“M. Popinot — M. Bianchon.”
The two names were pronounced at the door of the boudoir where the Marquise was sitting, a pretty room recently refurnished, and looking out on the garden behind the house. At the moment Madame d’Espard was seated in one of the old rococo armchairs of which Madame had set the fashion. Rastignac was at her left hand on a low chair, in which he looked settled like an Italian lady’s “cousin.” A third person was standing by the corner of the chimney-piece. As the shrewd doctor had suspected, the Marquise was a woman of a parched and wiry constitution. But for her regimen her complexion must have taken the ruddy tone that is produced by constant heat; but she added to the effect of her acquired pallor by the strong colors of the stuffs she hung her rooms with, or in which she dressed. Reddish-brown, marone, bistre with a golden light in it, suited her to perfection. Her boudoir, copied from that of a famous lady then at the height of fashion in London, was in tan-colored velvet; but she had added various details of ornament which moderated the pompous splendor of this royal hue. Her hair was dressed like a girl’s in bands ending in curls, which emphasized the rather long oval of her face; but an oval face is as majestic as a round one is ignoble. The mirrors, cut with facets to lengthen or flatten the face at will, amply proved the rule as applied to the physiognomy.
On seeing Popinot, who stood in the doorway craning his neck like a startled animal, with his left hand in his pocket, and the right hand holding a hat with a greasy lining, the Marquise gave Rastignac a look wherein lay a germ of mockery. The good man’s rather foolish appearance was so completely in harmony with his grotesque figure and scared looks, that Rastignac, catching sight of Bianchon’s dejected expression of humiliation through his uncle, could not help laughing, and turned away. The Marquise bowed a greeting, and made a great effort to rise from her seat, falling back again, not without grace, with an air of apologizing for her incivility by affected weakness.
At this instant the person who was standing between the fireplace and the door bowed slightly, and pushed forward two chairs, which he offered by a gesture to the doctor and the judge; then, when they had seated themselves, he leaned against the wall again, crossing his arms.
A word as to this man. There is living now, in our day, a painter — Decamps — who possesses in the very highest degree the art of commanding your interest in everything he sets before your eyes, whether it be a stone or a man. In this respect his pencil is more skilful than his brush. He will sketch an empty room and leave a broom against the wall. If he chooses, you shall shudder; you shall believe that this broom has just been the instrument of crime, and is dripping with blood; it shall be the broom which the widow Bancal used to clean out the room where Fualdes was murdered. Yes, the painter will touzle that broom like a man in a rage; he will make each hair of it stand on-end as though it were on your own bristling scalp; he will make it the interpreter between the secret poem of his imagination and the poem that shall have its birth in yours. After terrifying you by the aspect of that broom, to-morrow he will draw another, and lying by it a cat, asleep, but mysterious in its sleep, shall tell you that this broom is that on which the wife of a German cobbler rides off to the Sabbath on the Brocken. Or it will be a quite harmless broom, on which he will hang the coat of a clerk in the Treasury. Decamps had in his brush what Paganini had in his bow — a magnetically communicative power.
Well, I should have to transfer to my style that striking genius, that marvelous knack of the pencil, to depict the upright, tall, lean man dressed in black, with black hair, who stood there without speaking a word. This gentleman had a face like a knife-blade, cold and harsh, with a color like Seine water when it was muddy and strewn with fragments of charcoal from a sunken barge. He looked at the floor, listening and passing judgment. His attitude was terrifying. He stood there like the dreadful broom to which Decamps has given the power of revealing a crime. Now and then, in the course of conversation, the Marquise tried to get some tacit advice; but however eager her questioning, he was as grave and as rigid as the statue of the Commendatore.
The worthy Popinot, sitting on the edge of his chair in front of the fire, his hat between his knees, stared at the gilt chandeliers, the clock, and the curiosities with which the chimney-shelf was covered, the velvet and trimmings of the curtains, and all the costly and elegant nothings that a woman of fashion collects about her. He was roused from his homely meditations by Madame d’Espard, who addressed him in a piping tone:
“Monsieur, I owe you a million thanks — — ”
“A million thanks,” thought he to himself, “that is too many; it does not mean one.”
“For the trouble you condescend — — ”
“Condescend!” thought he; “she is laughing at me.”
“To take in coming to see an unhappy client, who is too ill to go out — — ”
Here the lawyer cut the Marquise short by giving her an inquisitorial look, examining the sanitary condition of the unhappy client.
“As sound as a bell,” said he to himself.
“Madame,” said he, assuming a respectful mien, “you owe me nothing. Although my visit to you is not in strict accordance with the practice of the Court, we ought to spare no pains to discover the truth in cases of this kind. Our judgment is then guided less by the letter of the law than by the promptings of our conscience. Whether I seek the truth here or in my own consulting-room, so long as I find it, all will be well.”
While Popinot was speaking, Rastignac was shaking hands with Bianchon; the Marquise welcomed the doctor with a little bow full of gracious significance.
“Who is that?” asked Bianchon in a whisper of Rastignac, indicating the dark man.
“The Chevalier d’Espard, the Marquis’ brother.”
“Your nephew told me,” said the Marquise to Popinot, “how much you are occupied, and I know too that you are so good as to wish to conceal your kind actions, so as to release those whom you oblige from the burden of gratitude. The work in Court is most fatiguing, it would seem. Why have they not twice as many judges?”
“Ah, madame, that would not be difficult; we should be none the worse if they had. But when that happens, fowls will cut their teeth!”
As he heard this speech, so entirely in character with the lawyer’s appearance, the Chevalier measured him from head to foot, out of one eye, as much as to say, “We shall easily manage him.”
The Marquise looked at Rastignac, who bent over her. “That is the sort of man,” murmured the dandy in her ear, “who is trusted to pass judgments on the life and interests of private individuals.”
Like most men who have grown old in a business, Popinot readily let himself follow the habits he had acquired, more particularly habits of mind. His conversation was all of “the shop.” He was fond of questioning those he talked to, forcing them to unexpected conclusions, making them tell more than they wished to reveal. Pozzo di Borgo, it is said, used to amuse himself by discovering other folks’ secrets, and entangling them in his diplomatic snares, and thus, by invincible habit, showed how his mind was soaked in wiliness. As soon as Popinot had surveyed the ground, so to speak, on which he stood, he saw that it would be necessary to have recourse to the cleverest subtleties, the most elaborately wrapped up and disguised, which were in use in the Courts, to detect the truth.
Bianchon sat cold and stern, as a man who has made up his mind to endure torture without revealing his sufferings; but in his heart he wished that his uncle could only trample on this woman as we trample on a viper — a comparison suggested to him by the Marquise’s long dress, by the curve of her attitude, her long neck, small head, and undulating movements.
“Well, monsieur,” said Madame d’Espard, “however great my dislike to be or seem selfish, I have been suffering too long not to wish that you may settle matters at once. Shall I soon get a favorable decision?”
“Madame, I will do my best to bring matters to a conclusion,” said Popinot, with an air of frank good-nature. “Are you
ignorant of the reason which made the separation necessary which now subsists between you and the Marquis d’Espard?”
“Yes, monsieur,” she replied, evidently prepared with a story to tell. “At the beginning of 1816 M. d’Espard, whose temper had completely changed within three months or so, proposed that we should go to live on one of his estates near Briancon, without any regard for my health, which that climate would have destroyed, or for my habits of life; I refused to go. My refusal gave rise to such unjustifiable reproaches on his part, that from that hour I had my suspicions as to the soundness of his mind. On the following day he left me, leaving me his house and the free use of my own income, and he went to live in the Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Genevieve, taking with him my two children — — ”
“One moment, madame,” said the lawyer, interrupting her. “What was that income?”
“Twenty-six thousand francs a year,” she replied parenthetically. “I at once consulted old M. Bordin as to what I ought to do,” she went on; “but it seems that there are so many difficulties in the way of depriving a father of the care of his children, that I was forced to resign myself to remaining alone at the age of twenty-two — an age at which many young women do very foolish things. You have read my petition, no doubt, monsieur; you know the principal facts on which I rely to procure a Commission in Lunacy with regard to M. d’Espard?”
“Have you ever applied to him, madame, to obtain the care of your children?”
“Yes, monsieur; but in vain. It is very hard on a mother to be deprived of the affection of her children, particularly when they can give her such happiness as every woman clings to.”
“The elder must be sixteen,” said Popinot.
“Fifteen,” said the Marquise eagerly.
Here Bianchon and Rastignac looked at each other. Madame d’Espard bit her lips.
“What can the age of my children matter to you?”
“Well, madame,” said the lawyer, without seeming to attach any importance to his words, “a lad of fifteen and his brother, of thirteen, I suppose, have legs and their wits about them; they might come to see you on the sly. If they do not, it is because they obey their father, and to obey him in that matter they must love him very dearly.”
“I do not understand,” said the Marquise.
“You do not know, perhaps,” replied Popinot, “that in your petition your attorney represents your children as being very unhappy with their father?”
Madame d’Espard replied with charming innocence:
“I do not know what my attorney may have put into my mouth.”
“Forgive my inferences,” said Popinot, “but Justice weighs everything. What I ask you, madame, is suggested by my wish thoroughly to understand the matter. By your account M. d’Espard deserted you on the most frivolous pretext. Instead of going to Briancon, where he wished to take you, he remained in Paris. This point is not clear. Did he know this Madame Jeanrenaud before his marriage?”
“No, monsieur,” replied the Marquise, with some asperity, visible only to Rastignac and the Chevalier d’Espard.
She was offended at being cross-examined by this layer when she had intended to beguile his judgment; but as Popinot still looked stupid from sheer absence of mind, she ended by attributing his interrogatory to the Questioning Spirit of Voltaire’s bailiff.
“My parents,” she went on, “married me at the age of sixteen to M. d’Espard, whose name, fortune, and mode of life were such as my family looked for in the man who was to be my husband. M. d’Espard was then six-and-twenty; he was a gentleman in the English sense of the word; his manners pleased me, he seemed to have plenty of ambition, and I like ambitious people,” she added, looking at Rastignac. “If M. d’Espard had never met that Madame Jeanrenaud, his character, his learning, his acquirements would have raised him — as his friends then believed — to high office in the Government. King Charles X., at that time Monsieur, had the greatest esteem for him, and a peer’s seat, an appointment at Court, some important post certainly would have been his. That woman turned his head, and has ruined all the prospects of my family.”
“What were M. d’Espard’s religious opinions at that time?”
“He was, and is still, a very pious man.”
“You do not suppose that Madame Jeanrenaud may have influenced him by mysticism?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You have a very fine house, madame,” said Popinot suddenly, taking his hands out of his pockets, and rising to pick up his coat-tails and warm himself. “This boudoir is very nice, those chairs are magnificent, the whole apartment is sumptuous. You must indeed be most unhappy when, seeing yourself here, you know that your children are ill lodged, ill clothed, and ill fed. I can imagine nothing more terrible for a mother.”
“Yes, indeed. I should be so glad to give the poor little fellows some amusement, while their father keeps them at work from morning till night at that wretched history of China.”
“You give handsome balls; they would enjoy them, but they might acquire a taste for dissipation. However, their father might send them to you once or twice in the course of the winter.”
“He brings them here on my birthday and on New Year’s Day. On those days M. d’Espard does me the favor of dining here with them.”
“It is very singular behaviour,” said the judge, with an air of conviction. “Have you ever seen this Dame Jeanrenaud?”
“My brother-in-law one day, out of interest in his brother — — ”
“Ah! monsieur is M. d’Espard’s brother?” said the lawyer, interrupting her.
The Chevalier bowed, but did not speak.
“M. d’Espard, who has watched this affair, took me to the Oratoire, where this woman goes to sermon, for she is a Protestant. I saw her; she is not in the least attractive; she looks like a butcher’s wife, extremely fat, horribly marked with the smallpox; she has feet and hands like a man’s, she squints, in short, she is monstrous!”
“It is inconceivable,” said the judge, looking like the most imbecile judge in the whole kingdom. “And this creature lives near here, Rue Verte, in a fine house? There are no plain folk left, it would seem?”
“In a mansion on which her son has spent absurd sums.”
“Madame,” said Popinot, “I live in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau; I know nothing of such expenses. What do you call absurd sums?”
“Well,” said the Marquise, “a stable with five horses and three carriages, a phaeton, a brougham, and a cabriolet.”
“That costs a large sum, then?” asked Popinot in surprise.
“Enormous sums!” said Rastignac, intervening. “Such an establishment would cost, for the stables, the keeping the carriages in order, and the liveries for the men, between fifteen and sixteen thousand francs a year.”
“Should you think so, madame?” said the judge, looking much astonished.
“Yes, at least,” replied the Marquise.
“And the furniture, too, must have cost a lot of money?”
“More than a hundred thousand francs,” replied Madame d’Espard, who could not help smiling at the lawyer’s vulgarity.
“Judges, madame, are apt to be incredulous; it is what they are paid for, and I am incredulous. The Baron Jeanrenaud and his mother must have fleeced M. d’Espard most preposterously, if what you say is correct. There is a stable establishment which, by your account, costs sixteen thousand francs a year. Housekeeping, servants’ wages, and the gross expenses of the house itself must run to twice as much; that makes a total of from fifty to sixty thousand francs a year. Do you suppose that these people, formerly so extremely poor, can have so large a fortune? A million yields scarcely forty thousand a year.”
“Monsieur, the mother and son invested the money given them by M. d’Espard in the funds when they were at 60 to 80. I should think their income must be more than sixty thousand francs. And then the son has fine appointments.”
“If they spend sixty thousand francs a year,” said the judge, “ho
w much do you spend?”
“Well,” said Madame d’Espard, “about the same.” The Chevalier started a little, the Marquise colored; Bianchon looked at Rastignac; but Popinot preserved an expression of simplicity which quite deceived Madame d’Espard. The chevalier took no part in the conversation; he saw that all was lost.
“These people, madame, might be indicted before the superior Court,” said Popinot.
“That was my opinion,” exclaimed the Marquise, enchanted. “If threatened with the police, they would have come to terms.”
“Madame,” said Popinot, “when M. d’Espard left you, did he not give you a power of attorney enabling you to manage and control your own affairs?”
“I do not understand the object of all these questions,” said the Marquise with petulance. “It seems to me that if you would only consider the state in which I am placed by my husband’s insanity, you ought to be troubling yourself about him, and not about me.”
“We are coming to that, madame,” said the judge. “Before placing in your hands, or in any others, the control of M. d’Espard’s property, supposing he were pronounced incapable, the Court must inquire as to how you have managed your own. If M. d’Espard gave you the power, he would have shown confidence in you, and the Court would recognize the fact. Had you any power from him? You might have bought or sold house property or invested money in business?”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 272
