’But I think the drawing-room door is open,’ said Cousin Bette. ‘Let’s go and see if Monsieur Crevel has gone.’
‘Mama has been very depressed for the last two days. The marriage they were talking about has presumably been broken off.’
‘Oh, it can be re-arranged. The man in question is a councillor of the Royal Court. That much I can tell you. How would you like to be Madame la Présidente? Well, if it depends on Monsieur Crevel, he’ll certainly say something about it to me and I’ll know tomorrow if there’s any hope.’
‘Cousin, leave the seal with me,’ said Hortense. ‘I shan’t show it to anyone. Mama’s birthday is not for a month yet. I’ll give it back to you in the morning.’
‘No, give it back to me. I must get a case for it.’
‘But I’ll show it to Papa, so that he can speak to the minister with some knowledge of what he’s talking about, for men in authority must not compromise themselves,’ she said.
‘Well, don’t show it to your mother, that’s all I ask of you, for if she knew I had an admirer she would laugh at me.’
‘I promise.’
The two cousins reached the boudoir door just as the Baroness had fainted and Hortense’s cry was enough to revive her. Bette went in search of smelling-salts. When she returned, she found the mother and daughter in each other’s arms, the mother soothing her daughter’s fears and saying to her:
‘It’s nothing, it’s just an attack of nerves. Here’s your father,’ she added, recognizing the Baron’s ring. ‘Don’t on any account say a word to him about this.’
Adeline got up to meet her husband, intending to take him into the garden until dinner-time; she wanted to talk to him about the broken marriage negotiations, to make him discuss the future, and to try to give him some advice.
Baron Hector appeared, dressed in a style that was both parliamentary and Napoleonic, for it is easy to identify the Imperialists (men attached to the Empire) by their military bearing, their blue coats with gold buttons fastened up to the neck, and their black taffeta cravats. They have, too, an authoritarian gait acquired through the habit of despotic command resulting from the swift march of events in which they were involved.
It must be admitted that there was nothing about the Baron which smacked of an old man. His sight was still so good that he could read without glasses. His handsome, oval face, framed by whiskers (that were, alas, too black), had the mottled complexion which indicates a sanguine temperament, and his figure, controlled by a belt, was still what Brillat-Savarin* calls majestic. A noble, aristocratic manner and great affability disguised the libertine with whom Crevel had had so many jolly parties. He was indeed one of those men whose eyes light up at the sight of a pretty woman and who smile at all the good-looking ones, even those who pass them in the street and whom they will never see again.
‘Did you speak, my dear?’ asked Adeline, seeing that he looked rather careworn.
‘No,’ Hector replied, ‘but I’m fed up listening to speeches for two hours without getting to a vote. They have battles of words in which the speeches are like cavalry charges that don’t scatter the enemy. They have substituted words for deeds; which isn’t much to the liking of people who are used to marching, as I told the Marshal when I left him. But it’s quite enough to be bored on the ministerial benches. Let’s enjoy ourselves here. Hello, old Nanny-Goat, hello, young one!’
He put his arm round his daughter’s neck, kissed her, caressed her, sat her upon his knee, and placed her head upon his shoulder so that he could feel her golden hair on his face.
‘He’s irritated and tired,’ Madame Hulot said to herself. ‘And now I’ll annoy him still more. I’ll wait a bit. Are you going to stay in with us this evening?’ she asked aloud.
‘No, my dears. After dinner I must leave you, and if it weren’t the day when Nanny-Goat, my children, and my brother come, you wouldn’t have seen me at all.’
The Baroness picked up the newspaper, looked at the theatre announcements, and put down the sheet where she had read that Robert le Diable* was on at the Opera. Josépha, who had gone from the Italian Opera to the French Opera six months before, was singing the part of Alice. These movements did not escape the notice of the Baron, who looked hard at his wife. Adeline lowered her eyes and went out into the garden; he followed her there.
‘Well, what’s the matter, Adeline?’ he said, putting his arm round her waist and drawing her to him. ‘Don’t you know that I love you more than …’
‘More than Jenny Cadine and Josépha?’ she replied boldly, interrupting him.
‘And who told you that?’ asked the Baron, releasing his wife and drawing back a few steps.
‘Someone wrote me an anonymous letter, which I burnt, and in it, my dear, I was told that Hortense’s marriage fell through because of the financial difficulties we’re in. As your wife, dear Hector, I would never have said a word. I knew of your liaison with Jenny Cadine; did I ever complain? But as Hortense’s mother I must tell you the truth.’
After a moment’s silence, terrible for his wife, whose pounding heart was beating audibly, Hulot unfolded his arms, grasped her in them, pressed her to him, kissed her on the forehead, and said with an emotional outburst of enthusiasm:
‘Adeline, you’re an angel and I’m a wretch.’
‘No, no,’ replied the Baroness, quickly putting her hand on his mouth to prevent him talking ill of himself.
‘Yes, I haven’t a sou at the moment to give to Hortense, and I’m very distressed. But since you open your heart to me in this way, I can pour into it sorrows that are overwhelming me. If your Uncle Fischer is in financial difficulties, it’s I who am responsible. He has signed bills of exchange to the value of twenty-five thousand francs for me! And all that for a woman who deceives me, who laughs at me behind my back, who calls me an old dyed cat! Oh, it’s terrible that it costs more to satisfy a vice than to feed a family. And it’s irresistible. … I might promise you here and now never to go back to that abominable Jewess, but if she were to write me two lines, I would go, as one went into the firing line under the Emperor.’
‘Don’t worry, Hector,’ said the poor woman in despair, forgetting her daughter at the sight of the tears which filled her husband’s eyes. ‘Look, I’ve got my diamonds. It’s more important to save my uncle.’
‘Your diamonds are worth barely twenty thousand today. That wouldn’t be enough for old Fischer. So keep them for Hortense. I’ll see the Marshal tomorrow.’
‘Poor dear!’ exclaimed the Baroness, taking her Hector’s hands and kissing them.
That was the whole of her reprimand. Adeline was offering her diamonds, the father was giving them to Hortense. She thought this gesture sublime and she was powerless.
‘He’s the master; he can take everything here but he’s leaving me my diamonds. He’s a god.’
Such were the thoughts of this poor woman, who had certainly obtained more by her gentleness than another would have done by an outburst of jealous anger.
The moralist cannot deny that, generally, well-bred, very dissolute people are much more agreeable than the virtuous. Having crimes to compensate for, they seek indulgence in advance by being lenient with their judges’ failings and have the reputation of being delightful. Although there are charming people amongst the virtuous, virtue thinks itself fine enough on its own, so that it can dispense with making any special effort. And then the genuinely virtuous (for we must except hypocrites) are nearly always a little unsure of their position. They think they have been cheated in the great market of life and they speak a little sharply, like people who claim to be misunderstood.
Thus the Baron, who reproached himself for ruining his family, displayed all his wit and seductive charm for the benefit of his wife, his children, and his Cousin Bette.
When he saw his son arrive with Célestine Crevel, who was nursing an infant Hulot, he was charming to his daughter-in-law. He showered her with compliments, a diet to which Célestine’s vanity was not accustomed, for never was a daughter of the rich more commonplace or more completely undistinguished.
The grandfather picked up the little fellow, kissed him, and declared him to be delightful and lovely. He talked baby-talk to him, prophesied that the chubby youngster would grow taller than himself, slipped in some flattering remarks for his son Hulot, and handed the child back to the plump Norman girl employed to hold him.
So Célestine exchanged a look with the Baroness which said, ‘What a charming man!’ Naturally she defended her father-in-law against her own father’s attacks.
Having shown himself to be an amiable father-in-law and an indulgent grandfather, the Baron took his son into the garden to make some very sensible comments about the attitude he should adopt in the Chamber with reference to a delicate matter which had arisen that morning. The young lawyer was filled with admiration for the penetration of his father’s views, he was touched by his friendly manner and above all by the almost deferential way in which the Baron seemed henceforth to want to treat his son as an equal.
The younger Monsieur Hulot was a typical example of the young men produced by the 1830 Revolution.* His mind was obsessed with politics, but he was reticent about his ambitions, concealing them under an assumed gravity, and very envious of established reputations. He expressed himself in long sentences instead of in those incisive remarks which are the jewels of French conversation. But his manners were good, though he mistook haughtiness for dignity.
Such men are walking coffins containing a Frenchman of former times; the Frenchman stirs from time to time and beats against his English container. But ambition holds him back and he resigns himself to suffocation. The coffin is always draped in black.
‘Oh, here’s my brother,’ said Baron Hulot, going to receive the Count at the drawing-room door.
He greeted the probable successor of the late Marshal Montcornet and, taking him by the arm, led him affectionately and respectfully into the room.
This peer of France, who was excused from attending meetings of the legislature because of his deafness, had a handsome face, made expressionless by age and crowned by grey hair which was still abundant enough to seem flattened by the pressure of his hat. Small, thick-set, but gaunt in his later years, he wore his green old age in a sprightly manner, and since he was still full of energy which had no active outlet, he divided his time between reading and walking. His gentle ways were reflected in his pale face, in his bearing, and in the sincerity and good sense of his opinions. He never talked of war or military campaigns. He knew that he was too great to need assumed airs of greatness.
In drawing-rooms he limited his activity to an unremitting attention to the wishes of the ladies.
‘You are all very merry,’ he said, noticing the animation which the Baron had aroused in the little family gathering. ‘Though Hortense isn’t married yet,’ he added, noticing traces of melancholy on his sister-in-law’s face.
‘That will come soon enough,’ Bette shouted in his ear, at the top of her voice.
‘That’s just what you think, for you’re a bad seed that refused to flower!’ he replied, laughing.
The hero of Forzheim* was quite fond of Cousin Bette, for they had some things in common.
Without education, a man of the people, he owed his military fortune to his courage alone and his common sense took the place of quickness of wit. Completely honourable, with clean hands, he was ending his fine life happily, in the midst of his family, the centre of all his affections, and with no suspicion of his brother’s still undisclosed misdemeanours.
No one enjoyed more than he did the pleasing sight of these gatherings, where no disagreement ever arose and where brothers and sisters reciprocated each other’s affection, for Célestine had been accepted immediately as one of the family. The good Count Hulot even asked from time to time why Père Crevel did not come.
‘My father’s in the country,’ Célestine would shout to him. This time he was told Père Crevel was out of town.
The gathering of her family, united by such genuine affection, made Madame Hulot think: ‘This is the most secure kind of happiness, and who could take it away from us?’
When he saw his favourite, Adeline, the object of the Baron’s attentions, the General teased him about it so much that the Baron, afraid of being thought ridiculous, transferred his compliments to his daughter-in-law. At these family dinner-parties she was always the object of his flattery and attention, for he hoped that, through her, he would bring Père Crevel round and make him abandon all his resentment.
Anyone looking at this domestic scene would have found it hard to believe that the father was in dire straits, the mother in despair, the son eaten up with anxiety about his father’s future, and the daughter in the course of stealing an admirer from her cousin.