The residence Hulot had found for his wife consisted of a large, bare entrance-room, a drawing-room, and a bed and dressing-room. The dining-room was next the drawing-room on one side. Two servants’ rooms and a kitchen on the third floor completed the accommodation, which was not unworthy of a Councillor of State, high up in the War Office. The house, the court-yard, and the stairs were extremely handsome.
The Baroness, who had to furnish her drawing-room, bed-room, and dining-room with the relics of her splendor, had brought away the best of the remains from the house in the Rue de l’Universite. Indeed, the poor woman was attached to these mute witnesses of her happier life; to her they had an almost consoling eloquence. In memory she saw her flowers, as in the carpets she could trace patterns hardly visible now to other eyes.
On going into the spacious anteroom, where twelve chairs, a barometer, a large stove, and long, white cotton curtains, bordered with red, suggested the dreadful waiting-room of a Government office, the visitor felt oppressed, conscious at once of the isolation in which the mistress lived. Grief, like pleasure, infects the atmosphere. A first glance into any home is enough to tell you whether love or despair reigns there.
Adeline would be found sitting in an immense bedroom with beautiful furniture by Jacob Desmalters, of mahogany finished in the Empire style with ormolu, which looks even less inviting than the brass-work of Louis XVI.! It gave one a shiver to see this lonely woman sitting on a Roman chair, a work-table with sphinxes before her, colorless, affecting false cheerfulness, but preserving her imperial air, as she had preserved the blue velvet gown she always wore in the house. Her proud spirit sustained her strength and preserved her beauty.
The Baroness, by the end of her first year of banishment to this apartment, had gauged every depth of misfortune.
“Still, even here my Hector has made my life much handsomer than it should be for a mere peasant,” said she to herself. “He chooses that it should be so; his will be done! I am Baroness Hulot, the sister-in-law of a Marshal of France. I have done nothing wrong; my two children are settled in life; I can wait for death, wrapped in the spotless veil of an immaculate wife and the crape of departed happiness.”
A portrait of Hulot, in the uniform of a Commissary General of the Imperial Guard, painted in 1810 by Robert Lefebvre, hung above the work-table, and when visitors were announced, Adeline threw into a drawer an Imitation of Jesus Christ, her habitual study. This blameless Magdalen thus heard the Voice of the Spirit in her desert.
“Mariette, my child,” said Lisbeth to the woman who opened the door, “how is my dear Adeline to-day?”
“Oh, she looks pretty well, mademoiselle; but between you and me, if she goes on in this way, she will kill herself,” said Mariette in a whisper. “You really ought to persuade her to live better. Now, yesterday madame told me to give her two sous’ worth of milk and a roll for one sou; to get her a herring for dinner and a bit of cold veal; she had a pound cooked to last her the week — of course, for the days when she dines at home and alone. She will not spend more than ten sous a day for her food. It is unreasonable. If I were to say anything about it to Monsieur le Marechal, he might quarrel with Monsieur le Baron and leave him nothing, whereas you, who are so kind and clever, can manage things — — ”
“But why do you not apply to my cousin the Baron?” said Lisbeth.
“Oh, dear mademoiselle, he has not been here for three weeks or more; in fact, not since we last had the pleasure of seeing you! Besides, madame has forbidden me, under threat of dismissal, ever to ask the master for money. But as for grief! — oh, poor lady, she has been very unhappy. It is the first time that monsieur has neglected her for so long. Every time the bell rang she rushed to the window — but for the last five days she has sat still in her chair. She reads. Whenever she goes out to see Madame la Comtesse, she says, ‘Mariette, if monsieur comes in,’ says she, ‘tell him I am at home, and send the porter to fetch me; he shall be well paid for his trouble.’”
“Poor soul!” said Lisbeth; “it goes to my heart. I speak of her to the Baron every day. What can I do? ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘Betty, you are right; I am a wretch. My wife is an angel, and I am a monster! I will go to-morrow — — ’ And he stays with Madame Marneffe. That woman is ruining him, and he worships her; he lives only in her sight. — I do what I can; if I were not there, and if I had not Mathurine to depend upon, he would spend twice as much as he does; and as he has hardly any money in the world, he would have blown his brains out by this time. And, I tell you, Mariette, Adeline would die of her husband’s death, I am perfectly certain. At any rate, I pull to make both ends meet, and prevent my cousin from throwing too much money into the fire.”
“Yes, that is what madame says, poor soul! She knows how much she owes you,” replied Mariette. “She said she had judged you unjustly for many years — — ”
“Indeed!” said Lisbeth. “And did she say anything else?”
“No, mademoiselle. If you wish to please her, talk to her about Monsieur le Baron; she envies you your happiness in seeing him every day.”
“Is she alone?”
“I beg pardon, no; the Marshal is with her. He comes every day, and she always tells him she saw monsieur in the morning, but that he comes in very late at night.”
“And is there a good dinner to-day?”
Mariette hesitated; she could not meet Lisbeth’s eye. The drawing-room door opened, and Marshal Hulot rushed out in such haste that he bowed to Lisbeth without looking at her, and dropped a paper. Lisbeth picked it up and ran after him downstairs, for it was vain to hail a deaf man; but she managed not to overtake the Marshal, and as she came up again she furtively read the following lines written in pencil: —
“MY DEAR BROTHER, — My husband has given me the money for my
quarter’s expenses; but my daughter Hortense was in such need of
it, that I lent her the whole sum, which was scarcely enough to
set her straight. Could you lend me a few hundred francs? For I
cannot ask Hector for more; if he were to blame me, I could not
bear it.”
“My word!” thought Lisbeth, “she must be in extremities to bend her pride to such a degree!”
Lisbeth went in. She saw tears in Adeline’s eyes, and threw her arms round her neck.
“Adeline, my dearest, I know all,” cried Cousin Betty. “Here, the Marshal dropped this paper — he was in such a state of mind, and running like a greyhound. — Has that dreadful Hector given you no money since — — ?”
“He gives it me quite regularly,” replied the Baroness, “but Hortense needed it, and — ”
“And you had not enough to pay for dinner to-night,” said Lisbeth, interrupting her. “Now I understand why Mariette looked so confused when I said something about the soup. You really are childish, Adeline; come, take my savings.”
“Thank you, my kind cousin,” said Adeline, wiping away a tear. “This little difficulty is only temporary, and I have provided for the future. My expenses henceforth will be no more than two thousand four hundred francs a year, rent inclusive, and I shall have the money. — Above all, Betty, not a word to Hector. Is he well?”
“As strong as the Pont Neuf, and as gay as a lark; he thinks of nothing but his charmer Valerie.”
Madame Hulot looked out at a tall silver-fir in front of the window, and Lisbeth could not see her cousin’s eyes to read their expression.
“Did you mention that it was the day when we all dine together here?”
“Yes. But, dear me! Madame Marneffe is giving a grand dinner; she hopes to get Monsieur Coquet to resign, and that is of the first importance. — Now, Adeline, listen to me. You know that I am fiercely proud as to my independence. Your husband, my dear, will certainly bring you to ruin. I fancied I could be of use to you all by living near this woman, but she is a creature of unfathomable depravity, and she will make your husband promise things which will bring you all to disgrace.” Adeline writhed lik
e a person stabbed to the heart. “My dear Adeline, I am sure of what I say. I feel it is my duty to enlighten you. — Well, let us think of the future. The Marshal is an old man, but he will last a long time yet — he draws good pay; when he dies his widow would have a pension of six thousand francs. On such an income I would undertake to maintain you all. Use your influence over the good man to get him to marry me. It is not for the sake of being Madame la Marechale; I value such nonsense at no more than I value Madame Marneffe’s conscience; but you will all have bread. I see that Hortense must be wanting it, since you give her yours.”
The Marshal now came in; he had made such haste, that he was mopping his forehead with his bandana.
“I have given Mariette two thousand francs,” he whispered to his sister-in-law.
Adeline colored to the roots of her hair. Two tears hung on the fringes of the still long lashes, and she silently pressed the old man’s hand; his beaming face expressed the glee of a favored lover.
“I intended to spend the money in a present for you, Adeline,” said he. “Instead of repaying me, you must choose for yourself the thing you would like best.”
He took Lisbeth’s hand, which she held out to him, and so bewildered was he by his satisfaction, that he kissed it.
“That looks promising,” said Adeline to Lisbeth, smiling so far as she was able to smile.
The younger Hulot and his wife now came in.
“Is my brother coming to dinner?” asked the Marshal sharply.
Adeline took up a pencil and wrote these words on a scrap of paper:
“I expect him; he promised this morning that he would be here; but if he should not come, it would be because the Marshal kept him. He is overwhelmed with business.”
And she handed him the paper. She had invented this way of conversing with Marshal Hulot, and kept a little collection of paper scraps and a pencil at hand on the work-table.
“I know,” said the Marshal, “he is worked very hard over the business in Algiers.”
At this moment, Hortense and Wenceslas arrived, and the Baroness, as she saw all her family about her, gave the Marshal a significant glance understood by none but Lisbeth.
Happiness had greatly improved the artist, who was adored by his wife and flattered by the world. His face had become almost round, and his graceful figure did justice to the advantages which blood gives to men of birth. His early fame, his important position, the delusive eulogies that the world sheds on artists as lightly as we say, “How d’ye do?” or discuss the weather, gave him that high sense of merit which degenerates into sheer fatuity when talent wanes. The Cross of the Legion of Honor was the crowning stamp of the great man he believed himself to be.
After three years of married life, Hortense was to her husband what a dog is to its master; she watched his every movement with a look that seemed a constant inquiry, her eyes were always on him, like those of a miser on his treasure; her admiring abnegation was quite pathetic. In her might be seen her mother’s spirit and teaching. Her beauty, as great as ever, was poetically touched by the gentle shadow of concealed melancholy.
On seeing Hortense come in, it struck Lisbeth that some long-suppressed complaint was about to break through the thin veil of reticence. Lisbeth, from the first days of the honeymoon, had been sure that this couple had too small an income for so great a passion.
Hortense, as she embraced her mother, exchanged with her a few whispered phrases, heart to heart, of which the mystery was betrayed to Lisbeth by certain shakes of the head.
“Adeline, like me, must work for her living,” thought Cousin Betty. “She shall be made to tell me what she will do! Those pretty fingers will know at last, like mine, what it is to work because they must.”
At six o’clock the family party went in to dinner. A place was laid for Hector.
“Leave it so,” said the Baroness to Mariette, “monsieur sometimes comes in late.”
“Oh, my father will certainly come,” said Victorin to his mother. “He promised me he would when we parted at the Chamber.”
Lisbeth, like a spider in the middle of its net, gloated over all these countenances. Having known Victorin and Hortense from their birth, their faces were to her like panes of glass, through which she could read their young souls. Now, from certain stolen looks directed by Victorin on his mother, she saw that some disaster was hanging over Adeline which Victorin hesitated to reveal. The famous young lawyer had some covert anxiety. His deep reverence for his mother was evident in the regret with which he gazed at her.
Hortense was evidently absorbed in her own woes; for a fortnight past, as Lisbeth knew, she had been suffering the first uneasiness which want of money brings to honest souls, and to young wives on whom life has hitherto smiled, and who conceal their alarms. Also Lisbeth had immediately guessed that her mother had given her no money. Adeline’s delicacy had brought her so low as to use the fallacious excuses that necessity suggests to borrowers.
Hortense’s absence of mind, with her brother’s and the Baroness’ deep dejection, made the dinner a melancholy meal, especially with the added chill of the Marshal’s utter deafness. Three persons gave a little life to the scene: Lisbeth, Celestine, and Wenceslas. Hortense’s affection had developed the artist’s natural liveliness as a Pole, the somewhat swaggering vivacity and noisy high spirits that characterize these Frenchmen of the North. His frame of mind and the expression of his face showed plainly that he believed in himself, and that poor Hortense, faithful to her mother’s training, kept all domestic difficulties to herself.
“You must be content, at any rate,” said Lisbeth to her young cousin, as they rose from table, “since your mother has helped you with her money.”
“Mamma!” replied Hortense in astonishment. “Oh, poor mamma! It is for me that she would like to make money. You do not know, Lisbeth, but I have a horrible suspicion that she works for it in secret.”
They were crossing the large, dark drawing-room where there were no candles, all following Mariette, who was carrying the lamp into Adeline’s bedroom. At this instant Victorin just touched Lisbeth and Hortense on the arm. The two women, understanding the hint, left Wenceslas, Celestine, the Marshal, and the Baroness to go on together, and remained standing in a window-bay.
“What is it, Victorin?” said Lisbeth. “Some disaster caused by your father, I dare wager.”
“Yes, alas!” replied Victorin. “A money-lender named Vauvinet has bills of my father’s to the amount of sixty thousand francs, and wants to prosecute. I tried to speak of the matter to my father at the Chamber, but he would not understand me; he almost avoided me. Had we better tell my mother?”
“No, no,” said Lisbeth, “she has too many troubles; it would be a death-blow; you must spare her. You have no idea how low she has fallen. But for your uncle, you would have found no dinner here this evening.”
“Dear Heaven! Victorin, what wretches we are!” said Hortense to her brother. “We ought to have guessed what Lisbeth has told us. My dinner is choking me!”
Hortense could say no more; she covered her mouth with her handkerchief to smother a sob, and melted into tears.
“I told the fellow Vauvinet to call on me to-morrow,” replied Victorin, “but will he be satisfied by my guarantee on a mortgage? I doubt it. Those men insist on ready money to sweat others on usurious terms.”
“Let us sell out of the funds!” said Lisbeth to Hortense.
“What good would that do?” replied Victorin. “It would bring fifteen or sixteen thousand francs, and we want sixty thousand.”
“Dear cousin!” cried Hortense, embracing Lisbeth with the enthusiasm of guilelessness.
“No, Lisbeth, keep your little fortune,” said Victorin, pressing the old maid’s hand. “I shall see to-morrow what this man would be up to. With my wife’s consent, I can at least hinder or postpone the prosecution — for it would really be frightful to see my father’s honor impugned. What would the War Minister say? My father’s salary, which he p
ledged for three years, will not be released before the month of December, so we cannot offer that as a guarantee. This Vauvinet has renewed the bills eleven times; so you may imagine what my father must pay in interest. We must close this pit.”
“If only Madame Marneffe would throw him over!” said Hortense bitterly.
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Victorin. “He would take up some one else; and with her, at any rate, the worst outlay is over.”
What a change in children formerly so respectful, and kept so long by their mother in blind worship of their father! They knew him now for what he was.
“But for me,” said Lisbeth, “your father’s ruin would be more complete than it is.”
“Come in to mamma,” said Hortense; “she is very sharp, and will suspect something; as our kind Lisbeth says, let us keep everything from her — let us be cheerful.”
“Victorin,” said Lisbeth, “you have no notion of what your father will be brought to by his passion for women. Try to secure some future resource by getting the Marshal to marry me. Say something about it this evening; I will leave early on purpose.”
Victorin went into the bedroom.
“And you, poor little thing!” said Lisbeth in an undertone to Hortense, “what can you do?”
“Come to dinner with us to-morrow, and we will talk it over,” answered Hortense. “I do not know which way to turn; you know how hard life is, and you will advise me.”
While the whole family with one consent tried to persuade the Marshal to marry, and while Lisbeth was making her way home to the Rue Vanneau, one of those incidents occurred which, in such women as Madame Marneffe, are a stimulus to vice by compelling them to exert their energy and every resource of depravity. One fact, at any rate, must however be acknowledged: life in Paris is too full for vicious persons to do wrong instinctively and unprovoked; vice is only a weapon of defence against aggressors — that is all.
Madame Marneffe’s drawing-room was full of her faithful admirers, and she had just started the whist-tables, when the footman, a pensioned soldier recruited by the Baron, announced:
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 696
