Books: La Mere Bauche from Tales of All Countries
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Anthony Trollope >> La Mere Bauche from Tales of All Countries
This etext was produced by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk,
from the 1864 Chapman & Hall edition.
LA MERE BAUCHE
from "Tales from All Countries"
The Pyreneean valley in which the baths of Vernet are situated is not
much known to English, or indeed to any travellers. Tourists in
search of good hotels and picturesque beauty combined, do not
generally extend their journeys to the Eastern Pyrenees. They rarely
get beyond Luchon; and in this they are right, as they thus end their
peregrinations at the most lovely spot among these mountains, and are
as a rule so deceived, imposed on, and bewildered by guides,
innkeepers, and horse-owners, at this otherwise delightful place, as
to become undesirous of further travel. Nor do invalids from distant
parts frequent Vernet. People of fashion go to the Eaux Bonnes and
to Luchon, and people who are really ill to Bareges and Cauterets.
It is at these places that one meets crowds of Parisians, and the
daughters and wives of rich merchants from Bordeaux, with an
admixture, now by no means inconsiderable, of Englishmen and
Englishwomen. But the Eastern Pyrenees are still unfrequented. And
probably they will remain so; for though there are among them lovely
valleys--and of all such the valley of Vernet is perhaps the most
lovely--they cannot compete with the mountain scenery of other
tourists-loved regions in Europe. At the Port de Venasquez and the
Breche de Roland in the Western Pyrenees, or rather, to speak more
truly, at spots in the close vicinity of these famous mountain
entrances from France into Spain, one can make comparisons with
Switzerland, Northern Italy, the Tyrol, and Ireland, which will not
be injurious to the scenes then under view. But among the eastern
mountains this can rarely be done. The hills do not stand thickly
together so as to group themselves; the passes from one valley to
another, though not wanting in altitude, are not close pressed
together with overhanging rocks, and are deficient in grandeur as
well as loveliness. And then, as a natural consequence of all this,
the hotels--are not quite as good as they should be.
But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the
Pic du Midi or the Maledetta. No one can pooh-pooh the stern old
Canigou, standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the
two roads which run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and
the other by Le Boulon. Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the
hot baths of Vernet, in a close secluded valley, which, as I have
said before, is, as far as I know, the sweetest spot in these Eastern
Pyrenees.
The frequenters of these baths were a few years back gathered almost
entirely from towns not very far distant, from Perpignan, Narbonne,
Carcassonne, and Bezieres, and the baths were not therefore famous,
expensive, or luxurious; but those who believed in them believed with
great faith; and it was certainly the fact that men and women who
went thither worn with toil, sick with excesses, and nervous through
over-care, came back fresh and strong, fit once more to attack the
world with all its woes. Their character in latter days does not
seem to have changed, though their circle of admirers may perhaps be
somewhat extended.
In those days, by far the most noted and illustrious person in the
village of Vernet was La Mere Bauche. That there had once been a
Pere Bauche was known to the world, for there was a Fils Bauche who
lived with his mother; but no one seemed to remember more of him than
that he had once existed. At Vernet he had never been known. La
Mere Bauche was a native of the village, but her married life had
been passed away from it, and she had returned in her early widowhood
to become proprietress and manager, or, as one may say, the heart and
soul of the Hotel Bauche at Vernet.
This hotel was a large and somewhat rough establishment, intended for
the accommodation of invalids who came to Vernet for their health.
It was built immediately over one of the thermal springs, so that the
water flowed from the bowels of the earth directly into the baths.
There was accommodation for seventy people, and during the summer and
autumn months the place was always full. Not a few also were to be
found there during the winter and spring, for the charges of Madame
Bauche were low, and the accommodation reasonably good.
And in this respect, as indeed in all others, Madame Bauche had the
reputation of being an honest woman. She had a certain price, from
which no earthly consideration would induce her to depart; and there
were certain returns for this price in the shape of dejeuners and
dinners, baths and beds, which she never failed to give in accordance
with the dictates of a strict conscience. These were traits in the
character of an hotel-keeper which cannot be praised too highly, and
which had met their due reward in the custom of the public. But
nevertheless there were those who thought that there was occasionally
ground for complaint in the conduct even of Madame Bauche.
In the first place she was deficient in that pleasant smiling
softness which should belong to any keeper of a house of public
entertainment. In her general mode of life she was stern and silent
with her guests, autocratic, authoritative and sometimes
contradictory in her house, and altogether irrational and
unconciliatory when any change even for a day was proposed to her, or
when any shadow of a complaint reached her ears.
Indeed of complaint, as made against the establishment, she was
altogether intolerant. To such she had but one answer. He or she
who complained might leave the place at a moment's notice if it so
pleased them. There were always others ready to take their places.
The power of making this answer came to her from the lowness of her
prices; and it was a power which was very dear to her.
The baths were taken at different hours according to medical advice,
but the usual time was from five to seven in the morning. The
dejeuner or early meal was at nine o'clock, the dinner was at four.
After that, no eating or drinking was allowed in the Hotel Bauche.
There was a cafe in the village, at which ladies and gentlemen could
get a cup of coffee or a glass of eau sucre; but no such
accommodation was to be had in the establishment. Not by any
possible bribery or persuasion could any meal be procured at any
other than the authorised hours. A visitor who should enter the
salle a manger more than ten minutes after the last bell would be
looked at very sourly by Madame Bauche, who on all occasions sat at
the top of her own table. Should any one appear as much as half an
hour late, he would receive only his share of what had not been
handed round. But after the last dish had been so handed, it was
utterly useless for any one to enter the room at all.
Her appearance at the period of our tale was perhaps not altogether
in her favour. She was about sixty years of age and was very stout
and short in the neck. She wore her own gray hair, which at dinner
was always tidy enough; but during the 'whole day previous to that
hour she might be seen with it escaping from under her cap in extreme
disorder. Her eyebrows were large and bushy, but those alone would
not have given to her face that look of indomitable sternness which
it possessed. Her eyebrows were serious in their effect, but not so
serious as the pair of green spectacles which she always wore under
them. It was thought by those who had analysed the subject that the
great secret of Madame Bauche's power lay in her green spectacles.
Her custom was to move about and through the whole establishment
every day from breakfast till the period came for her to dress for
dinner. She would visit every chamber and every bath, walk once or
twice round the salle a manger, and very repeatedly round the
kitchen; she would go into every hole and corner, and peer into
everything through her green spectacles: and in these walks it was
not always thought pleasant to meet her. Her custom was to move very
slowly, with her hands generally clasped behind her back: she rarely
spoke to the guests unless she was spoken to, and on such occasions
she would not often diverge into general conversation. If any one
had aught to say connected with the business of the establishment,
she would listen, and then she would make her answers,--often not
pleasant in the hearing.
And thus she walked her path through the world, a stern, hard, solemn
old woman, not without gusts of passionate explosion; but honest
withal, and not without some inward benevolence and true tenderness
of heart. Children she had had many, some seven or eight. One or
two had died, others had been married; she had sons settled far away
from home, and at the time of which we are now speaking but one was
left in any way subject to maternal authority.
Adolphe Bauche was the only one of her children of whom much was
remembered by the present denizens and hangers-on of the hotel, he
was the youngest of the number, and having been born only very
shortly before the return of Madame Bauche to Vernet, had been
altogether reared there. It was thought by the world of those parts,
and rightly thought, that he was his mother's darling--more so than
had been any of his brothers and sisters,--the very apple of her eye
and gem of her life. At this time he was about twenty-five years of
age, and for the last two years had been absent from Vernet--for
reasons which will shortly be made to appear. He had been sent to
Paris to see something of the world, and learn to talk French instead
of the patois of his valley; and having left Paris had come down
south into Languedoc, and remained there picking up some agricultural
lore which it was thought might prove useful in the valley farms of
Vernet. He was now expected home again very speedily, much to his
mother's delight.
That she was kind and gracious to her favourite child does not
perhaps give much proof of her benevolence; but she had also been
kind and gracious to the orphan child of a neighbour; nay, to the
orphan child of a rival innkeeper. At Vernet there had been more
than one water establishment, but the proprietor of the second had
died some few years after Madame Bauche had settled herself at the
place. His house had not thrived, and his only child, a little girl,
was left altogether without provision.
This little girl, Marie Clavert, La Mere Bauche had taken into her
own house immediately after the father's death, although she had most
cordially hated that father. Marie was then an infant, and Madame
Bauche had accepted the charge without much thought, perhaps, as to
what might be the child's ultimate destiny. But since then she had
thoroughly done the duty of a mother by the little girl, who had
become the pet of the whole establishment, the favourite plaything of
Adolphe Bauche, and at last of course his early sweetheart.
And then and therefore there had come troubles at Vernet. Of course
all the world of the valley had seen what was taking place and what
was likely to take place, long before Madame Bauche knew anything
about it. But at last it broke upon her senses that her son, Adolphe
Bauche, the heir to all her virtues and all her riches, the first
young man in that or any neighbouring valley, was absolutely
contemplating the idea of marrying that poor little orphan, Marie
Clavert!
That any one should ever fall in love with Marie Clavert had never
occurred to Madame Bauche. She had always regarded the child as a
child, as the object of her charity, and as a little thing to be
looked on as poor Marie by all the world. She, looking through her
green spectacles, had never seen that Marie Clavert was a beautiful
creature, full of ripening charms, such as young men love to look on.
Marie was of infinite daily use to Madame Bauche in a hundred little
things about the house, and the old lady thoroughly recognised and
appreciated her ability. But for this very reason she had never
taught herself to regard Marie otherwise than as a useful drudge.
She was very fond of her protegee--so much so that she would listen
to her in affairs about the house when she would listen to no one
else;--but Marie's prettiness and grace and sweetness as a girl had
all been thrown away upon Maman Bauche, as Marie used to call her.
But unluckily it had not been thrown away upon Adolphe. He had
appreciated, as it was natural that he should do, all that had been
so utterly indifferent to his mother; and consequently had fallen in
love. Consequently also he had told his love; and consequently also
Marie had returned his love.
Adolphe had been hitherto contradicted but in few things, and thought
that all difficulty would be prevented by his informing his mother
that he wished to marry Marie Clavert. But Marie, with a woman's
instinct, had known better. She had trembled and almost crouched
with fear when she confessed her love; and had absolutely hid herself
from sight when Adolphe went forth, prepared to ask his mother's
consent to his marriage.
The indignation and passionate wrath of Madame Bauche were past and
gone two years before the date of this story, and I need not
therefore much enlarge upon that subject. She was at first abusive
and bitter, which was bad for Marie; and afterwards bitter and
silent, which was worse. It was of course determined that poor Marie
should be sent away to some asylum for orphans or penniless paupers--
in short anywhere out of the way. What mattered her outlook into the
world, her happiness, or indeed her very existence? The outlook and
happiness of Adolphe Bauche,--was not that to be considered as
everything at Vernet?
But this terrible sharp aspect of affairs did not last very long. In
the first place La Mere Bauche had under those green spectacles a
heart that in truth was tender and affectionate, and after the first
two days of anger she admitted that something must be done for Marie
Clavert; and after the fourth day she acknowledged that the world of
the hotel, her world, would not go as well without Marie Clavert as
it would with her. And in the next place Madame Bauche had a friend
whose advice in grave matters she would sometimes take. This friend
had told her that it would be much better to send away Adolphe, since
it was so necessary that there should be a sending away of some one;
that he would be much benefited by passing some months of his life
away from his native valley; and that an absence of a year or two
would teach him to forget Marie, even if it did not teach Marie to
forget him.
And we must say a word or two about this friend. At Vernet he was
usually called M. le Capitaine, though in fact he had never reached
that rank. He had been in the army, and having been wounded in the
leg while still a sous-lieutenant, had been pensioned, and had thus
been interdicted from treading any further the thorny path that leads
to glory. For the last fifteen years he had resided under the roof
of Madame Bauche, at first as a casual visitor, going and coming, but
now for many years as constant there as she was herself.
He was so constantly called Le Capitaine that his real name was
seldom heard. It may however as well be known to us that this was
Theodore Campan. He was a tall, well-looking man; always dressed in
black garments, of a coarse description certainly, but scrupulously
clean and well brushed; of perhaps fifty years of age, and
conspicuous for the rigid uprightness of his back--and for a black
wooden leg.
This wooden leg was perhaps the most remarkable trait in his
character. It was always jet black, being painted, or polished, or
japanned, as occasion might require, by the hands of the capitaine
himself. It was longer than ordinary wooden legs, as indeed the
capitaine was longer than ordinary men; but nevertheless it never
seemed in any way to impede the rigid punctilious propriety of his
movements. It was never in his way as wooden legs usually are in the
way of their wearers. And then to render it more illustrious it had
round its middle, round the calf of the leg we may so say, a band of
bright brass which shone like burnished gold.
It had been the capitaine's custom, now for some years past, to
retire every evening at about seven o'clock into the sanctum
sanctorum of Madame Bauche's habitation, the dark little private
sitting-room in which she made out her bills and calculated her
profits, and there regale himself in her presence--and indeed at her
expense, for the items never appeared in the bill--with coffee and
cognac. I have said that there was never eating or drinking at the
establishment after the regular dinner-hours; but in so saying I
spoke of the world at large. Nothing further was allowed in the way
of trade; but in the way of friendship so much was now-a-days always
allowed to the capitaine.
It was at these moments that Madame Bauche discussed her private
affairs, and asked for and received advice. For even Madame Bauche
was mortal; nor could her green spectacles without other aid carry
her through all the troubles of life. It was now five years since
the world of Vernet discovered that La Mere Bauche was going to marry
the capitaine; and for eighteen months the world of Vernet had been
full of this matter: but any amount of patience is at last
exhausted, and as no further steps in that direction were ever taken
beyond the daily cup of coffee, that subject died away--very much
unheeded by La Mere Bauche.
But she, though she thought of no matrimony for herself, thought much
of matrimony for other people; and over most of those cups of evening
coffee and cognac a matrimonial project was discussed in these latter
days. It has been seen that the capitaine pleaded in Marie's favour
when the fury of Madame Bauche's indignation broke forth; and that
ultimately Marie was kept at home, and Adolphe sent away by his
advice.
"But Adolphe cannot always stay away," Madame Bauche had pleaded in
her difficulty. The truth of this the capitaine had admitted; but
Marie, he said, might be married to some one else before two years
were over. And so the matter had commenced.
But to whom should she be married? To this question the capitaine
had answered in perfect innocence of heart, that La Mere Bauche would
be much better able to make such a choice than himself. He did not
know how Marie might stand with regard to money. If madame would
give some little "dot," the affair, the capitaine thought, would be
more easily arranged.
All these things took months to say, during which period Marie went
on with her work in melancholy listlessness. One comfort she had.
Adolphe, before he went, had promised to her, holding in his hand as
he did so a little cross which she had given him, that no earthly
consideration should sever them;--that sooner or later he would
certainly be her husband. Marie felt that her limbs could not work
nor her tongue speak were it not for this one drop of water in her
cup.
And then, deeply meditating, La Mere Bauche hit upon a plan, and
herself communicated it to the capitaine over a second cup of coffee
into which she poured a full teaspoonful more than the usual
allowance of cognac. Why should not he, the capitaine himself, be
the man to marry Marie Clavert?
It was a very startling proposal, the idea of matrimony for himself
never having as yet entered into the capitaine's head at any period
of his life; but La Mere Bauche did contrive to make it not
altogether unacceptable. As to that matter of dowry she was prepared
to be more than generous. She did love Marie well, and could find it
in her heart to give her anything--any thing except her son, her own
Adolphe. What she proposed was this. Adolphe, himself, would never
keep the baths. If the capitaine would take Marie for his wife,
Marie, Madame Bauche declared, should be the mistress after her
death; subject of course to certain settlements as to Adolphe's
pecuniary interests.
The plan was discussed a thousand times, and at last so far brought
to bear that Marie was made acquainted with it--having been called in
to sit in presence with La Mere Bauche and her future proposed
husband. The poor girl manifested no disgust to the stiff ungainly
lover whom they assigned to her,--who through his whole frame was in
appearance almost as wooden as his own leg. On the whole, indeed,
Marie liked the capitaine, and felt that he was her friend; and in
her country such marriages were not uncommon. The capitaine was
perhaps a little beyond the age at which a man might usually be
thought justified in demanding the services of a young girl as his
nurse and wife, but then Marie of herself had so little to give--
except her youth, and beauty, and goodness.
But yet she could not absolutely consent; for was she not absolutely
pledged to her own Adolphe? And therefore, when the great pecuniary
advantages were, one by one, displayed before her, and when La Mere
Bauche, as a last argument, informed her that as wife of the
capitaine she would be regarded as second mistress in the
establishment and not as a servant, she could only burst out into
tears, and say that she did not know.
"I will be very kind to you," said the capitaine; "as kind as a man
can be."
Marie took his hard withered hand and kissed it; and then looked up
into his face with beseeching eyes which were not without avail upon
his heart.
"We will not press her now," said the capitaine. "There is time
enough."
But let his heart be touched ever so much, one thing was certain. It
could not be permitted that she should marry Adolphe. To that view
of the matter he had given in his unrestricted adhesion; nor could he
by any means withdraw it without losing altogether his position in
the establishment of Madame Bauche. Nor indeed did his conscience
tell him that such a marriage should be permitted. That would be too
much. If every pretty girl were allowed to marry the first young man
that might fall in love with her, what would the world come to?
And it soon appeared that there was not time enough--that the time
was growing very scant. In three months Adolphe would be back. And
if everything was not arranged by that time, matters might still go
astray.
And then Madame Bauche asked her final question: "You do not think,
do you, that you can ever marry Adolphe?" And as she asked it the
accustomed terror of her green spectacles magnified itself tenfold.
Marie could only answer by another burst of tears.
The affair was at last settled among them. Marie said that she would
consent to marry the capitaine when she should hear from Adolphe's
own mouth that he, Adolphe, loved her no longer. She declared with
many tears that her vows and pledges prevented her from promising
more than this. It was not her fault, at any rate not now, that she
loved her lover. It was not her fault--not now at least--that she
was bound by these pledges. When she heard from his own mouth that
he had discarded her, then she would marry the capitaine--or indeed
sacrifice herself in any other way that La Mere Bauche might desire.
What would anything signify then?
Madame Bauche's spectacles remained unmoved; but not her heart.
Marie, she told the capitaine, should be equal to herself in the
establishment, when once she was entitled to be called Madame Campan,
and she should be to her quite as a daughter. She should have her
cup of coffee every evening, and dine at the big table, and wear a
silk gown at church, and the servants should all call her Madame; a
great career should be open to her, if she would only give up her
foolish girlish childish love for Adolphe. And all these great
promises were repeated to Marie by the capitaine.
But nevertheless there was but one thing in the world which in
Marie's eyes was of any value; and that one thing was the heart of
Adolphe Bauche. Without that she would be nothing; with that,--with
that assured, she could wait patiently till doomsday.
Letters were written to Adolphe during all these eventful doings; and
a letter came from him saying that he greatly valued Marie's love,
but that as it had been clearly proved to him that their marriage
would be neither for her advantage, nor for his, he was willing to
give it up. He consented to her marriage with the capitaine, and
expressed his gratitude to his mother for the pecuniary advantages
which she had held out to him. Oh, Adolphe, Adolphe! But, alas,
alas! is not such the way of most men's hearts--and of the hearts of
some women?
This letter was read to Marie, but it had no more effect upon her
than would have had some dry legal document. In those days and in
those places men and women did not depend much upon letters; nor when
they were written, was there expressed in them much of heart or of
feeling. Marie would understand, as she was well aware, the glance
of Adolphe's eye and the tone of Adolphe's voice; she would perceive
at once from them what her lover really meant, what he wished, what
in the innermost corner of his heart he really desired that she
should do. But from that stiff constrained written document she
could understand nothing.