On his entrance one evening, a member of our party asked him who was the woman with whom he had met him that morning.
“My wife, signore,” answered the Italian.
“Yours, Benedetto! — you the husband of such a beauty!”
“Si, signore.”
“Nonsense! you are ugly and drunken, and people say you are police spy; but she, on the contrary, is as handsome as Diana the huntress.”
“I charmed her with my talent; she adores me.”
“Well, if she is your wife, make her pose to our friend here, Dorlange, who wants a model for his Pandora. He can’t get a finer one.”
“That can be managed,” replied the Italian.
The next day I was in my studio in company with several young painters and sculptors when Benedetto came in accompanied by a woman of rare beauty, whom I need not describe, for you have seen her, madame, at my house. A joyous hurrah greeted the Italian, who said to me, —
“Ecco la Pandora! Hey! what do you think of her?”
“Marvellously beautiful; but would she pose?”
“Pooh!” exclaimed Benedetto, with an air which seemed to say: “I’d like to see her refuse.”
“But,” I remarked, “she would cost too much, a model of her beauty.”
“No; you need only make my bust — just a plaster cast — and give it to her.”
“Very good,” I said. Then I told my friends to go and leave us alone together.
Nobody minded me. Judging the wife by the husband, the eager young fellows pressed round her; while she, wounded and angered by the audacity of their eyes, looked like a caged panther irritated by peasants at a fair.
Going up to her and pulling her aside, Benedetto told her in Italian that I wanted to copy her from head to foot, and she must then and there take off her clothes. The woman gave him one withering look, and made for the door. Benedetto rushed forward to prevent her; while my comrades, for the honor of the studio, endeavored to bar his way.
Then began an argument between the wife and the husband; but, as I saw that Benedetto sustained his part of it with great brutality, I was angry, and, having a pretty vigorous arm, I pushed him aside, and took the wife, who was trembling all over, to the door. She said, in Italian, a few words of thanks, and disappeared instantly.
Returning to Benedetto, who was gesticulating furiously, I told him to leave the studio, that his conduct was infamous, and if I heard of his ill-treating his wife I would have him punished.
“Debole!” (idiot!) he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and departing amid derisive cheers.
Several days passed, and no signs of Benedetto. By the end of a week he was forgotten. Three days before my departure from Rome his wife entered my studio.
“You are leaving Rome,” she said, “and I want you to take me with you.”
“Take you with me! — but your husband?”
“Dead,” she answered tranquilly.
A thought crossed my mind.
“Did you kill him?” I said.
She made an affirmative sign, adding, “But I meant to die too.”
“How was it?” I asked.
“After he offered me that affront,” she replied, “he came home and beat me, as he often did; then he went out and was gone all day. At night he returned with a pistol and threatened to shoot me; but I got the pistol away from him, for he was drunk. I threw him — the briccone! — on his bed, and he fell asleep. Then I stuffed up the doors and windows, and lighted the charcoal brazier. My head ached horribly, and I knew nothing more till the next day, when I woke up in the hands of my neighbors. They had smelt the charcoal, and burst in the door, — but he was dead.”
“And the law?”
“I told the judge everything. Besides, he had tried to sell me to an Englishman, — that’s why he wanted to disgrace me here with you; he thought I would resist less. The judge told me I might go, I had done right; then I confessed to a priest, and he gave me absolution.”
“But, cara mia, what can you do in France? Better stay in Italy; besides, I am not rich.”
She smiled disdainfully.
“I shall not cost you much,” she said; “on the contrary, I can save you money.”
“How so?”
“I can be the model for your statues if I choose. Besides which, I am a capital housekeeper. If Benedetto had behaved properly, we should have had a good home, — per che, I know how to make one; and I’ve another great talent too!”
She ran to a guitar, which was hanging on the wall, and began to sing a bravura air, accompanying herself with singular energy.
“In France,” she said, when she had finished, “I could take lessons and go upon the stage, where I know I should succeed; that was Benedetto’s idea.”
“But why not do that in Italy?”
“I am hiding from that Englishman,” she replied; “he wants to carry me off. I am determined to go to France; I have learned to speak French. If I stay here, I shall throw myself into the Tiber.”
By abandoning such a nature, more terrible than seductive, to itself, Monsieur de l’Estorade will, I think, agree that I was likely to cause some misfortune. I consented, therefore, that Signora Luigia should accompany me to Paris. Since then she has managed my household with discretion and economy. She even offered to pose for my Pandora; but the memory of that scene with her husband has, as you may well believe, kept me from accepting her offer. I have given her a singing-master, and she is now almost prepared to make her appearance on the stage. But in spite of her theatrical projects, she, pious like all Italians, has joined the sisterhood of the Virgin in Saint-Sulpice, my parish church, and during the month of May, which began a few days ago, the letter of chairs counts on her beautiful voice for part of her receipts. She is assiduous at the services, confesses, and takes the sacrament regularly. Her confessor, a most respectable old man, came to see me lately to request that she might not be required to pose for any more of my statues, saying that she would not listen to him on that point, believing herself bound in honor to me.
My own intention, if I am elected, which now seems probable, is to separate from this woman. In a position which will place me more before the public, she would become an object of remark as injurious to her reputation and future prospects as to mine. I have talked with Marie-Gaston about the difficulty I foresee in making this separation. Until now, my house has been the whole of Paris to this poor woman; and the thought of flinging her alone into the gulf, of which she knows nothing, horrifies me.
Marie-Gaston thinks that the help and advice of a person of her own sex, with a high reputation for virtue and good judgment, would be in such a case most efficacious; and he declares that he and I both know a lady who, at our earnest entreaty, might take this duty upon herself. The person to whom Marie-Gaston makes allusion is but a recent acquaintance of mine, and I could hardly ask even an old friend to take such a care upon her shoulders. I know, however, that you once did me the honor to say that “certain relations ripen rapidly.” Marie-Gaston insists that this lady, being kind and pious and most charitable, will be attracted by the idea of helping and advising a poor lonely woman. On our return to Paris, madame, we shall venture to consult you, and you will tell us whether we may ask for this precious assistance.
In any case, I will ask you to be my intermediary with Monsieur de l’Estorade; tell him the facts I have now told you, and say that I hope the little cloud between us may be effectually removed. If I am elected, we shall be, I know, in opposite camps; but as my intention is not to take a tone of systematic opposition in all the questions which may arise between our parties, I do not think there need be any break between us.
By this time to-morrow, madame, I may have received a checkmate which will send me back forever to my studio, or I shall have a foot in a new career. Shall I tell you that the thought of the latter result distresses me? — doubtless from a fear of the Unknown.
I was almost forgetting to give you another piece of news. I have
consulted Mother Marie-des-Anges (whose history Marie-Gaston tells me he has related to you) on the subject of my doubts and fears as to the violence done to Mademoiselle de Lanty, and she has promised that in course of time she will discover the convent in which Marianina is a prisoner. The worthy Mother, if she takes this into her head, is almost certain to succeed in finding the original of her Saint-Ursula.
I am not feeling at all easy in mind about Marie-Gaston. He seems to me in a state of feverish agitation, partly created by the immense interest he takes in my success. But I greatly fear that his efforts will result in a serious reaction. His own grief, which at this moment he is repressing, has not in reality lost its sting. Have you not been struck by the rather flighty and mocking tone of his letters, some of which he has shown to me? That is not in his nature, for in his happiest days he was never turbulently gay; and I am sadly afraid that when this fictitious excitement about my election is over he may fall into utter prostration. He has, however, consented to come and live with me, and not to go to Ville d’Avray unless I am with him. Even this act of prudence, which I asked without hoping to obtain it, makes me uneasy. Evidently he is afraid of the memories that await him there. Have I the power to lessen the shock? Old Philippe, who was left in charge of the place when he went to Italy, had orders not to move or change anything whatever in the house. Our friend is therefore likely to find himself, in presence of those speaking objects, on the morrow as it were of his wife’s death. Another alarming thing! he has only spoken of her once, and will not suffer me to approach the subject. I hope, however, that this may be a crisis; once passed, I trust we may, by all uniting, succeed in composing his mind.
Victor or vanquished, I trust to meet you soon, madame, and always as your most respectful and devoted servant,
Charles de Sallenauve.
XIX. MARIE-GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE
Arcis-sur-Aube, May 17, 1839.
That stupid riot in Paris, the incredible particulars of which we heard this morning by telegraph, came near causing us to lose the election.
The sub-prefect instantly placarded all over the town the news of this attempt at insurrection — no doubt instigated by the government to affect the elections. “What! elect a democrat!” was repeated everywhere in Arcis, and doubtless elsewhere, “so that his speeches in the Chamber may be made the ammunition of insurgents!”
That argument threw our phalanx into disorder and hesitation. But the idea occurred to Jacques Bricheteau to turn the danger itself to good account, and he hastily printed on a sheet of paper and distributed all over the town in enormous quantities the following notice: —
A bloody riot took place yesterday in Paris. Questioned as to the
employment of such guilty and desperate means of opposition, one
of our candidates, Monsieur de Sallenauve, answered thus: “Riots
will always be found to serve the interests of the government; for
this reason the police are invariably accused of inciting them.
True resistance, that which I stand for, will always be legal
resistance, pursued by legal means, by the press, by the tribune,
and with Patience — that great force granted to the oppressed and
to the vanquished.”
These words, you will remember, madame, were those in which Sallenauve answered his questioners at the preparatory meeting. Then followed in large letters: —
THE RIOT HAS BEEN SUPPRESSED. WHO WILL PROFIT BY IT?
That sheet of paper did marvels; it completely foiled the efforts of Monsieur de Trailles, who, throwing off the mask, had spent his day in perorating, in white gloves, on the market-place and from the steps of the electoral college.
This evening the result is known; namely, two hundred and one votes cast: two for Beauvisage; twenty-nine for Simon Giguet; one hundred and seventy for Sallenauve.
Consequently, Monsieur Charles de Sallenauve is proclaimed Deputy.
MONSIEUR DE SALLENAUVE
CONTENTS
I. THE SORROWS OF MONSIEUR DE TRAILLES
II. A CONVERSATION BETWEEN ELEVEN O’CLOCK AND MIDNIGHT
III. A MINISTER’S MORNING
IV. A CATECHISM
V. CHILDREN
VI. CURIOSITY THAT CAME WITHIN AN ACE OF BEING FATAL
VII. THE WAY TO MANAGE POLITICAL INTRIGUES
VIII. SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES
IX. IN THE CHAMBER
I. THE SORROWS OF MONSIEUR DE TRAILLES
During the evening which followed the election in which he had played a part so humiliating to his vanity, Maxime de Trailles returned to Paris. It might be supposed that in making, on his arrival, a rapid toilet and ordering his carriage to be instantly brought round, he was hastening to pay a visit to the Comte de Rastignac, minister of Public Works, to whom he must have desired to render an account of his mission, and explain as best he could the reasons of its ill-success.
But another and more pressing interest seemed to claim him.
“To Colonel Franchessini’s,” he said to his coachman.
Arriving at the gate of one of the prettiest hotels in the quartier Breda, and nodding to the concierge, he received an affirmative sign, which meant, “Monsieur is at home”; and at the same time a valet appeared on the portico to receive him.
“Is the colonel visible?” he asked.
“He has just gone into madame’s room. Does monsieur wish me to call him?”
“No, I’ll wait for him in the study.”
Then, like one familiar with the house, and without waiting for the servant to usher him, he entered a large room on the ground-floor, which looked into a garden, and was filled with a miscellaneous collection of articles testifying to the colonel’s habits and tastes. Books, charts, and maps certainly justified the word “study”; but, as a frantic sportsman and member of the Jockey Club, the colonel had allowed this sanctum of mental labor and knowledge to become, by degrees, his smoking, fencing, and harness room. Pipes and weapons of all shapes and all lands, saddles, hunting-whips, spurs, bits of many patterns, foils and boxing-gloves formed a queer and heterogenous collection. However, by thus surrounding his daily life with the objects of his favorite studies, the colonel proved himself a man who possessed the courage of his opinions. In fact, he openly said that, beyond a passing notice, there was no reading worth a man’s attention except the “Stud Journal.”
It is to be supposed, however, that politics had managed in some way to slip into this existence devoted to muscular exercise and the hippic science, for, from a heap of the morning journals disdainfully flung upon the floor by the worthy colonel, Monsieur de Trailles picked up a copy of the legitimist organ, in which he read, under the heading of ELECTIONS, the following article:
The staff of the National Guard and the Jockey Club, which had
various representatives in the last Chamber, have just sent one of
their shining notabilities to the one about to open. Colonel
Franchessini, so well known for his ardor in punishing the
refractories of the National Guard, has been elected almost
unanimously in one of the rotten boroughs of the civil list. It is
supposed that he will take his seat beside the phalanx of other
henchmen, and show himself in the Chamber, as he has elsewhere,
one of the firmest supporters of the policy of the present order
of things.
As Maxime finished reading the article, the colonel entered.
After serving the Empire for a very short time, Colonel Franchessini had become one of the most brilliant colonels of the Restoration; but in consequence of certain mists which had risen about the perfect honorableness of his character he had found himself obliged to send in his resignation, so that in 1830 he was fully prepared to devote himself in the most ardent manner to the dynasty of July. He did not re-enter military service, because, shortly after his misadventure he had met with an Englishwoman, enor
mously rich, who being taken with his beauty, worthy at that time of the Antinous, had made him her husband, and the colonel henceforth contented himself with the epaulets of the staff of the National Guard. He became, in that position, one of the most exacting and turbulent of blusterers, and through the influence of that quality combined with the fortune his wife had given him, he had just been elected, as the paper stated, to the Chamber of deputies. Approaching the fifties, like his friend de Trailles, Colonel Franchessini had still some pretensions to the after-glow of youth, which his slim figure and agile military bearing seemed likely to preserve to him for some time longer. Although he had conquered the difficulty of his gray hair, reducing its silvery reflections by keeping it cut very close, he was less resigned to the scantiness of his moustache, which he wore in youthful style, twirled to a sharp point by means of a Hungarian cosmetic, which also preserved to a certain degree its primitive color. But whoso wants to prove too much proves nothing, and in the black which the colonel used there was noticeably a raw tone, and an equality of shade too perfect for truth of nature. Hence his countenance, swarthy and strongly marked with the Italian origin indicated by his name, had an expression of singular rigidity, to which his features, now become angular, his piercing glance, and his nose like the beak of a bird of prey, did not afford the requisite corrective.
“Hey, Maxime!” he cried, shaking hands with his visitor, “where the devil do you come from? It is more than a fortnight since I have seen you at the club.”
“Where do I come from?” replied Monsieur de Trailles. “I’ll tell you presently; but first let me congratulate you on your election.”
“Yes,” said the colonel, with apparent indifference, “they would put me up; but I assure you, upon my honor, I was very innocent of it all, and if no one had done more than I — ”
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