第 12 页

in search of work that same morning. This time it was certainly he, tall,

thin and ravaged, with dreamy yet flaming eyes, which set his pale

starveling's face aglow. He no longer carried his tool-bag; his ragged

jacket was buttoned up and distended on the left side by something that

he carried in a pocket, doubtless some hunk of bread. And on being

repulsed by the ushers, he walked away, taking the Concorde bridge,

slowly, as if chancewise, like a man who knows not whither he is going.

IV. SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS

IN her old faded drawing-room--a Louis Seize _salon_ with grey

woodwork--the Countess de Quinsac sat near the chimney-piece in her

accustomed place. She was singularly like her son, with a long and noble

face, her chin somewhat stern, but her eyes still beautiful beneath her

fine snowy hair, which was arranged in the antiquated style of her youth.

And whatever her haughty coldness, she knew how to be amiable, with

perfect, kindly graciousness.

Slightly waving her hand after a long silence, she resumed, addressing

herself to the Marquis de Morigny, who sat on the other side of the

chimney, where for long years he had always taken the same armchair. "Ah!

you are right, my friend, Providence has left us here forgotten, in a

most abominable epoch."

"Yes, we passed by the side of happiness and missed it," the Marquis

slowly replied, "and it was your fault, and doubtless mine as well."

Smiling sadly, she stopped him with another wave of her hand. And the

silence fell once more; not a sound from the streets reached that gloomy

ground floor at the rear of the courtyard of an old mansion in the Rue

St. Dominique, almost at the corner of the Rue de Bourgogne.

The Marquis was an old man of seventy-five, nine years older than the

Countess. Short and thin though he was, he none the less had a

distinguished air, with his clean-shaven face, furrowed by deep,

aristocratic wrinkles. He belonged to one of the most ancient families of

France, and remained one of the last hopeless Legitimists, of very pure

and lofty views, zealously keeping his faith to the dead monarchy amidst

the downfall of everything. His fortune, still estimated at several

millions of francs, remained, as it were, in a state of stagnation,

through his refusal to invest it in any of the enterprises of the

century. It was known that in all discretion he had loved the Countess,

even when M. de Quinsac was alive, and had, moreover, offered marriage

after the latter's death, at the time when the widow had sought a refuge

on that damp ground floor with merely an income of some 15,000 francs,

saved with great difficulty from the wreck of the family fortune. But

she, who adored her son Gerard, then in his tenth year, and of delicate

health, had sacrificed everything to the boy from a kind of maternal

chasteness and a superstitious fear that she might lose him should she

set another affection and another duty in her life. And the Marquis,

while bowing to her decision, had continued to worship her with his whole

soul, ever paying his court as on the first evening when he had seen her,

still gallant and faithful after a quarter of a century had passed. There

had never been anything between them, not even the exchange of a kiss.

Seeing how sad she looked, he feared that he might have displeased her,

and so he asked: "I should have liked to render you happy, but I didn't

know how, and the fault can certainly only rest with me. Is Gerard giving

you any cause for anxiety?"

She shook her head, and then replied: "As long as things remain as they

are we cannot complain of them, my friend, since we accepted them."

She referred to her son's culpable connection with Baroness Duvillard.

She had ever shown much weakness with regard to that son whom she had had

so much trouble to rear, for she alone knew what exhaustion, what racial

collapse was hidden behind his proud bearing. She tolerated his idleness,

the apathetic disgust which, man of pleasure that he was, had turned him

from the profession of diplomacy as from that of arms. How many times had

she not repaired his acts of folly and paid his petty debts, keeping

silent concerning them, and refusing all pecuniary help from the Marquis,

who no longer dared offer his millions, so stubbornly intent she was on

living upon the remnants of her own fortune. And thus she had ended by

closing her eyes to her son's scandalous love intrigue, divining in some

measure how things had happened, through self-abandonment and lack of

conscience--the man weak, unable to resume possession of himself, and the

woman holding and retaining him. The Marquis, however, strangely enough,

had only forgiven the intrigue on the day when Eve had allowed herself to

be converted.

"You know, my friend, how good-natured Gerard is," the Countess resumed.

"In that lie both his strength and weakness. How would you have me scold

him when he weeps over it all with me? He will tire of that woman."

M. de Morigny wagged his head. "She is still very beautiful," said he.

"And then there's the daughter. It would be graver still if he were to

marry her--"

"But the daughter's infirm?"

"Yes, and you know what would be said: A Quinsac marrying a monster for

the sake of her millions."

This was their mutual terror. They knew everything that went on at the

Duvillards, the affectionate friendship of the uncomely Camille and the

handsome Gerard, the seeming idyll beneath which lurked the most awful of

dramas. And they protested with all their indignation. "Oh! that, no, no,

never!" the Countess declared. "My son in that family, no, I will never

consent to it."

Just at that moment General de Bozonnet entered. He was much attached to

his sister and came to keep her company on the days when she received,

for the old circle had gradually dwindled down till now only a few

faithful ones ventured into that grey gloomy _salon_, where one might

have fancied oneself at thousands of leagues from present-day Paris. And

forthwith, in order to enliven the room, he related that he had been to

_dejeuner_ at the Duvillards, and named the guests, Gerard among them. He

knew that he pleased his sister by going to the banker's house whence he

brought her news, a house, too, which he cleansed in some degree by

conferring on it the great honour of his presence. And he himself in no

wise felt bored there, for he had long been gained over to the century

and showed himself of a very accommodating disposition in everything that

did not pertain to military art.

"That poor little Camille worships Gerard," said he; "she was devouring

him with her eyes at table."

But M. de Morigny gravely intervened: "There lies the danger, a marriage

would be absolutely monstrous from every point of view."

The General seemed astonished: "Why, pray? She isn't beautiful, but it's

not only the beauties who marry! And there are her millions. However, our

dear child would only have to put them to a good use. True, there is also

the mother; but, _mon Dieu_! such things are so common nowadays in Paris

society."

This revolted the Marquis, who made a gesture of utter disgust. What was

the use of discussion when all collapsed? How could one answer a

Bozonnet, the last surviving representative of such an illustrious

family, when he reached such a point as to excuse the infamous morals

that prevailed under the Republic; after denying his king, too, and

serving the Empire, faithfully and passionately attaching himself to the

fortunes and memory of Caesar? However, the Countess also became

indignant: "Oh! what are you saying, brother? I will never authorize such

a scandal, I swore so only just now."

"Don't swear, sister," exclaimed the General; "for my part I should like

to see our Gerard happy. That's all. And one must admit that he's not

good for much. I can understand that he didn't go into the Army, for that

profession is done for. But I do not so well understand why he did not

enter the diplomatic profession, or accept some other occupation. It is

very fine, no doubt, to run down the present times and declare that a man

of our sphere cannot possibly do any clean work in them. But, as a matter

of fact, it is only idle fellows who still say that. And Gerard has but

one excuse, his lack of aptitude, will and strength."

Tears had risen to the mother's eyes. She even trembled, well knowing how

deceitful were appearances: a mere chill might carry her son off, however

tall and strong he might look. And was he not indeed a symbol of that

old-time aristocracy, still so lofty and proud in appearance, though at

bottom it is but dust?

"Well," continued the General, "he's thirty-six now; he's constantly

hanging on your hands, and he must make an end of it all."

However, the Countess silenced him and turned to the Marquis: "Let us put

our confidence in God, my friend," said she. "He cannot but come to my

help, for I have never willingly offended Him."

"Never!" replied the Marquis, who in that one word set an expression of

all his grief, all his affection and worship for that woman whom he had

adored for so many years.

But another faithful friend came in and the conversation changed. M. de

Larombiere, Vice-President of the Appeal Court, was an old man of

seventy-five, thin, bald and clean shaven but for a pair of little white

whiskers. And his grey eyes, compressed mouth and square and obstinate

chin lent an expression of great austerity to his long face. The grief of

his life was that, being afflicted with a somewhat childish lisp, he had

never been able to make his full merits known when a public prosecutor,

for he esteemed himself to be a great orator. And this secret worry

rendered him morose. In him appeared an incarnation of that old royalist

France which sulked and only served the Republic against its heart, that

old stern magistracy which closed itself to all evolution, to all new

views of things and beings. Of petty "gown" nobility, originally a

Legitimist but now supporting Orleanism, he believed himself to be the

one man of wisdom and logic in that _salon_, where he was very proud to

meet the Marquis.

They talked of the last events; but with them political conversation was

soon exhausted, amounting as it did to a mere bitter condemnation of men

and occurrences, for all three were of one mind as to the abominations of

the Republican _regime_. They themselves, however, were only ruins, the

remnants of the old parties now all but utterly powerless. The Marquis

for his part soared on high, yielding in nothing, ever faithful to the

dead past; he was one of the last representatives of that lofty obstinate

_noblesse_ which dies when it finds itself without an effort to escape

its fate. The judge, who at least had a pretender living, relied on a

miracle, and demonstrated the necessity for one if France were not to

sink into the depths of misfortune and completely disappear. And as for

the General, all that he regretted of the two Empires was their great

wars; he left the faint hope of a Bonapartist restoration on one side to

declare that by not contenting itself with the Imperial military system,

and by substituting thereto obligatory service, the nation in arms, the

Republic had killed both warfare and the country.

When the Countess's one man-servant came to ask her if she would consent

to receive Abbe Froment she seemed somewhat surprised. "What can he want

of me? Show him in," she said.

She was very pious, and having met Pierre in connection with various

charitable enterprises, she had been touched by his zeal as well as by

the saintly reputation which he owed to his Neuilly parishioners.

He, absorbed by his fever, felt intimidated directly he crossed the

threshold. He could at first distinguish nothing, but fancied he was

entering some place of mourning, a shadowy spot where human forms seemed

to melt away, and voices were never raised above a whisper. Then, on

perceiving the persons present, he felt yet more out of his element, for

they seemed so sad, so far removed from the world whence he had just

come, and whither he was about to return. And when the Countess had made

him sit down beside her in front of the chimney-piece, it was in a low

voice that he told her the lamentable story of Laveuve, and asked her

support to secure the man's admittance to the Asylum for the Invalids of

Labour.

"Ah! yes," said she, "that enterprise which my son wished me to belong

to. But, Monsieur l'Abbe, I have never once attended the Committee

meetings. So how could I intervene, having assuredly no influence

whatever?"

Again had the figures of Eve and Gerard arisen before her, for it was at

this asylum that the pair had first met. And influenced by her sorrowful

maternal love she was already weakening, although it was regretfully that

she had lent her name to one of those noisy charitable enterprises, which

people abused to further their selfish interests in a manner she

condemned.

"But, madame," Pierre insisted, "it is a question of a poor starving old

man. I implore you to be compassionate."

Although the priest had spoken in a low voice the General drew near.

"It's for your old revolutionary that you are running about, is it not,"

said he. "Didn't you succeed with the manager, then? The fact is that

it's difficult to feel any pity for fellows who, if they were the

masters, would, as they themselves say, sweep us all away."

M. de Larombiere jerked his chin approvingly. For some time past he had

been haunted by the Anarchist peril. But Pierre, distressed and

quivering, again began to plead his cause. He spoke of all the frightful

misery, the homes where there was no food, the women and children

shivering with cold, and the fathers scouring muddy, wintry Paris in