“I thought,” said the young man, “that you would probably come back alone.”
“You have done right, Calyste,” she replied, pressing his hand.
Beatrix turned round, saw her young lover, and gave him the most imperious look in her repertory. A smile, which the marquise detected on the eloquent lips of Mademoiselle des Touches, made her aware of the vulgarity of such conduct, worthy only of a bourgeoise. She then said to Calyste, smiling, —
“Are you not guilty of a slight impertinence in supposing that I should bore Camille, if left alone with her?”
“My dear, one man to two widows is none too much,” said Mademoiselle des Touches, taking Calyste’s arm, and leaving Beatrix to watch the vessel till it disappeared.
At this moment Calyste heard the approaching voices of Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, the Vicomtesse de Kergarouet, Charlotte, and Gasselin, who were all talking at once, like so many magpies. The old maid was questioning Gasselin as to what had brought him and his master to Saint-Nazaire; the carriage of Mademoiselle des Touches had already caught her eye. Before the young Breton could get out of sight, Charlotte had seen him.
“Why, there’s Calyste!” she exclaimed eagerly.
“Go and offer them seats in my carriage,” said Camille to Calyste; “the maid can sit with the coachman. I saw those ladies lose their places in the mail-coach.”
Calyste, who could not help himself, carried the message. As soon as Madame de Kergarouet learned that the offer came from the celebrated Camille Maupin, and that the Marquise de Rochefide was of the party, she was much surprised at the objections raised by her elder sister, who refused positively to profit by what she called the devil’s carryall. At Nantes, which boasted of more civilization than Guerande, Camille was read and admired; she was thought to be the muse of Brittany and an honor to the region. The absolution granted to her in Paris by society, by fashion, was there justified by her great fortune and her early successes in Nantes, which claimed the honor of having been, if not her birthplace, at least her cradle. The viscountess, therefore, eager to see her, dragged her old sister forward, paying no attention to her jeremiads.
“Good-morning, Calyste,” said Charlotte.
“Oh! good-morning, Charlotte,” replied Calyste, not offering his arm.
Both were confused; she by his coldness, he by his cruelty, as they walked up the sort of ravine, which is called in Saint-Nazaire a street, following the two sisters in silence. In a moment the little girl of sixteen saw her castle in Spain, built and furnished with romantic hopes, a heap of ruins. She and Calyste had played together so much in childhood, she was so bound up with him, as it were, that she had quietly supposed her future unassailable; she arrived now, swept along by thoughtless happiness, like a circling bird darting down upon a wheat-field, and lo! she was stopped in her flight, unable to imagine the obstacle.
“What is the matter, Calyste?” she said, taking his hand.
“Nothing,” replied the young man, releasing himself with cruel haste as he remembered the projects of his aunt and her friend.
Tears came into Charlotte’s eyes. She looked at the handsome Calyste without ill-humor; but a first spasm of jealousy seized her, and she felt the dreadful madness of rivalry when she came in sight of the two Parisian women, and suspected the cause of his coldness.
Charlotte de Kergarouet was a girl of ordinary height, and commonplace coloring; she had a little round face, made lively by a pair of black eyes which sparkled with cleverness, abundant brown hair, a round waist, a flat back, thin arms, and the curt, decided manner of a provincial girl, who did not want to be taken for a little goose. She was the petted child of the family on account of the preference her aunt showed for her. At this moment she was wrapped in a mantle of Scotch merino in large plaids, lined with green silk, which she had worn on the boat. Her travelling-dress, of some common stuff, chastely made with a chemisette body and a pleated collar, was fated to appear, even to her own eyes, horrible in comparison with the fresh toilets of Beatrix and Camille. She was painfully aware of the stockings soiled among the rocks as she had jumped from the boat, of shabby leather shoes, chosen for the purpose of not spoiling better ones on the journey, — a fixed principle in the manners and customs of provincials.
As for the Vicomtesse de Kergarouet, she might stand as the type of a provincial woman. Tall, hard, withered, full of pretensions, which did not show themselves until they were mortified, talking much, and catching, by dint of talking (as one cannons at billiards), a few ideas, which gave her the reputation of wit, endeavoring to humiliate Parisians, whenever she met them, with an assumption of country wisdom and patronage, humbling herself to be exalted and furious at being left upon her knees; fishing, as the English say, for compliments, which she never caught; dressed in clothes that were exaggerated in style, and yet ill cared for; mistaking want of good manners for dignity, and trying to embarrass others by paying no attention to them; refusing what she desired in order to have it offered again, and to seem to yield only to entreaty; concerned about matters that others have done with, and surprised at not being in the fashion; and finally, unable to get through an hour without reference to Nantes, matters of social life in Nantes, complaints of Nantes, criticism of Nantes, and taking as personalities the remarks she forced out of absent-minded or wearied listeners.
Her manners, language, and ideas had, more or less, descended to her four daughters. To know Camille Maupin and Madame de Rochefide would be for her a future, and the topic of a hundred conversations. Consequently, she advanced toward the church as if she meant to take it by assault, waving her handkerchief, unfolded for the purpose of displaying the heavy corners of domestic embroidery, and trimmed with flimsy lace. Her gait was tolerably bold and cavalier, which, however, was of no consequence in a woman forty-seven years of age.
“Monsieur le chevalier,” she said to Camille and Beatrix, pointing to Calyste, who was mournfully following with Charlotte, “has conveyed to me your friendly proposal, but we fear — my sister, my daughter, and myself — to inconvenience you.”
“Sister, I shall not put these ladies to inconvenience,” said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, sharply; “I can very well find a horse in Saint-Nazaire to take me home.”
Camille and Beatrix exchanged an oblique glance, which Calyste intercepted, and that glance sufficed to annihilate all the memories of his childhood, all his beliefs in the Kergarouets and Pen-Hoels, and to put an end forever to the projects of the three families.
“We can very well put five in the carriage,” replied Mademoiselle des Touches, on whom Jacqueline turned her back, “even if we were inconvenienced, which cannot be the case, with your slender figures. Besides, I should enjoy the pleasure of doing a little service to Calyste’s friends. Your maid, madame, will find a seat by the coachman, and your luggage, if you have any, can go behind the carriage; I have no footman with me.”
The viscountess was overwhelming in thanks, and complained that her sister Jacqueline had been in such a hurry to see her niece that she would not give her time to come properly in her own carriage with post-horses, though, to be sure, the post-road was not only longer, but more expensive; she herself was obliged to return almost immediately to Nantes, where she had left three other little kittens, who were anxiously awaiting her. Here she put her arm round Charlotte’s neck. Charlotte, in reply, raised her eyes to her mother with the air of a little victim, which gave an impression to onlookers that the viscountess bored her four daughters prodigiously by dragging them on the scene very much as Corporal Trim produces his cap in “Tristram Shandy.”
“You are a fortunate mother and — ” began Camille, stopping short as she remembered that Beatrix must have parted from her son when she left her husband’s house.
“Oh, yes!” said the viscountess; “if I have the misfortune of spending my life in the country, and, above all, at Nantes, I have at least the consolation of being adored by my children. Have you children?” she said to Camille.
“Then I must pity you for not knowing the greatest happiness that there is for us poor, simple women — is not that so, madame?” said the viscountess, turning to Beatrix. “But you, mademoiselle, have so many compensations.”
The tears came into Madame de Rochefide’s eyes, and she turned away toward the parapet to hide them. Calyste followed her.
“Madame,” said Camille, in a low voice to the viscountess, “are you not aware that the marquise is separated from her husband? She has not seen her son for two years, and does not know when she will see him.”
“You don’t say so!” said Madame de Kergarouet. “Poor lady! is she legally separated?”
“No, by mutual consent,” replied Camille.
“Ah, well! I understand that,” said the viscountess boldly.
Old Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, furious at being thus dragged into the enemy’s camp, had retreated to a short distance with her dear Charlotte. Calyste, after looking about him to make sure that no one could see him, seized the hand of the marquise, kissed it, and left a tear upon it. Beatrix turned round, her tears dried by anger; she was about to utter some terrible word, but it died upon her lips as she saw the grief on the angelic face of the youth, as deeply touched by her present sorrow as she was herself.
“Good heavens, Calyste!” said Camille in his ear, as he returned with Madame de Rochefide, “are you to have that for a mother-in-law, and the little one for a wife?”
“Because her aunt is rich,” replied Calyste, sarcastically.
The whole party now moved toward the inn, and the viscountess felt herself obliged to make Camille a speech on the savages of Saint-Nazaire.
“I love Brittany, madame,” replied Camille, gravely. “I was born at Guerande.”
Calyste could not help admiring Mademoiselle des Touches, who, by the tone of her voice, the tranquillity of her look, and her quiet manner, put him at his ease, in spite of the terrible declarations of the preceding night. She seemed, however, a little fatigued; her eyes were enlarged by dark circles round them, showing that he had not slept; but the brow dominated the inward storm with cold placidity.
“What queens!” he said to Charlotte, calling her attention to the marquise and Camille as he gave the girl his arm, to Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel’s great satisfaction.
“What an idea your mother has had,” said the old maid, taking her niece’s other arm, “to put herself in the company of that reprobate woman!”
“Oh, aunt, a woman who is the glory of Brittany!”
“The shame, my dear. Mind that you don’t fawn upon her in that way.”
“Mademoiselle Charlotte is right,” said Calyste; “you are not just.”
“Oh, you!” replied Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, “she has bewitched you.”
“I regard her,” said Calyste, “with the same friendship that I feel for you.”
“Since when have the du Guenics taken to telling lies?” asked the old maid.
“Since the Pen-Hoels have grown deaf,” replied Calyste.
“Are you not in love with her?” demanded the old maid.
“I have been, but I am so no longer,” he said.
“Bad boy! then why have you given us such anxiety? I know very well that love is only foolishness; there is nothing solid but marriage,” she remarked, looking at Charlotte.
Charlotte, somewhat reassured, hoped to recover her advantages by recalling the memories of childhood. She leaned affectionately on Calyste’s arm, who resolved in his own mind to have a clear explanation with the little heiress.
“Ah! what fun we shall have at mouche, Calyste!” she said; “what good laughs we used to have over it!”
The horses were now put in; Camille placed Madame de Kergarouet and Charlotte on the back seat. Jacqueline having disappeared, she herself, with the marquise, sat forward. Calyste was, of course, obliged to relinquish the pleasure on which he had counted, of driving back with Camille and Beatrix, but he rode beside the carriage all the way; the horses, being tired with the journey, went slowly enough to allow him to keep his eyes on Beatrix.
History must lose the curious conversations that went on between these four persons whom accident had so strangely united in this carriage, for it is impossible to report the hundred and more versions which went the round of Nantes on the remarks, replies, and witticisms which the viscountess heard from the lips of the celebrated Camille Maupin herself. She was, however, very careful not to repeat, not even to comprehend, the actual replies made by Mademoiselle des Touches to her absurd questions about Camille’s authorship, — a penance to which all authors are subjected, and which often make them expiate the few and rare pleasures that they win.
“How do you write your books?” she began.
“Much as you do your worsted-work or knitting,” replied Camille.
“But where do you find those deep reflections, those seductive pictures?”
“Where you find the witty things you say, madame; there is nothing so easy as to write books, provided you will — ”
“Ah! does it depend wholly on the will? I shouldn’t have thought it. Which of your compositions do you prefer?”
“I find it difficult to prefer any of my little kittens.”
“I see you are blasee on compliments; there is really nothing new that one can say.”
“I assure you, madame, that I am very sensible to the form which you give to yours.”
The viscountess, anxious not to seem to neglect the marquise, remarked, looking at Beatrix with a meaning air, —
“I shall never forget this journey made between Wit and Beauty.”
“You flatter me, madame,” said the marquise, laughing. “I assure you that my wit is but a small matter, not to be mentioned by the side of genius; besides, I think I have not said much as yet.”
Charlotte, who keenly felt her mother’s absurdity, looked at her, endeavoring to stop its course; but Madame de Kergarouet went bravely on in her tilt with the satirical Parisians.
Calyste, who was trotting slowly beside the carriage, could only see the faces of the two ladies on the front seat, and his eyes expressed, from time to time, rather painful thoughts. Forced, by her position, to let herself be looked at, Beatrix constantly avoided meeting the young man’s eyes, and practised a manoeuvre most exasperating to lovers; she held her shawl crossed and her hands crossed over it, apparently plunged in the deepest meditation.
At a part of the road which is shaded, dewy, and verdant as a forest glade, where the wheels of the carriage scarcely sounded, and the breeze brought down balsamic odors and waved the branches above their heads, Camille called Madame de Rochefide’s attention to the harmonies of the place, and pressed her knee to make her look at Calyste.
“How well he rides!” she said.
“Oh! Calyste does everything well,” said Charlotte.
“He rides like an Englishman,” said the marquise, indifferently.
“His mother is Irish, — an O’Brien,” continued Charlotte, who thought herself insulted by such indifference.
Camille and the marquise drove through Guerande with the viscountess and her daughter, to the great astonishment of the inhabitants of the town. They left the mother and daughter at the end of the lane leading to the Guenic mansion, where a crowd came near gathering, attracted by so unusual a sight. Calyste had ridden on to announce the arrival of the company to his mother and aunt, who expected them to dinner, that meal having been postponed till four o’clock. Then he returned to the gate to give his arm to the two ladies, and bid Camille and Beatrix adieu.
He kissed the hand of Felicite, hoping thereby to be able to do the same to that of the marquise; but she still kept her arms crossed resolutely, and he cast moist glances of entreaty at her uselessly.
“You little ninny!” whispered Camille, lightly touching his ear with a kiss that was full of friendship.
“Quite
true,” thought Calyste to himself as the carriage drove away. “I am forgetting her advice — but I shall always forget it, I’m afraid.”
Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel (who had intrepidly returned to Guerande on the back of a hired horse), the Vicomtesse de Kergarouet, and Charlotte found dinner ready, and were treated with the utmost cordiality, if luxury were lacking, by the du Guenics. Mademoiselle Zephirine had ordered the best wine to be brought from the cellar, and Mariotte had surpassed herself in her Breton dishes.
The viscountess, proud of her trip with the illustrious Camille Maupin, endeavored to explain to the assembled company the present condition of modern literature, and Camille’s place in it. But the literary topic met the fate of whist; neither the du Guenics, nor the abbe, nor the Chevalier du Halga understood one word of it. The rector and the chevalier had arrived in time for the liqueurs at dessert.
As soon as Mariotte, assisted by Gasselin and Madame de Kergarouet’s maid, had cleared the table, there was a general and enthusiastic cry for mouche. Joy appeared to reign in the household. All supposed Calyste to be free of his late entanglement, and almost as good as married to the little Charlotte. The young man alone kept silence. For the first time in his life he had instituted comparisons between his life-long friends and the two elegant women, witty, accomplished, and tasteful, who, at the present moment, must be laughing heartily at the provincial mother and daughter, judging by the look he intercepted between them.
He was seeking in vain for some excuse to leave his family on this occasion, and go up as usual to Les Touches, when Madame de Kergarouet mentioned that she regretted not having accepted Mademoiselle des Touches’ offer of her carriage for the return journey to Saint-Nazaire, which for the sake of her three other “dear kittens,” she felt compelled to make on the following day.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 179