The Lesser Bourgeoisie

CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN WHO THINKS THE STAR TOO BRIGHT

The next morning Minard paid a visit to Phellion in his study. The great citizen and his son Felix were at that moment engaged in a conversation which seemed to have some unusual interest for them.

“My dear Felix,” cried the mayor of the eleventh arrondissement, offering his hand warmly to the young professor, “it is you who bring me here this morning; I have come to offer you my congratulations.”

“What has occurred?” asked Phellion. “Have the Thuilliers—”

“It has nothing to do with the Thuilliers,” interrupted the mayor. “But,” he added, looking hard at Felix, “can that sly fellow have concealed the thing even from you?”

“I do not think,” said Phellion, “that ever, in his life, has my son concealed a thing from me.”

“Then you know about the sublime astronomical discovery which he communicated to the Academy of Sciences yesterday?”

“Your kindness for me, Monsieur le maire,” said Felix, hastily, “has led you astray; I was only the reader of the communication.”

“Oh! let me alone!” said Minard; “reader, indeed! I know all about it.”

“But see,” said Felix, offering Minard the “Constitutionnel,” “here’s the paper; not only does it announce that Monsieur Picot is the maker of the discovery, but it mentions the rewards which, without losing a moment, the government has bestowed upon him.”

“Felix is right,” said Phellion; “that journal is to be trusted. On this occasion I think the government has acted very properly.”

“But, my dear commander, I repeat to you that the truth of the affair has got wind, and your son is shown to be a most admirable fellow. To put his own discovery to the credit of his old professor so as to obtain for him the recognition and favor of the authorities—upon my word, in all antiquity I don’t know a finer trait!”

“Felix!” said Phellion, beginning to show some emotion, “these immense labors to which you have devoted so much time of late, these continual visits to the Observatory—”

“But, father,” interrupted Felix, “Monsieur Minard has been misinformed.”

“Misinformed!” cried Minard, “when I know the whole affair from Monsieur Picot himself!”

At this argument, stated in a way to leave no possible doubt, the truth began to dawn upon Phellion.

“Felix, my son!” he said, rising to embrace him.

But he was obliged to sit down again; his legs refused to bear his weight; he turned pale; and that nature, ordinarily so impassible, seemed about to give way under the shock of this happiness.

“My God!” said Felix, terrified, “he is ill; ring the bell, I entreat you, Monsieur Minard.”

And he ran to the old man, loosened his cravat and unfastened the collar of his shirt, striking him in the palms of his hands. But the sudden faintness was but momentary; almost immediately himself again, Phellion gathered his son to his heart, and holding him long in his embrace, he said, in a voice broken by the tears that came to put an end to this shock of joy:—

“Felix, my noble son! so great in heart, so great in mind!”

The bell had been rung by Minard with magisterial force, and with such an accent that the whole household was alarmed, and came running in.

“It is nothing, it is nothing,” said Phellion to the servants, sending them away. But almost at the same moment, seeing his wife, who now entered the room, he resumed his habitual solemnity.

“Madame Phellion,” he said, pointing to Felix, “how many years is it since you brought that young man into the world?”

Madame Phellion, bewildered by the question, hesitated a moment, and then said:—

“Twenty-five years next January.”

“Have you not thought, until now, that God had amply granted your maternal desires by making this child of your womb an honest man, a pious son, and by gifting him for mathematics, that Science of sciences, with an aptitude sufficiently remarkable?”

“I have,” said Madame Phellion, understanding less and less what her husband was coming to.

“Well,” continued Phellion, “you owe to God an additional thanksgiving, for He has granted that you be the mother of a man of genius; his toil, which lately we rebuked, and which made us fear for the reason of our child, was the way—the rough and jagged way—by which men come to fame.”

“Ah ca!” cried Madame Phellion, “can’t you stop coming yourself to an explanation of what you mean, and get there?”

“Your son,” said Minard, cautious this time in measuring the joy he was about to bestow, fearing another fainting-fit of happiness, “has just made a very important scientific discovery.”

“Is it true?” said Madame Phellion, going up to Felix, and taking him by both hands as she looked at him lovingly.

“When I say important,” continued Minard, “I am only sparing your maternal emotions; it is, in truth, a sublime, a dazzling discovery. He is only twenty-five years old, but his name, from henceforth, is immortal.”

“And this is the man,” said Madame Phellion, half beside herself, and kissing Felix with effusion, “to whom that la Peyrade is preferred!”

“No, not preferred, madame,” said Minard, “for the Thuilliers are not the dupes of that adventurer. But he has made himself necessary to them. Thuillier fancies that without la Peyrade he could not be elected; the election is still doubtful, and they are sacrificing everything to it.”

“But isn’t it odious,” cried Madame Phellion, “to consider such interests before the happiness of their child!”

“Ah!” said Minard, “but Celeste is not their child, only their adopted daughter.”

“Brigitte’s, if you like,” said Madame Phellion; “but as for Thuillier—”

“My good wife,” said Phellion, “no censoriousness. The good God has just sent us a great consolation; and, indeed, though certainly far advanced, this marriage, about which I regret to say Felix does not behave with all the philosophy I could desire, may still not take place.”

Seeing that Felix shook his head with a look of incredulity, Minard hastened to say:—

“Yes, yes, the commander is quite right. Last night there was a hitch about signing the contract, and it was not signed. You were not there, by the bye, and your absence was much remarked upon.”

“We were invited,” said Phellion, “and up to the last moment we hesitated whether to go or not. But, as you will readily see, our position was a false one; besides, Felix—and I see now it must have been in consequence of his lecture at the Academy—was completely worn out with fatigue and emotion. To present ourselves without him would have seemed very singular; therefore we decided that it would be wisest and best to absent ourselves.”

The presence of the man whom he had just declared immortal did not deter Minard, when the occasion was thus made for him, from plunging eagerly into one of the most precious joys of bourgeois existence, namely, the retailing of gossip.

“Just imagine!” he began; “last night at the Thuilliers’ the most extraordinary things took place, one after another.”

First he related the curious episode of pere Picot. Then he told of the hearty approbation given to Felix’s conduct by the Abbe Gondrin, and the desire the young preacher had expressed to meet him.

“I’ll go and see him,” said Felix; “do you know where he lives?”

“Rue de la Madeleine, No. 8,” replied Minard. “But the great event of the evening was the spectacle of that fine company assembled to listen to the marriage-contract, and waiting in expectation a whole hour for the notary, who—never came!”

“Then the contract is not signed?” said Felix, eagerly.

“Not even read, my friend. Suddenly some one came in and told Brigitte that the notary had started for Brussels.”

“Ah! no doubt,” said Phellion, naively; “some very important business.”

“Most important,” replied Minard; “a little bankruptcy of five hundred thousand francs which the gentleman leaves behind him.”

“But who is this public officer,” demanded Phellion, “so recreant, in this scandalous manner, to the sacred duties of his calling?”

“Parbleu! your neighbor in the rue Saint-Jacques, the notary Dupuis.”

“What!” said Madame Phellion, “that pious man? Why, he is churchwarden of the parish!”

“Eh! madame, those are the very ones,” said Minard, “to run off—there are many precedents for that.”

“But,” said Phellion, “such news cast suddenly among the company must have fallen like a thunderbolt.”

“Especially,” said Minard, “as it was brought in the most unexpected and singular manner.”

“Tell us all about it,” said Madame Phellion, with animation.

“Well, it seems,” continued Minard, “that this canting swindler had charge of the savings of a number of servants, and that Monsieur de la Peyrade—because, you see, they are all of a clique, these pious people—was in the habit of recruiting clients for him in that walk of life—”

“I always said so!” interrupted Madame Phellion. “I knew that Provencal was no good at all.”

“It seems,” continued the mayor, “that he had placed in Dupuis’s hands all the savings of an old housekeeper, pious herself, amounting to a pretty little sum. Faith! I think myself it was worth some trouble. How much do you suppose it was? Twenty-five thousand francs, if you please! This housekeeper, whose name is Madame Lambert—”

“Madame Lambert!” cried Felix; “why, that’s Monsieur Picot’s housekeeper; close cap, pale, thin face, speaks always with her eyes lowered, shows no hair?”

“That’s she,” said Minard,—“a regular hypocrite!”

“Twenty-five thousand francs of savings!” said Felix. “I don’t wonder that poor pere Picot is always out of money.”

“And that someone had to meddle with the sale of his book,” said Minard, slyly. “However that may be, you can imagine that the woman was in a fine state of mind on hearing of the flight of the notary. Off she went to la Peyrade’s lodgings; there she was told he was dining at the Thuilliers’; to the Thuilliers’ she came, after running about the streets—for they didn’t give her quite the right address—till ten o’clock; but she got there while the company were still sitting round waiting for the notary, and gaping at each other, no one knowing what to say and do, for neither Brigitte nor Thuillier have faculty enough to get out of such a scrape with credit; and we all missed the voice of Madame de Godollo and the talent of Madame Phellion.”

“Oh! you are too polite, Monsieur le maire,” said Madame Phellion, bridling.

“Well, as I said,” continued Minard, “at ten o’clock Madame Lambert reached the antechamber of Monsieur the general-councillor, and there she asked, in great excitement, to see la Peyrade.”

“That was natural,” said Phellion; “he being the intermediary of the investment, this woman had a right to question him.”

“You should just have seen that Tartuffe!” continued Minard. “He had no sooner gone out than he returned, bringing the news. As everybody was longing to get away, there followed a general helter-skelter. And then what does our man do? He goes back to Madame Lambert, who was crying that she was ruined! she was lost!—which might very well be true, but it might also be only a scene arranged between them in presence of the company, whom the woman’s outcries detained in the antechamber. ‘Don’t be anxious, my good woman,’ said la Peyrade; ‘the investment was made at your request, consequently, I owe you nothing; BUT it is enough that the money passed through my hands to make my conscience tell me I am responsible. If the notary’s assets are not enough to pay you I will do so.’”

“Yes,” said Phellion, “that was my idea as you told it; the intermediary is or ought to be responsible. I should not have hesitated to do as Monsieur de la Peyrade did, and I do not think that after such conduct as that he ought to be taxed with Jesuitism.”

“Yes, you would have done so,” said Minard, “and so should I, but we shouldn’t have done it with a brass band; we should have paid our money quietly, like gentlemen. But this electoral manager, how is he going to pay it? Out of the ‘dot’?”

At this moment the little page entered the room and gave a letter to Felix Phellion. It came from pere Picot, and was written at his dictation by Madame Lambert, for which reason we will not reproduce the orthography. The writing of Madame Lambert was of those that can never be forgotten when once seen. Recognizing it instantly, Felix hastened to say:—

“A letter from the professor”; then, before breaking the seal, he added, “Will you permit me, Monsieur le maire.”

“He’ll rate you finely,” said Minard, laughing. “I never saw anything so comical as his wrath last night.”

Felix, as he read the letter, smiled to himself. When he had finished it, he passed it to his father, saying:—

“Read it aloud if you like.”

Whereupon, with his solemn voice and manner, Phellion read as follows:—

Your old professor and friend,

Picot (Nepomucene),

Chevalier of the Legion of honor.

“Of course he shall have some,” said Madame Phellion; “not a flask, but a gallon.”

“And I,” said Minard, “who pique myself on mine, which didn’t come from Brigitte’s grocer either, I’ll send him several bottles; but don’t tell him who sent them, Monsieur le chevalier, for you never can tell how that singular being will take things.”

“Wife,” said Phellion, suddenly, “get me my black coat and a white cravat.”

“Where are you going?” asked Madame Phellion. “To the minister, to thank him?”

“Bring me, I say, those articles of habiliment. I have an important visit to make; and Monsieur le maire will, I know, excuse me.”

“I myself must be off,” said Minard. “I, too, have important business, though it isn’t about a star.”

Questioned in vain by Felix and his wife, Phellion completed his attire with a pair of white gloves, sent for a carriage, and, at the end of half an hour, entered the presence of Brigitte, whom he found presiding over the careful putting away of the china, glass, and silver which had performed their several functions the night before. Leaving these housekeeping details, she received her visitor.

“Well, papa Phellion,” she said, when they were both seated in the salon, “you broke your word yesterday; you were luckier than the rest. Do you know what a trick that notary played us?”

“I know all,” said Phellion; “and it is the check thus unexpectedly given to the execution of your plans that I shall take for the text of an important conversation which I desire to have with you. Sometimes Providence would seem to take pleasure in counteracting our best-laid schemes; sometimes, also, by means of the obstacles it raises in our path, it seems to intend to indicate that we are bearing too far to the right or to the left, and should pause to reflect upon our way.”

“Providence!” said Brigitte the strong-minded,—“Providence has something else to do than to look after us.”

“That is one opinion,” said Phellion; “but I myself am accustomed to see its decrees in the little as well as the great things of life; and certainly, if it had allowed the fulfilment of your engagements with Monsieur de la Peyrade to be even partially begun yesterday, you would not have seen me here to-day.”

“Then,” said Brigitte, “do you think that by default of a notary the marriage will not take place? They do say that for want of a monk the abbey won’t come to a standstill.”

“Dear lady,” said the great citizen, “you will do me the justice to feel that neither I, nor my wife, have ever attempted to influence your decision; we have allowed our young people to love each other without much consideration as to where that attachment would lead—”

“It led to upsetting their minds,” said Brigitte; “that’s what love is, and that’s why I deprived myself of it.”

“What you say is, indeed, true of my unfortunate son,” resumed Phellion; “for, notwithstanding the noble distractions he has endeavored to give to his sorrow, he is to-day so miserably overcome by it that this morning, in spite of the glorious success he has just obtained, he was speaking to me of undertaking a voyage of circumnavigation around the globe,—a rash enterprise which would detain him from his native land at least three years, if, indeed, he escaped the dangers of so prolonged a journey.”

“Well,” said Brigitte, “it isn’t a bad idea; he’ll return consoled, having discovered three or four more new stars.”

“His present discovery suffices,” said Phellion, with double his ordinary gravity, “and it is under the auspices of that triumph, which has placed his name at so great a height in the scientific world, that I have the assurance to say to you, point-blank: Mademoiselle, I have come to ask you, on behalf of my son, who loves as he is beloved, for the hand in marriage of Mademoiselle Celeste Colleville.”

“But, my dear man,” replied Brigitte, “it is too late; remember that we are diametrically engaged to la Peyrade.”

“It is never, they say, too late to do well, and yesterday it would have been in my judgment too early. My son, having to offer an equivalent for a fortune, could not say to you until to-day: ‘Though Celeste, by your generosity has a “dot” which mine is far from equalling, yet I have the honor to be a member of the Royal order of the Legion of honor, and shortly, according to appearance, I shall be a member of the Royal Academy of Sciences, one of the five branches of the Institute.’”

“Certainly,” said Brigitte; “Felix is getting to be a very pretty match, but we have passed our word to la Peyrade; the banns are published at the mayor’s office, and unless something extraordinary happens the contract will be signed. La Peyrade is very busy about Thuillier’s election, which he has now got into good shape; we have capital engaged with him in the affair of this newspaper; and it would be impossible to go back on our promise, even if we wished to do so.”

“So,” said Phellion, “in one of the rare occasions of life when reason and inclination blend together, you think you must be guided solely by the question of material interests. Celeste, as we know, has no inclination for Monsieur de la Peyrade. Brought up with Felix—”

“Brought up with Felix!” interrupted Brigitte. “She was given a period of time to choose between Monsieur de la Peyrade and your son,—that’s how we coerce her, if you please,—and she would not take Monsieur Felix, whose atheism is too well known.”

“You are mistaken, mademoiselle, my son is not an atheist; for Voltaire himself doubted if there could be atheists; and no later than yesterday, in this house, an ecclesiastic, as admirable for his talents as for his virtues, after making a magnificent eulogy of my son, expressed the desire to know him.”

“Parbleu! yes, to convert him,” said Brigitte. “But as for this marriage, I am sorry to tell you that the mustard is made too late for the dinner; Thuillier will never renounce his la Peyrade.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Phellion, rising, “I feel no humiliation for the useless step I have this day taken; I do not even ask you to keep it secret, for I shall myself mention it to our friends and acquaintances.”

“Tell it to whom you like, my good man,” replied Brigitte, acrimoniously. “Because your son has discovered a star,—if, indeed, he did discover it, and not that old fool the government decorated—do you expect him to marry a daughter of the King of the French?”

“Enough,” said Phellion, “we will say no more. I might answer that, without depreciating the Thuilliers, the Orleans family seems to me more distinguished; but I do not like to introduce acerbity into the conversation, and therefore, begging you to receive the assurance of my humble respects, I retire.”

So saying, he made his exit majestically, and left Brigitte with the arrow of his comparison, discharged after the manner of the Parthian “in extremis,” sticking in her mind, and she herself in a temper all the more savage because already, the evening before, Madame Thuillier, after the guests were gone, had the incredible audacity to say something in favor of Felix. Needless to relate that the poor helot was roughly put down and told to mind her own business. But this attempt at a will of her own in her sister-in-law had already put the old maid in a vile humor, and Phellion, coming to reopen the subject, exasperated her. Josephine, the cook, and the “male domestic,” received the after-clap of the scene which had just taken place. Brigitte found that in her absence everything had been done wrong, and putting her own hand to the work, she hoisted herself on a chair, at the risk of her neck, to reach the upper shelves of the closet, where her choicest china, for gala days, was carefully kept under lock and key.

This day, which for Brigitte began so ill, was, beyond all gainsaying, one of the stormiest and most portentous of this narrative.

CHAPTER XIV. A STORMY DAY

As an exact historian, we must go back and begin the day at six in the morning, when we can see Madame Thuillier going to the Madeleine to hear the mass that the Abbe Gondrin was in the habit of saying at that hour, and afterwards approaching the holy table,—a viaticum which pious souls never fail to give themselves when it is in their minds to accomplish some great resolution.

About mid-day the abbe received a visit in his own home from Madame Thuillier and Celeste. The poor child wanted a little development of the words by which the priest had given security, the evening before, in Brigitte’s salon, for the eternal welfare of Felix Phellion. It seemed strange to the mind of this girl-theologian that, without practising religion, a soul could be received into grace by the divine justice; for surely the anathema is clear: Out of the Church there is no salvation.

“My dear child,” said the Abbe Gondrin, “learn to understand that saying which seems to you so inexplicable. It is more a saying of thanksgiving for those who have the happiness to live within the pale of our holy mother the Church than a malediction upon those who have the misfortune to live apart from her. God sees to the depths of all hearts; He knows His elect; and so great is the treasure of His goodness that to none is it given to limit its riches and its munificence. Who shall dare to say to God: Thou wilt be generous and munificent so far and no farther. Jesus Christ forgave the woman in adultery, and on the cross He promised heaven to a thief, in order to prove to us that He deals with men, not according to human sentiments, but according to his wisdom and his mercy. He who thinks himself a Christian may be in the eyes of God an idolator; and another who is thought a pagan may, by his feelings and his actions be, without his own knowledge, a Christian. Our holy religion has this that is divine about it; all grandeur, all heroism are but the practice of its precepts. I was saying yesterday to Monsieur de la Peyrade that pure souls must be, in course of time, its inevitable conquest. It is all-important to give them their just credit; that is a confidence which returns great dividends; and, besides, charity commands it.”

“Ah! my God!” cried Celeste, “to learn that too late! I, who could have chosen between Felix and Monsieur de la Peyrade, and did not dare to follow the ideas of my heart! Oh! Monsieur l’abbe, couldn’t you speak to my mother? Your advice is always listened to.”

“Impossible, my dear child,” replied the vicar. “If I had the direction of Madame Colleville’s conscience I might perhaps say a word, but we are so often accused of meddling imprudently in family matters! Be sure that my intervention here, without authority or right, would do you more harm than good. It is for you and for those who love you,” he added, giving a look to Madame Thuillier, “to see if these arrangements, already so far advanced, could be changed in the direction of your wishes.”

It was written that the poor child was to drink to the dregs the cup she had herself prepared by her intolerance. As the abbe finished speaking, his housekeeper came in to ask if he would receive Monsieur Felix Phellion. Thus, like the Charter of 1830, Madame de Godollo’s officious falsehood was turned into truth.

“Go this way,” he said hastily, showing his two penitents out by a private corridor.

Life has such strange encounters that it does sometimes happen that the same form of proceeding must be used by courtesans and by the men of God.

“Monsieur l’abbe,” said Felix to the young vicar as soon as they met, “I have heard of the kind manner in which you were so very good as to speak of me in Monsieur Thuillier’s salon last night, and I should have hastened to express my gratitude if another interest had not drawn me to you.”

The Abbe Gondrin passed hastily over the compliments, eager to know in what way he could be useful to his fellow-man.

“With an intention that I wish to think kindly,” replied Felix, “you were spoken to yesterday about the state of my soul. Those who read it so fluently know more than I do about my inner being, for, during the last few days I have felt strange, inexplicable feelings within me. Never have I doubted God, but, in contact with that infinitude where he has permitted my thought to follow the traces of his work I seem to have gathered a sense of him less vague, more immediate; and this has led me to ask myself whether an honest and upright life is the only homage which his omnipotence expects of me. Nevertheless, there are numberless objections rising in my mind against the worship of which you are the minister; while sensible of the beauty of its external form in many of its precepts and practices, I find myself deterred by my reason. I shall have paid dearly, perhaps by the happiness of my whole life, for the slowness and want of vigor which I have shown in seeking the solution of my doubts. I have now decided to search to the bottom of them. No one so well as you, Monsieur l’abbe, can help me to solve them. I have come with confidence to lay them before you, to ask you to listen to me, to answer me, and to tell me by what studies I can pursue the search for light. It is a cruelly afflicted soul that appeals to you. Is not that a good ground for the seed of your word?”

The Abbe Gondrin eagerly protested the joy with which, notwithstanding his own insufficiency, he would undertake to reply to the scruples of conscience in the young savant. After asking him for a place in his friendship, and telling him to come at certain hours for conversation, he asked him to read, as a first step, the “Thoughts” of Pascal. A natural affinity, on the side of science, would, he believed, be established between the spirit of Pascal and that of the young mathematician.

While this scene was passing, a scene to which the greatness of the interests in question and the moral and intellectual elevation of the personages concerned in it gave a character of grandeur which, like all reposeful, tranquil aspects, is easier far to comprehend than to reproduce, another scene, of sharp and bitter discord, that chronic malady of bourgeois households, where the pettiness of minds and passions gives open way to it, was taking place in the Thuillier home.

Mounted upon her chair, her hair in disorder and her face and fingers dirty, Brigitte, duster in hand, was cleaning the shelves of the closet, where she was replacing her library of plates, dishes, and sauce-boats, when Flavie came in and accosted her.

“Brigitte,” she said, “when you have finished what you are about you had better come down to our apartment, or else I’ll send Celeste to you; she seems to me to be inclined to make trouble.”

“In what way?” asked Brigitte, continuing to dust.

“I think she and Madame Thuillier went to see the Abbe Gondrin this morning, and she has been attacking me about Felix Phellion, and talks of him as if he were a god; from that to refusing to marry la Peyrade is but a step.”

“Those cursed skull-caps!” said Brigitte; “they meddle in everything! I didn’t want to invite him, but you would insist.”

“Yes,” said Flavie, “it was proper.”

“Proper! I despise proprieties!” cried the old maid. “He’s a maker of speeches; he said nothing last night that wasn’t objectionable. Send Celeste to me; I’ll settle her.”

At this instant a servant announced to Brigitte the arrival of a clerk from the office of the new notary chosen, in default of Dupuis, to draw up the contract. Without considering her disorderly appearance, Brigitte ordered him to be shown in, but she made him the condescension of descending from her perch instead of talking from the height of it.

“Monsieur Thuillier,” said the clerk, “came to our office this morning to explain to the master the clauses of the contract he has been so good as to entrust to us. But before writing down the stipulations, we are in the habit of obtaining from the lips of each donor a direct expression of his or her intentions. In accordance with this rule, Monsieur Thuillier told us that he gives to the bride the reversion, at his death, of the house he inhabits, which I presume to be this one?”

“Yes,” said Brigitte, “that is the understanding. As for me, I give three hundred thousand francs a year in the Three-per-cents, capital and interest; but the bride is married under the dotal system.”

“That is so,” said the clerk, consulting his notes. “Mademoiselle Brigitte, three thousand francs a year. Now, there is Madame Celeste Thuillier, wife of Louis-Jerome Thuillier, who gives six thousand in the Three-per-cents, capital and interest, and six thousand more at her death.”

“All that is just as if the notary had written it down,” said Brigitte; “but if it is your custom you can see my sister-in-law; they will show you the way.”

So saying, the old maid ordered the “male domestic” to take the clerk to Madame Thuillier.

A moment later the clerk returned, saying there was certainly some misunderstanding, and that Madame Thuillier declared she had no intention of making any agreement in favor of the marriage.

“That’s a pretty thing!” cried Brigitte. “Come with me, monsieur.”

Then, like a hurricane, she rushed into Madame Thuillier’s chamber; the latter was pale and trembling.

“What’s this you have told monsieur?—that you give nothing to Celeste’s ‘dot’?”

“Yes,” said the slave, declaring insurrection, although in a shaking voice; “my intention is to do nothing.”

“Your intention,” said Brigitte, scarlet with anger, “is something new.”

“That is my intention,” was all the rebel replied.

“At least you will give your reasons?”

“The marriage does not please me.”

“Ha! and since when?”

“It is not necessary that monsieur should listen to our discussion,” said Madame Thuillier; “it will not appear in the contract.”

“No wonder you are ashamed of it,” said Brigitte; “the appearance you are making is not very flattering to you—Monsieur,” she continued, addressing the clerk, “it is easier, is it not, to mark out passages in a contract than to add them?”

The clerk made an affirmative sign.

“Then put in what you were told to write; later, if madame persists, the clause can be stricken out.”

The clerk bowed and left the room.

When the two sisters-in-law were alone together, Brigitte began.

“Ah ca!” she cried, “have you lost your head? What is this crotchet you’ve taken into it?”

“It is not a crotchet; it is a fixed idea.”

“Which you got from the Abbe Gondrin; you dare not deny that you went to see him with Celeste.”

“It is true that Celeste and I saw our director this morning, but I did not open my lips to him about what I intended to do.”

“So, then, it is in your own empty head that this notion sprouted?”

“Yes. As I told you yesterday, I think Celeste can be more suitably married, and my intention is not to rob myself for a marriage of which I disapprove.”

“You disapprove! Upon my word! are we all to take madame’s advice?”

“I know well,” replied Madame Thuillier, “that I count for nothing in this house. So far as I am concerned, I have long accepted my position; but, when the matter concerns the happiness of a child I regard as my own—”

“Parbleu!” cried Brigitte, “you never knew how to have one; for, certainly, Thuillier—”

“Sister,” said Madame Thuillier, with dignity, “I took the sacrament this morning, and there are some things I cannot listen to.”

“There’s a canting hypocrite for you!” cried Brigitte; “playing the saint, and bringing trouble into families! And you think to succeed, do you? Wait till Thuillier comes home, and he’ll shake this out of you.”

By calling in the marital authority in support of her own, Brigitte showed weakness before the unexpected resistance thus made to her inveterate tyranny. Madame Thuillier’s calm words, which became every moment more resolute, baffled her completely, and she found no resource but insolence.

“A drone!” she cried; “a helpless good-for-nothing! who can’t even pick up her own handkerchief! that thing wants to be mistress of this house!”

“I wish so little to be its mistress,” said Madame Thuillier, “that last night I allowed you to silence me after the first words I said in behalf of Celeste. But I am mistress of my own property, and as I believe that Celeste will be wretched in this marriage, I keep it to use as may seem best to me.”

“Your property, indeed!” said Brigitte, with a sneer.

“Yes, that which I received from my father and my mother, and which I brought as my ‘dot’ to Monsieur Thuillier.”

“And pray who invested it, this property, and made it give you twelve thousand francs a year?”

“I have never asked you for any account of it,” said Madame Thuillier, gently. “If it had been lost in the uses you made of it, you would never have heard a single word from me; but it has prospered, and it is just that I should have the benefit. It is not for myself that I reserve it.”

“Perhaps not; if this is the course you take, it is not at all sure that you and I will go out of the same door long.”

“Do you mean that Monsieur Thuillier will send me away? He must have reasons for doing that, and, thank God! I have been a wife above reproach.”

“Viper! hypocrite! heartless creature!” cried Brigitte, coming to an end of her arguments.

“Sister,” said Madame Thuillier, “you are in my apartment—”

“Am I, you imbecile?” cried the old maid, in a paroxysm of anger. “If I didn’t restrain myself—”

And she made a gesture both insulting and threatening.

Madame Thuillier rose to leave the room.

“No! you shall not go out,” cried Brigitte, pushing her down into her chair; “and till Thuillier comes home and decides what he will do with you you’ll stay locked up here.”

Just as Brigitte, her face on fire, returned to the room where she had left Madame Colleville, her brother came in. He was radiant.

“My dear,” he said to the Megaera, not observing her fury, “everything is going on finely; the conspiracy of silence is broken; two papers, the ‘National’ and a Carlist journal, have copied articles from us, and there’s a little attack in a ministerial paper.”

“Well, all is not going on finely here,” said Brigitte, “and if it continues, I shall leave the barrack.”

“Whom are you angry with now?” asked Thuillier.

“With your insolent wife, who has made me a scene; I am trembling all over.”

“Celeste make you a scene!” said Thuillier; “then it is the very first time in her life.”

“There’s a beginning to everything, and if you don’t bring her to order—”

“But what was it about—this scene?”

“About madame’s not choosing that la Peyrade should marry her goddaughter; and out of spite, to prevent the marriage, she refused to give anything in the contract.”

“Come, be calm,” said Thuillier, not disturbed himself, the admission of the “Echo” into the polemic making another Pangloss of him. “I’ll settle all that.”

“You, Flavie,” said Brigitte, when Thuillier had departed to his wife, “you will do me the pleasure to go down to your own apartment, and tell Mademoiselle Celeste that I don’t choose to see her now, because if she made me any irritating answer I might box her ears. You’ll tell her that I don’t like conspiracies; that she was left at liberty to choose Monsieur Phellion junior if she wanted him, and she did not want him; that the matter is now all arranged, and that if she does not wish to see her ‘dot’ reduced to what you are able to give her, which isn’t as much as a bank-messenger could carry in his waistcoat pocket—”

“But, my dear Brigitte,” interrupted Flavie, turning upon her at this impertinence, “you may dispense with reminding us in this harsh way of our poverty; for, after all, we have never asked you for anything, and we pay our rent punctually; and as for the ‘dot,’ Monsieur Felix Phellion is quite ready to take Celeste with no more than a bank-messenger could carry in his bag.”

And she emphasized the last word by her way of pronouncing it.

“Ha! so you too are going to meddle in this, are you?” cried Brigitte. “Very good; go and fetch him, your Felix. I know, my little woman, that this marriage has never suited you; it IS disagreeable to be nothing more than a mother to your son-in-law.”

Flavie had recovered the coolness she had lost for an instant, and without replying to this speech she merely shrugged her shoulders.

At this moment Thuillier returned; his air of beatitude had deserted him.

“My dear Brigitte,” he said to his sister, “you have a most excellent heart, but at times you are so violent—”

“Ho!” said the old maid, “am I to be arraigned on this side too?”

“I certainly do not blame you for the cause of the trouble, and I have just rebuked Celeste for her assumption; but there are proper forms that must be kept.”

“Forms! what are you talking about? What forms have I neglected?”

“But, my dear friend, to raise your hand against your sister!”

“I, raise my hand against that imbecile? What nonsense you talk!”

“And besides,” continued Thuillier, “a woman of Celeste’s age can’t be kept in prison.”

“Your wife!—have I put her in prison?”

“You can’t deny it, for I found the door of her room double-locked.”

“Parbleu! all this because in my anger at the infamous things she was spitting at me I may have turned the key of the door without intending it.”

“Come, come,” said Thuillier, “these are not proper actions for people of our class.”

“Oh! so it is I who am to blame, is it? Well, my lad, some day you’ll remember this, and we shall see how your household will get along when I have stopped taking care of it.”

“You’ll always take care of it,” said Thuillier. “Housekeeping is your very life; you will be the first to get over this affair.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Brigitte; “after twenty years of devotion, to be treated like the lowest of the low!”

And rushing to the door, which she slammed after her with violence, she went away.

Thuillier was not disturbed by this exit.

“Were you there, Flavie,” he asked, “when the scene took place?”

“No, it happened in Celeste’s room. What did she do to her?”

“What I said,—raised her hand to her and locked her in like a child. Celeste may certainly be rather dull-minded, but there are limits that must not be passed.”

“She is not always pleasant, that good Brigitte,” said Flavie; “she and I have just had a little set-to.”

“Oh, well,” said Thuillier, “it will all pass off. I want to tell you, my dear Flavie, what fine success we have had this morning. The ‘National’ quotes two whole paragraphs of an article in which there were several sentences of mine.”

Thuillier was again interrupted in the tale of his great political and literary success,—this time by the entrance of Josephine the cook.

“Can monsieur tell me where to find the key of the great trunk?” she said.

“What do you want with it?” asked Thuillier.

“Mademoiselle told me to take it to her room.”

“What for?”

“Mademoiselle must be going to make a journey. She is getting her linen out of the drawers, and her gowns are on the bed.”

“Another piece of nonsense!” said Thuillier. “Flavie, go and see what she has in her head.”

“Not I,” said Madame Colleville; “go yourself. In her present state of exasperation she might beat me.”

“And my stupid wife, who must needs raise a fuss about the contract!” cried Thuillier. “She really must have said something pretty sharp to turn Brigitte off her hinges like this.”

“Monsieur has not told me where to find the key,” persisted Josephine.

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Thuillier, crossly; “go and look for it, or else tell her it is lost.”

“Oh, yes!” said Josephine, “it is likely I’d dare to go and tell her that.”

Just then the outer door-bell rang.

“No doubt that’s la Peyrade,” said Thuillier, in a tone of satisfaction.

The Provencal appeared a moment later.

“Faith, my dear friend,” cried Thuillier, “it is high time you came; the house is in revolution, all about you, and it needs your silvery tongue to bring it back to peace and quietness.”

Then he related to his assistant editor the circumstances of the civil war which had broken out.

La Peyrade turned to Madame Colleville.

“I think,” he said, “that under the circumstances in which we now stand there is no impropriety in my asking for an interview of a few moments with Mademoiselle Colleville.”

In this the Provencal showed his usual shrewd ability; he saw that in the mission of pacification thus given to him Celeste Colleville was the key of the situation.

“I will send for her, and we will leave you alone together,” said Flavie.

“My dear Thuillier,” said la Peyrade, “you must, without any violence, let Mademoiselle Celeste know that her consent must be given without further delay; make her think that this was the purpose for which you have sent for her; then leave us; I will do the rest.”

The man-servant was sent down to the entresol with orders to tell Celeste that her godfather wished to speak to her. As soon as she appeared, Thuillier said, to carry out the programme which had been dictated to him:—

“My dear, your mother has told us things that astonish us. Can it be true that with your contract almost signed, you have not yet decided to accept the marriage we have arranged for you?”

“Godfather,” said Celeste, rather surprised at this abrupt summons, “I think I did not say that to mamma.”

“Did you not just now,” said Flavie, “praise Monsieur Felix Phellion to me in the most extravagant manner?”

“I spoke of Monsieur Phellion as all the world is speaking of him.”

“Come, come,” said Thuillier, with authority, “let us have no equivocation; do you refuse, yes or no, to marry Monsieur de la Peyrade?”

“Dear, good friend,” said la Peyrade, intervening, “your way of putting the question is rather too abrupt, and, in my presence, especially, it seems to me out of place. In my position as the most interested person, will you allow me to have an interview with mademoiselle, which, indeed, has now become necessary? This favor I am sure will not be refused by Madame Colleville. Under present circumstances, there can surely be nothing in my request to alarm her maternal prudence.”

“I would certainly yield to it,” said Flavie, “if I did not fear that these discussions might seem to open a question which is irrevocably decided.”

“But, my dear madame, I have the strongest desire that Mademoiselle Celeste shall remain, until the very last moment, the mistress of her own choice. I beg you, therefore, to grant my request.”

“So be it!” said Madame Colleville; “you think yourself very clever, but if you let that girl twist you round her finger, so much the worse for you. Come, Thuillier, since we are ‘de trop’ here.”

As soon as the pair were alone together, la Peyrade drew up a chair for Celeste, and took one himself, saying:—

“You will, I venture to believe, do me the justice to say that until to-day I have never annoyed you with the expression of my sentiments. I was aware of the inclinations of your heart, and also of the warnings of your conscience. I hoped, after a time, to make myself acceptable as a refuge from those two currents of feeling; but, at the point which we have now reached, I think it is not either indiscreet or impatient to ask you to let me know plainly what course you have decided upon.”

“Monsieur,” replied Celeste, “as you speak to me so kindly and frankly, I will tell you, what indeed you know already, that, brought up as I was with Monsieur Felix Phellion, knowing him far longer than I have known you, the idea of marrying alarmed me less in regard to him than it would in regard to others.”

“At one time, I believe,” remarked la Peyrade, “you were permitted to choose him if you wished.”

“Yes, but at that time difficulties grew up between us on religious ideas.”

“And to-day those difficulties have disappeared?”

“Nearly,” replied Celeste. “I am accustomed to submit to the judgment of those who are wiser than myself, monsieur, and you heard yesterday the manner in which the Abbe Gondrin spoke of Monsieur Phellion.”

“God forbid,” said la Peyrade, “that I should seek to invalidate the judgment of so excellent a man; but I venture to say to you, mademoiselle, that there are great differences among the clergy; some are thought too stern, some far too indulgent; moreover, the Abbe Gondrin is more of a preacher than a casuist.”

“But, Monsieur Felix,” said Celeste, eagerly, “seems to wish to fulfil Monsieur l’abbe’s hopes of him, for I know that he went to see him this morning.”

“Ah!” said la Peyrade, with a touch of irony, “so he really decided to go to Pere Anselme! But, admitting that on the religious side Monsieur Phellion may now become all that you expect of him, have you reflected, mademoiselle, on the great event which has just taken place in his life?”

“Undoubtedly; and that is not a reason to think less of him.”

“No, but it is a reason why he should think more of himself. For the modesty which was once the chief charm of his nature, he is likely to substitute great assumption, and you must remember, mademoiselle, that he who has discovered one world will want to discover two; you will have the whole firmament for rival; in short, could you ever be happy with a man so entirely devoted to science?”

“You plead your cause with such adroitness,” said Celeste, smiling, “that I think you might be as a lawyer more disquieting than an astronomer.”

“Mademoiselle,” said la Peyrade, “let us speak seriously; there is another and far more serious aspect to the situation. Do you know that, at this moment, in this house, and without, I am sure, desiring it, you are the cause of most distressing and regrettable scenes?”

“I, monsieur!” said Celeste, in a tone of surprise that was mingled with fear.

“Yes, concerning your godmother. Through the extreme affection that she has for you she seems to have become another woman; for the first time in her life she has shown a mind of her own. With an energy of will which comes at times to those who have never expended any, she declares that she will not make her proposed liberal gift to you in the contract; and I need not tell you who is the person aimed at in this unexpected refusal.”

“But, monsieur, I entreat you to believe that I knew nothing of this idea of my godmother.”

“I know that,” said la Peyrade, “and the matter itself would be of small importance if Mademoiselle Brigitte had not taken this attitude of your godmother, whom she has always found supple to her will, as a personal insult to herself. Very painful explanations, approaching at last to violence, have taken place. Thuillier, placed between the hammer and the anvil, has been unable to stop the affair; on the contrary, he has, without intending it, made matters worse, till they have now arrived at such a point that Mademoiselle Brigitte is packing her trunks to leave the house.”

“Monsieur! what are you telling me?” cried Celeste, horrified.

“The truth; and the servants will confirm it to you—for I feel that my revelations are scarcely believable.”

“But it is impossible! impossible!” said the poor child, whose agitation increased with every word of the adroit Provencal. “I cannot be the cause of such dreadful harm.”

“That is, you did not intend to be, for the harm is done; and I pray Heaven it may not be irremediable.”

“But what am I to do, good God!” cried Celeste, wringing her hands.

“I should answer, without hesitation, sacrifice yourself, mademoiselle, if it were not that I should then be forced to play the painful part of victimizer.”

“Monsieur,” said Celeste, “you interpret ill the resistance that I have made, though, in fact, I have scarcely expressed it. I have certainly had a preference, but I have never considered myself in the light of a victim; and whatever it is necessary to do to restore peace in this house to which I have brought trouble, I shall do it without repugnance, and even willingly.”

“That would be for me,” said la Peyrade, humbly, “more than I could dare ask for myself; but, for the result which we both seek, I must tell you frankly that something more is needed. Madame Thuillier has not changed her nature to instantly change back again on the mere assurance by others of your compliance. It is necessary that she should hear from your own lips that you accede to my suit, and that you do so with eagerness,—assumed, indeed, but sufficiently well assumed to induce her to believe in it.”

“So be it,” said Celeste. “I shall know how to seem smiling and happy. My godmother, monsieur, has been a mother to me; and for such a mother, what is there that I would not endure?”

The position was such, and Celeste betrayed so artlessly the depth and, at the same time, the absolute determination of her sacrifice, that with any heart at all la Peyrade would have loathed the part he was playing; but Celeste, to him, was a means of ascent, and provided the ladder can hold you and hoist you, who would ever ask if it cared to or not? It was therefore decided that Celeste should go to her godmother and convince her of the mistake she had made in supposing an objection to la Peyrade which Celeste had never intended to make. Madame Thuillier’s opposition overcome, all was once more easy. La Peyrade took upon himself the duty of making peace between the two sisters-in-law, and we can well imagine that he was not at a loss for fine phrases with which to assure the artless girl of the devotion and love which would take from her all regret for the moral compulsion she had now undergone.

When Celeste went to her godmother she found her by no means as difficult to convince as she had expected. To go to the point of rebellion which Madame Thuillier had actually reached, the poor woman, who was acting against her instincts and against her nature, had needed a tension of will that, in her, was almost superhuman. No sooner had she received the false confidences of her goddaughter than the reaction set in; the strength failed her to continue in the path she had taken. She was therefore easily the dupe of the comedy which Celeste’s tender heart was made to play for la Peyrade’s benefit.

The tempest calmed on this side, the barrister found no difficulty in making Brigitte understand that in quelling the rebellion against her authority she had gone a little farther than was proper. This authority being no longer in danger, Brigitte ceased to be incensed with the sister-in-law she had been on the point of beating, and the quarrel was settled with a few kind words and a kiss, poor Celeste paying the costs of war.

After dinner, which was only a family meal, the notary, to whose office they were to go on the following day to sign the contract (it being impossible to give a second edition of the abortive party), made his appearance. He came, he said, to submit the contract to the parties interested before engrossing it. This attention was not surprising in a man who was just entering into business relations with so important a person as the municipal councillor, whom it was his interest to firmly secure for a client.

La Peyrade was far too shrewd to make any objections to the terms of the contract, which was now read. A few changes requested by Brigitte, which gave the new notary a high idea of the old maid’s business capacity, showed la Peyrade plainly that more precautions were being taken against him than were altogether becoming; but he was anxious not to raise difficulties, and he knew that the meshes of a contract are never so close that a determined and clever man cannot get through them. The appointment was then made for the signing of the contract the next day, at two o’clock, in the notary’s office, the family only being present.

During the rest of the evening, taking advantage of Celeste’s pledge to seem smiling and happy, la Peyrade played, as it were, upon the poor child, forced her, by a specious exhibition of gratitude and love, to respond to him on a key that was far, indeed, from the true state of a heart now wholly filled by Felix. Flavie, seeing the manner in which la Peyrade put forth his seductions, was reminded of the pains he had formerly taken to fascinate herself. “The monster!” she said, beneath her breath. But she was forced to bear the torture with a good grace; la Peyrade was evidently approved by all, and in the course of the evening a circumstance came to light, showing a past service done by him to the house of Thuillier, which brought his influence and his credit to the highest point.

Minard was announced.

“My dear friends,” he said, “I have come to make a little revelation which will greatly surprise you, and will, I think, prove a lesson to all of us when a question arises as to receiving foreigners in our homes.”

“What is it?” cried Brigitte, with curiosity.

“That Hungarian woman you were so delighted with, that Madame Torna, Comtesse de Godollo—”

“Well?” exclaimed the old maid.

“Well,” continued Minard, “she was no better than she should be; you were petting in your house for two months the most impudent of kept women.”

“Who told you that tale?” asked Brigitte, not willing to admit that she had fallen into such a snare.

“Oh, it isn’t a tale,” said the mayor, eagerly. “I know the thing myself, ‘de visu.’”

“Dear me! do you frequent such women?” said Brigitte, resuming the offensive. “That’s a pretty thing! what would Zelie say if she knew it?”

“In the discharge of my duties,” said Minard, stiffly, provoked at this reception of his news, “I have seen your friend, Madame de Godollo, in company with others of her class.”

“How do you know it was she if you only saw her?” demanded Brigitte.

The wily Provencal was not the man to lose an occasion that fell to him ready-made.

“Monsieur le maire is not mistaken,” he said, with decision.

“Tiens! so you know her, too,” said Brigitte; “and you let us consort with such vermin?”

“No,” said la Peyrade, “on the contrary. Without scandal, without saying a word to any one, I removed her from your house. You remember how suddenly the woman left it? It was I who compelled her to do so; having discovered what she was, I gave her two days to leave the premises; threatening her, in case she hesitated, to tell you all.”

“My dear Theodose,” said Thuillier, pressing his hand, “you acted with as much prudence as decision. This is one more obligation that we owe to you.”

“You see, mademoiselle,” said la Peyrade, addressing Celeste, “the strange protectress whom a friend of yours selected.”

“Thank God,” said Madame Thuillier. “Felix Phellion is above such vile things.”

“Ah ca! papa Minard, we’ll keep quiet about all this; silence is the word. Will you take a cup of tea?”