After dropping on to a sofa, which had been a very handsome one in the year 1809, the Baroness, pointing to an armchair with the arms ending in bronze sphinxes’ heads, while the paint was peeling from the wood, which showed through in many places, signed to Crevel to be seated.
“All the precautions you are taking, madame, would seem full of promise to a — — ”
“To a lover,” said she, interrupting him.
“The word is too feeble,” said he, placing his right hand on his heart, and rolling his eyes in a way which almost always makes a woman laugh when she, in cold blood, sees such a look. “A lover! A lover? Say a man bewitched — — ”
“Listen, Monsieur Crevel,” said the Baroness, too anxious to be able to laugh, “you are fifty — ten years younger than Monsieur Hulot, I know; but at my age a woman’s follies ought to be justified by beauty, youth, fame, superior merit — some one of the splendid qualities which can dazzle us to the point of making us forget all else — even at our age. Though you may have fifty thousand francs a year, your age counterbalances your fortune; thus you have nothing whatever of what a woman looks for — — ”
“But love!” said the officer, rising and coming forward. “Such love as — — ”
“No, monsieur, such obstinacy!” said the Baroness, interrupting him to put an end to his absurdity.
“Yes, obstinacy,” said he, “and love; but something stronger still — a claim — — ”
“A claim!” cried Madame Hulot, rising sublime with scorn, defiance, and indignation. “But,” she went on, “this will bring us to no issues; I did not ask you to come here to discuss the matter which led to your banishment in spite of the connection between our families — — ”
“I had fancied so.”
“What! still?” cried she. “Do you not see, monsieur, by the entire ease and freedom with which I can speak of lovers and love, of everything least creditable to a woman, that I am perfectly secure in my own virtue? I fear nothing — not even to shut myself in alone with you. Is that the conduct of a weak woman? You know full well why I begged you to come.”
“No, madame,” replied Crevel, with an assumption of great coldness. He pursed up his lips, and again struck an attitude.
“Well, I will be brief, to shorten our common discomfort,” said the Baroness, looking at Crevel.
Crevel made an ironical bow, in which a man who knew the race would have recognized the graces of a bagman.
“Our son married your daughter — — ”
“And if it were to do again — — ” said Crevel.
“It would not be done at all, I suspect,” said the baroness hastily. “However, you have nothing to complain of. My son is not only one of the leading pleaders of Paris, but for the last year he has sat as Deputy, and his maiden speech was brilliant enough to lead us to suppose that ere long he will be in office. Victorin has twice been called upon to report on important measures; and he might even now, if he chose, be made Attorney-General in the Court of Appeal. So, if you mean to say that your son-in-law has no fortune — — ”
“Worse than that, madame, a son-in-law whom I am obliged to maintain,” replied Crevel. “Of the five hundred thousand francs that formed my daughter’s marriage portion, two hundred thousand have vanished — God knows how! — in paying the young gentleman’s debts, in furnishing his house splendaciously — a house costing five hundred thousand francs, and bringing in scarcely fifteen thousand, since he occupies the larger part of it, while he owes two hundred and sixty thousand francs of the purchase-money. The rent he gets barely pays the interest on the debt. I have had to give my daughter twenty thousand francs this year to help her to make both ends meet. And then my son-in-law, who was making thirty thousand francs a year at the Assizes, I am told, is going to throw that up for the Chamber — — ”
“This, again, Monsieur Crevel, is beside the mark; we are wandering from the point. Still, to dispose of it finally, it may be said that if my son gets into office, if he has you made an officer of the Legion of Honor and councillor of the municipality of Paris, you, as a retired perfumer, will not have much to complain of — — ”
“Ah! there we are again, madame! Yes, I am a tradesman, a shopkeeper, a retail dealer in almond-paste, eau-de-Portugal, and hair-oil, and was only too much honored when my only daughter was married to the son of Monsieur le Baron Hulot d’Ervy — my daughter will be a Baroness! This is Regency, Louis XV., (Eil-de-boeuf — quite tip-top! — very good.) I love Celestine as a man loves his only child — so well indeed, that, to preserve her from having either brother or sister, I resigned myself to all the privations of a widower — in Paris, and in the prime of life, madame. But you must understand that, in spite of this extravagant affection for my daughter, I do not intend to reduce my fortune for the sake of your son, whose expenses are not wholly accounted for — in my eyes, as an old man of business.”
“Monsieur, you may at this day see in the Ministry of Commerce Monsieur Popinot, formerly a druggist in the Rue des Lombards — — ”
“And a friend of mine, madame,” said the ex-perfumer. “For I, Celestin Crevel, foreman once to old Cesar Birotteau, brought up the said Cesar Birotteau’s stock; and he was Popinot’s father-in-law. Why, that very Popinot was no more than a shopman in the establishment, and he is the first to remind me of it; for he is not proud, to do him justice, to men in a good position with an income of sixty thousand francs in the funds.”
“Well then, monsieur, the notions you term ‘Regency’ are quite out of date at a time when a man is taken at his personal worth; and that is what you did when you married your daughter to my son.”
“But you do not know how the marriage was brought about!” cried Crevel. “Oh, that cursed bachelor life! But for my misconduct, my Celestine might at this day be Vicomtesse Popinot!”
“Once more have done with recriminations over accomplished facts,” said the Baroness anxiously. “Let us rather discuss the complaints I have found on your strange behavior. My daughter Hortense had a chance of marrying; the match depended entirely on you; I believed you felt some sentiments of generosity; I thought you would do justice to a woman who has never had a thought in her heart for any man but her husband, that you would have understood how necessary it is for her not to receive a man who may compromise her, and that for the honor of the family with which you are allied you would have been eager to promote Hortense’s settlement with Monsieur le Conseiller Lebas. — And it is you, monsieur, you have hindered the marriage.”
“Madame,” said the ex-perfumer, “I acted the part of an honest man. I was asked whether the two hundred thousand francs to be settled on Mademoiselle Hortense would be forthcoming. I replied exactly in these words: ‘I would not answer for it. My son-in-law, to whom the Hulots had promised the same sum, was in debt; and I believe that if Monsieur Hulot d’Ervy were to die to-morrow, his widow would have nothing to live on.’ — There, fair lady.”
“And would you have said as much, monsieur,” asked Madame Hulot, looking Crevel steadily in the face, “if I had been false to my duty?”
“I should not be in a position to say it, dearest Adeline,” cried this singular adorer, interrupting the Baroness, “for you would have found the amount in my pocket-book.”
And adding action to word, the fat guardsman knelt down on one knee and kissed Madame Hulot’s hand, seeing that his speech had filled her with speechless horror, which he took for hesitancy.
“What, buy my daughter’s fortune at the cost of — — ? Rise, monsieur — or I ring the bell.”
Crevel rose with great difficulty. This fact made him so furious that he again struck his favorite attitude. Most men have some habitual position by which they fancy that they show to the best advantage the good points bestowed on them by nature. This attitude in Crevel consisted in crossing his arms like Napoleon, his head showing three-quarters face, and his eyes fixed on the horizon, as the painter has shown the Emperor in his portrait.
“T
o be faithful,” he began, with well-acted indignation, “so faithful to a liber — — ”
“To a husband who is worthy of such fidelity,” Madame Hulot put in, to hinder Crevel from saying a word she did not choose to hear.
“Come, madame; you wrote to bid me here, you ask the reasons for my conduct, you drive me to extremities with your imperial airs, your scorn, and your contempt! Any one might think I was a Negro. But I repeat it, and you may believe me, I have a right to — to make love to you, for — — But no; I love you well enough to hold my tongue.”
“You may speak, monsieur. In a few days I shall be eight-and-forty; I am no prude; I can hear whatever you can say.”
“Then will you give me your word of honor as an honest woman — for you are, alas for me! an honest woman — never to mention my name or to say that it was I who betrayed the secret?”
“If that is the condition on which you speak, I will swear never to tell any one from whom I heard the horrors you propose to tell me, not even my husband.”
“I should think not indeed, for only you and he are concerned.”
Madame Hulot turned pale.
“Oh, if you still really love Hulot, it will distress you. Shall I say no more?”
“Speak, monsieur; for by your account you wish to justify in my eyes the extraordinary declarations you have chosen to make me, and your persistency in tormenting a woman of my age, whose only wish is to see her daughter married, and then — to die in peace — — ”
“You see; you are unhappy.”
“I, monsieur?”
“Yes, beautiful, noble creature!” cried Crevel. “You have indeed been too wretched!”
“Monsieur, be silent and go — or speak to me as you ought.”
“Do you know, madame, how Master Hulot and I first made acquaintance? — At our mistresses’, madame.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Yes, madame, at our mistresses’,” Crevel repeated in a melodramatic tone, and leaving his position to wave his right hand.
“Well, and what then?” said the Baroness coolly, to Crevel’s great amazement.
Such mean seducers cannot understand a great soul.
“I, a widower five years since,” Crevel began, in the tone of a man who has a story to tell, “and not wishing to marry again for the sake of the daughter I adore, not choosing either to cultivate any such connection in my own establishment, though I had at the time a very pretty lady-accountant. I set up, ‘on her own account,’ as they say, a little sempstress of fifteen — really a miracle of beauty, with whom I fell desperately in love. And in fact, madame, I asked an aunt of my own, my mother’s sister, whom I sent for from the country, to live with the sweet creature and keep an eye on her, that she might behave as well as might be in this rather — what shall I say — shady? — no, delicate position.
“The child, whose talent for music was striking, had masters, she was educated — I had to give her something to do. Besides, I wished to be at once her father, her benefactor, and — well, out with it — her lover; to kill two birds with one stone, a good action and a sweetheart. For five years I was very happy. The girl had one of those voices that make the fortune of a theatre; I can only describe her by saying that she is a Duprez in petticoats. It cost me two thousand francs a year only to cultivate her talent as a singer. She made me music-mad; I took a box at the opera for her and for my daughter, and went there alternate evenings with Celestine or Josepha.”
“What, the famous singer?”
“Yes, madame,” said Crevel with pride, “the famous Josepha owes everything to me. — At last, in 1834, when the child was twenty, believing that I had attached her to me for ever, and being very weak where she was concerned, I thought I would give her a little amusement, and I introduced her to a pretty little actress, Jenny Cadine, whose life had been somewhat like her own. This actress also owed everything to a protector who had brought her up in leading-strings. That protector was Baron Hulot.”
“I know that,” said the Baroness, in a calm voice without the least agitation.
“Bless me!” cried Crevel, more and more astounded. “Well! But do you know that your monster of a husband took Jenny Cadine in hand at the age of thirteen?”
“What then?” said the Baroness.
“As Jenny Cadine and Josepha were both aged twenty when they first met,” the ex-tradesman went on, “the Baron had been playing the part of Louis XV. to Mademoiselle de Romans ever since 1826, and you were twelve years younger then — — ”
“I had my reasons, monsieur, for leaving Monsieur Hulot his liberty.”
“That falsehood, madame, will surely be enough to wipe out every sin you have ever committed, and to open to you the gates of Paradise,” replied Crevel, with a knowing air that brought the color to the Baroness’ cheeks. “Sublime and adored woman, tell that to those who will believe it, but not to old Crevel, who has, I may tell you, feasted too often as one of four with your rascally husband not to know what your high merits are! Many a time has he blamed himself when half tipsy as he has expatiated on your perfections. Oh, I know you well! — A libertine might hesitate between you and a girl of twenty. I do not hesitate — — ”
“Monsieur!”
“Well, I say no more. But you must know, saintly and noble woman, that a husband under certain circumstances will tell things about his wife to his mistress that will mightily amuse her.”
Tears of shame hanging to Madame Hulot’s long lashes checked the National Guardsman. He stopped short, and forgot his attitude.
“To proceed,” said he. “We became intimate, the Baron and I, through the two hussies. The Baron, like all bad lots, is very pleasant, a thoroughly jolly good fellow. Yes, he took my fancy, the old rascal. He could be so funny! — Well, enough of those reminiscences. We got to be like brothers. The scoundrel — quite Regency in his notions — tried indeed to deprave me altogether, preached Saint-Simonism as to women, and all sorts of lordly ideas; but, you see, I was fond enough of my girl to have married her, only I was afraid of having children.
“Then between two old daddies, such friends as — as we were, what more natural than that we should think of our children marrying each other? — Three months after his son had married my Celestine, Hulot — I don’t know how I can utter the wretch’s name! he has cheated us both, madame — well, the villain did me out of my little Josepha. The scoundrel knew that he was supplanted in the heart of Jenny Cadine by a young lawyer and by an artist — only two of them! — for the girl had more and more of a howling success, and he stole my sweet little girl, a perfect darling — but you must have seen her at the opera; he got her an engagement there. Your husband is not so well behaved as I am. I am ruled as straight as a sheet of music-paper. He had dropped a good deal of money on Jenny Cadine, who must have cost him near on thirty thousand francs a year. Well, I can only tell you that he is ruining himself outright for Josepha.
“Josepha, madame, is a Jewess. Her name is Mirah, the anagram of Hiram, an Israelite mark that stamps her, for she was a foundling picked up in Germany, and the inquiries I have made prove that she is the illegitimate child of a rich Jew banker. The life of the theatre, and, above all, the teaching of Jenny Cadine, Madame Schontz, Malaga, and Carabine, as to the way to treat an old man, have developed, in the child whom I had kept in a respectable and not too expensive way of life, all the native Hebrew instinct for gold and jewels — for the golden calf.
“So this famous singer, hungering for plunder, now wants to be rich, very rich. She tried her ‘prentice hand on Baron Hulot, and soon plucked him bare — plucked him, ay, and singed him to the skin. The miserable man, after trying to vie with one of the Kellers and with the Marquis d’Esgrignon, both perfectly mad about Josepha, to say nothing of unknown worshipers, is about to see her carried off by that very rich Duke, who is such a patron of the arts. Oh, what is his name? — a dwarf. — Ah, the Duc d’Herouville. This fine gentleman insists on having Josepha for his very own, and all
that set are talking about it; the Baron knows nothing of it as yet; for it is the same in the Thirteenth Arrondissement as in every other: the lover, like the husband, is last to get the news.
“Now, do you understand my claim? Your husband, dear lady, has robbed me of my joy in life, the only happiness I have known since I became a widower. Yes, if I had not been so unlucky as to come across that old rip, Josepha would still be mine; for I, you know, should never have placed her on the stage. She would have lived obscure, well conducted, and mine. Oh! if you could but have seen her eight years ago, slight and wiry, with the golden skin of an Andalusian, as they say, black hair as shiny as satin, an eye that flashed lightning under long brown lashes, the style of a duchess in every movement, the modesty of a dependent, decent grace, and the pretty ways of a wild fawn. And by that Hulot’s doing all this charm and purity has been degraded to a man-trap, a money-box for five-franc pieces! The girl is the Queen of Trollops; and nowadays she humbugs every one — she who knew nothing, not even that word.”
At this stage the retired perfumer wiped his eyes, which were full of tears. The sincerity of his grief touched Madame Hulot, and roused her from the meditation into which she had sunk.
“Tell me, madame, is a man of fifty-two likely to find such another jewel? At my age love costs thirty thousand francs a year. It is through your husband’s experience that I know the price, and I love Celestine too truly to be her ruin. When I saw you, at the first evening party you gave in our honor, I wondered how that scoundrel Hulot could keep a Jenny Cadine — you had the manner of an Empress. You do not look thirty,” he went on. “To me, madame, you look young, and you are beautiful. On my word of honor, that evening I was struck to the heart. I said to myself, ‘If I had not Josepha, since old Hulot neglects his wife, she would fit me like a glove.’ Forgive me — it is a reminiscence of my old business. The perfumer will crop up now and then, and that is what keeps me from standing to be elected deputy.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 679