Part 20

Then the old lady took her to see the room where Monsieur used to sleep; sometimes forgetting herself, instead of Monsieur, she said Louis; and Madame de Précy was strangely moved at hearing pronounced by another that name she had so often called, but might never say again. The room where her husband used to study was next exhibited, with its shelves still filled by his old school-books and copy-books. One of the latter was seized by Madame Bénard, who, tendering it to Madame de Précy, cried: "See how well Monsieur wrote when he was a little boy." And traced in large, uncertain letters she read: "Let us love one another." Then she exclaimed: "I should like to go out into the air; I do not feel quite well."

They went out of doors, and for some moments silently walked about. When a large pond, on which floated two beautiful white swans, was presently approached, Madame Bénard announced: "Here is the pond where Monsieur kept his boat when he was a little boy. One evening he came near drowning himself. I shall never forget that."

When, a few steps farther on, they reached an old straight-backed, moss-grown wooden bench, on either side of which stood a tall earthenware vase, she cried: "This is the bench where Monsieur used to sit and read when he was a little boy."

Next they entered the vegetable garden, and Madame Bénard, walking at once toward a little plot, enclosed by a hedge of box, said again: "This was Monsieur's garden when he was a little boy."

As they afterward crossed the servants' court, a glimpse of the farm horses in their stalls, afforded by widely opened stable doors, caused Madame Bénard to exclaim: "Oh, Boniface used to be kept there!"

"What was Boniface?" asked Madame de Précy.

"Boniface was Monsieur's pony when he was a little boy."

So clearly had Madame Bénard brought before Madame de Précy a little Louis who studied, read, wrote, laughed, and played that she almost saw him now, in short trousers with sunburnt legs and bare head, running across the garden.

When later in the day they were both seated in the dining-room near a large window overlooking the sea, Madame Bénard began in a simple way to relate the story of Monsieur when he was a little boy. It was not very cheerful.

"I must tell you, Madame," said the old woman, "that Monsieur's parents were very peculiar. You never saw them, but I knew them well.

"Just imagine, they actually disliked each other, and without any good reason. That they were not 'congenial' was the only excuse they could give for living almost always apart; but think how wicked that was! If the father was in Paris the mother traveled, and when she returned he went away. They both loved Monsieur Louis, but rather than share his society preferred entirely to deprive themselves of it. So he was sent here to me, and I had to be to him both father and mother. That is the way I happened to bring him up, and I did my best. His parents both died quite young, and he, poor child, wept as bitterly as if he had known them. I can forgive him, but I'm quite sure that when I die he will not grieve as much.

"I tell you all this, Madame, because perhaps he has never done so, and also that you may be able to make allowance for him if sometimes he appears nervous, quick-tempered, or moody. It is not his fault; it is the fault of old times when he was a little boy. Had it not been for his deserted, lonely childhood, he would have grown up quite a different man."

All this Madame Bénard said and much besides, telling many anecdotes, and giving a mass of details, so that the conversation lasted until evening. Neither of the two women thought of ringing for a lamp, and darkness enveloped them. Therefore, Madame Bénard did not observe that Madame de Précy was furtively drying her eyes. When she rose it was to say:

"All you have related about my husband has interested me very much, dear Madame Bénard," and she warmly pressed the good old woman's hands. This did not astonish Madame Bénard, nor was she surprised when the young woman handed her a telegram for Paris to be sent to the office at Guérande. What did the telegram contain? What is sure is that it was sent that night, and that the next day Monsieur de Précy arrived.

A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH BY GEORGES COURTELINE

[Illustration]

_Georges Moinaux, whose nom de plume is Georges Courteline, was born at Tours in 1860. He has written a great number of one-act comedies that have been acted at nearly all of the best Paris theatres, the first called "L'Affaire Champignon," in collaboration with Pierre Veber, 1899, and the latest "Menton Bleus." Courteline is a sincere, earnest genius, but he prefers to masquerade as an amuser--he has been summed up as the nearest approach the French have to a Mark Twain. He assumes the quick, snappy, humorous, jaunty business style of the reporter as a rule, but in his one-act verse, called "Conversion d'Alceste," acted at the Comédie Française in 1905, he appears as a misanthrope._

[Illustration]

A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH BY GEORGES COURTELINE

Translated by V. Quiroga. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

From the top seats of L'Étoile tram-car I perceived my friend Bréloc, who was just crossing the Place Blanche in such a state of excitement that I descended from the car on purpose to question him.

"Hey! my God! what is the matter, Bréloc? What is the meaning of this face of yours, more mournful than a shop closed on account of a death in the family?"

"Please don't mention it," he replied; "I just had a narrow escape from being put in jail."

Which led me to think that he had committed some dishonest action, and I began to ejaculate rather loudly, when he, guessing the turn of my thoughts, exclaimed: "You don't seem to understand! I was very nearly being put in jail through an unlucky watch that I picked up last night on the Boulevard Saint Michel, and which I honestly deposited in the hands of the commissaire [police inspector] of our ward. Pretty tough, heigh? I feel almost ill from astonishment and fright. But you can judge by yourself. Have you five minutes to spare?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"Then listen, and I hope you may profit by my experience.

"About nine A. M. I presented myself at the police station in the Rue Duperré carrying said watch--a beautiful timepiece, by the way, with gold case and platina monogram--and I asked to be shown to the commissaire. That gentleman had just finished drinking his cup of chocolate, when he gave orders that I should be admitted to his presence, and without deigning to say good day or offer me a seat, he began:

"'What do you wish?'

"I had composed my features for the occasion, with the smile of a man who accomplishes a meritorious act for which he expects to be almost crowned with glory. So I answered: "'Monsieur le Commissaire of Police, I have the honor of depositing into your hands a watch that I found last night, and--'

"Without letting me finish the sentence, the commissaire sprang up, repeating the words:

"'A watch! A watch!'

"The gendarmes were playing a game of cards in the next room.

"He hallooed to them:

"'Hey! you there! Close the street door! There is more draft here than in a windmill!' And he remained grumbling until his order had been executed.

"Then, resuming his seat, he proceeded:

"'Please give me that article.'

"I handed him the watch, which he began to turn about, examining and turning the winder, opening the case and the chain swivel.

"'Yes,' he said gravely, 'it is indeed a watch, there is no denying.'

"Saying which, he deposited the watch in the depths of a very large safe, closing its three locks.

"I looked with astonishment, and he resumed:

"'And where did you find this valuable article?'

"'Boulevard Saint Michel, at the corner of Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.'

"On the ground?' asked the commissaire; 'on the sidewalk?'

"I answered in the affirmative.

"'It is very extraordinary,' he then said with a suspicious look at me; 'the sidewalk is not the usual place to leave a watch.'

"I remarked smilingly:

"'If I may call your attention--'

"Dryly the commissaire said:

"'That will do! You may omit all remarks. I know my business.'

"I stopped talking and smiling.

"He resumed: 'In the first place, who are you?'

"I gave my name.

"'Where do you live?'

"'I have already said that I live at the Place Blanche, 26, second floor.'

"'What are your means of living?'

"I explained that I had an income of twelve thousand francs.

"'At what time, as near as you can tell, did you find the watch?'

"'Three o'clock A. M.'

"'Was not it later?' he remarked ironically.

"'I don't think it was,' I said candidly.

"'Well, I congratulate you,' he said ironically. 'It seems to me that you are leading a somewhat singular existence.'

"As I was taking exception on my right to live according to my fancy:

"'Admitted!' said the commissaire. 'But I have a right to know what the deuce you could be doing at that hour on the Boulevard Saint Michel, corner of Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, you who _say_ that you are living at the Place Blanche?'

"'What do you mean by that, I _say_?'

"'Yes, you say so.'

"'If I say so, it is a fact.'

"'That is what we must have proved. Meanwhile, please do not divert from the conversation, and answer courteously to all the questions that I feel duty bound to put to you. I am asking what were you doing at that unearthly hour in a neighborhood that was not your own?'

"I explained (as it was true) that I was coming from the house of a lady friend.

"'What does she do, your lady friend?'

"'She is a married woman.

"'Married. To whom?'

"'To a druggist.'

"'What is his name?'

"'That is none of your business,' I answered, impatiently.

"'Is it to me that you are talking like that?' hallooed the commissaire.

"'Of course.'

"The commissaire's face became purple.

"'But, my boy! you will have to alter your tune; that strain of yours does not suit me. And--I fancy that I recollect your features.'

"'Oh, bosh!'

"'Yes--I do have a recollection--'

"There was a moment of silence. Then:

"'Have you ever been committed for trial, Bréloc?'

"This exhausted my patience.

"'And you?' said I.

"The commissaire sprang to his feet.

"'You are a blackguard!' he cried.

"'And you are an idiot!' I retorted.

"At that moment I thought my last hour had come. The commissaire bounded toward me, flushed and foaming with rage. Under his bushy eyebrows I could see the glistening of his wild eyes.

"'What are you saying?' he stammered. 'What are you saying?'

"I attempted to utter a word, but he did not give me a chance.

"'And I say this: that I am going to send you to jail; and it will not take a very long time! It is just the hour for the patrol wagon! Who on earth sent me up this dummy? Ah! you want to put on airs! Ah! you want to jeer at me, and at the law that I represent! Very well! you came to the wrong place!'

"He brought down his fist violently on the papers lying on his table with each of his sentences, adding:

"'Do I know you? Do I know who you are? You say that your name is Bréloc; I don't know anything about it! You say that you live at the Place Blanche. Where are the proofs of it? You say that you have twelve thousand francs income. Am I bound to believe you? Show me your twelve thousand francs! Hein! you would have a hard job to show them to me.'

"I was stunned.

"'All this is not very clear,' he concluded violently. 'I say, do you understand me, that it is not very clear, and I don't know if you did not steal it, that watch!'

"'Steal it!'

"'Yes, steal it! Anyhow, I am going to find out.'

"The gendarmes, hearing the noise, had come into the room. He called out to them:

"'Search this man!'

"In a second they undressed me completely, even down to my socks.

"'Ah! you want to be smart!' the commissaire repeated mockingly. 'Ah! you want to play smart! Look under his arms,' he said to the gendarmes. 'Search him well!'"

At the recital of these indignities Bréloc's voice became overexcited. But I was laughing, nodding my head approvingly, because I could recognize in his recital the two implacable enemies of honest folk--the administration and the law.

"Let me find another watch!" roared my unfortunate friend, with a closed fist as if threatening the future.

A YOUNG GIRL'S DIARY BY MARCEL PRÉVOST

[Illustration]

_Marcel Prévost, a student of the psychology of women, born at Paris in 1862, is a graduate of the Polytechnic School, and was for several years connected with the manufacturing of tobacco. He retired from business in 1890 after having published three novels, and then wrote "Les Demi Vierges," which he turned into a successful play, and other novels, besides "Lettres de Femme," etc., and "Les Lettres à Françoise," 1902, intended for the instruction of young girls._

_Prévost's great strength lies in his weakness. He is a facile analyst of sentiment, delicate and graceful. He does not lack a certain amount of vigor either--in "Le Scorpion" this vigor approaches brutality, in "Mademoiselle Jauffre" it is strength._

[Illustration]

A YOUNG GIRL'S DIARY BY MARCEL PRÉVOST

Translated by Mrs. Clay C. MacDonald. Copyright, 1899, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

MY SUITORS

_November --, 18--._

Just as I was going up to my room, Monday night, mama kissed me, and said in the severe tone which she reserves for communications touching my marriage: "Juliette, two gentlemen will dine with us Thursday. Consider it settled. You know what you must do." I considered it settled, certainly; but mama was mistaken in one thing--I was in absolute ignorance as to what I must do. What is there for a young girl to do from Monday till Thursday, when she is to be inspected by two suitors for her hand? I can not change in face or form, and I really haven't the time to learn a new language, one of those tongues which possess, so mama says, such a powerful attraction for marriageable men! Nor have I even the time to order a new gown. I have decided, therefore, to remain just as I am, and to present to those gentlemen Thursday evening the Juliette of Monday, with her pink and white complexion, her five feet four of stature, and the two poor little living languages which she murders atrociously.

Who are these gentlemen? I have a faint suspicion.

Mama will not tell me their names, for she fears my preliminary criticisms. Usually I sit upon her candidates so thoroughly beforehand that she dares not exhibit them. "They are charming men," she declares; "charming, that expresses it. Much too good for a madcap like you. One of them is no longer young; but the other is not yet thirty." That mama of mine has such an adorable way of putting things! She regards my suitors collectively, offsetting the faults of the one with the good qualities of the other. Would she like to have me marry all of them at once, I wonder?

Papa gave me more information. I do anything I choose with papa by a walk to the Champs Elysées in the morning, or a stroll on the boulevards about five o'clock. I walk along with my hands clasped around his right arm, clinging to him, my large gray eyes raised to his white beard as if in adoration. People nudge each other as we pass, and how papa straightens up, and how happy he is! In these moments, if I were not a good girl, I could have my allowance doubled, or all the diamonds in the shop windows. It was on returning from just such a stroll that I questioned my dear old papa about the two musketeers that are to open fire next Thursday. Immediately he grew grave and answered:

"They are two charming men--charming, that expresses it. Much too good for a--"

"Madcap like me. Agreed. Why do you let mama put things into your head, you, who have such sound judgment? It is shameful!"

Now, nothing irritates papa so much as the discovery of mama's exaggerated influence over him.

"Put things into my head! Put things into my head, indeed! I will not permit you to say that your mother puts things into my head. I can judge men at a glance. The duke (papa was a prefect under the Empire) used always to say: 'Givernay--he is my hand and eye.' Do you know that, little one?" I should think I know the saying of the duke. At the age of three I had already heard it told so often in the family that I never said "papa" without immediately adding "hand," "eye."

"Why, papa dear, you know very well that I am of the duke's opinion, and that is the reason I want you to guide me a little with your experience. I am not a judge of men myself, and suppose both these gentlemen should please me next Thursday?"

Evidently this contingency had not been thought of. And, nevertheless, suppose I should be smitten with both of them, with the one who is no longer young, and with him who is not yet thirty? Papa's eye, celebrated by Morny, grew large and round.

He reflected.

How amused I was!

"These two gentlemen," said he finally, "are certainly both capable of pleasing. However, I know one of them better, and therefore am disposed to favor him. He is a companion of the Imperial, Monsieur de Nivert, forty-three, cultured and high-spirited."

"What does he do?"

Papa wrinkled his brow and racked his brain in an endeavor to think what Monsieur de Nivert could possibly do; after which he concluded, pitiably enough:

"I believe he doesn't do anything!"

And then he immediately resorted to mama's mode of defense; he considered the two collectively.

"But, on the other hand," said he, "the other gentleman is a young man with a brilliant future. He is Judge of the Exchequer, and not yet thirty. Just think of it! Gaston Salandier will be director-general of a great administration some day, or a minister, perhaps. And then he is very good looking."

Poor Monsieur de Nivert! It seems after all that his most brilliant qualities are possessed by Monsieur Salandier! This freak of Dame Fortune begins to make me sympathetic.

"But," said I, after a few moments' reflection, "it seems to me that mama was hesitating among four possible matches for me, and not between two."

Papa smiled.

"Yes; but after thoroughly considering the candidates, we have decided that two only are worthy of the prettiest girl in Paris. For," he added, kissing me, "you are the prettiest girl in Paris."

Poor papa, I should like a husband like him. And just think how desperate mama makes him!

Let us sum up the situation: Fate decrees that I shall become the wife of a serious young man, or of a middle-aged fashionable man of the world. Let me think a moment. No; I have never seen even the picture of the brilliant Judge of the Exchequer, who may, perhaps, be minister. But I think I noticed Baron de Nivert at a club entertainment. It seems to me that he has not much hair, but, by way of compensation, as mama would say, he has a small stomach--oh, quite small. On the whole, he is not distasteful to me, for the baron, if I remember rightly, is very elegant and stylish in his dress.

Well, the die is cast! Idle nobleman or plebeian with a future, it is one of you two, gentlemen, who will wed--in January--Mademoiselle Juliette Givernay.

THE PRESENTATION

It is over. The presentation took place last night, and I must jot down the story of that memorable evening for the amusement of my old age.

Well, last night, at five minutes to eight, when my maid had assured me that all our guests had arrived, I made my appearance in the drawing-room. Entering a room is my forte. I don't think I have often failed in it. I walk straight ahead, gazing steadily before me over the eyes of those present; I do not see, nor do I wish to see any of those who are looking at me. I choose, on the contrary, as a point of direction, some old lady settled comfortably in an armchair, or some inoffensive old friend of papa's, or simply mama. Invariably all conversation ceases at once, and all eyes are centred on me. What wonderful tact I possess, and isn't it a pity to be compelled to exercise it in such a limited sphere?

Besides my parents, my suitors, and myself, the diners yesterday were Count and Countess d'Aube, nobility of the Empire, whose combined ages would make a century and a half--insufferable bores, but fine people withal; Madame Salandier, the mother of the young Judge of the Exchequer, bourgeoise, with a protruding forehead, round eyes, and a ridiculous toilet, who showed much embarrassment at finding herself in our society.

At table Monsieur de Nivert sat on mama's right and Monsieur Salandier on her left. I found myself seated between Madame Salandier and Monsieur de Nivert. Madame Salandier immediately began talking to me in quite a patronizing tone that quickly irritated me. She extolled the serious character of her son, whom she proudly called "my own." "My own" retires every night at ten. She also offered me a few cursory glimpses of the qualities she expected her future daughter-in-law to possess--her deportment, economy, and domestic habits--"with occasionally a reception or an evening at the theatre, of course; that is necessary in the position which 'my own' occupies."

In the mean time "my own," quite at his ease and stroking from time to time his pointed beard (he is really very handsome), was holding forth on the reduction of the public debt.

Papa, mama, Monsieur d'Aube, Mademoiselle Espalier and even old Madame d'Aube, who is as deaf as a post, listened with open mouths, and Madame Salandier whispered in my ear:

"Listen to him. Not a minister is there that knows as much about it as he does--"

I looked at Monsieur de Nivert. He met my glance with one of discreet irony, and immediately we felt like comrades, two exiles from the same country who had fallen among barbarians.

Monsieur de Nivert is not handsome, but it is astonishing what an immense advantage he has gained over his rival by simply not saying a word about the public debt. In pouring me a glass of wine he paid me a neat compliment upon my toilet, saying that there was something truly elegant and uncommon about it. And then he began to talk of dress in a low tone, while "my own" continued his harangue for the benefit of papa and mama, who do not know how to add up the household accounts, and of Monsieur d'Aube, who is an old imbecile, and of Madame d'Aube, who is deaf. The handsome judge, however, is not stupid if he is pedantic. In a few moments he saw that he was boring us.

"This conversation," said he, "must be quite tiresome to Mademoiselle."