“The author is right; man is naturally good, and the mistaken social laws alone are responsible for his evil deeds.” — .
“That,” he added, “is what your great-great-grandfather wrote in 1790.”
“How very curious!” remarked the Duke, replacing the book upon its shelf. Then, opening the cases upon the north side of the room, he said: “These are the books collected by my grandfather, who was page to Charles X.”
Here M. Lerond discovered, bound in sombre sheepskin, tan calf and black shagreen, the works of Chateaubriand, a series of “Mémoires” on the Revolution, the Histories of Anquetil, Guizot, and Augustin Thierry; La Harpe’s Cours de littérature, Marchangy’s Gaule poétique, and the Discours of Lainé.
Close to this literature dealing with the Restoration, and the Government of July, was a shelf on which lay two or three tattered papers on Pope Pius IX and temporal power, a few dilapidated novels, a pamphlet in praise of. Joan of Arc, which had been read by Monseigneur Chariot in the church of Saint-Exupère on the 8th of June, 1890, and a few religious books written for ladies of high degree. This was the contribution of the late Duke, member of the National Assembly in 1871, and of the present Duc de Brécé, to the library created by the marshal in 1605.
“I must lock up these books,” said M. de Brécé. “I cannot be too careful, for my sons are growing up, and at any moment may be seized with the desire to come and examine the library for themselves. There are books among these which should never fall into the hands of any young man, nor of any self-respecting woman, no matter what her age may be.”
And so, in his honest zeal for doing good, and in the happy conviction that he was imprisoning lust, doubt, impiety, and evil thoughts, he turned his key upon them; and this sentiment, which, when analysed, had its share of simple complacency and the secret jealousy of an ignorant man, was not without its beauty and purity also.
Having thrust the bunch of keys into his pocket again, the Duke turned a satisfied countenance to M. Lerond.
“Overhead,” he said, “is the King’s room. The old inventories give this name to all the upper story. The room properly so-called, however, contains the bed in which Louis XIII slept, and it is still hung with the same silk embroidery. It is well worth a visit.”
M. Lerond was so tired that he could hardly stand. His legs, accustomed all the year round to be tucked away under a desk, had had hard work to carry him through the walk on the slippery paths of the park, the tramp round the stables, and the stroll along the woods to the church; they felt limp and weak, and his feet were hot and painful, for the poor man, anxious to do the right thing, had, unfortunately, put on patent-leather boots. Casting an uneasy glance at the ceiling, he stammered:
“It grows late. Would it not be better to join the ladies in the drawing-room?”
M. de Brécé was only adamant with regard to the visit to the stables; as far as the remainder of his property was concerned he was reasonable enough.
“Yes, the light is going,” he said. “We will see the rest another time. To the right, M. Lerond; to the right, please.”
“What walls!” cried the ex-deputy, as he reached the doorway. “What tremendously thick walls!”
His thin face, the calm and cold expression of which had not altered one whit at the sight of the hunting trophies in the hall, the historic paintings in the drawing-room, the rich tapestries, the magnificent ceiling of the gallery, and the beautiful books with their tooled morocco bindings, now grew animated, interested, and full of admiration. He had at last discovered something to stir and amaze him, something which afforded him both food for thought and mental satisfaction — a wall! His legal mind, struck down in its flower at the time of the new regulations, and his heart, too soon bereaved of the joy of administering punishment, rejoiced at the sight of a wall, a deaf, dumb, sombre thing, which recalled to his eager mind thoughts of prison cells, of sentences and public prosecutions, of codes, laws, justice, and morals — a wall!
“Yes,” replied the Duke, “the wall at this particular spot between the gallery and the next wing is tremendously thick. It is the outer wall of the old castle, built in 1405.”
M. Lerond gazed lingeringly at the wall, measured it with his eyes, felt it with his little, crooked, yellow hands, studied, worshipped, loved, and possessed it.
“Mesdames,” he said to the ladies on his return to the drawing-room, “the Duke has very kindly shown me his wonderful library. On my way back I noticed the remarkable wall that separates the gallery from the wing. I don’t think there is anything to equal it even at Chambord.”
But neither the Brécé ladies nor Madame de Courtrai was listening; their united attention was given to another matter.
“Jean,” cried the Duchess to her husband, “Jean, look at this!” And she pointed to a red leather case lying on the table near the lamp which a servant had just brought in. The case was round in shape, topped with a kind of knob like a thimble, and divided at the base in the shape of a clover leaf. A visiting card lay beside it. All around the table were heaps of tissue paper, that made one think of little white dogs tied up with pale blue ribbon.
“Do look, Jean!”
The Abbé Guitrel, who was standing near the table, opened the case with reverent hands, and displayed a golden ciborium.
“Who sent it?” asked M. de Brécé.
“Look at the card. I am horribly worried — I don’t know what to do.”
M. de Brécé put on his glasses, picked up the card, and read aloud:
BARONNE JULES DE BONMONT.
For Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles He replaced the card upon the table, took off his glasses and murmured:
“How very annoying!”
“A ciborium, a beautiful ciborium,” said the Abbé.
“When I used to sing in the choir as a boy,” said the General, “I always heard the Fathers call it a custodial.”
“Yes, you can call it either a custodial or a ciborium,” replied the. Abbé. “These are the names given to the receptacles which hold the reserved Eucharist. But the custodial is formed like a cylinder and has a conical cover.”
With frowning brow M. de Brécé stood wrapped in thought; then with a deep sigh he said:
“Why should Madame de Bonmont, who is a Jewess, give a ciborium to Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles? Why have these people a mania for forcing themselves into our churches?”
The Abbé Guitrel, with his fingers thrust into the sleeves of his coat, moistened his lips and said gently: “Allow me to point out, Monsieur, that Madame Jules de Bonmont is a Catholic.”
“Nonsense!” cried the Duke. “She is an Austrian Jewess, and her maiden name was Wallstein. The real name of her late husband, the Baron de Bonmont, was Gutenberg.”
“Allow me, Monsieur,” said the Abbé. “I do not deny that the Baronne de Bonmont is of Jewish descent. What I mean is that she has been converted and baptised, and is therefore a Christian. She is a good Christian, I might add, and gives largely to our charities, in fact, she is an example to—”
“I am acquainted with your ideas,” interrupted the Duke, “and I respect them as I respect your cloth. But to me a converted Jew remains a Jew; I cannot make any distinction between the two.”
“Neither can I,” said Madame de Brécé.
“To a certain extent your feelings are legitimate, Madame la Duchesse,” replied the Abbé. “But you cannot be unaware of the teaching of the Church, that the curse pronounced against the Jews was inspired by their crime, and not their race, and that therefore the attendant results cannot affect them if—”
“It is heavy,” said the Duke, lifting the ciborium from its case, and holding it out.
“I am most annoyed,” said the Duchess.
“It is very heavy!” repeated the Duke.
“And, what is more,” added the Abbé, “it is a beautiful piece of work, and possesses the refined characteristics which are, so to speak, the seal and stamp of the work of Rondonneau the younger. No
ne but the Archbishop’s goldsmith could have displayed such judgment in the selection of a model from traditional Christian art, or have reproduced the shape and decoration with such skill and fidelity. This ciborium is a work of the highest merit, and is in the style of the thirteenth century.”
“The bowl and cover are in solid gold,” said M. de Brécé.
“According to liturgical regulations the bowl of the ciborium must be of gold, or, at any rate, of silver, gilded inside,” said the Abbé.
M. de Brécé, who was holding it upside down, remarked:
“The foot is hollow.”
“That’s a good thing!” cried the Duchess.
The Abbé Guitrel looked lovingly at the work of Rondonneau the younger.
“There is no doubt about it,” he said, “it is thirteenth century, and a better period could not have been selected. The thirteenth century is the golden age of this particular kind of work. At that epoch the ciborium was made in the beautiful shape of a pomegranate, which you recognise in this delicious example. The firm, strong foot is further enriched with enamels and inset with precious stones.”
“Mercy upon us! precious stones!” cried the Duchess.
“Figures of angels and prophets are finely chased on the lozenge-shaped panels, giving the most delightful effect to the whole.”
“That Bonmont was a rogue,” said Madame de Courtrai suddenly. “He was a thief; and his widow has not yet made restitution.”
“You see that she is beginning to do so, however,” said the Duke, pointing to the shining ciborium. “What shall we do?” asked the Duchess.
“We cannot return her gift,” said the Duke. “Why not?” asked his mother.
“Well, mother, because it is impossible.”
“Then we’ve got to keep it?” asked the Duchess. “Well — yes, I suppose so.”
“And thank her?”
“What else can we do?”
“Don’t you agree with me, General?”
“It would have been fitter,” said the General, “if this lady, who is a stranger to you, had refrained from making you a present. But there is no reason to respond to her civility with an insult.”
Taking the ciborium in his venerable hands, the Abbé Guitrel said:
“Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles will, I feel sure, look with kindness upon this gift, presented by a pious soul to the tabernacle of her altar.”
“But, hang it all,” put in the Duke, “I am Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles in this case. If Madame de Bonmont and young Bonmont want to be invited to my house — and they certainly will want to — I shall be obliged to receive them now.”
CHAPTER III
IN their efforts to escape the sudden shower that had overtaken them outside the ramparts of the castle, Madame Jules de Bonmont and Madame Hortha ran along the sentry path up to the gate house, upon the debased vault of which could be seen the peacock, emblem of the extinct house of Paves. M. de Terremondre and Baron Wallstein soon caught them up, and the four of them stood still, trying to regain their breath.
“Where is the Abbé?” asked Madame de Bonmont. “Arthur, did you leave the Abbé sheltering by the hedge?”
Baron Wallstein told his sister that the Abbé was coming along behind them.
And soon they saw the Abbé Guitrel walking up the stone steps, damp but cheerful. He alone had managed to display a perfect dignity at the sudden alarm, and had preserved the calm suitable to his years and his corpulence; he had, in fact, maintained a truly episcopal solemnity.
The race had deepened the roses in Madame de Bonmont’s cheeks; her full bosom rose and fell under her light blouse, as she stood drawing her skirts tightly around her plump hips. In her rich maturity, with her disordered hair, lustrous eyes, and ripe lips — a sort of Viennese Erigone — she reminded one of a golden cluster of juicy grapes.
“Are you wet, M. l’Abbé?” she inquired, in that rather coarse voice of hers, so much less sweet than her lips.
The Abbé removed his wide-brimmed hat, the dusty pile of which was spotted with rain, looked with his little grey eyes at each member of the breathless group scared by a few drops of rain, and replied, not without a certain gentle slyness:
“I am wet, but not out of breath,” adding, “It’s nothing but a harmless shower, the rain has not even penetrated my coat.”
“Let us go in,” said Madame de Bonmont.
This was her home, this château of Montil, built in 1508 by Bernard de Paves, Grand-Master of Artillery, for Nicolette de Vaucelles, his fourth wife.
“The house of Paves flourished for nine hundred years,” writes Perrin du Verdier, in the first volume of his Trésor des généalogies. “And the Royal Families of Europe were all connected by marriage at some time or other with the said house, more especially the kings of Spain, England, Sicily and Jerusalem, the dukes of Brittany, Alençon, Vendôme, and others, as well as the Orsini, the Colonnas and the Cornaros.” And Perrin du Verdier discourses both lengthily and complacently on the celebrity of this “tant indite maison” which gave to the Church eighteen cardinals and two popes, and to the throne of France three constables, six marshals and a king’s mistress.
From the reign of Louis XII down to the Revolution the heads of the elder branch of Paves had resided at the chateau of Montil. Philippe VIII, prince of Paves, lord of Montil, Toche, Les Ponts, Rougeain, La Victoire, Berlogue, and other places, first Lord in Waiting to the King, was the last of that branch of the family. He died in 1795, in London, whither he had emigrated, to set up as a perruquier in a little shop in Whitecross Street. His estates, which had been totally neglected during his lifetime, were, at the time of the Directoire, sold as national property, and divided among a number of peasants who lived there, and founded a line of bourgeois. The rogues who had acquired the chateau in exchange for a mere handful of paper money, decided in 1813 to demolish it. However, soon after the destruction of the Galerie des Faunes, their work of demolition was interrupted and never completed. For two years the country people helped themselves, when so inclined, to the lead roofing of the château. In 1815 M. de Reu, an old officer of the King’s navy and a secret agent of the Comte de Provence in Holland — it is said that he was also an accomplice of George in the affair of the Rue Saint-Nicaise — desirous of ending his days in his native country, managed to extort a few hundred crowns from the ungrateful Prince, and purchased the château of Montil.
There, poor and unsociable, he with his eleven children, both legitimate and illegitimate, lived within the walls which threatened to fall in and bury them all beneath the ruins. After his death, one of his daughters, who never married, lived there, and filled those halls of beauty and glory with plums picked in the castle gardens, which she placed there to dry. In the year 1875 Mademoiselle Reu, aged ninety-nine years and three months, was found one winter’s morning lying dead upon a torn and rotting mattress, in the room adorned with monograms, devices, and emblems in the honour of Nicolette de Vaucelles.
At this time Baron Jules de Bonmont, son of Nathan, son of Seligmann, son of Simon, came over from Austria, where he had negotiated the loans during the dark days of the Empire. He now made France the headquarters of his financial operations, bringing to the Republic the benefit of his financial genius. M. Laprat-Teulet, a member of Parliament, who at that time represented the district of Montil, became one of the first and surest of his friends and allies. He discovered that, the era of ideas and strife having gone by, the time had come for big business deals. He bestowed upon the Baron his warmest sympathy and his extremely useful devotion, and the Baron, on his side, was always ready to commend Laprat-Teulet as a clever fellow.
It was by the advice of Laprat-Teulet that Baron Jules bought the château of Montil. It was then a dignified and beautiful ruin, well worth restoring and preserving. The task of its restoration was confided to a pupil of Viollet-le-Duc, M. Quatrebarbe, the diocesan architect. He removed all the old stone and replaced it with new. In the new building the Baron, who astonishe
d his political friends by his taste in art, promptly installed his collection of pictures, furniture, and armoury, all of which were of enormous value.
“And thus the chateau of Montil,” to use the words of M. de Terremondre, “was preserved to the lovers of our national art, and transformed into a marvellous museum by the care and generosity of a great seignior, who, at the same time, was a great connoisseur.”
The Baron was not long permitted to enjoy the proud possession of Montil, with its towers ornamented with medallions, its tracery staircase, and the delicately carved woodwork of its interior, After reaching the zenith of his financial prosperity, he died suddenly of an attack of apoplexy, just on the eve of all the ruin and scandal that followed. He died in possession of all his wealth, leaving behind him a gay young widow, and a boy, who, with his short, squat figure, lowering brows, and already pitiless heart, closely resembled his father. Madame de Bonmont had kept Montil, of which she was very fond.
She led Madame Hortha to the spiral staircase, the interlacing stonework of which repeated interminably in its intertwinings the emblematic peacock of Bernard de Paves tied by the foot to the lute of Nicolette de Vaucelles. Then, picking up her skirts with a sudden, abrupt gesture, not without a charm of its own, she followed her. M. de Terremondre, President of the Archaeological Society, and formerly a great lady-killer, came closely behind her with an eye upon the rhythmic movement of her engaging figure.
At the age of forty she had retained the wish and the capacity to please, and M. de Terremondre thoroughly appreciated this, for he was a susceptible man; yet he did not attempt to make love to her, knowing that she herself was greatly infatuated with Raoul Marcien, a handsome, choleric man who had fallen into disrepute.
“Let us go into the armoury,” said Madame de Bonmont, pushing open the door. “It is warmed with hot-air pipes.”
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 149