Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  SIMON.

  It doesn’t answer to be short of an instrument when operating.

  LEONARD.

  Drink, gentlemen.

  SIMON.

  This light wine is not bad.

  LEONARD.

  You are too good. It is of my own growing.

  SIMON.

  You may send me a hogshead of it.

  LEONARD

  (to GILLES, who pours himself a bumper).

  I didn’t ask you to drink, you scamp.

  JEAN

  (looking out of the window into the street).

  Here is Master Séraphin Dulaurier, the apothecary.

  MASTER SERAPHIN enters.

  SIMON.

  And here is his mule... no, it is Master Séraphin himself. One never knows which. Drink, Master Séraphin. It is only just drawn.

  SERAPHIN.

  Your health, my masters!

  SIMON (to ALIZON).

  Pour, my beauty. Pour right and left, pour here and there. Whatever way she turns she shows abundant charms. Are you not uplifted, my child, by your comeliness?

  ALIZON.

  There is not much reason to be proud for all the profit I get by it. Charms bring in little enough unless they are decked out in silk and satin.

  SERAPHIN.

  Your health, my masters!

  ALIZON.

  They like to have their jest with one. But not if it costs them anything.

  [They all drink, and make ALIZON do so.

  SIMON.

  Now we are all ready we may as well go up to see the patient.

  LEONARD.

  I will show you the way, gentlemen.

  [He goes up the stairs.

  SIMON.

  After you, Master Maugier, after you.

  JEAN (glass in hand).

  I yield to you, for it’s well known that the place of honour is at the rear.

  SIMON.

  After you, Master Séraphin.

  [MASTER SERAPHIN follows LEONARD, carrying a bottle.

  SIMON

  (having stuck a bottle in each pocket of his gown and kissed the serving-maid, climbs the stairs, singing).

  A bowl! A bowl! A bowl!

  What never a parting bowl?

  Good friends were verily dull of soul To part with never a bowl!

  [ALIZON, having given GILLES a box on the ears for trying to kiss her, climbs up last They can still be heard, all singing in chorus: “A bowl! A bowl! A bowl!” etc.

  ACT II.

  SCENE I.

  LEONARD, MAITRE ADAM.

  ADAM.

  Good evening, worshipful sir, how do I find you? LEONARD.

  Well enough — and you?

  ADAM.

  Never better. Forgive my importunity, dear sir and comrade. Have you looked into this affair of ray young ward plundered by her guardian?

  LEONARD.

  Not yet, Maître Adam. But what’s that you say? You have plundered your ward?

  ADAM.

  Do not imagine such a thing! I say “my ward” from pure friendship. I am not her guardian, thank God! I am her counsel. And if she recover her property, which is large, I shall marry her. I have already taken the precaution to inspire her with love for me. That is why I shall be grateful if you will look into her case as promptly as possible. You have only to read my memorial. It contains everything that is pertinent.

  LEONARD.

  Your memorial, Maître Adam, is there on my table. I should have acquainted myself with it ere now had I not been busy. I have had the élite of the medical Faculty here, and it was on your advice that I had all this to-do.

  ADAM.

  What do you mean?

  LEONARD.

  I called in the celebrated doctor you spoke of — Master Simon Colline; he came with a surgeon and an apothecary; he examined my wife from head to foot to see if she was dumb. Then the surgeon cut the string of my dear Catherine’s tongue, the apothecary gave her a dose, and she spoke.

  ADAM.

  She spoke! Was a dose necessary for that?

  LEONARD.

  Yes — by reason of the sympathy of the organs.

  ADAM.

  Ah!... At any rate, the essential thing is that she has spoken. What did she say?

  LEONARD.

  She said: “Bring me the mirror.” And then, seeing me much moved, she said:— “My ownest, you must give me a satin gown and a hood with a velvet binding for my birthday.”

  ADAM.

  And she continues to speak?

  LEONARD.

  She hasn’t stopped since.

  ADAM.

  And you don’t thank me for the advice I gave you? You don’t thank me for making this great doctor known to you? Are you not well pleased to hear your wife speak?

  LEONARD.

  Yes, yes. I thank you with all my heart, Maître Adam Fumée, and it is with pleasure that I hear my wife speak. —

  ADAM.

  No, you don’t show as much satisfaction as you should. There is something that vexes you and that you don’t tell me.

  LEONARD.

  Whence do you get that notion?

  ADAM.

  From your face. What is it that annoys you? Does not your good lady speak well?

  LEONARD.

  She speaks well and speaks much. I confess to you that the abundance of her speech would inconvenience me if she kept it up at the force of the first rush.

  ADAM.

  I foresaw it to some extent. But one must not despair about it all at once. The flow of words will diminish, perhaps. It is the first bubbling over of a spring opened over-suddenly.... My congratulations to you, worshipful sir. My ward’s name is Ermeline de la Garandière. Do not forget her name. Deal favourably with her and you shall not have ingratitude to face. I will come back this evening.

  LEONARD.

  Maître Adam Fumée, I will go and consider your case at once. — [MAITRE ADAM FUMEE leaves.

  SCENE II.

  LEONARD, then CATHERINE.

  LEONARD (reading).

  Memorial on behalf of Ermeline - Jacinthe - Marthe de la Garandière.

  CATHERINE

  (who has set herself down by her spinning-wheel, beside the table — with volubility).

  What are you at, my friend? You seem engrossed. You do a great deal of work. Are you not afraid of some ill result? One should rest at times. But you don’t tell me what you are busied with, my friend?

  LEONARD.

  My love!...

  CATHERINE.

  Is it such a great secret, then? Mustn’t I know it?...

  LEONARD.

  My love, I...

  CATHERINE.

  If it’s a secret, don’t tell me.

  LEONARD.

  Give me time to reply. I am getting up a case, and preparing my judgment on it.

  CATHERINE.

  Passing judgment is an important matter.

  LEONARD.

  No doubt of that. Not only does the honour, the liberty, and sometimes the life of people depend on it, but beyond that the judge must show the profundity of his intelligence and the polish of his language.

  CATHERINE.

  Get along with your case, then, and prepare your judgment, my friend. I will say nothing.

  LEONARD.

  Good.... The demoiselle Ermeline-Jac in the Marthe de la Garandière...

  CATHERINE.

  Which do you think would suit me best, a damask gown or simply a coat all velvet — cut Turkish fashion?

  LEONARD.

  I don’t know, I...

  CATHERINE.

  It seems to me that a flowered satin would be most suitable to my age, more especially if it were light-coloured and the flowers small...

  LEONARD.

  I dare say, but...

  CATHERINE.

  And don’t you think, my friend, that it would be unbecoming to exaggerate the fullness of the hoops? Of course, a skirt should stand out; without that one would not look dressed — one
must not skimp the skirt. But you don’t want me to be able to hide two gallants under my hoops, do you, my friend? The fashion will not last. One of these days ladies of quality will abandon it, and the middle-class will follow their example. Do you not think so? —

  LEONARD.

  I agree, but...

  CATHERINE.

  And then one must pay heed to the style of shoe. A woman is judged by her foot, and you can tell a really elegant woman by her shoes. You think so, too, do you not?

  LEONARD.

  Yes, but...

  CATHERINE.

  Go on with your judgment — I will say no more.

  LEONARD.

  That’s right. (Reading and taking notes.) Whereas the guardian of the said demoiselle, Hugues Thomassin, lord of the manor of Piédeloup, has robbed the said demoiselle of her...

  CATHERINE.

  My dear, if one may believe the wife of the president of Montbadon, society is very corrupt; it is on the road to ruin; young people of to-day prefer to traffic with rich old ladies rather than make an honest marriage; and meanwhile well-conducted girls waste their sweetness. Can such things be? Tell me, my dear.

  LEONARD.

  My dear, either keep silent a moment, or be good enough to carry your conversation elsewhere. I don’t know where I am.

  CATHERINE.

  Don’t be put out, my dear. I will not say another word.

  LEONARD.

  Thank goodness.... (Writing) The said Seigneur de Piédeloup, both by peculations at haytime and the cider season...

  CATHERINE.

  My dear, for to-night’s supper we have minced mutton and the remains of a goose, the gift of a client. Tell me if it is enough? Will it satisfy you? I detest meanness and like an abundant table; but what is the use of dishing up good things that are carried untouched back to the kitchen? Living is become so expensive. At the poulterer’s, the greengrocer’s, the butcher’s, the fruiterer’s, everything has gone up so in price that soon we shall do better to order our meals in from outside.

  LEONARD.

  I beg of you... (Writing) Orphan from her birth...

  CATHERINE.

  That’s what we shall come to, you will see. For a chicken, a partridge, a hare, cost less roasted and larded than bought fresh killed at the market. And that because the cook-shop people who buy on a large scale get them cheap, and that enables them to sell again at a moderate price. I don’t say that we should order in our meals every day from the restaurant. Simple cooking at home is nicer; but when one wants to entertain friends, to give a dinner, it is easier done and less expensive to order it in. The restaurant people and the confectioners will, in less than an hour, send you round a dinner for a dozen, for twenty, for fifty people; from the restaurant you get your meat and poultry, and a man to superintend them, your jellies, sauces, and stews; from the confectioner your pies and tarts, entrées, and dessert. It is most convenient. You agree with me, Léonard?

  LEONARD.

  For pity’s sake...!

  CATHERINE.

  It is not surprising that everything gets dearer. The luxury of the table becomes daily more pronounced. Let a relative or a friend dine with you and it is no longer a matter of three courses, roast, boiled, and sweet. One must have meat dishes done in five or six different ways, with so many sauces, and minces, and kinds of pastry that it is a perfect omnium gatherum. Don’t you find it excessive, my dear? I, for one, cannot understand the pleasure they find in stuffing themselves with so much food. Not that I disdain good things, I enjoy them. I like a little, but that good. I am particularly fond of cocks’ combs and the chokes of artichokes. And you, Léonard, haven’t you a weakness for tripe and chitterlings? Fie! how can anyone like such things?

  LEONARD (clutching his head with his hands).

  I shall go mad. I feel that I shall go mad.

  CATHERINE.

  My dear, I won’t say another word, for by speaking I may distract you from your work.

  LEONARD.

  If you would only do what you say.

  CATHERINE.

  I won’t open my mouth.

  LEONARD.

  Wonderful!

  CATHERINE.

  You see — I am not saying a word.

  LEONARD.

  Yes.

  CATHERINE.

  I will let you work in quiet.

  LEONARD.

  Yes.

  CATHERINE.

  And formulate your judgment in peace. Will it soon be done?

  LEONARD.

  Never, unless you hold your tongue. (Writing.) Item. A hundred and twenty livres of income which this unworthy guardian has embezzled from this poor orphan...

  CATHERINE.

  Listen! Hush! Listen! Is not someone calling “Fire”? I thought I heard it. But perhaps I was mistaken. Is there anything more alarming than a fire? It is even more terrible than water. Last year I saw the burning of the houses on the Pont-au-Change. The turmoil! The havoc! The inhabitants threw their furniture into the river. Threw themselves out of the windows. They did not know what they were doing. Fear had deprived them of their senses.

  LEONARD.

  Lord have mercy on me!

  CATHERINE.

  Why do you groan, my friend? Tell me what troubles you?

  LEONARD.

  I can bear no more.

  CATHERINE.

  Rest, Léonard — you must not tire yourself so. It is not reasonable, and it would be wrong of you to...

  LEONARD.

  Will you never hold your tongue?

  CATHERINE.

  Don’t get angry, my friend. I won’t say another word.

  LEONARD.

  Heaven grant it!

  CATHERINE (looking out of the window).

  Ah! there is Madame de la Bruine coming, the Procureur’s wife; she is wearing a hood bound with silk and a great puce-coloured mantle over a brocade dress. She is followed by a lackey as withered as a smoked herring. Léonard, she is looking this way: she looks as if she were coming to call. Make haste and put the chairs forward ready for her — people must be received according to their rank and station. She is just stopping at the door. No, she is passing. She is gone on. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps it was not she. One isn’t always sure of people. But if it was not she, it was someone very like her, someone very like her, indeed. Now I think of it I am sure that it was she, there could not be a woman in Paris so like Madame de la Bruine. My dear, my dear — wouldn’t you have been glad if Madame de la Bruine had called on us? (She sits on the table.) You who don’t like talkative women, it is well for you that you didn’t marry her. She chatters like a magpie, she does nothing but gabble from morning till night. What a jabberer! And she retails stories sometimes that are very little to her credit.

  [LEONARD, beside himself, mounts the step-ladder with his writing materials, and sits on one of the steps, where he tries to write.

  CATHERINE.

  She will start enumerating all the presents her husband receives. The account is precise. (She ascends the other side of the steps and sits down facing LEONARD.) Now does it interest us that the Monsieur de la Bruine gets game, flour, fish, or loaves of sugar sent him? But Madame de la Bruine takes good care not to tell that one day her husband received a big pie from Amiens, and that when he opened it he only found a big pair of horns.

  LEONARD.

  My head will burst!

  [He takes refuge on the top of the cupboard with his papers and writing materials.

  CATHERINE (at the very top of the ladder).

  Did you see the procuress? for, after all, since she is the wife of a procureur she must be a procuress. She wears an embroidered hood like a princess. Don’t you think it absurd? but nowadays everybody must be above his station, men and women alike. Young lawyers’ clerks want to pass for gentlemen; they wear gold chains and clasps and plumed hats.... In spite of that one can easily see what they are.

  LEONARD (on the cupboard).

  I have got to that pi
tch that I am no longer answerable for myself, and I feel capable of any crime. (Calls) Gilles! Gilles! Gilles! you scoundrel! Gilles! Alizon! Gilles! Gilles! (Enter GILLES.) Go quickly and find the celebrated doctor in the Carrefour Buci, Master Simon Colline, and tell him to come back at once to a case of quite another kind from the former one, but just as pressing.

  GILLES.

  Yes, your worship. — [He goes.

  CATHERINE.

  What is the matter, my friend? You seem heated. Perhaps because the weather is oppressive.... No? It is the east wind, don’t you think? or the fish you had for dinner?

  LEONARD

  (exhibiting signs of frenzy on his cupboard-top). Non omnia possumus omnes. The Swiss are toss-pots, the draper measures ribbon, monks beg, little birds mess everywhere, and women cackle like all possessed! Oh! how I repent, you jade, that I had your tongue loosed! But wait a little. The great doctor will shortly make you more dumb than you were before.

  [He picks up armfuls of the bags of papers piled on the cupboard, where he has taken refuge, and throws them at CATHERINE’S head, who descends with agility from the ladder and flies in fright up the stairs, crying out:

  CATHERINE.

  Help! Help! Murder! My husband’s gone mad! Help!

  LEONARD.

  Alizon! Alizon — [ALIZON enters.

  ALIZON.

  What a life! Monsieur, are you going to turn murderer?

  LEONARD.

  Alizon, follow her — keep your eye on her — don’t let her come down. As you value your life, Alizon, don’t let her come down. If I listen to her any more I shall become mad, and God knows to what extremities I may be provoked against her and against you. Begone!

  [ALIZON goes up the stairs.

  SCENE III.

  LEONARD, MAITRE ADAM, MADEMOISELLE DE LE GARANDIERE, followed by a lackey carrying a basket.

  ADAM.

  Suffer me, worshipful sir, to touch your heart and move your bowels of compassion, by presenting to you the young orphaned lady who, plundered by a grasping guardian, implores your justice. Her eyes will speak to you better than my voice. Mademoiselle de la Garandière comes to you with prayers and tears; thereto she joins a ham, two game pies, a goose, and two ducklings. She dares to hope a favourable judgment in exchange.

  LEONARD.

  Mademoiselle, you awaken my interest. Have you anything to add in support of your cause?

  MLLE DE LA G.