“Ah! is it you, Suzanne?” said the Chevalier de Valois, without discontinuing his occupation, which was that of stropping his razor. “What have you come for, my dear little jewel of mischief4?”
“I have come to tell you something which may perhaps give you as much pleasure as pain?”
“Is it anything about Cesarine?”
“Cesarine! much I care about your Cesarine!” she said with a saucy5 air, half serious, half indifferent.
This charming Suzanne, whose present comical performance was to exercise a great influence in the principal personages of our history, was a work-girl at Madame Lardot’s. One word here on the topography of the house. The wash-rooms occupied the whole of the ground floor. The little courtyard was used to hang out on wire cords embroidered7 handkerchiefs, collarets, capes8, cuffs9, frilled shirts, cravats10, laces, embroidered dresses,—in short, all the fine linen11 of the best families of the town. The chevalier assumed to know from the number of her capes in the wash how the love-affairs of the wife of the prefect were going on. Though he guessed much from observations of this kind, the chevalier was discretion12 itself; he was never betrayed into an epigram (he had plenty of wit) which might have closed to him an agreeable salon13. You are therefore to consider Monsieur de Valois as a man of superior manners, whose talents, like those of many others, were lost in a narrow sphere. Only—for, after all, he was a man—he permitted himself certain penetrating14 glances which could make some women tremble; although they all loved him heartily15 as soon as they discovered the depth of his discretion and the sympathy that he felt for their little weaknesses.
The head woman, Madame Lardot’s factotum16, an old maid of forty-six, hideous17 to behold18, lived on the opposite side of the passage to the chevalier. Above them were the attics19 where the linen was dried in winter. Each apartment had two rooms,—one lighted from the street, the other from the courtyard. Beneath the chevalier’s room there lived a paralytic20, Madame Lardot’s grandfather, an old buccaneer named Grevin, who had served under Admiral Simeuse in India, and was now stone-deaf. As for Madame Lardot, who occupied the other lodging21 on the first floor, she had so great a weakness for persons of condition that she may well have been thought blind to the ways of the chevalier. To her, Monsieur de Valois was a despotic monarch22 who did right in all things. Had any of her workwomen been guilty of a happiness attributed to the chevalier she would have said, “He is so lovable!” Thus, though the house was of glass, like all provincial23 houses, it was discreet1 as a robber’s cave.
A born confidant to all the little intrigues24 of the work-rooms, the chevalier never passed the door, which usually stood open, without giving something to his little ducks,—chocolate, bonbons25, ribbons, laces, gilt26 crosses, and such like trifles adored by grisettes; consequently, the kind old gentleman was adored in return. Women have an instinct which enables them to divine the men who love them, who like to be near them, and exact no payment for gallantries. In this respect women have the instinct of dogs, who in a mixed company will go straight to the man to whom animals are sacred.
The poor Chevalier de Valois retained from his former life the need of bestowing28 gallant27 protection, a quality of the seigneurs of other days. Faithful to the system of the “petite maison,” he liked to enrich women,—the only beings who know how to receive, because they can always return. But the poor chevalier could no longer ruin himself for a mistress. Instead of the choicest bonbons wrapped in bank-bills, he gallantly30 presented paper-bags full of toffee. Let us say to the glory of Alencon that the toffee was accepted with more joy than la Duthe ever showed at a gilt service or a fine equipage offered by the Comte d’Artois. All these grisettes fully32 understood the fallen majesty33 of the Chevalier de Valois, and they kept their private familiarities with him a profound secret for his sake. If they were questioned about him in certain houses when they carried home the linen, they always spoke34 respectfully of the chevalier, and made him out older than he really was; they talked of him as a most respectable monsieur, whose life was a flower of sanctity; but once in their own regions they perched on his shoulders like so many parrots. He liked to be told the secrets which washerwomen discover in the bosom35 of households, and day after day these girls would tell him the cancans which were going the round of Alencon. He called them his “petticoat gazettes,” his “talking feuilletons.” Never did Monsieur de Sartines have spies more intelligent and less expensive, or minions36 who showed more honor while displaying their rascality37 of mind. So it may be said that in the mornings, while breakfasting, the chevalier usually amused himself as much as the saints in heaven.
Suzanne was one of his favorites, a clever, ambitious girl, made of the stuff of a Sophie Arnold, and handsome withal, as the handsomest courtesan invited by Titian to pose on black velvet38 for a model of Venus; although her face, fine about the eyes and forehead, degenerated39, lower down, into commonness of outline. Hers was a Norman beauty, fresh, high-colored, redundant40, the flesh of Rubens covering the muscles of the Farnese Hercules, and not the slender articulations of the Venus de’ Medici, Apollo’s graceful41 consort42.
“Well, my child, tell me your great or your little adventure, whatever it is.”
The particular point about the chevalier which would have made him noticeable from Paris to Pekin, was the gentle paternity of his manner to grisettes. They reminded him of the illustrious operatic queens of his early days, whose celebrity43 was European during a good third of the eighteenth century. It is certain that the old gentleman, who had lived in days gone by with that feminine nation now as much forgotten as many other great things,—like the Jesuits, the Buccaneers, the Abbes, and the Farmers-General,—had acquired an irresistible44 good-humor, a kindly45 ease, a laisser-aller devoid46 of egotism, the self-effacement of Jupiter with Alcmene, of the king intending to be duped, who casts his thunderbolts to the devil, wants his Olympus full of follies47, little suppers, feminine profusions—but with Juno out of the way, be it understood.
In spite of his old green damask dressing-gown and the bareness of the room in which he sat, where the floor was covered with a shabby tapestry48 in place of carpet, and the walls were hung with tavern-paper presenting the profiles of Louis XVI. and members of his family, traced among the branches of a weeping willow49 with other sentimentalities invented by royalism during the Terror,—in spite of his ruins, the chevalier, trimming his beard before a shabby old toilet-table, draped with trumpery50 lace, exhaled51 an essence of the eighteenth century. All the libertine52 graces of his youth reappeared; he seemed to have the wealth of three hundred thousand francs of debt, while his vis-a-vis waited before the door. He was grand,—like Berthier on the retreat from Moscow, issuing orders to an army that existed no longer.
“Monsieur le chevalier,” replied Suzanne, drolly53, “seems to me I needn’t tell you anything; you’ve only to look.”
And Suzanne presented a side view of herself which gave a sort of lawyer’s comment to her words. The chevalier, who, you must know, was a sly old bird, lowered his right eye on the grisette, still holding the razor at his throat, and pretended to understand.
“Well, well, my little duck, we’ll talk about that presently. But you are rather previous, it seems to me.”
“Why, Monsieur le chevalier, ought I to wait until my mother beats me and Madame Lardot turns me off? If I don’t get away soon to Paris, I shall never be able to marry here, where men are so ridiculous.”
“It can’t be helped, my dear; society is changing; women are just as much victims to the present state of things as the nobility themselves. After political overturn comes the overturn of morals. Alas54! before long woman won’t exist” (he took out the cotton-wool to arrange his ears): “she’ll lose everything by rushing into sentiment; she’ll wring55 her nerves; good-bye to all the good little pleasures of our time, desired without shame, accepted without nonsense.” (He polished up the little negroes’ heads.) “Women had hysterics in those days to get their ends, but now” (he began to laugh) “their vapors56 end in charcoal57. In short, marriage” (here he picked up his pincers to remove a hair) “will become a thing intolerable; whereas it used to be so gay in my day! The reigns58 of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.—remember this, my child—said farewell to the finest manners and morals ever known to the world.”
“But, Monsieur le chevalier,” said the grisette, “the matter now concerns the morals and honor of your poor little Suzanne, and I hope you won’t abandon her.”
“Abandon her!” cried the chevalier, finishing his hair; “I’d sooner abandon my own name.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Suzanne.
“Now, listen to me, you little mischief,” said the chevalier, sitting down on a huge sofa, formerly59 called a duchesse, which Madame Lardot had been at some pains to find for him.
He drew the magnificent Suzanne before him, holding her legs between his knees. She let him do as he liked, although in the street she was offish enough to other men, refusing their familiarities partly from decorum and partly for contempt for their commonness. She now stood audaciously in front of the chevalier, who, having fathomed60 in his day many other mysteries in minds that were far more wily, took in the situation at a single glance. He knew very well that no young girl would joke about a real dishonor; but he took good care not to knock over the pretty scaffolding of her lie as he touched it.
“We slander61 ourselves,” he said with inimitable craft; “we are as virtuous62 as that beautiful biblical girl whose name we bear; we can always marry as we please, but we are thirsty for Paris, where charming creatures—and we are no fool—get rich without trouble. We want to go and see if the great capital of pleasures hasn’t some young Chevalier de Valois in store for us, with a carriage, diamonds, an opera-box, and so forth63. Russians, Austrians, Britons, have millions on which we have an eye. Besides, we are patriotic64; we want to help France in getting back her money from the pockets of those gentry65. Hey! hey! my dear little devil’s duck! it isn’t a bad plan. The world you live in may cry out a bit, but success justifies66 all things. The worst thing in this world, my dear, is to be without money; that’s our disease, yours and mine. Now inasmuch as we have plenty of wit, we thought it would be a good thing to parade our dear little honor, or dishonor, to catch an old boy; but that old boy, my dear heart, knows the Alpha and Omega of female tricks,—which means that you could easier put salt on a sparrow’s tail than to make me believe I have anything to do with your little affair. Go to Paris, my dear; go at the cost of an old celibate67, I won’t prevent it; in fact, I’ll help you, for an old bachelor, Suzanne, is the natural money-box of a young girl. But don’t drag me into the matter. Listen, my queen, you who know life pretty well; you would me great harm and give me much pain,—harm, because you would prevent my marriage in a town where people cling to morality; pain, because if you are in trouble (which I deny, you sly puss!) I haven’t a penny to get you out of it. I’m as poor as a church mouse; you know that, my dear. Ah! if I marry Mademoiselle Cormon, if I am once more rich, of course I would prefer you to Cesarine. You’ve always seemed to me as fine as the gold they gild68 on lead; you were made to be the love of a great seigneur. I think you so clever that the trick you are trying to play off on me doesn’t surprise me one bit; I expected it. You are flinging the scabbard after the sword, and that’s daring for a girl. It takes nerve and superior ideas to do it, my angel, and therefore you have won my respectful esteem69.”
“Monsieur le chevalier, I assure you, you are mistaken, and—”
She colored, and did not dare to say more. The chevalier, with a single glance, had guessed and fathomed her whole plan.
“Yes, yes! I understand: you want me to believe it,” he said. “Well! I do believe it. But take my advice: go to Monsieur du Bousquier. Haven’t you taken linen there for the last six or eight months? I’m not asking what went on between you; but I know the man: he has immense conceit70; he is an old bachelor, and very rich; and he only spends a quarter of a comfortable income. If you are as clever as I suppose, you can go to Paris at his expense. There, run along, my little doe; go and twist him round your finger. Only, mind this: be as supple71 as silk; at every word take a double turn round him and make a knot. He is a man to fear scandal, and if he has given you a chance to put him in the pillory—in short, understand; threaten him with the ladies of the Maternity72 Hospital. Besides, he’s ambitious. A man succeeds through his wife, and you are handsome and clever enough to make the fortune of a husband. Hey! the mischief! you could hold your own against all the court ladies.”
Suzanne, whose mind took in at a flash the chevalier’s last words, was eager to run off to du Bousquier, but, not wishing to depart too abruptly73, she questioned the chevalier about Paris, all the while helping75 him to dress. The chevalier, however, divined her desire to be off, and favored it by asking her to tell Cesarine to bring up his chocolate, which Madame Lardot made for him every morning. Suzanne then slipped away to her new victim, whose biography must here be given.
Born of an old Alencon family, du Bousquier was a cross between the bourgeois76 and the country squire77. Finding himself without means on the death of his father, he went, like other ruined provincials78, to Paris. On the breaking out of the Revolution he took part in public affairs. In spite of revolutionary principles, which made a hobby of republican honesty, the management of public business in those days was by no means clean. A political spy, a stock-jobber, a contractor79, a man who confiscated80 in collusion with the syndic of a commune the property of emigres in order to sell them and buy them in, a minister, and a general were all equally engaged in public business. From 1793 to 1799 du Bousquier was commissary of provisions to the French armies. He lived in a magnificent hotel and was one of the matadors81 of finance, did business with Ouvrard, kept open house, and led the scandalous life of the period,—the life of a Cincinnatus, on sacks of corn harvested without trouble, stolen rations82, “little houses” full of mistresses, in which were given splendid fetes to the Directors of the Republic.
The citizen du Bousquier was one of Barras’ familiars; he was on the best of terms with Fouche, stood very well with Bernadotte, and fully expected to become a minister by throwing himself into the party which secretly caballed against Bonaparte until Marengo. If it had not been for Kellermann’s charge and Desaix’s death, du Bousquier would probably have become a minister. He was one of the chief assistances of that secret government whom Napoleon’s luck sent behind the scenes in 1793. (See “An Historical Mystery.”) The unexpected victory of Marengo was the defeat of that party who actually had their proclamations printed to return to the principles of the Montagne in case the First Consul83 succumbed84.
Convinced of the impossibility of Bonaparte’s triumph, du Bousquier staked the greater part of his property on a fall in the Funds, and kept two couriers on the field of battle. The first started for Paris when Melas’ victory was certain; the second, starting four hours later, brought the news of the defeat of the Austrians. Du Bousquier cursed Kellermann and Desaix; he dared not curse Bonaparte, who might owe him millions. This alternative of millions to be earned and present ruin staring him in the face, deprived the purveyor85 of most of his faculties86: he became nearly imbecile for several days; the man had so abused his health by excesses that when the thunderbolt fell upon him he had no strength to resist. The payment of his bills against the Exchequer87 gave him some hopes for the future, but, in spite of all efforts to ingratiate himself, Napoleon’s hatred88 to the contractors89 who had speculated on his defeat made itself felt; du Bousquier was left without a sou. The immorality90 of his private life, his intimacy91 with Barras and Bernadotte, displeased92 the First Consul even more than his manoeuvres at the Bourse, and he struck du Bousquier’s name from the list of the government contractors.
Out of all his past opulence93 du Bousquier saved only twelve hundred francs a year from an investment in the Grand Livre, which he had happened to place there by pure caprice, and which saved him from penury94. A man ruined by the First Consul interested the town of Alencon, to which he now returned, where royalism was secretly dominant95. Du Bousquier, furious against Bonaparte, relating stories against him of his meanness, of Josephine’s improprieties, and all the other scandalous anecdotes96 of the last ten years, was well received.
About this time, when he was somewhere between forty and fifty, du Bousquier’s appearance was that of a bachelor of thirty-six, of medium height, plump as a purveyor, proud of his vigorous calves98, with a strongly marked countenance99, a flattened100 nose, the nostrils101 garnished102 with hair, black eyes with thick lashes103, from which darted104 shrewd glances like those of Monsieur de Talleyrand, though somewhat dulled. He still wore republican whiskers and his hair very long; his hands, adorned105 with bunches of hair on each knuckle106, showed the power of his muscular system in their prominent blue veins107. He had the chest of the Farnese Hercules, and shoulders fit to carry the stocks. Such shoulders are seen nowadays only at Tortoni’s. This wealth of masculine vigor97 counted for much in du Bousquier’s relations with others. And yet in him, as in the chevalier, symptoms appeared which contrasted oddly with the general aspect of their persons. The late purveyor had not the voice of his muscles. We do not mean that his voice was a mere108 thread, such as we sometimes hear issuing from the mouth of these walruses109; on the contrary, it was a strong voice, but stifled110, an idea of which can be given only by comparing it with the noise of a saw cutting into soft and moistened wood,—the voice of a worn-out speculator.
In spite of the claims which the enmity of the First Consul gave Monsieur du Bousquier to enter the royalist society of the province, he was not received in the seven or eight families who composed the faubourg Saint-Germain of Alencon, among whom the Chevalier de Valois was welcome. He had offered himself in marriage, through her notary111, to Mademoiselle Armande, sister of the most distinguished112 noble in the town; to which offer he received a refusal. He consoled himself as best he could in the society of a dozen rich families, former manufacturers of the old point d’Alencon, owners of pastures and cattle, or merchants doing a wholesale113 business in linen, among whom, as he hoped, he might find a wealthy wife. In fact, all his hopes now converged114 to the perspective of a fortunate marriage. He was not without a certain financial ability, which many persons used to their profit. Like a ruined gambler who advises neophytes, he pointed115 out enterprises and speculations116, together with the means and chances of conducting them. He was thought a good administrator117, and it was often a question of making him mayor of Alencon; but the memory of his underhand jobbery still clung to him, and he was never received at the prefecture. All the succeeding governments, even that of the Hundred Days, refused to appoint him mayor of Alencon,—a place he coveted118, which, could he have had it, would, he thought, have won him the hand of a certain old maid on whom his matrimonial views now turned.
Du Bousquier’s aversion to the Imperial government had thrown him at first into the royalist circles of Alencon, where he remained in spite of the rebuffs he received there; but when, after the first return of the Bourbons, he was still excluded from the prefecture, that mortification119 inspired him with a hatred as deep as it was secret against the royalists. He now returned to his old opinions, and became the leader of the liberal party in Alencon, the invisible manipulator of elections, and did immense harm to the Restoration by the cleverness of his underhand proceedings120 and the perfidy121 of his outward behavior. Du Bousquier, like all those who live by their heads only, carried on his hatreds122 with the quiet tranquillity123 of a rivulet124, feeble apparently125, but inexhaustible. His hatred was that of a negro, so peaceful that it deceived the enemy. His vengeance126, brooded over for fifteen years, was as yet satisfied by no victory, not even that of July, 1830.
It was not without some private intention that the Chevalier de Valois had turned Suzanne’s designs upon Monsieur du Bousquier. The liberal and the royalist had mutually divined each other in spite of the wide dissimulation127 with which they hid their common hope from the rest of the town. The two old bachelors were secretly rivals. Each had formed a plan to marry the Demoiselle Cormon, whom Monsieur de Valois had mentioned to Suzanne. Both, ensconced in their idea and wearing the armor of apparent indifference128, awaited the moment when some lucky chance might deliver the old maid over to them. Thus, if the two old bachelors had not been kept asunder129 by the two political systems of which they each offered a living expression, their private rivalry130 would still have made them enemies. Epochs put their mark on men. These two individuals proved the truth of that axiom by the opposing historic tints131 that were visible in their faces, in their conversation, in their ideas, and in their clothes. One, abrupt74, energetic, with loud, brusque manners, curt132, rude speech, dark in tone, in hair, in look, terrible apparently, in reality as impotent as an insurrection, represented the republic admirably. The other, gentle and polished, elegant and nice, attaining133 his ends by the slow and infallible means of diplomacy134, faithful to good taste, was the express image of the old courtier regime.
The two enemies met nearly every evening on the same ground. The war was courteous135 and benign136 on the side of the chevalier; but du Bousquier showed less ceremony on his, though still preserving the outward appearances demanded by society, for he did not wish to be driven from the place. They themselves fully understood each other; but in spite of the shrewd observation which provincials bestow29 on the petty interests of their own little centre, no one in the town suspected the rivalry of these two men. Monsieur le Chevalier de Valois occupied a vantage-ground: he had never asked for the hand of Mademoiselle Cormon; whereas du Bousquier, who entered the lists soon after his rejection137 by the most distinguished family in the place, had been refused. But the chevalier believed that his rival had still such strong chances of success that he dealt him this coup138 de Jarnac with a blade (namely, Suzanne) that was finely tempered for the purpose. The chevalier had cast his plummet-line into the waters of du Bousquier; and, as we shall see by the sequel, he was not mistaken in any of his conjectures139.
Suzanne tripped with a light foot from the rue140 du Cours, by the rue de la Porte de Seez and the rue du Bercail, to the rue du Cygne, where, about five years earlier, du Bousquier had bought a little house built of gray Jura stone, which is something between Breton slate141 and Norman granite142. There he established himself more comfortably than any householder in town; for he had managed to preserve certain furniture and decorations from the days of his splendor143. But provincial manners and morals obscured, little by little, the rays of this fallen Sardanapalus; these vestiges144 of his former luxury now produced the effect of a glass chandelier in a barn. Harmony, that bond of all work, human or divine, was lacking in great things as well as in little ones. The stairs, up which everybody mounted without wiping their feet, were never polished; the walls, painted by some wretched artisan of the neighborhood, were a terror to the eye; the stone mantel-piece, ill-carved, “swore” with the handsome clock, which was further degraded by the company of contemptible145 candlesticks. Like the period which du Bousquier himself represented, the house was a jumble146 of dirt and magnificence. Being considered a man of leisure, du Bousquier led the same parasite147 life as the chevalier; and he who does not spend his income is always rich. His only servant was a sort of Jocrisse, a lad of the neighborhood, rather a ninny, trained slowly and with difficulty to du Bousquier’s requirements. His master had taught him, as he might an orang-outang, to rub the floors, dust the furniture, black his boots, brush his coats, and bring a lantern to guide him home at night if the weather were cloudy, and clogs148 if it rained. Like many other human beings, this lad hadn’t stuff enough in him for more than one vice31; he was a glutton149. Often, when du Bousquier went to a grand dinner, he would take Rene to wait at table; on such occasions he made him take off his blue cotton jacket, with its big pockets hanging round his hips150, and always bulging151 with handkerchiefs, clasp-knives, fruits, or a handful of nuts, and forced him to put on a regulation coat. Rene would then stuff his fill with the other servants. This duty, which du Bousquier had turned into a reward, won him the most absolute discretion from the Breton servant.
“You here, mademoiselle!” said Rene to Suzanne when she entered; “‘t’isn’t your day. We haven’t any linen for the wash, tell Madame Lardot.”
“Old stupid!” said Suzanne, laughing.
The pretty girl went upstairs, leaving Rene to finish his porringer of buckwheat in boiled milk. Du Bousquier, still in bed, was revolving152 in his mind his plans of fortune; for ambition was all that was left to him, as to other men who have sucked dry the orange of pleasure. Ambition and play are inexhaustible; in a well-organized man the passions which proceed from the brain will always survive the passions of the heart.
“Here am I,” said Suzanne, sitting down on the bed and jangling the curtain-rings back along the rod with despotic vehemence153.
“Quesaco, my charmer?” said the old bachelor, sitting up in bed.
“Monsieur,” said Suzanne, gravely, “you must be astonished to see me here at this hour; but I find myself in a condition which obliges me not to care for what people may say about it.”
“What does all that mean?” said du Bousquier, crossing his arms.
“Don’t you understand me?” said Suzanne. “I know,” she continued, making a pretty little face, “how ridiculous it is in a poor girl to come and nag6 at a man for what he thinks a mere nothing. But if you really knew me, monsieur, if you knew all that I am capable of for a man who would attach himself to me as much as I’m attached to you, you would never repent154 having married me. Of course it isn’t here, in Alencon, that I should be of service to you; but if we went to Paris, you would see where I could lead a man with your mind and your capacities; and just at this time too, when they are remaking the government from top to toe. So—between ourselves, be it said—is what has happened a misfortune? Isn’t it rather a piece of luck, which will pay you well? Who and what are you working for now?”
“Monster! you’ll never be a father!” said Suzanne, giving a tone of prophetic malediction156 to the words.
“Come, don’t talk nonsense, Suzanne,” replied du Bousquier; “I really think I am still dreaming.”
Du Bousquier rubbed his cotton night-cap to the top of his head with a rotatory motion, which plainly indicated the tremendous fermentation of his ideas.
“He actually believes it!” thought Suzanne, “and he’s flattered. Heaven! how easy it is to gull158 men!”
“Suzanne, what the devil must I do? It is so extraordinary—I, who thought—The fact is that—No, no, it can’t be—”
“What? you can’t marry me?”
“Oh! as for that, no; I have engagements.”
“With Mademoiselle Armande or Mademoiselle Cormon, who have both refused you? Listen to me, Monsieur du Bousquier, my honor doesn’t need gendarmes159 to drag you to the mayor’s office. I sha’n’t lack for husbands, thank goodness! and I don’t want a man who can’t appreciate what I’m worth. But some day you’ll repent of the way you are behaving; for I tell you now that nothing on earth, neither gold nor silver, will induce me to return the good thing that belongs to you, if you refuse to accept it to-day.”
“But, Suzanne, are you sure?”
“Oh, monsieur!” cried the grisette, wrapping her virtue160 round her, “what do you take me for? I don’t remind you of the promises you made me, which have ruined a poor young girl whose only blame was to have as much ambition as love.”
Du Bousquier was torn with conflicting sentiments, joy, distrust, calculation. He had long determined161 to marry Mademoiselle Cormon; for the Charter, on which he had just been ruminating162, offered to his ambition, through the half of her property, the political career of a deputy. Besides, his marriage with the old maid would put him socially so high in the town that he would have great influence. Consequently, the storm upraised by that malicious163 Suzanne drove him into the wildest embarrassment164. Without this secret scheme, he would have married Suzanne without hesitation165. In which case, he could openly assume the leadership of the liberal party in Alencon. After such a marriage he would, of course, renounce166 the best society and take up with the bourgeois class of tradesmen, rich manufacturers and graziers, who would certainly carry him in triumph as their candidate. Du Bousquier already foresaw the Left side.
This solemn deliberation he did not conceal167; he rubbed his hands over his head, displacing the cap which covered its disastrous168 baldness. Suzanne, meantime, like all those persons who succeed beyond their hopes, was silent and amazed. To hide her astonishment169, she assumed the melancholy170 pose of an injured girl at the mercy of her seducer171; inwardly she was laughing like a grisette at her clever trick.
“My dear child,” said du Bousquier at length, “I’m not to be taken in with such bosh, not I!”
Such was the curt remark which ended du Bousquier’s meditation172. He plumed173 himself on belonging to the class of cynical174 philosophers who could never be “taken in” by women,—putting them, one and all, unto the same category, as suspicious. These strong-minded persons are usually weak men who have a special catechism in the matter of womenkind. To them the whole sex, from queens of France to milliners, are essentially175 depraved, licentious176, intriguing177, not a little rascally178, fundamentally deceitful, and incapable179 of thought about anything but trifles. To them, women are evil-doing queens, who must be allowed to dance and sing and laugh as they please; they see nothing sacred or saintly in them, nor anything grand; to them there is no poetry in the senses, only gross sensuality. Where such jurisprudence prevails, if a woman is not perpetually tyrannized over, she reduces the man to the condition of a slave. Under this aspect du Bousquier was again the antithesis180 of the chevalier. When he made his final remark, he flung his night-cap to the foot of the bed, as Pope Gregory did the taper181 when he fulminated an excommunication; Suzanne then learned for the first time that du Bousquier wore a toupet covering his bald spot.
“Please to remember, Monsieur du Bousquier,” she replied majestically182, “that in coming here to tell you of this matter I have done my duty; remember that I have offered you my hand, and asked for yours; but remember also that I behaved with the dignity of a woman who respects herself. I have not abased183 myself to weep like a silly fool; I have not insisted; I have not tormented184 you. You now know my situation. You must see that I cannot stay in Alencon: my mother would beat me, and Madame Lardot rides a hobby of principles; she’ll turn me off. Poor work-girl that I am, must I go to the hospital? must I beg my bread? No! I’d rather throw myself into the Brillante or the Sarthe. But isn’t it better that I should go to Paris? My mother could find an excuse to send me there,—an uncle who wants me, or a dying aunt, or a lady who sends for me. But I must have some money for the journey and for—you know what.”
This extraordinary piece of news was far more startling to du Bousquier than to the Chevalier de Valois. Suzanne’s fiction introduced such confusion into the ideas of the old bachelor that he was literally185 incapable of sober reflection. Without this agitation186 and without his inward delight (for vanity is a swindler which never fails of its dupe), he would certainly have reflected that, supposing it were true, a girl like Suzanne, whose heart was not yet spoiled, would have died a thousand deaths before beginning a discussion of this kind and asking for money.
“Will you really go to Paris, then?” he said.
A flash of gayety lighted Suzanne’s gray eyes as she heard these words; but the self-satisfied du Bousquier saw nothing.
“Yes, monsieur,” she said.
Du Bousquier then began bitter lamentations: he had the last payments to make on his house; the painter, the mason, the upholsterers must be paid. Suzanne let him run on; she was listening for the figures. Du Bousquier offered her three hundred francs. Suzanne made what is called on the stage a false exit; that is, she marched toward the door.
“Stop, stop! where are you going?” said du Bousquier, uneasily. “This is what comes of a bachelor’s life!” thought he. “The devil take me if I ever did anything more than rumple187 her collar, and, lo and behold! she makes THAT a ground to put her hand in one’s pocket!”
“I’m going, monsieur,” replied Suzanne, “to Madame Granson, the treasurer188 of the Maternity Society, who, to my knowledge, has saved many a poor girl in my condition from suicide.”
“Madame Granson!”
“Yes,” said Suzanne, “a relation of Mademoiselle Cormon, the president of the Maternity Society. Saving your presence, the ladies of the town have created an institution to protect poor creatures from destroying their infants, like that handsome Faustine of Argentan who was executed for it three years ago.”
“Here, Suzanne,” said du Bousquier, giving her a key, “open that secretary, and take out the bag you’ll find there: there’s about six hundred francs in it; it is all I possess.”
“Old cheat!” thought Suzanne, doing as he told her, “I’ll tell about your false toupet.”
She compared du Bousquier with that charming chevalier, who had given her nothing, it is true, but who had comprehended her, advised her, and carried all grisettes in his heart.
“If you deceive me, Suzanne,” cried du Bousquier, as he saw her with her hand in the drawer, “you—”
“Monsieur,” she said, interrupting him with ineffable189 impertinence, “wouldn’t you have given me money if I had asked for it?”
Recalled to a sense of gallantry, du Bousquier had a remembrance of past happiness and grunted190 his assent191. Suzanne took the bag and departed, after allowing the old bachelor to kiss her, which he did with an air that seemed to say, “It is a right which costs me dear; but it is better than being harried192 by a lawyer in the court of assizes as the seducer of a girl accused of infanticide.”
Suzanne hid the sack in a sort of gamebag made of osier which she had on her arm, all the while cursing du Bousquier for his stinginess; for one thousand francs was the sum she wanted. Once tempted193 of the devil to desire that sum, a girl will go far when she has set foot on the path of trickery. As she made her way along the rue du Bercail, it came into her head that the Maternity Society, presided over by Mademoiselle Cormon, might be induced to complete the sum at which she had reckoned her journey to Paris, which to a grisette of Alencon seemed considerable. Besides, she hated du Bousquier. The latter had evidently feared a revelation of his supposed misconduct to Madame Granson; and Suzanne, at the risk of not getting a penny from the society, was possessed194 with the desire, on leaving Alencon, of entangling195 the old bachelor in the inextricable meshes196 of a provincial slander. In all grisettes there is something of the malevolent197 mischief of a monkey. Accordingly, Suzanne now went to see Madame Granson, composing her face to an expression of the deepest dejection.
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1
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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12
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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18
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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19
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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21
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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22
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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24
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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26
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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27
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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30
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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31
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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32
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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34
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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35
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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36
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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39
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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41
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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42
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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43
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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44
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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45
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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46
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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47
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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48
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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49
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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50
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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51
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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52
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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53
drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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54
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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55
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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56
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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58
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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59
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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60
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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61
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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62
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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63
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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64
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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65
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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66
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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67
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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68
gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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69
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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70
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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71
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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72
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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73
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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74
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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75
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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76
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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77
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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78
provincials
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| n.首都以外的人，地区居民( provincial的名词复数 ) | |
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79
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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80
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
matadors
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| n.斗牛士( matador的名词复数 ) | |
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82
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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83
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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84
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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85
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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86
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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87
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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88
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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89
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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90
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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91
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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92
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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93
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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94
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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95
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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96
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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97
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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98
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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99
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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100
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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101
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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102
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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104
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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105
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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106
knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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107
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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108
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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109
walruses
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| n.海象( walrus的名词复数 ) | |
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110
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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111
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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112
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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113
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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114
converged
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| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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115
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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116
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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117
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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118
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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119
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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120
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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121
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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122
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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123
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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124
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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125
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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126
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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127
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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128
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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129
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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130
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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131
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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132
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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133
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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134
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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135
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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136
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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137
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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138
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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139
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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140
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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141
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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142
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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143
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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144
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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145
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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146
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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147
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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148
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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149
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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150
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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151
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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152
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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153
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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154
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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155
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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156
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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157
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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158
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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159
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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160
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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161
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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162
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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163
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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164
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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165
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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166
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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167
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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168
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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169
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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170
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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171
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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172
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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173
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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174
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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175
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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176
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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177
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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178
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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179
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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180
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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181
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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182
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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183
abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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184
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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185
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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186
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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187
rumple
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；n.褶纹，皱褶 | |
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188
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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189
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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190
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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191
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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192
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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193
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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194
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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195
entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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196
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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197
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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