movements; he did not always come down the
Rue du Tourniquet; the old woman sometimes saw him in the evening when he
had not passed in the morning, and he did not come by at such regular
hours as the clerks who served Madame Crochard instead of a clock;
moreover, excepting on the first occasion, when his look had given the old
mother a sense of alarm, his eyes had never once dwelt on the weird
picture of these two female gnomes. With the exception of two
carriage-gates and a dark ironmonger's shop, there were in the Rue du
Tourniquet only barred windows, giving light to the staircases of the
neighboring houses; thus the stranger's lack of curiosity was not to be
accounted for by the presence of dangerous rivals; and Madame Crochard was
greatly piqued to see her "Black Gentleman" always lost in thought, his
eyes fixed on the ground, or straight before him, as though he hoped to
read the future in the fog of the Rue du Tourniquet. However, one morning,
about the middle of September, Caroline Crochard's roguish face stood out
so brightly against the dark background of the room, looking so fresh
among the belated flowers and faded leaves that twined round the
window-bars, the daily scene was gay with such contrasts of light and
shade, of pink and white blending with the light material on which the
pretty needlewoman was working, and with the red and brown hues of the
chairs, that the stranger gazed very attentively at the effects of this
living picture. In point of fact, the old woman, provoked by her "Black
Gentleman's" indifference, had made such a clatter with her bobbins that
the gloomy and pensive passer-by was perhaps prompted to look up by the
The stranger merely exchanged glances with Caroline, swift indeed, but
enough to effect a certain contact between their souls, and both were
aware that they would think of each other. When the stranger came by
again, at four in the afternoon, Caroline recognized the sound of his step
on the echoing pavement; they looked steadily at each other, and with
evident purpose; his eyes had an expression of kindliness which made him
smile, and Caroline colored; the old mother noted them with satisfaction.
Ever after that memorable afternoon, the Gentleman in Black went by twice
a day, with rare exceptions, which both the women observed. They concluded
from the irregularity of the hours of his homecoming that he was not
released so early, nor so precisely punctual as a subordinate official.
All through the first three winter months, twice a day, Caroline and the
stranger thus saw each other for so long as it took him to traverse the
piece of road that lay along the length of the door and three windows of
the house. Day after day this brief interview had the hue of friendly
sympathy which at last had acquired a sort of fraternal kindness. Caroline
and the stranger seemed to understand each other from the first; and then,
by dint of scrutinizing each other's faces, they learned to know them
well. Ere long it came to be, as it were, a visit that the Unknown owed to
Caroline; if by any chance her Gentleman in Black went by without
bestowing on her the half-smile of his expressive lips, or the cordial
glance of his brown eyes, something was missing to her all day. She felt
as an old man does to whom the daily study of a newspaper is such an
indispensable pleasure that on the day after any great holiday he wanders
about quite lost, and seeking, as much out of vagueness as for want of
patience, the sheet by which he cheats an hour of life.
But these brief meetings had the charm of intimate friendliness, quite as
much for the stranger as for Caroline. The girl could no more hide a
vexation, a grief, or some slight ailment from the keen eye of her
appreciative friend than he could conceal anxiety from hers.
"He must have had some trouble yesterday," was the thought that constantly
arose in the embroideress' mind as she saw some change in the features of
the "Black Gentleman."
"Oh, he has been working too hard!" was a reflection due to another shade
of expression which Caroline could discern.
The stranger, on his part, could guess when the girl had spent Sunday in
finishing a dress, and he felt an interest in the pattern. As quarter-day
came near he could see that her pretty face was clouded by anxiety, and he
could guess when Caroline had sat up late at work; but above all, he noted
how the gloomy thoughts that dimmed the cheerful and delicate features of
her young face gradually vanished by degrees as their acquaintance
ripened. When winter had killed the climbers and plants of her window
garden, and the window was kept closed, it was not without a smile of
gentle amusement that the stranger observed the concentration of the light
within, just at the level of Caroline's head. The very small fire and the
frosty red of the two women's faces betrayed the poverty of their home;
but if ever his own countenance expressed regretful compassion, the girl
proudly met it with assumed cheerfulness.
Meanwhile the feelings that had arisen in their hearts remained buried
there, no incident occurring to reveal to either of them how deep and
strong they were in the other; they had never even heard the sound of each
other's voice. These mute friends were even on their guard against any
nearer acquaintance, as though it meant disaster. Each seemed to fear lest
it should bring on the other some grief more serious than those they felt
tempted to share. Was it shyness or friendship that checked them? Was it a
dread of meeting with selfishness, or the odious distrust which sunders
all the residents within the walls of a populous city? Did the voice of
conscience warn them of approaching danger? It would be impossible to
explain the instinct which made them as much enemies as friends, at once
indifferent and attached, drawn to each other by impulse, and severed by
circumstance. Each perhaps hoped to preserve a cherished illusion. It
might almost have been thought that the stranger feared lest he should
hear some vulgar word from those lips as fresh and pure as a flower, and
that Caroline felt herself unworthy of the mysterious personage who was
evidently possessed of power and wealth.
As to Madame Crochard, that tender mother, almost angry at her daughter's
persistent lack of decisiveness, now showed a sulky face to the "Black
Gentleman," on whom she had hitherto smiled with a sort of benevolent
servility. Never before had she complained so bitterly of being compelled,
at her age, to do the cooking; never had her catarrh and her rheumatism
wrung so many groans from her; finally, she could not, this winter,
promise so many ells of net as Caroline had hitherto been able to count
Under these circumstances, and towards the end of December, at the time
when bread was dearest, and that dearth of corn was beginning to be felt
which made the year 1816 so hard on the poor, the stranger observed on the
features of the girl whose name was still unknown to him, the painful
traces of a secret sorrow which his kindest smiles could not dispel.
Before long he saw in Caroline's eyes the dimness attributed to long hours
at night. One night, towards the end of the month, the Gentleman in Black
passed down the Rue du Tourniquet at the quite unwonted hour of one in the
morning. The perfect silence allowed of his hearing before passing the
house the lachrymose voice of the old mother, and Caroline's even sadder
tones, mingling with the swish of a shower of sleet. He crept along as
slowly as he could; and then, at the risk of being taken up by the police,
he stood still below the window to hear the mother and daughter, while
watching them through the largest of the holes in the yellow muslin
curtains, which were eaten away by wear as a cabbage leaf is riddled by
caterpillars. The inquisitive stranger saw a sheet of paper on the table
that stood between the two work-frames, and on which stood the lamp and
the globes filled with water. He at once identified it as a writ. Madame
Crochard was weeping, and Caroline's voice was thick, and had lost its
sweet, caressing tone.
"Why be so heartbroken, mother? Monsieur Molineux will not sell us up or
turn us out before I have finished this dress; only two nights more and I
shall take it home to Madame Roguin."
"And supposing she keeps you waiting as usual?—And will the money
for the gown pay the baker too?"
The spectator of this scene had long practice in reading faces; he fancied
he could discern that the mother's grief was as false as the daughter's
was genuine; he turned away, and presently came back. When he next peeped
through the hole in the curtain, Madame Crochard was in bed. The young
needlewoman, bending over her frame, was embroidering with indefatigable
diligence; on the table, with the writ lay a triangular hunch of bread,
placed there, no doubt, to sustain her in the night and to remind her of
the reward of her industry. The stranger was tremulous with pity and
sympathy; he threw his purse in through a cracked pane so that it should
fall at the girl's feet; and then, without waiting to enjoy her surprise,
he escaped, his cheeks tingling.
Next morning the shy and melancholy stranger went past with a look of deep
preoccupation, but he could not escape Caroline's gratitude; she had
opened her window and affected to be digging in the square window-box
buried in snow, a pretext of which the clumsy ingenuity plainly told her
benefactor that she had been resolved not to see him only through the
pane. Her eyes were full of tears as she bowed her head, as much as to say
to her benefactor, "I can only repay you from my heart."
But the Gentleman in Black affected not to understand the meaning of this
sincere gratitude. In the evening, as he came by, Caroline was busy
mending the window with a sheet of paper, and she smiled at him, showing
her row of pearly teeth like a promise. Thenceforth the Stranger went
another way, and was no more seen in the Rue due Tourniquet.
It was one day early in the following May that, as Caroline was giving the
roots of the honeysuckle a glass of water, one Saturday morning, she
caught sight of a narrow strip of cloudless blue between the black lines
of houses, and said to her mother:
"Mamma, we must go to-morrow for a trip to Montmorency!"
She had scarcely uttered the words, in a tone of glee, when the Gentleman
in Black came by, sadder and more dejected than ever. Caroline's innocent
and ingratiating glance might have been taken for an invitation. And, in
fact, on the following day, when Madame Crochard, dressed in a pelisse of
claret-colored merinos, a silk bonnet, and striped shawl of an imitation
Indian pattern, came out to choose seats in a chaise at the corner of the
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis and the Rue d'Enghien, there she found her
Unknown standing like a man waiting for his wife. A smile of pleasure
lighted up the Stranger's face when his eye fell on Caroline, her neat
feet shod in plum-colored prunella gaiters, and her white dress tossed by
a breeze that would have been fatal to an ill-made woman, but which
displayed her graceful form. Her face, shaded by a rice-straw bonnet lined
with pink silk, seemed to beam with a reflection from heaven; her broad,
plum-colored belt set off a waist he could have spanned; her hair, parted
in two brown bands over a forehead as white as snow, gave her an
expression of innocence which no other feature contradicted. Enjoyment
seemed to have made Caroline as light as the straw of her hat; but when
she saw the Gentleman in Black, radiant hope suddenly eclipsed her bright
dress and her beauty. The Stranger, who appeared to be in doubt, had not
perhaps made up his mind to be the girl's escort for the day till this
revelation of the delight she felt on seeing him. He at once hired a
vehicle with a fairly good horse, to drive to Saint-Leu-Taverny, and he
offered Madame Crochard and her daughter seats by his side. The mother
accepted without ado; but presently, when they were already on the way to
Saint-Denis, she was by way of having scruples, and made a few civil
speeches as to the possible inconvenience two women might cause their
"Perhaps, monsieur, you wished to drive alone to Saint-Leu-Taverny," said
she, with affected simplicity.
Before long she complained of the heat, and especially of her cough,
which, she said, had hindered her from closing her eyes all night; and by
the time the carriage had reached Saint-Denis, Madame Crochard seemed to
be fast asleep. Her snores, indeed, seemed, to the Gentleman in Black,
rather doubtfully genuine, and he frowned as he looked at the old woman
with a very suspicious eye.
"Oh, she is fast asleep," said Caroline quilelessly; "she never ceased
coughing all night. She must be very tired."
Her companion made no reply, but he looked at the girl with a smile that
seemed to say:
"Poor child, you little know your mother!"
However, in spite of his distrust, as the chaise made its way down the
long avenue of poplars leading to Eaubonne, the Stranger thought that
Madame Crochard was really asleep; perhaps he did not care to inquire how
far her slumbers were genuine or feigned. Whether it were that the
brilliant sky, the pure country air, and the heady fragrance of the first
green shoots of the poplars, the catkins of willow, and the flowers of the
blackthorn had inclined his heart to open like all the nature around him;
or that any long restraint was too oppressive while Caroline's sparkling
eyes responded to his own, the Gentleman in Black entered on a
conversation with his young companion, as aimless as the swaying of the
branches in the wind, as devious as the flitting of the butterflies in the
azure air, as illogical as the melodious murmur of the fields, and, like
it, full of mysterious love. At that season is not the rural country as
tremulous as a bride that has donned her marriage robe; does it not invite
the coldest soul to be happy? What heart could remain unthawed, and what
lips could keep its secret, on leaving the gloomy streets of the Marais
for the first time since the previous autumn, and entering the smiling and
picturesque valley of Montmorency; on seeing it in the morning light, its
endless horizons receding from view; and then lifting a charmed gaze to
eyes which expressed no less infinitude mingled with love?
The Stranger discovered that Caroline was sprightly rather than witty,
affectionate, but ill educated; but while her laugh was giddy, her words
promised genuine feeling. When, in response to her companion's shrewd
questioning, the girl spoke with the heartfelt effusiveness of which the
lower classes are lavish, not guarding it with reticence like people of
the world, the Black Gentleman's face brightened, and seemed to renew its
youth. His countenance by degrees lost the sadness that lent sternness to
his features, and little by little they gained a look of handsome
youthfulness which made Caroline proud and happy. The pretty needlewoman
guessed that her new friend had been long weaned from tenderness and love,
and no longer believed in the devotion of woman. Finally, some unexpected
sally in Caroline's light prattle lifted the last veil that concealed the
real youth and genuine character of the Stranger's physiognomy; he seemed
to bid farewell to the ideas that haunted him, and showed the natural
liveliness that lay beneath the solemnity of his expression.
Their conversation had insensibly become so intimate, that by the time
when the carriage stopped at the first houses of the straggling village of
Saint-Leu, Caroline was calling the gentleman Monsieur Roger. Then for the
first time the old mother awoke.
"Caroline, she has heard everything!" said Roger suspiciously in the
Caroline's reply was an exquisite smile of disbelief, which dissipated the
dark cloud that his fear of some plot on the old woman's part had brought
to this suspicious mortal's brow. Madame Crochard was amazed at nothing,
approved of everything, followed her daughter and Monsieur Roger into the
park, where the two young people had agreed to wander through the smiling
meadows and fragrant copses made famous by the taste of Queen Hortense.
"Good heavens! how lovely!" exclaimed Caroline when standing on the green
ridge where the forest of Montmorency begins, she saw lying at her feet
the wide valley with its combes sheltering scattered villages, its horizon
of blue hills, its church towers, its meadows and fields, whence a murmur
came up, to die on her ear like the swell of the ocean. The three
wanderers made their way by the bank of an artificial stream and came to
the Swiss valley, where stands a chalet that had more than once given
shelter to Hortense and Napoleon. When Caroline had seated herself with
pious reverence on the mossy wooden bench where kings and princesses and
the Emperor had rested, Madame Crochard expressed a wish to have a nearer
view of a bridge that hung across between two rocks at some little
distance, and bent her steps towards that rural curiosity, leaving her
daughter in Monsieur Roger's care, though telling them that she would not
go out of sight.
"What, poor child!" cried Roger, "have you never longed for wealth and the
pleasures of luxury? Have you never wished that you might wear the
beautiful dresses you embroider?"
"It would not be the truth, Monsieur Roger, if I were to tell you that I
never think how happy people must be who are rich. Oh yes! I often fancy,
especially when I am going to sleep, how glad I should be to see my poor
mother no longer compelled to go out, whatever the weather, to buy our
little provisions, at her age. I should like her to have a servant who,
every morning before she was up, would bring her up her coffee, nicely
sweetened with white sugar. And she loves reading novels, poor dear soul!
Well, and I would rather see her wearing out her eyes over her favorite
books than over twisting her bobbins from morning till night. And again,
she ought to have a little good wine. In short, I should like to see her
comfortable—she is so good."
"Then she has shown you great kindness?"
"Oh yes," said the girl, in a tone of conviction. Then, after a short
pause, during which the two young people stood watching Madame Crochard,
who had got to the middle of the rustic bridge, and was shaking her finger
at them, Caroline went on:
"Oh yes, she has been so good to me. What care she took of me when I was
little! She sold her last silver forks to apprentice me to the old maid
who taught me to embroider.—And my poor father! What did she not go
through to make him end his days in happiness!" The girl shivered at the
remembrance, and hid her face in her hands.—"Well! come! let us
forget past sorrows!" she added, trying to rally her high spirits. She
blushed as she saw that Roger too was moved, but she dared not look at
"What was your father?" he asked.
"He was an opera-dancer before the Revolution," said she, with an air of
perfect simplicity, "and my mother sang in the chorus. My father, who was
leader of the figures on the stage, happened to be present at the siege of
the Bastille. He was recognized by some of the assailants, who asked him
whether he could not lead a real attack, since he was used to leading such
enterprises on the boards. My father was brave; he accepted the post, led
the insurgents, and was rewarded by the nomination to the rank of captain
in the army of Sambre-et-Meuse, where he distinguished himself so far as
to rise rapidly to be a colonel. But at Lutzen he was so badly wounded
that, after a year's sufferings, he died in Paris.—The Bourbons
returned; my mother could obtain no pension, and we fell into such abject
misery that we were compelled to work for our living. For some time past
she has been ailing, poor dear, and I have never known her so little
resigned; she complains a good deal, and, indeed, I cannot wonder, for she
has known the pleasures of an easy life. For my part, I cannot pine for
delights I have never known, I have but one thing to wish for."
"And that is?" said Roger eagerly, as if roused from a dream.
"That women may continue to wear embroidered net dresses, so that I may
never lack work."
The frankness of this confession interested the young man, who looked with
less hostile eyes on Madame Crochard as she slowly made her way back to
"Well, children, have you had a long talk?" said she, with a
half-laughing, half-indulgent air. "When I think, Monsieur Roger, that the
'little Corporal' has sat where you are sitting," she went on after a
pause. "Poor man! how my husband worshiped him! Ah! Crochard did well to
die, for he could not have borne to think of him where they have
Roger put his finger to his lips, and the good woman went on very gravely,
with a shake of her head:
"All right, mouth shut and tongue still! But," added she, unhooking a bit
of her bodice, and showing a ribbon and cross tied round her neck by a
piece of black ribbon, "they shall never hinder me from wearing what he
gave to my poor Crochard, and I will have it buried with me."
On hearing this speech, which at that time was regarded as seditious,
Roger interrupted the old lady by rising suddenly, and they returned to
the village through the park walks. The young man left them for a few
minutes while he went to order a meal at the best eating-house in Taverny;
then, returning to fetch them, he led the way through the alleys cut in
The dinner was cheerful. Roger was no longer the melancholy shade that was
wont to pass along the Rue du Tourniquet; he was not the "Black
Gentleman," but rather a confiding young man ready to take life as it
came, like the two hard-working women who, on the morrow, might lack
bread; he seemed alive to all the joys of youth, his smile was quite
affectionate and childlike.
When, at five o'clock, this happy meal was ended with a few glasses of
champagne, Roger was the first to propose that they should join the
village ball under the chestnuts, where he and Caroline danced together.
Their hands met with sympathetic pressure, their hearts beat with the same
hopes; and under the blue sky and the slanting, rosy beams of sunset,
their eyes sparkled with fires which, to them, made the glory of the
heavens pale. How strange is the power of an idea, of a desire! To these
two nothing seemed impossible. In such magic moments, when enjoyment sheds
its reflections on the future, the soul foresees nothing but happiness.
This sweet day had created memories for these two to which nothing could
be compared in all their past existence. Would the source prove to be more
beautiful than the river, the desire more enchanting than its
gratification, the thing hoped for more delightful than the thing
"So the day is already at an end!" On hearing this exclamation from her
unknown friend when the dance was over, Caroline looked at him
compassionately, as his face assumed once more a faint shade of sadness.
"Why should you not be as happy in Paris as you are here?" she asked. "Is
happiness to be found only at Saint-Leu? It seems to me that I can
henceforth never be unhappy anywhere."
Roger was struck by these words, spoken with the glad unrestraint that
always carries a woman further than she intended, just as prudery often
lends her greater cruelty than she feels. For the first time since that
glance, which had, in a way, been the beginning of their friendship,
Caroline and Roger had the same idea; though they did not express it, they
felt it at the same instant, as a result of a common impression like that
of a comforting fire cheering both under the frost of winter; then, as if
frightened by each other's silence, they made their way to the spot where
the carriage was waiting. But before getting into it, they playfully took
hands and ran together down the dark avenue in front of Madame Crochard.
When they could no longer see the white net cap, which showed as a speck
through the leaves where the old woman was—"Caroline!" said Roger in
a tremulous voice, and with a beating heart.
The girl was startled, and drew back a few steps, understanding the
invitation this question conveyed; however, she held out her hand, which
was passionately kissed, but which she hastily withdrew, for by standing
on tiptoe she could see her mother.
Madame Crochard affected blindness, as if, with a reminiscence of her old
parts, she was only required to figure as a supernumerary.
The adventures of these two young people were not continued in the Rue du
Tourniquet. To see Roger and Caroline once more, we must leap into the
heart of modern Paris, where, in some of the newly-built houses, there are
apartments that seem made on purpose for newly-married couples to spend
their honeymoon in. There the paper and paint are as fresh as the bride
and bridegroom, and the decorations are in blossom like their love;
everything is in harmony with youthful notions and ardent wishes.
Half-way down the Rue Taitbout, in a house whose stone walls were still
white, where the columns of the hall and the doorway were as yet spotless,
and the inner walls shone with the neat painting which our recent intimacy
with English ways had brought into fashion, there was, on the second
floor, a small set of rooms fitted by the architect as though he had known
what their use would be. A simple airy ante-room, with a stucco dado,
formed an entrance into a drawing-room and dining-room. Out of the
drawing-room opened a pretty bedroom, with a bathroom beyond. Every
chimney-shelf had over it a fine mirror elegantly framed. The doors were
crowded with arabesques in good taste, and the cornices were in the best
style. Any amateur would have discerned there the sense of distinction and
decorative fitness which mark the work of modern French architects.
For above a month Caroline had been at home in this apartment, furnished
by an upholsterer who submitted to an artist's guidance. A short
description of the principal room will suffice to give us an idea of the
wonders it offered to Caroline's delighted eyes when Roger installed her
there. Hangings of gray stuff trimmed with green silk adorned the walls of
her bedroom; the seats, covered with light-colored woolen sateen, were of
easy and comfortable shapes, and in the latest fashion; a chest of drawers
of some simple wood, inlaid with lines of a darker hue, contained the
treasures of the toilet; a writing-table to match served for inditing
love-letters on scented paper; the bed, with antique draperies, could not
fail to suggest thoughts of love by its soft hangings of elegant muslin;
the window-curtains, of drab silk with green fringe, were always half
drawn to subdue the light; a bronze clock represented Love crowning
Psyche; and a carpet of Gothic design on a red ground set off the other
accessories of this delightful retreat. There was a small dressing-table
in front of a long glass, and here the needlewoman sat, out of patience
with Plaisir, the famous hairdresser.
"Do you think you will have done to-day?" said she.
"Your hair is so long and so thick, madame," replied Plaisir.
Caroline could not help smiling. The man's flattery had no doubt revived
in her mind the memory of the passionate praises lavished by her lover on
the beauty of her hair, which he delighted in.
The hairdresser having done, a waiting-maid came and held counsel with her
as to the dress in which Roger would like best to see her. It was the
beginning of September 1816, and the weather was cold; she chose a green
grenadine trimmed with chinchilla. As soon as she was dressed,
Caroline flew into the drawing-room and opened a window, out of which she
stepped on to the elegant balcony, that adorned the front of the house;
there she stood, with her arms crossed, in a charming attitude, not to
show herself to the admiration of the passers-by and see them turn to gaze
at her, but to be able to look out on the Boulevard at the bottom of the
Rue Taitbout. This side view, really very comparable to the peephole made
by actors in the drop-scene of a theatre, enabled her to catch a glimpse
of numbers of elegant carriages, and a crowd of persons, swept past with
the rapidity of Ombres Chinoises. Not knowing whether Roger would
arrive in a carriage or on foot, the needlewoman from the Rue du
Tourniquet looked by turns at the foot-passengers, and at the tilburies—light
cabs introduced into Paris by the English.
Expressions of refractoriness and of love passed by turns over her
youthful face when, after waiting for a quarter of an hour, neither her
keen eye nor her heart had announced the arrival of him whom she knew to
be due. What disdain, what indifference were shown in her beautiful
features for all the other creatures who were bustling like ants below her
feet. Her gray eyes, sparkling with fun, now positively flamed. Given over
to her passion, she avoided admiration with as much care as the proudest
devote to encouraging it when they drive about Paris, certainly feeling no
care as to whether her fair countenance leaning over the balcony, or her
little foot between the bars, and the picture of her bright eyes and
delicious turned-up nose would be effaced or no from the minds of the
passers-by who admired them; she saw but one face, and had but one idea.
When the spotted head of a certain bay horse happened to cross the narrow
strip between the two rows of houses, Caroline gave a little shiver and
stood on tiptoe in hope of recognizing the white traces and the color of
the tilbury. It was he!
Roger turned the corner of the street, saw the balcony, whipped the horse,
which came up at a gallop, and stopped at the bronze-green door that he
knew as well as his master did. The door of the apartment was opened at
once by the maid, who had heard her mistress' exclamation of delight.
Roger rushed up to the drawing-room, clasped Caroline in his arms, and
embraced her with the effusive feeling natural when two beings who love
each other rarely meet. He led her, or rather they went by a common
impulse, their arms about each other, into the quiet and fragrant bedroom;
a settee stood ready for them to sit by the fire, and for a moment they
looked at each other in silence, expressing their happiness only by their
clasped hands, and communicating their thoughts in a fond gaze.
"Yes, it is he!" she said at last. "Yes, it is you. Do you know, I have
not seen you for three long days, an age!—But what is the matter?
You are unhappy."
"My poor Caroline—"
"There, you see! 'poor Caroline'—"
"No, no, do not laugh, my darling; we cannot go to the Feydeau Theatre
together this evening."
Caroline put on a little pout, but it vanished immediately.
"How absurd I am! How can I think of going to the play when I see you? Is
not the sight of you the only spectacle I care for?" she cried, pushing
her fingers through Roger's hair.
"I am obliged to go to the Attorney-General's. We have a knotty case in
hand. He met me in the great hall at the Palais; and as I am to plead, he
asked me to dine with him. But, my dearest, you can go to the theatre with
your mother, and I will join you if the meeting breaks up early."
"To the theatre without you!" cried she in a tone of amazement; "enjoy any
pleasure you do not share! O my Roger! you do not deserve a kiss," she
added, throwing her arms round his neck with an artless and impassioned
"Caroline, I must go home and dress. The Marais is some way off, and I
still have some business to finish."
"Take care what you are saying, monsieur," said she, interrupting him. "My
mother says that when a man begins to talk about his business, he is
ceasing to love."
"Caroline! Am I not here? Have I not stolen this hour from my pitiless—"
"Hush!" said she, laying a finger on his mouth. "Don't you see that I am
They had now come back to the drawing-room, and Roger's eye fell on an
object brought home that morning by the cabinetmaker. Caroline's old
rosewood embroidery-frame, by which she and her mother had earned their
bread when they lived in the Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, had been
refitted and polished, and a net dress, of elaborate design, was already
stretched upon it.
"Well, then, my dear, I shall do some work this evening. As I stitch, I
shall fancy myself gone back to those early days when you used to pass by
me without a word, but not without a glance; the days when the remembrance
of your look kept me awake all night. Oh my dear old frame—the best
piece of furniture in my room, though you did not give it me!—You
cannot think," said she, seating herself on Roger's knees; for he,
overcome by irresistible feelings, had dropped into a chair. "Listen.—All
I can earn by my work I mean to give to the poor. You have made me rich.
How I love that pretty home at Bellefeuille, less because of what it is
than because you gave it me! But tell me, Roger, I should like to call
myself Caroline de Bellefeuille—can I? You must know: is it legal or
As she saw a little affirmative grimace—for Roger hated the name of
Crochard—Caroline jumped for glee, and clapped her hands.
"I feel," said she, "as if I should more especially belong to you. Usually
a woman gives up her own name and takes her husband's—" An idea
forced itself upon her and made her blush. She took Roger's hand and led
him to the open piano.—"Listen," said she, "I can play my sonata now
like an angel!" and her fingers were already running over the ivory keys,
when she felt herself seized round the waist.
"Caroline, I ought to be far from hence!"
"You insist on going? Well, go," said she, with a pretty pout, but she
smiled as she looked at the clock and exclaimed joyfully, "At any rate, I
have detained you a quarter of an hour!"
"Good-bye, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille," said he, with the gentle irony
She kissed him and saw her lover to the door; when the sound of his steps
had died away on the stairs she ran out on to the balcony to see him get
into the tilbury, to see him gather up the reins, to catch a parting look,
hear the crack of his whip and the sound of his wheels on the stones,
watch the handsome horse, the master's hat, the tiger's gold lace, and at
last to stand gazing long after the dark corner of the street had eclipsed
Five years after Mademoiselle Caroline de Bellefeuille had taken up her
abode in the pretty house in the Rue Taitbout, we again look in on one of
those home-scenes which tighten the bonds of affection between two persons
who truly love. In the middle of the blue drawing-room, in front of the
window opening to the balcony, a little boy of four was making a
tremendous noise as he whipped the rocking-horse, whose two curved
supports for the legs did not move fast enough to please him; his pretty
face, framed in fair curls that fell over his white collar, smiled up like
a cherub's at his mother when she said to him from the depths of an
easy-chair, "Not so much noise, Charles; you will wake your little
The inquisitive boy suddenly got off his horse, and treading on tiptoe as
if he were afraid of the sound of his feet on the carpet, came up with one
finger between his little teeth, and standing in one of those childish
attitudes that are so graceful because they are so perfectly natural,
raised the muslin veil that hid the rosy face of a little girl sleeping on
her mother's knee.
"Is Eugenie asleep, then?" said he, quite astonished. "Why is she asleep
when we are awake?" he added, looking up with large, liquid black eyes.
"That only God can know," replied Caroline, with a smile.
The mother and boy gazed at the infant, only that morning baptized.
Caroline, now about four-and-twenty, showed the ripe beauty which had
expanded under the influence of cloudless happiness and constant
enjoyment. In her the Woman was complete.
Delighted to obey her dear Roger's every wish, she had acquired the
accomplishments she had lacked; she played the piano fairly well, and sang
sweetly. Ignorant of the customs of a world that would have treated her as
an outcast, and which she would not have cared for even if it had welcomed
her—for a happy woman does not care for the world—she had not
caught the elegance of manner or learned the art of conversation,
abounding in words and devoid of ideas, which is current in fashionable
drawing-rooms; on the other hand, she worked hard to gain the knowledge
indispensable to a mother whose chief ambition is to bring up her children
well. Never to lose sight of her boy, to give him from the cradle that
training of every minute which impresses on the young a love of all that
is good and beautiful, to shelter him from every evil influence and fulfil
both the painful duties of a nurse and the tender offices of a mother,—these
were her chief pleasures.
The coy and gentle being had from the first day so fully resigned herself
never to step beyond the enchanted sphere where she found all her
happiness, that, after six years of the tenderest intimacy, she still knew
her lover only by the name of Roger. A print of the picture of the Psyche
lighting her lamp to gaze on Love in spite of his prohibition, hung in her
room, and constantly reminded her of the conditions of her happiness.
Through all these six years her humble pleasures had never importuned
Roger by a single indiscreet ambition, and his heart was a treasure-house
of kindness. Never had she longed for diamonds or fine clothes, and had
again and again refused the luxury of a carriage which he had offered her.
To look out from her balcony for Roger's cab, to go with him to the play
or make excursions with him, on fine days in the environs of Paris, to
long for him, to see him, and then to long again,—these made up the
history of her life, poor in incidents but rich in happiness.
As she rocked the infant, now a few months old, on her knee, singing the
while, she allowed herself to recall the memories of the past. She
lingered more especially on the months of September, when Roger was
accustomed to take her to Bellefeuille and spend the delightful days which
seem to combine the charms of every season. Nature is equally prodigal of
flowers and fruit, the evenings are mild, the mornings bright, and a blaze
of summer often returns after a spell of autumn gloom. During the early
days of their love, Caroline had ascribed the even mind and gentle temper,
of which Roger gave her so many proofs, to the rarity of their always
longed-for meetings, and to their mode of life, which did not compel them
to be constantly together, as a husband and wife must be. But now she
could remember with rapture that, tortured by foolish fears, she had
watched him with trembling during their first stay on this little estate
in the Gatinais. Vain suspiciousness of love! Each of these months of
happiness had passed like a dream in the midst of joys which never rang
false. She had always seen that kind creature with a tender smile on his
lips, a smile that seemed to mirror her own.
As she called up these vivid pictures, her eyes filled with tears; she
thought she could not love him enough, and was tempted to regard her
ambiguous position as a sort of tax levied by Fate on her love. Finally,
invincible curiosity led her to wonder for the thousandth time what events
they could be that led so tender a heart as Roger's to find his pleasure
in clandestine and illicit happiness. She invented a thousand romances on
purpose really to avoid recognizing the true reason, which she had long
suspected but tried not to believe in. She rose, and carrying the baby in
her arms, went into the dining-room to superintend the preparations for
It was the 6th of May 1822, the anniversary of the excursion to the Park
of Saint-Leu, which had been the turning-point of her life; each year it
had been marked by heartfelt rejoicing. Caroline chose the linen to be
used, and arranged the dessert. Having attended with joy to these details,
which touched Roger, she placed the infant in her pretty cot and went out
on to the balcony, whence she presently saw the carriage which her friend,
as he grew to riper years, now used instead of the smart tilbury of his
youth. After submitting to the first fire of Caroline's embraces and the
kisses of the little rogue who addressed him as papa, Roger went to the
cradle, looked at his little sleeping daughter, kissed her forehead, and
then took out of his pocket a document covered with black writing.
"Caroline," said he, "here is the marriage portion of Mademoiselle Eugenie
The mother gratefully took the paper, a deed of gift of securities in the
"Buy why," said she, "have you given Eugenie three thousand francs a year,
and Charles no more than fifteen hundred?"
"Charles, my love, will be a man," replied he. "Fifteen hundred francs are
enough for him. With so much for certain, a man of courage is above
poverty. And if by chance your son should turn out a nonentity, I do not
wish him to be able to play the fool. If he is ambitious, this small
income will give him a taste for work.—Eugenie is a girl; she must
have a little fortune."
The father then turned to play with his boy, whose effusive affection
showed the independence and freedom in which he was brought up. No sort of
shyness between the father and child interfered with the charm which
rewards a parent for his devotion; and the cheerfulness of the little
family was as sweet as it was genuine. In the evening a magic-lantern
displayed its illusions and mysterious pictures on a white sheet to
Charles' great surprise, and more than once the innocent child's heavenly
rapture made Caroline and Roger laugh heartily.
Later, when the little boy was in bed, the baby woke and craved its limpid
nourishment. By the light of a lamp in the chimney corner, Roger enjoyed
the scene of peace and comfort, and gave himself up to the happiness of
contemplating the sweet picture of the child clinging to Caroline's white
bosom as she sat, as fresh as a newly opened lily, while her hair fell in
long brown curls that almost hid her neck. The lamplight enhanced the
grace of the young mother, shedding over her, her dress, and the infant,
the picturesque effects of strong light and shadow.
The calm and silent woman's face struck Roger as a thousand times sweeter
than ever, and he gazed tenderly at the rosy, pouting lips from which no
harsh word had ever been heard. The very same thought was legible in
Caroline's eyes as she gave a sidelong look at Roger, either to enjoy the
effect she was producing on him, or to see what the end of the evening was
to be. He, understanding the meaning of this cunning glance, said with
assumed regret, "I must be going. I have a serious case to be finished,
and I am expected at home. Duty before all things—don't you think
so, my darling?"
Caroline looked him in the face with an expression at once sad and sweet,
with the resignation which does not, however, disguise the pangs of a
"Good-bye, then," said she. "Go, for if you stay an hour longer I cannot
so lightly bear to set you free."
"My dearest," said he with a smile, "I have three days' holiday, and am
supposed to be twenty leagues away from Paris."
A few days after this anniversary of the 6th of May, Mademoiselle de
Bellefeuille hurried off one morning to the Rue Saint-Louis, in the
Marais, only hoping she might not arrive too late at a house where she
commonly went once a week. An express messenger had just come to inform
her that her mother, Madame Crochard, was sinking under a complication of
disorders produced by constant catarrh and rheumatism.
While the hackney coach-driver was flogging up his horses at Caroline's
urgent request, supported by the promise of a handsome present, the timid
old women, who had been Madame Crochard's friends during her later years,
had brought a priest into the neat and comfortable second-floor rooms
occupied by the old widow. Madame Crochard's maid did not know that the
pretty lady at whose house her mistress so often dined was her daughter,
and she was one of the first to suggest the services of a confessor, in
the hope that this priest might be at least as useful to herself as to the
sick woman. Between two games of boston, or out walking in the Jardin
Turc, the old beldames with whom the widow gossiped all day had succeeded
in rousing in their friend's stony heart some scruples as to her former
life, some visions of the future, some fears of hell, and some hopes of
forgiveness if she should return in sincerity to a religious life. So on
this solemn morning three ancient females had settled themselves in the
drawing-room where Madame Crochard was "at home" every Tuesday. Each in
turn left her armchair to go to the poor old woman's bedside and sit with
her, giving her the false hopes with which people delude the dying.
At the same time, when the end was drawing near, when the physician called
in the day before would no longer answer for her life, the three dames
took counsel together as to whether it would not be well to send word to
Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille. Francoise having been duly informed, it was
decided that a commissionaire should go to the Rue Taitbout to inform the
young relation whose influence was so disquieting to the four women;
still, they hoped that the Auvergnat would be too late in bringing back
the person who so certainly held the first place in the widow Crochard's
affections. The widow, evidently in the enjoyment of a thousand crowns a
year, would not have been so fondly cherished by this feminine trio, but
that neither of them, nor Francoise herself knew of her having any heir.
The wealth enjoyed by Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille, whom Madame Crochard,
in obedience to the traditions of the older opera, never allowed herself
to speak of by the affectionate name of daughter, almost justified the
four women in their scheme of dividing among themselves the old woman's
Presently the one of these three sibyls who kept guard over the sick woman
came shaking her head at the other anxious two, and said:
"It is time we should be sending for the Abbe Fontanon. In another two
hours she will neither have the wit nor the strength to write a line."
Thereupon the toothless old cook went off, and returned with a man wearing
a black gown. A low forehead showed a small mind in this priest, whose
features were mean; his flabby, fat cheeks and double chin betrayed the
easy-going egotist; his powdered hair gave him a pleasant look, till he
raised his small, brown eyes, prominent under a flat forehead, and not
unworthy to glitter under the brows of a Tartar.
"Monsieur l'Abbe," said Francoise, "I thank you for all your advice; but
believe me, I have taken the greatest care of the dear soul."
But the servant, with her dragging step and woe-begone look, was silent
when she saw that the door of the apartment was open, and that the most
insinuating of the three dowagers was standing on the landing to be the
first to speak with the confessor. When the priest had politely faced the
honeyed and bigoted broadside of words fired off from the widow's three
friends, he went into the sickroom to sit by Madame Crochard. Decency, and
some sense of reserve, compelled the three women and old Francoise to
remain in the sitting-room, and to make such grimaces of grief as are
possible in perfection only to such wrinkled faces.
"Oh, is it not ill-luck!" cried Francoise, heaving a sigh. "This is the
fourth mistress I have buried. The first left me a hundred francs a year,
the second a sum of fifty crowns, and the third a thousand crowns down.
After thirty years' service, that is all I have to call my own."
The woman took advantage of her freedom to come and go, to slip into a
cupboard, whence she could hear the priest.
"I see with pleasure, daughter," said Fontanon, "that you have pious
sentiments; you have a sacred relic round your neck."
Madame Crochard, with a feeble vagueness which seemed to show that she had
not all her wits about her, pulled out the Imperial Cross of the Legion of
Honor. The priest started back at seeing the Emperor's head; he went up to
the penitent again, and she spoke to him, but in such a low tone that for
some minutes Francoise could hear nothing.
"Woe upon me!" cried the old woman suddenly. "Do not desert me. What,
Monsieur l'Abbe, do you think I shall be called to account for my
The Abbe spoke too low, and the partition was too thick for Francoise to
hear the reply.
"Alas!" sobbed the woman, "the wretch has left me nothing that I can
bequeath. When he robbed me of my dear Caroline, he parted us, and only
allowed me three thousand francs a year, of which the capital belongs to
"Madame has a daughter, and nothing to live on but an annuity," shrieked
Francoise, bursting into the drawing-room.
The three old crones looked at each other in dismay. One of them, whose
nose and chin nearly met with an expression that betrayed a superior type
of hypocrisy and cunning, winked her eyes; and as soon as Francoise's back
was turned, she gave her friends a nod, as much as to say, "That slut is
too knowing by half; her name has figured in three wills already."
So the three old dames sat on.
However, the Abbe presently came out, and at a word from him the witches
scuttered down the stairs at his heels, leaving Francoise alone with her
mistress. Madame Crochard, whose sufferings increased in severity, rang,
but in vain, for this woman, who only called out, "Coming, coming—in
a minute!" The doors of cupboards and wardrobes were slamming as though
Francoise were hunting high and low for a lost lottery ticket.
Just as this crisis was at a climax, Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille came to
stand by her mother's bed, lavishing tender words on her.
"Oh my dear mother, how criminal I have been! You are ill, and I did not
know it; my heart did not warn me. However, here I am—"
"What is it?"
"They fetched a priest—"
"But send for a doctor, bless me!" cried Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille.
"Francoise, a doctor! How is it that these ladies never sent for a
"They sent for a priest——" repeated the old woman with a gasp.
"She is so ill—and no soothing draught, nothing on her table!"
The mother made a vague sign, which Caroline's watchful eye understood,
for she was silent to let her mother speak.
"They brought a priest—to hear my confession, as they said.—Beware,
Caroline!" cried the old woman with an effort, "the priest made me tell
him your benefactor's name."
"But who can have told you, poor mother?"
The old woman died, trying to look knowingly cunning. If Mademoiselle de
Bellefeuille had noted her mother's face she might have seen what no one
ever will see—Death laughing.
To enter into the interests that lay beneath this introduction to my tale,
we must for a moment forget the actors in it, and look back at certain
previous incidents, of which the last was closely concerned with the death
of Madame Crochard. The two parts will then form a whole—a story
which, by a law peculiar to life in Paris, was made up of two distinct
sets of actions.
Towards the close of the month of November 1805, a young barrister, aged
about six-and-twenty, was going down the stairs of the hotel where the
High Chancellor of the Empire resided, at about three o'clock one morning.
Having reached the courtyard in full evening dress, under a keen frost, he
could not help giving vent to an exclamation of dismay—qualified,
however, by the spirit which rarely deserts a Frenchman—at seeing no
hackney coach waiting outside the gates, and hearing no noises such as
arise from the wooden shoes or harsh voices of the hackney-coachmen of
Paris. The occasional pawing of the horses of the Chief Justice's carriage—the
young man having left him still playing bouillote with Cambaceres—alone
rang out in the paved court, which was scarcely lighted by the carriage
lamps. Suddenly the young lawyer felt a friendly hand on his shoulder, and
turning round, found himself face to face with the Judge, to whom he
bowed. As the footman let down the steps of his carriage, the old
gentleman, who had served the Convention, suspected the junior's dilemma.
"All cats are gray in the dark," said he good-humoredly. "The Chief
Justice cannot compromise himself by putting a pleader in the right way!
Especially," he went on, "when the pleader is the nephew of an old
colleague, one of the lights of the grand Council of State which gave
France the Napoleonic Code."
At a gesture from the chief magistrate of France under the Empire, the
foot-passenger got into the carriage.
"Where do you live?" asked the great man, before the footman who awaited
his orders had closed the door.
"Quai des Augustins, monseigneur."
The horses started, and the young man found himself alone with the
Minister, to whom he had vainly tried to speak before and after the
sumptuous dinner given by Cambaceres; in fact, the great man had evidently
avoided him throughout the evening.
"Well, Monsieur de Granville, you are on the high road!"
"So long as I sit by your Excellency's side—"
"Nay, I am not jesting," said the Minister. "You were called two years
since, and your defence in the case of Simeuse and Hauteserre had raised
you high in your profession."
"I had supposed that my interest in those unfortunate emigres had done me
"You are still very young," said the great man gravely. "But the High
Chancellor," he went on, after a pause, "was greatly pleased with you this
evening. Get a judgeship in the lower courts; we want men. The nephew of a
man in whom Cambaceres and I take great interest must not remain in the
background for lack of encouragement. Your uncle helped us to tide over a
very stormy season, and services of that kind are not forgotten." The
Minister sat silent for a few minutes. "Before long," he went on, "I shall
have three vacancies open in the Lower Courts and in the Imperial Court in
Paris. Come to see me, and take the place you prefer. Till then work hard,
but do not be seen at my receptions. In the first place, I am overwhelmed
with work; and besides that, your rivals may suspect your purpose and do
you harm with the patron. Cambaceres and I, by not speaking a word to you
this evening, have averted the accusation of favoritism."
As the great man ceased speaking, the carriage drew up on the Quai des
Augustins; the young lawyer thanked his generous patron for the two lifts
he had conferred on him, and then knocked at his door pretty loudly, for
the bitter wind blew cold about his calves. At last the old lodgekeeper
pulled up the latch; and as the young man passed his window, called out in
a hoarse voice, "Monsieur Granville, here is a letter for you."
The young man took the letter, and in spite of the cold, tried to identify
the writing by the gleam of a dull lamp fast dying out. "From my father!"
he exclaimed, as he took his bedroom candle, which the porter at last had
lighted. And he ran up to his room to read the following epistle:—
"Set off by the next mail; and if you can get here soon enough,
your fortune is made. Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems has lost her
sister; she is now an only child; and, as we know, she does not
hate you. Madame Bontems can now leave her about forty thousand
francs a year, besides whatever she may give her when she marries.
I have prepared the way.
"Our friends will wonder to see a family of old nobility allying
itself to the Bontems; old Bontems was a red republican of the
deepest dye, owning large quantities of the nationalized land,
that he bought for a mere song. But he held nothing but convent
lands, and the monks will not come back; and then, as you have
already so far derogated as to become a lawyer, I cannot see why
we should shrink from a further concession to the prevalent ideas.
The girl will have three hundred thousand francs; I can give you a
hundred thousand; your mother's property must be worth fifty
thousand crowns, more or less; so if you choose to take a
judgeship, my dear son, you are quite in a position to become a
senator as much as any other man. My brother-in-law the Councillor
of State will not indeed lend you a helping-hand; still, as he is
not married, his property will some day be yours, and if you are
not senator by your own efforts, you will get it through him. Then
you will be perched high enough to look on at events. Farewell.
So young Granville went to bed full of schemes, each fairer than the last.
Under the powerful protection of the High Chancellor, the Chief Justice,
and his mother's brother—one of the originators of the Code—he
was about to make a start in a coveted position before the highest court
of the Empire, and he already saw himself a member of the bench whence
Napoleon selected the chief functionaries of the realm. He could also
promise himself a fortune handsome enough to keep up his rank, for which
the slender income of five thousand francs from an estate left him by his
mother would be quite insufficient.
To crown his ambitious dreams with a vision of happiness, he called up the
guileless face of Mademoiselle Angelique Bontems, the companion of his
childhood. Until he came to boyhood his father and mother had made no
objection to his intimacy with their neighbor's pretty little daughter;
but when, during his brief holiday visits to Bayeux, his parents, who
prided themselves on their good birth, saw what friends the young people
were, they forbade his ever thinking of her. Thus for ten years past
Granville had only had occasional glimpses of the girl, whom he still
sometimes thought of as "his little wife." And in those brief moments when
they met free from the active watchfulness of their families, they had
scarcely exchanged a few vague civilities at the church door or in the
street. Their happiest days had been those when, brought together by one
of those country festivities known in Normandy as Assemblees, they
could steal a glance at each other from afar.
In the course of the last vacation Granville had twice seen Angelique, and
her downcast eyes and drooping attitude had led him to suppose that she
was crushed by some unknown tyranny.
He was off by seven next morning to the coach office in the Rue
Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, and was so lucky as to find a vacant seat in the
diligence then starting for Caen.
It was not without deep emotion that the young lawyer saw once more the
spires of the cathedral at Bayeux. As yet no hope of his life had been
cheated, and his heart swelled with the generous feelings that expand in
the youthful soul.
After the too lengthy feast of welcome prepared by his father, who awaited
him with some friends, the impatient youth was conducted to a house, long
familiar to him, standing in the Rue Teinture. His heart beat high when
his father—still known in the town of Bayeux as the Comte de
Granville—knocked loudly at a carriage gate off which the green
paint was dropping in scales. It was about four in the afternoon. A young
maid-servant, in a cotton cap, dropped a short curtsey to the two
gentlemen, and said that the ladies would soon be home from vespers.
The Count and his son were shown into a low room used as a drawing-room,
but more like a convent parlor. Polished panels of dark walnut made it
gloomy enough, and around it some old-fashioned chairs covered with
worsted work and stiff armchairs were symmetrically arranged. The stone
chimney-shelf had no ornament but a discolored mirror, and on each side of
it were the twisted branches of a pair of candle-brackets, such as were
made at the time of the Peace of Utrecht. Against a panel opposite, young
Granville saw an enormous crucifix of ebony and ivory surrounded by a
wreath of box that had been blessed. Though there were three windows to
the room, looking out on a country-town garden, laid out in formal square
beds edged with box, the room was so dark that it was difficult to
discern, on the wall opposite the windows, three pictures of sacred
subjects painted by a skilled hand, and purchased, no doubt, during the
Revolution by old Bontems, who, as governor of the district, had never
neglected his opportunities. From the carefully polished floor to the
green checked holland curtains everything shone with conventual
The young man's heart felt an involuntary chill in this silent retreat
where Angelique dwelt. The habit of frequenting the glittering Paris
drawing-rooms, and the constant whirl of society, had effaced from his
memory the dull and peaceful surroundings of a country life, and the
contrast was so startling as to give him a sort of internal shiver. To
have just left a party at the house of Cambaceres, where life was so
large, where minds could expand, where the splendor of the Imperial Court
was so vividly reflected, and to be dropped suddenly into a sphere of
squalidly narrow ideas—was it not like a leap from Italy into
Greenland?—"Living here is not life!" said he to himself, as he
looked round the Methodistical room. The old Count, seeing his son's
dismay, went up to him, and taking his hand, led him to a window, where
there was still a gleam of daylight, and while the maid was lighting the
yellow tapers in the candle branches he tried to clear away the clouds
that the dreary place had brought to his brow.
"Listen, my boy," said he. "Old Bontems' widow is a frenzied bigot. 'When
the devil is old—' you know! I see that the place goes against the
grain. Well, this is the whole truth; the old woman is priest-ridden; they
have persuaded her that it was high time to make sure of heaven, and the
better to secure Saint Peter and his keys she pays before-hand. She goes
to Mass every day, attends every service, takes the communion every Sunday
God has made, and amuses herself by restoring chapels. She had given so
many ornaments, and albs, and chasubles, she has crowned the canopy with
so many feathers, that on the occasion of the last Corpus Christi
procession as great a crowd came together as to see a man hanged, just to
stare at the priests in their splendid dresses and all the vessels regilt.
This house too is a sort of Holy Land. It was I who hindered her from
giving those three pictures to the Church—a Domenichino, a
Correggio, and an Andrea del Sarto—worth a good deal of money."
"But Angelique?" asked the young man.
"If you do not marry her, Angelique is done for," said the Count. "Our
holy apostles counsel her to live a virgin martyr. I have had the utmost
difficulty in stirring up her little heart, since she has been the only
child, by talking to her of you; but, as you will easily understand, as
soon as she is married you will carry her off to Paris. There,
festivities, married life, the theatres, and the rush of Parisian society,
will soon make her forget confessionals, and fasting, and hair shirts, and
Masses, which are the exclusive nourishment of such creatures."
"But the fifty thousand francs a year derived from Church property? Will
not all that return—"
"That is the point!" exclaimed the Count, with a cunning glance. "In
consideration of this marriage—for Madame Bontems' vanity is not a
little flattered by the notion of grafting the Bontems on to the
genealogical tree of the Granvilles—the aforenamed mother agrees to
settle her fortune absolutely on the girl, reserving only a life-interest.
The priesthood, therefore, are set against the marriage; but I have had
the banns published, everything is ready, and in a week you will be out of
the clutches of the mother and her Abbes. You will have the prettiest girl
in Bayeux, a good little soul who will give you no trouble, because she
has sound principles. She has been mortified, as they say in their jargon,
by fasting and prayer—and," he added in a low voice, "by her
A modest tap at the door silenced the Count, who expected to see the two
ladies appear. A little page came in, evidently in a great hurry; but,
abashed by the presence of the two gentlemen, he beckoned to a
housekeeper, who followed him. Dressed in a blue cloth jacket with short
tails, and blue-and-white striped trousers, his hair cut short all round,
the boy's expression was that of a chorister, so strongly was it stamped
with the compulsory propriety that marks every member of a bigoted
"Mademoiselle Gatienne," said he, "do you know where the books are for the
offices of the Virgin? The ladies of the Congregation of the Sacred Heart
are going in procession this evening round the church."
Gatienne went in search of the books.
"Will they go on much longer, my little man?" asked the Count.
"Oh, half an hour at most."
"Let us go to look on," said the father to his son. "There will be some
pretty women there, and a visit to the Cathedral can do us no harm."
The young lawyer followed him with a doubtful expression.
"What is the matter?" asked the Count.
"The matter, father, is that I am sure I am right."
"But you have said nothing."
"No; but I have been thinking that you have still ten thousand francs a
year left of your original fortune. You will leave them to me—as
long a time hence as possible, I hope. But if you are ready to give me a
hundred thousand francs to make a foolish match, you will surely allow me
to ask you for only fifty thousand to save me from such a misfortune, and
enjoy as a bachelor a fortune equal to what your Mademoiselle Bontems
would bring me."
"Are you crazy?"
"No, father. These are the facts. The Chief Justice promised me yesterday
that I should have a seat on the Bench. Fifty thousand francs added to
what I have, and to the pay of my appointment, will give me an income of
twelve thousand francs a year. And I then shall most certainly have a
chance of marrying a fortune, better than this alliance, which will be
poor in happiness if rich in goods."
"It is very clear," said his father, "that you were not brought up under
the old regime. Does a man of our rank ever allow his wife to be in
"But, my dear father, in these days marriage is—"
"Bless me!" cried the Count, interrupting his son, "then what my old emigre
friends tell me is true, I suppose. The Revolution has left us habits
devoid of pleasure, and has infected all the young men with vulgar
principles. You, like my Jacobin brother-in-law, will harangue me, I
suppose, on the Nation, Public Morals, and Disinterestedness!—Good
Heavens! But for the Emperor's sisters, where should we be?"
The still hale old man, whom the peasants on the estate persisted in
calling the Signeur de Granville, ended his speech as they entered the
Cathedral porch. In spite of the sanctity of the place, and even as he
dipped his fingers in the holy water, he hummed an air from the opera of
Rose et Colas, and then led the way down the side aisles, stopping
by each pillar to survey the rows of heads, all in lines like ranks of
soldiers on parade.
The special service of the Sacred Heart was about to begin. The ladies
affiliated to that congregation were in front near the choir, so the Count
and his son made their way to that part of the nave, and stood leaning
against one of the columns where there was least light, whence they could
command a view of this mass of faces, looking like a meadow full of
flowers. Suddenly, close to young Granville, a voice, sweeter than it
seemed possible to ascribe to a human being, broke into song, like the
first nightingale when winter is past. Though it mingled with the voices
of a thousand other women and the notes of the organ, that voice stirred
his nerves as though they vibrated to the too full and too piercing sounds
of a harmonium. The Parisian turned round, and, seeing a young figure,
though, the head being bent, her face was entirely concealed by a large
white bonnet, concluded that the voice was hers. He fancied that he
recognized Angelique in spite of a brown merino pelisse that wrapped her,
and he nudged his father's elbow.
"Yes, there she is," said the Count, after looking where his son pointed,
and then, by an expressive glance, he directed his attention to the pale
face of an elderly woman who had already detected the strangers, though
her false eyes, deep set in dark circles, did not seem to have strayed
from the prayer-book she held.
Angelique raised her face, gazing at the altar as if to inhale the heavy
scent of the incense that came wafted in clouds over the two women. And
then, in the doubtful light that the tapers shed down the nave, with that
of a central lamp and of some lights round the pillars, the young man
beheld a face which shook his determination. A white watered-silk bonnet
closely framed features of perfect regularity, the oval being completed by
the satin ribbon tie that fastened it under her dimpled chin. Over her
forehead, very sweet though low, hair of a pale gold color parted in two
bands and fell over her cheeks, like the shadow of leaves on a flower. The
arches of her eyebrows were drawn with the accuracy we admire in the best
Chinese paintings. Her nose, almost aquiline in profile, was exceptionally
firmly cut, and her lips were like two rose lines lovingly traced with a
delicate brush. Her eyes, of a light blue, were expressive of innocence.
Though Granville discerned a sort of rigid reserve in this girlish face,
he could ascribe it to the devotion in which Angelique was rapt. The
solemn words of prayer, visible in the cold, came from between rows of
pearls, like a fragrant mist, as it were. The young man involuntarily bent
over her a little to breathe this diviner air. This movement attracted the
girl's notice; her gaze, raised to the altar, was diverted to Granville,
whom she could see but dimly in the gloom; but she recognized him as the
companion of her youth, and a memory more vivid than prayer brought a
supernatural glow to her face; she blushed. The young lawyer was thrilled
with joy at seeing the hopes of another life overpowered by those of love,
and the glory of the sanctuary eclipsed by earthly reminiscences; but his
triumph was brief. Angelique dropped her veil, assumed a calm demeanor,
and went on singing without letting her voice betray the least emotion.
Granville was a prey to one single wish, and every thought of prudence
vanished. By the time the service was ended, his impatience was so great
that he could not leave the ladies to go home alone, but came at once to
make his bow to "his little wife." They bashfully greeted each other in
the Cathedral porch in the presence of the congregation. Madame Bontems
was tremulous with pride as she took the Comte de Granville's arm, though
he, forced to offer it in the presence of all the world was vexed enough
with his son for his ill-advised impatience.
For about a fortnight, between the official announcement of the intended
marriage of the Vicomte de Granville to Mademoiselle Bontems and the
solemn day of the wedding, he came assiduously to visit his lady-love in
the dismal drawing-room, to which he became accustomed. His long calls
were devoted to watching Angelique's character; for his prudence, happily,
had made itself heard again in the day after their first meeting. He
always found her seated at a little table of some West Indian wood, and
engaged in marking the linen of her trousseau. Angelique never spoke first
on the subject of religion. If the young lawyer amused himself with
fingering the handsome rosary that she kept in a little green velvet bag,
if he laughed as he looked at a relic such as usually is attached to this
means of grace, Angelique would gently take the rosary out of his hands
and replace it in the bag without a word, putting it away at once. When,
now and then, Granville was so bold as to make mischievous remarks as to
certain religious practices, the pretty girl listened to him with the
obstinate smile of assurance.
"You must either believe nothing, or believe everything the Church
teaches," she would say. "Would you wish to have a woman without a
religion as the mother of your children?—No.—What man may dare
judge as between disbelievers and God? And how can I then blame what the
Angelique appeared to be animated by such fervent charity, the young man
saw her look at him with such perfect conviction, that he sometimes felt
tempted to embrace her religious views; her firm belief that she was in
the only right road aroused doubts in his mind, which she tried to turn to
But then Granville committed the fatal blunder of mistaking the
enchantment of desire for that of love. Angelique was so happy in
reconciling the voice of her heart with that of duty, by giving way to a
liking that had grown up with her from childhood, that the deluded man
could not discern which of the two spoke the louder. Are not all young men
ready to trust the promise of a pretty face and to infer beauty of soul
from beauty of feature? An indefinable impulse leads them to believe that
moral perfection must co-exist with physical perfection. If Angelique had
not been at liberty to give vent to her sentiments, they would soon have
dried up in her heart like a plant watered with some deadly acid. How
should a lover be aware of bigotry so well hidden?
This was the course of young Granville's feelings during that fortnight,
devoured by him like a book of which the end is absorbing. Angelique,
carefully watched by him, seemed the gentlest of creatures, and he even
caught himself feeling grateful to Madame Bontems, who, by implanting so
deeply the principles of religion, had in some degree inured her to meet
the troubles of life.
On the day named for signing the inevitable contract, Madame Bontems made
her son-in-law pledge himself solemnly to respect her daughter's religious
practices, to allow her entire liberty of conscience, to permit her to go
to communion, to church, to confession as often as she pleased, and never
to control her choice of priestly advisers. At this critical moment
Angelique looked at her future husband with such pure and innocent eyes,
that Granville did not hesitate to give his word. A smile puckered the
lips of the Abbe Fontanon, a pale man, who directed the consciences of
this household. Mademoiselle Bontems, by a slight nod, seemed to promise
that she would never take an unfair advantage of this freedom. As to the
old Count, he gently whistled the tune of an old song, Va-t-en-voir
s'ils viennent ("Go and see if they are coming on!")
A few days after the wedding festivities of which so much is thought in
the provinces, Granville and his wife went to Paris, whither the young man
was recalled by his appointment as public prosecutor to the Supreme Court
of the Seine circuit.
When the young couple set out to find a residence, Angelique used the
influence that the honeymoon gives to every wife in persuading her husband
to take a large apartment in the ground-floor of a house at the corner of
the Vieille Rue du Temple and the Rue Nueve Saint-Francois. Her chief
reason for this choice was that the house was close to the Rue d'Orleans,
where there was a church, and not far from a small chapel in the Rue
"A good housewife provides for everything," said her husband, laughing.
Angelique pointed out to him that this part of Paris, known as the Marais,
was within easy reach of the Palais de Justice, and that the lawyers they
knew lived in the neighborhood. A fairly large garden made the apartment
particularly advantageous to a young couple; the children—if Heaven
should send them any—could play in the open air; the courtyard was
spacious, and there were good stables.
The lawyer wished to live in the Chaussee d'Antin, where everything is
fresh and bright, where the fashions may be seen while still new, where a
well-dressed crowd throngs the Boulevards, and the distance is less to the
theatres or places of amusement; but he was obliged to give way to the
coaxing ways of a young wife, who asked this as his first favor; so, to
please her, he settled in the Marais. Granville's duties required him to
work hard—all the more, because they were new to him—so he
devoted himself in the first place to furnishing his private study and
arranging his books. He was soon established in a room crammed with
papers, and left the decoration of the house to his wife. He was all the
better pleased to plunge Angelique into the bustle of buying furniture and
fittings, the source of so much pleasure and of so many associations to
most young women, because he was rather ashamed of depriving her of his
company more often than the usages of early married life require. As soon
as his work was fairly under way, he gladly allowed his wife to tempt him
out of his study to consider the effect of furniture or hangings, which he
had before only seen piecemeal or unfinished.
If the old adage is true that says a woman may be judged of from her front
door, her rooms must express her mind with even greater fidelity. Madame
de Granville had perhaps stamped the various things she had ordered with
the seal of her own character; the young lawyer was certainly startled by
the cold, arid solemnity that reigned in these rooms; he found nothing to
charm his taste; everything was discordant, nothing gratified the eye. The
rigid mannerism that prevailed in the sitting-room at Bayeux had invaded
his home; the broad panels were hollowed in circles, and decorated with
those arabesques of which the long, monotonous mouldings are in such bad
taste. Anxious to find excuses for his wife, the young husband began
again, looking first at the long and lofty ante-room through which the
apartment was entered. The color of the panels, as ordered by his wife,
was too heavy, and the very dark green velvet used to cover the benches
added to the gloom of this entrance—not, to be sure, an important
room, but giving a first impression—just as we measure a man's
intelligence by his first address. An ante-room is a kind of preface which
announces what is to follow, but promises nothing.
The young husband wondered whether his wife could really have chosen the
lamp of an antique pattern, which hung in the centre of this bare hall,
the pavement of black and white marble, and the paper in imitation of
blocks of stone, with green moss on them in places. A handsome, but not
new, barometer hung on the middle of one of the walls, as if to accentuate
the void. At the sight of it all, he looked round at his wife; he saw her
so much pleased by the red braid binding to the cotton curtains, so
satisfied with the barometer and the strictly decent statue that
ornamented a large Gothic stove, that he had not the barbarous courage to
overthrow such deep convictions. Instead of blaming his wife, Granville
blamed himself, accusing himself of having failed in his duty of guiding
the first steps in Paris of a girl brought up at Bayeux.
From this specimen, what might not be expected of the other rooms? What
was to be looked for from a woman who took fright at the bare legs of a
Caryatid, and who would not look at a chandelier or a candle-stick if she
saw on it the nude outlines of an Egyptian bust? At this date the school
of David was at the height of its glory; all the art of France bore the
stamp of his correct design and his love of antique types, which indeed
gave his pictures the character of colored sculpture. But none of these
devices of Imperial luxury found civic rights under Madame de Granville's
roof. The spacious, square drawing-room remained as it had been left from
the time of Louis XV., in white and tarnished gold, lavishly adorned by
the architect with checkered lattice-work and the hideous garlands due to
the uninventive designers of the time. Still, if harmony at least had
prevailed, if the furniture of modern mahogany had but assumed the twisted
forms of which Boucher's corrupt taste first set the fashion, Angelique's
room would only have suggested the fantastic contrast of a young couple in
the nineteenth century living as though they were in the eighteenth; but a
number of details were in ridiculous discord. The consoles, the clocks,
the candelabra, were decorated with the military trophies which the wars
of the Empire commended to the affections of the Parisians; and the Greek
helmets, the Roman crossed daggers, and the shields so dear to military
enthusiasm that they were introduced on furniture of the most peaceful
uses, had no fitness side by side with the delicate and profuse arabesques
that delighted Madame de Pompadour.
Bigotry tends to an indescribably tiresome kind of humility which does not
exclude pride. Whether from modesty or by choice, Madame de Granville
seemed to have a horror of light and cheerful colors; perhaps, too, she
imagined that brown and purple beseemed the dignity of a magistrate. How
could a girl accustomed to an austere life have admitted the luxurious
divans that may suggest evil thoughts, the elegant and tempting boudoirs
where naughtiness may be imagined?
The poor husband was in despair. From the tone in which he approved, only
seconding the praises she bestowed on herself, Angelique understood that
nothing really pleased him; and she expressed so much regret at her want
of success, that Granville, who was very much in love, regarded her
disappointment as a proof of her affection instead of resentment for an
offence to her self-conceit. After all, could he expect a girl just
snatched from the humdrum of country notions, with no experience of the
niceties and grace of Paris life, to know or do any better? Rather would
he believe that his wife's choice had been overruled by the tradesmen than
allow himself to own the truth. If he had been less in love, he would have
understood that the dealers, always quick to discern their customers'
ideas, had blessed Heaven for sending them a tasteless little bigot, who
would take their old-fashioned goods off their hands. So he comforted the
"Happiness, dear Angelique, does not depend on a more or less elegant
piece of furniture; it depends on the wife's sweetness, gentleness, and
"Why, it is my duty to love you," said Angelique mildly, "and I can have
no more delightful duty to carry out."
Nature has implanted in the heart of woman so great a desire to please, so
deep a craving for love, that, even in a youthful bigot, the ideas of
salvation and a future existence must give way to the happiness of early
married life. And, in fact, from the month of April, when they were
married, till the beginning of winter, the husband and wife lived in
perfect union. Love and hard work have the grace of making a man tolerably
indifferent to external matters. Being obliged to spend half the day in
court fighting for the gravest interests of men's lives or fortunes,
Granville was less alive than another might have been to certain facts in
If, on a Friday, he found none but Lenten fare, and by chance asked for a
dish of meat without getting it, his wife, forbidden by the Gospel to tell
a lie, could still, by such subterfuges as are permissible in the
interests of religion, cloak what was premeditated purpose under some
pretext of her own carelessness or the scarcity in the market. She would
often exculpate herself at the expense of the cook, and even go so far as
to scold him. At that time young lawyers did not, as they do now, keep the
fasts of the Church, the four rogation seasons, and the vigils of
festivals; so Granville was not at first aware of the regular recurrence
of these Lenten meals, which his wife took care should be made dainty by
the addition of teal, moor-hen, and fish-pies, that their amphibious meat
or high seasoning might cheat his palate. Thus the young man unconsciously
lived in strict orthodoxy, and worked out his salvation without knowing
On week-days he did not know whether his wife went to Mass or no. On
Sundays, with very natural amiability, he accompanied her to church to
make up to her, as it were, for sometimes giving up vespers in favor of
his company; he could not at first fully enter into the strictness of his
wife's religious views. The theatres being impossible in summer by reason
of the heat, Granville had not even the opportunity of the great success
of a piece to give rise to the serious question of play-going. And, in
short, at the early stage of a union to which a man has been led by a
young girl's beauty, he can hardly be exacting as to his amusements. Youth
is greedy rather than dainty, and possession has a charm in itself. How
should he be keen to note coldness, dignity, and reserve in the woman to
whom he ascribes the excitement he himself feels, and lends the glow of
the fire that burns within him? He must have attained a certain conjugal
calm before he discovers that a bigot sits waiting for love with her arms
Granville, therefore, believed himself happy till a fatal event brought
its influence to bear on his married life. In the month of November 1808
the Canon of Bayeux Cathedral who had been the keeper of Madame Bontems'
conscience and her daughter's, came to Paris, spurred by the ambition to
be at the head of a church in the capital—a position which he
regarded perhaps as the stepping-stone to a bishopric. On resuming his
former control of this wandering lamb, he was horrified to find her
already so much deteriorated by the air of Paris, and strove to reclaim
her to his chilly fold. Frightened by the exhortations of this priest, a
man of about eight-and-thirty, who brought with him, into the circle of
the enlightened and tolerant Paris clergy, the bitter provincial
catholicism and the inflexible bigotry which fetter timid souls with
endless exactions, Madame de Granville did penance and returned from her
It would be tiresome to describe minutely all the circumstances which
insensibly brought disaster on this household; it will be enough to relate
the simple facts without giving them in strict order of time.
The first misunderstanding between the young couple was, however, a
When Granville took his wife into society she never declined solemn
functions, such as dinners, concerts, or parties given by the Judges
superior to her husband in the legal profession; but for a long time she
constantly excused herself on the plea of a sick headache when they were
invited to a ball. One day Granville, out of patience with these assumed
indispositions, destroyed a note of invitation to a ball at the house of a
Councillor of State, and gave his wife only a verbal invitation. Then, on
the evening, her health being quite above suspicion, he took her to a
"My dear," said he, on their return home, seeing her wear an offensive air
of depression, "your position as a wife, the rank you hold in society, and
the fortune you enjoy, impose on you certain duties of which no divine law
can relieve you. Are you not your husband's pride? You are required to go
to balls when I go, and to appear in a becoming manner."
"And what is there, my dear, so disastrous in my dress?"
"It is your manner, my dear. When a young man comes up to speak to you,
you look so serious that a spiteful person might believe you doubtful of
your own virtue. You seem to fear lest a smile should undo you. You really
look as if you were asking forgiveness of God for the sins that may be
committed around you. The world, my dearest, is not a convent.—But,
as you mentioned your dress, I may confess to you that it is no less a
duty to conform to the customs and fashions of Society."
"Do you wish that I should display my shape like those indecent women who
wear gowns so low that impudent eyes can stare at their bare shoulders and
"There is a difference, my dear," said her husband, interrupting her,
"between uncovering your whole bust and giving some grace to your dress.
You wear three rows of net frills that cover your throat up to your chin.
You look as if you had desired your dressmaker to destroy the graceful
line of your shoulders and bosom with as much care as a coquette would
devote to obtaining from hers a bodice that might emphasize her covered
form. Your bust is wrapped in so many folds that every one was laughing at
your affectation of prudery. You would be really grieved if I were to
repeat the ill-natured remarks made on your appearance."
"Those who admire such obscenity will not have to bear the burthen if we
sin," said the lady tartly.
"And you did not dance?" asked Granville.
"I shall never dance," she replied.
"If I tell you that you ought to dance!" said her husband sharply. "Yes,
you ought to follow the fashions, to wear flowers in your hair, and
diamonds. Remember, my dear, that rich people—and we are rich—are
obliged to keep up luxury in the State. Is it not far better to encourage
manufacturers than to distribute money in the form of alms through the
medium of the clergy?"
"You talk as a statesman!" said Angelique.
"And you as a priest," he retorted.
The discussion was bitter. Madame de Granville's answers, though spoken
very sweetly and in a voice as clear as a church bell, showed an obstinacy
that betrayed priestly influence. When she appealed to the rights secured
to her by Granville's promise, she added that her director specially
forbade her going to balls; then her husband pointed out to her that the
priest was overstepping the regulations of the Church.
This odious theological dispute was renewed with great violence and
acerbity on both sides when Granville proposed to take his wife to the
play. Finally, the lawyer, whose sole aim was to defeat the pernicious
influence exerted over his wife by her old confessor, placed the question
on such a footing that Madame de Granville, in a spirit of defiance,
referred it by writing to the Court of Rome, asking in so many words
whether a woman could wear low gowns and go to the play and to balls
without compromising her salvation.
The reply of the venerable Pope Pius VII. came at once, strongly
condemning the wife's recalcitrancy and blaming the priest. This letter, a
chapter on conjugal duties, might have been dictated by the spirit of
Fenelon, whose grace and tenderness pervaded every line.
"A wife is right to go wherever her husband may take her. Even if she sins
by his command, she will not be ultimately held answerable." These two
sentences of the Pope's homily only made Madame de Granville and her
director accuse him of irreligion.
But before this letter had arrived, Granville had discovered the strict
observance of fast days that his wife forced upon him, and gave his
servants orders to serve him with meat every day in the year. However much
annoyed his wife might be by these commands, Granville, who cared not a
straw for such indulgence or abstinence, persisted with manly
Is it not an offence to the weakest creature that can think at all to be
compelled to do, by the will of another, anything that he would otherwise
have done simply of his own accord? Of all forms of tyranny, the most
odious is that which constantly robs the soul of the merit of its thoughts
and deeds. It has to abdicate without having reigned. The word we are
readiest to speak, the feelings we most love to express, die when we are
commanded to utter them.
Ere long the young man ceased to invite his friends, to give parties or
dinners; the house might have been shrouded in crape. A house where the
mistress is a bigot has an atmosphere of its own. The servants, who are,
of course, under her immediate control, are chosen among a class who call
themselves pious, and who have an unmistakable physiognomy. Just as the
jolliest fellow alive, when he joins the gendarmerie, has the
countenance of a gendarme, so those who give themselves over to the habit
of lowering their eyes and preserving a sanctimonious mien clothes them in
a livery of hypocrisy which rogues can affect to perfection.
And besides, bigots constitute a sort of republic; they all know each
other; the servants they recommend and hand on from one to another are a
race apart, and preserved by them, as horse-breeders will admit no animal
into their stables that has not a pedigree. The more the impious—as
they are thought—come to understand a household of bigots, the more
they perceive that everything is stamped with an indescribable squalor;
they find there, at the same time, an appearance of avarice and mystery,
as in a miser's home, and the dank scent of cold incense which gives a
chill to the stale atmosphere of a chapel. This methodical meanness, this
narrowness of thought, which is visible in every detail, can only be
expressed by one word—Bigotry. In these sinister and pitiless houses
Bigotry is written on the furniture, the prints, the pictures; speech is
bigoted, the silence is bigoted, the faces are those of bigots. The
transformation of men and things into bigotry is an inexplicable mystery,
but the fact is evident. Everybody can see that bigots do not walk, do not
sit, do not speak, as men of the world walk, sit, and speak. Under their
roof every one is ill at ease, no one laughs, stiffness and formality
infect everything, from the mistress' cap down to her pincushion; eyes are
not honest, the folks are more like shadows, and the lady of the house
seems perched on a throne of ice.
One morning poor Granville discerned with grief and pain that all the
symptoms of bigotry had invaded his home. There are in the world different
spheres in which the same effects are seen though produced by dissimilar
causes. Dulness hedges such miserable homes round with walls of brass,
enclosing the horrors of the desert and the infinite void. The home is not
so much a tomb as that far worse thing—a convent. In the center of
this icy sphere the lawyer could study his wife dispassionately. He
observed, not without keen regret, the narrow-mindedness that stood
confessed in the very way that her hair grew, low on the forehead, which
was slightly depressed; he discovered in the perfect regularity of her
features a certain set rigidity which before long made him hate the
assumed sweetness that had bewitched him. Intuition told him that one day
of disaster those thin lips might say, "My dear, it is for your good!"
Madame de Granville's complexion was acquiring a dull pallor and an
austere expression that were a kill-joy to all who came near her. Was this
change wrought by the ascetic habits of a pharisaism which is not piety
any more than avarice is economy? It would be hard to say. Beauty without
expression is perhaps an imposture. This imperturbable set smile that the
young wife always wore when she looked at Granville seemed to be a sort of
Jesuitical formula of happiness, by which she thought to satisfy all the
requirements of married life. Her charity was an offence, her soulless
beauty was monstrous to those who knew her; the mildness of her speech was
an irritation: she acted, not on feeling, but on duty.
There are faults which may yield in a wife to the stern lessons of
experience, or to a husband's warnings; but nothing can counteract false
ideas of religion. An eternity of happiness to be won, set in the scale
against worldly enjoyment, triumphs over everything and makes every pang
endurable. Is it not the apotheosis of egotism, of Self beyond the grave?
Thus even the Pope was censured at the tribunal of the priest and the
young devotee. To be always in the right is a feeling which absorbs every
other in these tyrannous souls.
For some time past a secret struggle had been going on between the ideas
of the husband and wife, and the young man was soon weary of a battle to
which there could be no end. What man, what temper, can endure the sight
of a hypocritically affectionate face and categorical resistance to his
slightest wishes? What is to be done with a wife who takes advantage of
his passion to protect her coldness, who seems determined on being blandly
inexorable, prepares herself ecstatically to play the martyr, and looks on
her husband as a scourge from God, a means of flagellation that may spare
her the fires of purgatory? What picture can give an idea of these women
who make virtue hateful by defying the gentle precepts of that faith which
Saint John epitomized in the words, "Love one another"?
If there was a bonnet to be found in a milliner's shop that was condemned
to remain in the window, or to be packed off to the colonies, Granville
was certain to see it on his wife's head; if a material of bad color or
hideous design were to be found, she would select it. These hapless bigots
are heart-breaking in their notions of dress. Want of taste is a defect
inseparable from false pietism.
And so, in the home-life that needs the fullest sympathy, Granville had no
true companionship. He went out alone to parties and the theatres. Nothing
in his house appealed to him. A huge Crucifix that hung between his bed
and Angelique's seemed figurative of his destiny. Does it not represent a
murdered Divinity, a Man-God, done to death in all the prime of life and
beauty? The ivory of that cross was less cold than Angelique crucifying
her husband under the plea of virtue. This it was that lay at the root of
their woes; the young wife saw nothing but duty where she should have
given love. Here, one Ash Wednesday, rose the pale and spectral form of
Fasting in Lent, of Total Abstinence, commanded in a severe tone—and
Granville did not deem it advisable to write in his turn to the Pope and
take the opinion of the Consistory on the proper way of observing Lent,
the Ember days, and the eve of great festivals.
His misfortune was too great! He could not even complain, for what could
he say? He had a pretty young wife attached to her duties, virtuous—nay,
a model of all the virtues. She had a child every year, nursed them
herself, and brought them up in the highest principles. Being charitable,
Angelique was promoted to rank as an angel. The old women who constituted
the circle in which she moved—for at that time it was not yet "the
thing" for young women to be religious as a matter of fashion—all
admired Madame de Granville's piety, and regarded her, not indeed as a
virgin, but as a martyr. They blamed not the wife's scruples, but the
barbarous philoprogenitiveness of the husband.
Granville, by insensible degrees, overdone with work, bereft of conjugal
consolations, and weary of a world in which he wandered alone, by the time
he was two-and-thirty had sunk into the Slough of Despond. He hated life.
Having too lofty a notion of the responsibilities imposed on him by his
position to set the example of a dissipated life, he tried to deaden
feeling by hard study, and began a great book on Law.
But he was not allowed to enjoy the monastic peace he had hoped for. When
the celestial Angelique saw him desert worldly society to work at home
with such regularity, she tried to convert him. It had been a real sorrow
to her to know that her husband's opinions were not strictly Christian;
and she sometimes wept as she reflected that if her husband should die it
would be in a state of final impenitence, so that she could not hope to
snatch him from the eternal fires of Hell. Thus Granville was a mark for
the mean ideas, the vacuous arguments, the narrow views by which his wife—fancying
she had achieved the first victory—tried to gain a second by
bringing him back within the pale of the Church.
This was the last straw. What can be more intolerable than the blind
struggle in which the obstinacy of a bigot tries to meet the acumen of a
lawyer? What more terrible to endure than the acrimonious pin-pricks to
which a passionate soul prefers a dagger-thrust? Granville neglected his
home. Everything there was unendurable. His children, broken by their
mother's frigid despotism, dared not go with him to the play; indeed,
Granville could never give them any pleasure without bringing down
punishment from their terrible mother. His loving nature was weaned to
indifference, to a selfishness worse than death. His boys, indeed, he
saved from this hell by sending them to school at an early age, and
insisting on his right to train them. He rarely interfered between his
wife and her daughters; but he was resolved that they should marry as soon
as they were old enough.
Even if he had wished to take violent measures, he could have found no
justification; his wife, backed by a formidable army of dowagers, would
have had him condemned by the whole world. Thus Granville had no choice
but to live in complete isolation; but, crushed under the tyranny of
misery, he could not himself bear to see how altered he was by grief and
toil. And he dreaded any connection or intimacy with women of the world,
having no hope of finding any consolation.
The improving history of this melancholy household gave rise to no events
worthy of record during the fifteen years between 1806 and 1825. Madame de
Granville was exactly the same after losing her husband's affection as she
had been during the time when she called herself happy. She paid for
Masses, beseeching God and the Saints to enlighten her as to what the
faults were which displeased her husband, and to show her the way to
restore the erring sheep; but the more fervent her prayers, the less was
Granville to be seen at home.
For about five years now, having achieved a high position as a judge,
Granville had occupied the entresol of the house to avoid living
with the Comtesse de Granville. Every morning a little scene took place,
which, if evil tongues are to be believed, is repeated in many households
as the result of incompatibility of temper, of moral or physical malady,
or of antagonisms leading to such disaster as is recorded in this history.
At about eight in the morning a housekeeper, bearing no small resemblance
to a nun, rang at the Comte de Granville's door. Admitted to the room next
to the Judge's study, she always repeated the same message to the footman,
and always in the same tone:
"Madame would be glad to know whether Monsieur le Comte has had a good
night, and if she is to have the pleasure of his company at breakfast."
"Monsieur presents his compliments to Madame la Comtesse," the valet would
say, after speaking with his master, "and begs her to hold him excused;
important business compels him to be in court this morning."
A minute later the woman reappeared and asked on madame's behalf whether
she would have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur le Comte before he went
"He is gone," was always the rely, though often his carriage was still
This little dialogue by proxy became a daily ceremonial. Granville's
servant, a favorite with his master, and the cause of more than one
quarrel over his irreligious and dissipated conduct, would even go into
his master's room, as a matter of form, when the Count was not there, and
come back with the same formula in reply.
The aggrieved wife was always on the watch for her husband's return, and
standing on the steps so as to meet him like an embodiment of remorse. The
petty aggressiveness which lies at the root of the monastic temper was the
foundation of Madame de Granville's; she was now five-and-thirty, and
looked forty. When the count was compelled by decency to speak to his wife
or to dine at home, she was only too well pleased to inflict her company
upon him, with her acid-sweet remarks and the intolerable dulness of her
narrow-minded circle, and she tried to put him in the wrong before the
servants and her charitable friends.
When, at this time, the post of President in a provincial court was
offered to the Comte de Granville, who was in high favor, he begged to be
allowed to remain in Paris. This refusal, of which the Keeper of the Seals
alone knew the reasons, gave rise to extraordinary conjectures on the part
of the Countess' intimate friends and of her director. Granville, a rich
man with a hundred thousand francs a year, belonged to one of the first
families of Normandy. His appointment to be Presiding Judge would have
been the stepping-stone to a peer's seat; whence this strange lack of
ambition? Why had he given up his great book on Law? What was the meaning
of the dissipation which for nearly six years had made him a stranger to
his home, his family, his study, to all he ought to hold dear? The
Countess' confessor, who based his hopes of a bishopric quite as much on
the families he governed as on the services he rendered to an association
of which he was an ardent propagator, was much disappointed by Granville's
refusal, and tried to insinuate calumnious explanations: "If Monsieur le
Comte had such an objection to provincial life, it was perhaps because he
dreaded finding himself under the necessity of leading a regular life,
compelled to set an example of moral conduct, and to live with the
Countess, from whom nothing could have alienated him but some illicit
connection; for how could a woman so pure as Madame de Granville ever
tolerate the disorderly life into which her husband had drifted?" The
sanctimonious woman accepted as facts these hints, which unluckily were
not merely hypothetical, and Madame de Granville was stricken as by a
Angelique, knowing nothing of the world, of love and its follies, was so
far from conceiving of any conditions of married life unlike those that
had alienated her husband as possible, that she believed him to be
incapable of the errors which are crimes in the eyes of any wife. When the
Count ceased to demand anything of her, she imagined that the tranquillity
he now seemed to enjoy was in the course of nature; and, as she had really
given to him all the love which her heart was capable of feeling for a
man, while the priest's conjectures were the utter destruction of the
illusions she had hitherto cherished, she defended her husband; at the
same time, she could not eradicate the suspicion that had been so
ingeniously sown in her soul.
These alarms wrought such havoc in her feeble brain that they made her
ill; she was worn by low fever. These incidents took place during Lent
1822; she would not pretermit her austerities, and fell into a decline
that put her life in danger. Granville's indifference was added torture;
his care and attention were such as a nephew feels himself bound to give
to some old uncle.
Though the Countess had given up her persistent nagging and remonstrances,
and tried to receive her husband with affectionate words, the sharpness of
the bigot showed through, and one speech would often undo the work of a
Towards the end of May, the warm breath of spring, and more nourishing
diet than her Lenten fare, restored Madame de Granville to a little
strength. One morning, on coming home from Mass, she sat down on a stone
bench in the little garden, where the sun's kisses reminded her of the
early days of her married life, and she looked back across the years to
see wherein she might have failed in her duty as a wife and mother. She
was broken in upon by the Abbe Fontanon in an almost indescribable state
"Has any misfortune befallen you, Father?" she asked with filial
"Ah! I only wish," cried the Normandy priest, "that all the woes inflicted
on you by the hand of God were dealt out to me; but, my admirable friend,
there are trials to which you can but bow."
"Can any worse punishments await me than those with which Providence
crushes me by making my husband the instrument of His wrath?"
"You must prepare yourself, daughter, to yet worse mischief than we and
your pious friends had ever conceived of."
"Then I may thank God," said the Countess, "for vouchsafing to use you as
the messenger of His will, and thus, as ever, setting the treasures of
mercy by the side of the scourges of His wrath, just as in bygone days He
showed a spring to Hagar when He had driven her into the desert."
"He measures your sufferings by the strength of your resignation and the
weight of your sins."
"Speak; I am ready to hear!" As she said it she cast her eyes up to
heaven. "Speak, Monsieur Fontanon."
"For seven years Monsieur Granville has lived in sin with a concubine, by
whom he has two children; and on this adulterous connection he has spent
more than five hundred thousand francs, which ought to have been the
property of his legitimate family."
"I must see it to believe it!" cried the Countess.
"Far be it from you!" exclaimed the Abbe. "You must forgive, my daughter,
and wait in patience and prayer till God enlightens your husband; unless,
indeed, you choose to adopt against him the means offered you by human
The long conversation that ensued between the priest and his penitent
resulted in an extraordinary change in the Countess; she abruptly
dismissed him, called her servants who were alarmed at her flushed face
and crazy energy. She ordered her carriage—countermanded it—changed
her mind twenty times in the hour; but at last, at about three o'clock, as
if she had come to some great determination, she went out, leaving the
whole household in amazement at such a sudden transformation.
"Is the Count coming home to dinner?" she asked of his servant, to whom
she would never speak.
"Did you go with him to the Courts this morning?"
"And to-day is Monday?"
"Then do the Courts sit on Mondays nowadays?"
"Devil take you!" cried the man, as his mistress drove off after saying to
Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille was weeping: Roger, sitting by her side, held
one of her hands between his own. He was silent, looking by turns at
little Charles—who, not understanding his mother's grief, stood
speechless at the sight of her tears—at the cot where Eugenie lay
sleeping, and Caroline's face, on which grief had the effect of rain
falling across the beams of cheerful sunshine.
"Yes, my darling," said Roger, after a long silence, "that is the great
secret: I am married. But some day I hope we may form but one family. My
wife has been given over ever since last March. I do not wish her dead;
still, if it should please God to take her to Himself, I believe she will
be happier in Paradise than in a world to whose griefs and pleasures she
is equally indifferent."
"How I hate that woman! How could she bear to make you unhappy? And yet it
is to that unhappiness that I owe my happiness!"
Her tears suddenly ceased.
"Caroline, let us hope," cried Roger. "Do not be frightened by anything
that priest may have said to you. Though my wife's confessor is a man to
be feared for his power in the congregation, if he should try to blight
our happiness I would find means—"
"What could you do?"
"We would go to Italy: I would fly—"
A shriek that rang out from the adjoining room made Roger start and
Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille quake; but she rushed into the drawing-room,
and there found Madame de Granville in a dead faint. When the Countess
recovered her senses, she sighed deeply on finding herself supported by
the Count and her rival, whom she instinctively pushed away with a gesture
of contempt. Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille rose to withdraw.
"You are at home, madame," said Granville, taking Caroline by the arm.
The Judge took up his wife in his arms, carried her to the carriage, and
got into it with her.
"Who is it that has brought you to the point of wishing me dead, of
resolving to fly?" asked the Countess, looking at her husband with grief
mingled with indignation. "Was I not young? you thought me pretty—what
fault have you to find with me? Have I been false to you? Have I not been
a virtuous and well-conducted wife? My heart has cherished no image but
yours, my ears have listened to no other voice. What duty have I failed
in? What have I ever denied you?"
"Happiness, madame," said the Count severely. "You know, madame, that
there are two ways of serving God. Some Christians imagine that by going
to church at fixed hours to say a Paternoster, by attending Mass
regularly and avoiding sin, they may win heaven—but they, madame,
will go to hell; they have not loved God for himself, they have not
worshiped Him as He chooses to be worshiped, they have made no sacrifice.
Though mild in seeming, they are hard on their neighbors; they see the
law, the letter, not the spirit.—This is how you have treated me,
your earthly husband; you have sacrificed my happiness to your salvation;
you were always absorbed in prayer when I came to you in gladness of
heart; you wept when you should have cheered my toil; you have never tried
to satisfy any demands I have made on you."
"And if they were wicked," cried the Countess hotly, "was I to lose my
soul to please you?"
"It is a sacrifice which another, a more loving woman, has dared to make,"
said Granville coldly.
"Dear God!" she cried, bursting into tears, "Thou hearest! Has he been
worthy of the prayers and penance I have lived in, wearing myself out to
atone for his sins and my own?—Of what avail is virtue?"
"To win Heaven, my dear. A woman cannot be at the same time the wife of a
man and the spouse of Christ. That would be bigamy; she must choose
between a husband and a nunnery. For the sake of future advantage you have
stripped your soul of all the love, all the devotion, which God commands
that you should have for me, you have cherished no feeling but hatred—"
"Have I not loved you?" she put in.
"Then what is love?" the Countess involuntarily inquired.
"Love, my dear," replied Granville, with a sort of ironical surprise, "you
are incapable of understanding it. The cold sky of Normandy is not that of
Spain. This difference of climate is no doubt the secret of our disaster.—To
yield to our caprices, to guess them, to find pleasure in pain, to
sacrifice the world's opinion, your pride, your religion even, and still
regard these offerings as mere grains of incense burnt in honor of the
idol—that is love—"
"The love of ballet-girls!" cried the Countess in horror. "Such flames
cannot last, and must soon leave nothing but ashes and cinders, regret or
despair. A wife ought, in my opinion, to bring you true friendship,
"You speak of warmth as negroes speak of ice," retorted the Count, with a
sardonic smile. "Consider that the humblest daisy has more charms than the
proudest and most gorgeous of the red hawthorns that attract us in spring
by their strong scent and brilliant color.—At the same time," he
went on, "I will do you justice. You have kept so precisely in the
straight path of imaginary duty prescribed by law, that only to make you
understand wherein you have failed towards me, I should be obliged to
enter into details which would offend your dignity, and instruct you in
matters which would seem to you to undermine all morality."
"And you dare to speak of morality when you have but just left the house
where you have dissipated your children's fortune in debaucheries?" cried
the Countess, maddened by her husband's reticence.
"There, madame, I must correct you," said the Count, coolly interrupting
his wife. "Though Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille is rich, it is at nobody's
expense. My uncle was master of his fortune, and had several heirs. In his
lifetime, and out of pure friendship, regarding her as his niece, he gave
her the little estate of Bellefeuille. As for anything else, I owe it to
"Such conduct is only worthy of a Jacobin!" said the sanctimonious
"Madame, you are forgetting that your own father was one of the Jacobins
whom you scorn so uncharitably," said the Count severely. "Citizen Bontems
was signing death-warrants at a time when my uncle was doing France good
Madame de Granville was silenced. But after a short pause, the remembrance
of what she had just seen reawakened in her soul the jealousy which
nothing can kill in a woman's heart, and she murmured, as if to herself—"How
can a woman thus destroy her own soul and that of others?"
"Bless me, madame," replied the Count, tired of this dialogue, "you
yourself may some day have to answer that question." The Countess was
scared. "You perhaps will be held excused by the merciful Judge, who will
weigh our sins," he went on, "in consideration of the conviction with
which you have worked out my misery. I do not hate you—I hate those
who have perverted your heart and your reason. You have prayed for me,
just as Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille has given me her heart and crowned my
life with love. You should have been my mistress and the prayerful saint
by turns.—Do me the justice to confess that I am no reprobate, no
debauchee. My life was cleanly. Alas! after seven years of wretchedness,
the craving for happiness led me by an imperceptible descent to love
another woman and make a second home. And do not imagine that I am
singular; there are in this city thousands of husbands, all led by various
causes to live this twofold life."
"Great God!" cried the Countess. "How heavy is the cross Thou hast laid on
me to bear! If the husband Thou hast given me here below in Thy wrath can
only be made happy through my death, take me to Thyself!"
"If you had always breathed such admirable sentiments and such devotion,
we should be happy yet," said the Count coldly.
"Indeed," cried Angelique, melting into a flood of tears, "forgive me if I
have done any wrong. Yes, monsieur, I am ready to obey you in all things,
feeling sure that you will desire nothing but what is just and natural;
henceforth I will be all you can wish your wife to be."
"If your purpose, madame, is to compel me to say that I no longer love
you, I shall find the cruel courage to tell you so. Can I command my
heart? Can I wipe out in an instant the traces of fifteen years of
suffering?—I have ceased to love.—These words contain a
mystery as deep as lies the words I love. Esteem, respect,
friendship may be won, lost, regained; but as to love—I might school
myself for a thousand years, and it would not blossom again, especially
for a woman too old to respond to it."
"I hope, Monsieur le Comte, I sincerely hope, that such words may not be
spoken to you some day by the woman you love, and in such a tone and
"Will you put on a dress a la Grecque this evening, and come to the
The shudder with which the Countess received the suggestion was a mute
Early in December 1833, a man, whose perfectly white hair and worn
features seemed to show that he was aged by grief rather than by years,
was walking at midnight along the Rue Gaillon. Having reached a house of
modest appearance, and only two stories high, he paused to look up at one
of the attic windows that pierced the roof at regular intervals. A dim
light scarcely showed through the humble panes, some of which had been
repaired with paper. The man below was watching the wavering glimmer with
the vague curiosity of a Paris idler, when a young man came out of the
house. As the light of the street lamp fell full on the face of the first
comer, it will not seem surprising that, in spite of the darkness, this
young man went towards the passer-by, though with the hesitancy that is
usual when we have any fear of making a mistake in recognizing an
"What, is it you," cried he, "Monsieur le President? Alone at this hour,
and so far from the Rue Saint-Lazare. Allow me to have the honor of giving
you my arm.—The pavement is so greasy this morning, that if we do
not hold each other up," he added, to soothe the elder man's
susceptibilities, "we shall find it hard to escape a tumble."
"But, my dear sir, I am no more than fifty-five, unfortunately for me,"
replied the Comte de Granville. "A physician of your celebrity must know
that at that age a man is still hale and strong."
"Then you are in waiting on a lady, I suppose," replied Horace Bianchon.
"You are not, I imagine, in the habit of going about Paris on foot. When a
man keeps such fine horses——"
"Still, when I am not visiting in the evening, I commonly return from the
Courts or the club on foot," replied the Count.
"And with large sums of money about you, perhaps!" cried the doctor. "It
is a positive invitation to the assassin's knife."
"I am not afraid of that," said Granville, with melancholy indifference.
"But, at least, do not stand about," said the doctor, leading the Count
towards the boulevard. "A little more and I shall believe that you are
bent of robbing me of your last illness, and dying by some other hand than
"You caught me playing the spy," said the Count. "Whether on foot or in a
carriage, and at whatever hour of the night I may come by, I have for some
time past observed at a window on the third floor of your house the shadow
of a person who seems to work with heroic constancy."
The Count paused as if he felt some sudden pain. "And I take as great an
interest in that garret," he went on, "as a citizen of Paris must feel in
the finishing of the Palais Royal."
"Well," said Horace Bianchon eagerly, "I can tell you—"
"Tell me nothing," replied Granville, cutting the doctor short. "I would
not give a centime to know whether the shadow that moves across that
shabby blind is that of a man or a woman, nor whether the inhabitant of
that attic is happy or miserable. Though I was surprised to see no one at
work there this evening, and though I stopped to look, it was solely for
the pleasure of indulging in conjectures as numerous and as idiotic as
those of idlers who see a building left half finished. For nine years, my
young—" the Count hesitated to use a word; then he waved his hand,
exclaiming—"No, I will not say friend—I hate everything that
savors of sentiment.—Well, for nine years past I have ceased to
wonder that old men amuse themselves with growing flowers and planting
trees; the events of life have taught them disbelief in all human
affection; and I grew old within a few days. I will no longer attach
myself to any creature but to unreasoning animals, or plants, or
superficial things. I think more of Taglioni's grace than of all human
feeling. I abhor life and the world in which I live alone. Nothing,
nothing," he went on, in a tone that startled the younger man, "no,
nothing can move or interest me."
"But you have children?"
"My children!" he repeated bitterly. "Yes—well, is not my eldest
daughter the Comtesse de Vandenesse? The other will, through her sister's
connections, make some good match. As to my sons, have they not succeeded?
The Viscount was public prosecutor at Limoges, and is now President of the
Court at Orleans; the younger is public prosecutor in Paris.—My
children have their own cares, their own anxieties and business to attend
to. If of all those hearts one had been devoted to me, if one had tried by
entire affection to fill up the void I have here," and he struck his
breast, "well, that one would have failed in life, have sacrificed it to
me. And why should he? Why? To bring sunshine into my few remaining years—and
would he have succeeded? Might I not have accepted such generosity as a
debt? But, doctor," and the Count smiled with deep irony, "it is not for
nothing that we teach them arithmetic and how to count. At this moment
perhaps they are waiting for my money."
"O Monsieur le Comte, how could such an idea enter your head—you who
are kind, friendly, and humane! Indeed, if I were not myself a living
proof of the benevolence you exercise so liberally and so nobly—"
"To please myself," replied the Count. "I pay for a sensation, as I would
to-morrow pay a pile of gold to recover the most childish illusion that
would but make my heart glow.—I help my fellow-creatures for my own
sake, just as I gamble; and I look for gratitude from none. I should see
you die without blinking; and I beg of you to feel the same with regard to
me. I tell you, young man, the events of life have swept over my heart
like the lavas of Vesuvius over Herculaneum. The town is there—dead."
"Those who have brought a soul as warm and as living as yours was to such
a pitch of indifference are indeed guilty!"
"Say no more," said the Count, with a shudder of aversion.
"You have a malady which you ought to allow me to treat," said Bianchon in
a tone of deep emotion.
"What, do you know of a cure for death?" cried the Count irritably.
"I undertake, Monsieur le Comte, to revive the heart you believe to be
"Are you a match for Talma, then?" asked the Count satirically.
"No, Monsieur le Comte. But Nature is as far above Talma as Talma is
superior to me.—Listen: the garret you are interested in is
inhabited by a woman of about thirty, and in her love is carried to
fanaticism. The object of her adoration is a young man of pleasing
appearance but endowed by some malignant fairy with every conceivable
vice. This fellow is a gambler, and it is hard to say which he is most
addicted to—wine or women; he has, to my knowledge, committed acts
deserving punishment by law. Well, and to him this unhappy woman
sacrificed a life of ease, a man who worshiped her, and the father of her
children.—But what is wrong, Monsieur le Comte?"
"Nothing. Go on."
"She has allowed him to squander a perfect fortune; she would, I believe,
give him the world if she had it; she works night and day; and many a time
she has, without a murmur, seen the wretch she adores rob her even of the
money saved to buy the clothes the children need, and their food for the
morrow. Only three days ago she sold her hair, the finest hair I ever saw;
he came in, she could not hide the gold piece quickly enough, and he asked
her for it. For a smile, for a kiss, she gave up the price of a
fortnight's life and peace. Is it not dreadful, and yet sublime?—But
work is wearing her cheeks hollow. Her children's crying has broken her
heart; she is ill, and at this moment on her wretched bed. This evening
they had nothing to eat; the children have not strength to cry, they were
silent when I went up."
Horace Bianchon stood still. Just then the Comte de Granville, in spite of
himself, as it were, had put his hand into his waistcoat pocket.
"I can guess, my young friend, how it is that she is yet alive if you
attend her," said the elder man.
"O poor soul!" cried the doctor, "who could refuse to help her? I only
wish I were richer, for I hope to cure her of her passion."
"But how can you expect me to pity a form of misery of which the joys to
me would seem cheaply purchased with my whole fortune!" exclaimed the
Count, taking his hand out of his pocket empty of the notes which Bianchon
had supposed his patron to be feeling for. "That woman feels, she is
alive! Would not Louis XV. have given his kingdom to rise from the grave
and have three days of youth and life! And is not that the history of
thousands of dead men, thousands of sick men, thousands of old men?"
"Poor Caroline!" cried Bianchon.
As he heard the name the Count shuddered, and grasped the doctor's arm
with the grip of an iron vise, as it seemed to Bianchon.
"Her name is Caroline Crochard?" asked the President, in a voice that was
"Then you know her?" said the doctor, astonished.
"And the wretch's name is Solvet.—Ay, you have kept your word!"
exclaimed Granville; "you have roused my heart to the most terrible pain
it can suffer till it is dust. That emotion, too, is a gift from hell, and
I always know how to pay those debts."
By this time the Count and the doctor had reached the corner of the Rue de
la Chaussee d'Antin. One of those night-birds who wonder round with a
basket on their back and crook in hand, and were, during the Revolution,
facetiously called the Committee of Research, was standing by the
curbstone where the two men now stopped. This scavenger had a shriveled
face worthy of those immortalized by Charlet in his caricatures of the
sweepers of Paris.
"Do you ever pick up a thousand-franc note?"
"Now and then, master."
"And you restore them?"
"It depends on the reward offered."
"You're the man for me," cried the Count, giving the man a thousand-franc
note. "Take this, but, remember, I give it to you on condition of your
spending it at the wineshop, of your getting drunk, fighting, beating your
wife, blacking your friends' eyes. That will give work to the watch, the
surgeon, the druggist—perhaps to the police, the public prosecutor,
the judge, and the prison warders. Do not try to do anything else, or the
devil will be revenged on you sooner or later."
A draughtsman would need at once the pencil of Charlet and of Callot, the
brush of Teniers and of Rembrandt, to give a true notion of this
"Now I have squared accounts with hell, and had some pleasure for my
money," said the Count in a deep voice, pointing out the indescribable
physiognomy of the gaping scavenger to the doctor, who stood stupefied.
"As for Caroline Crochard!—she may die of hunger and thirst, hearing
the heartrending shrieks of her starving children, and convinced of the
baseness of the man she loves. I will not give a sou to rescue her; and
because you have helped her, I will see you no more——"
The Count left Bianchon standing like a statue, and walked as briskly as a
young man to the Rue Saint-Lazare, soon reaching the little house where he
resided, and where, to his surprise, he found a carriage waiting at the
"Monsieur, your son, the attorney-general, came about an hour since," said
the man-servant, "and is waiting for you in your bedroom."
Granville signed to the man to leave him.
"What motive can be strong enough to require you to infringe the order I
have given my children never to come to me unless I send for them?" asked
the Count of his son as he went into the room.
"Father," replied the younger man in a tremulous voice, and with great
respect, "I venture to hope that you will forgive me when you have heard
"Your reply is proper," said the Count. "Sit down," and he pointed to a
chair, "But whether I walk up and down, or take a seat, speak without
"Father," the son went on, "this afternoon, at four o'clock, a very young
man who was arrested in the house of a friend of mine, whom he had robbed
to a considerable extent, appealed to you.—He says he is your son."
"His name?" asked the Count hoarsely.
"That will do," said the father, with an imperious wave of the hand.
Granville paced the room in solemn silence, and his son took care not to
"My son," he began, and the words were pronounced in a voice so mild and
fatherly, that the young lawyer started, "Charles Crochard spoke the
truth.—I am glad you came to me to-night, my good Eugene," he added.
"Here is a considerable sum of money"—and he gave him a bundle of
banknotes—"you can make any use of them you think proper in this
matter. I trust you implicitly, and approve beforehand whatever
arrangements you may make, either in the present or for the future.—Eugene
my dear son, kiss me. We part perhaps for the last time. I shall to-morrow
crave my dismissal from the King, and I am going to Italy.
"Though a father owes no account of his life to his children, he is bound
to bequeath to them the experience Fate sells him so dearly—is it
not a part of their inheritance?—When you marry," the count went on,
with a little involuntary shudder, "do not undertake it lightly; that act
is the most important of all which society requires of us. Remember to
study at your leisure the character of the woman who is to be your
partner; but consult me too, I will judge of her myself. A lack of union
between husband and wife, from whatever cause, leads to terrible
misfortune; sooner or later we are always punished for contravening the
social law.—But I will write to you on this subject from Florence. A
father who has the honor of presiding over a supreme court of justice must
not have to blush in the presence of his son. Good-bye."
PARIS, February 1830-January 1842.