Books: L'Abbe Constantin, v2

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THE ABBE CONSTANTIN

By LUDOVIC HALEVY

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER IV

A RIOT OF CHARITY

The next day, at half-past five in the morning, the bugle-call rang
through the barrack-yard at Souvigny. Jean mounted his horse, and took
his place with his division. By the end of May all the recruits in the
army are sufficiently instructed to be capable of sharing in the general
evolutions. Almost every day manoeuvres of the mounted artillery are
executed on the parade-ground. Jean loved his profession; he was in the
habit of inspecting carefully the grooming and harness of the horses, the
equipment and carriage of his men. This morning, however, he bestowed
but scant attention on all the little details of his duty.

One problem agitated, tormented him, and left him always undecided, and
this problem was one of those the solution of which is not given at the
Ecole Polytechnique. Jean could find no convincing reply to this
question: Which of the two sisters is the prettier?

At the butts, during the first part of the manoeuvre, each battery worked
on its own account, under the orders of the captain; but he often
relinquished the place to one of his lieutenants, in order to accustom
them to the management of six field-pieces. It happened on this day that
the command was intrusted to the hands of Jean. To the great surprise of
the Captain, in whose estimation his Lieutenant held the first rank as a
well-trained, smart, and capable officer, everything went wrong. The
Captain was obliged to interfere; he addressed a little reprimand to
Jean, which terminated in these words:

"I can not understand it at all. What is the matter with you this
morning? It is the first time such a thing has happened with you."

It was also the first time that Jean had seen anything at the butts at
Souvigny but cannon, ammunition wagons, horses, or gunners.

In the clouds of dust raised by the wheels of the wagons and the hoofs of
the horses Jean beheld, not the second mounted battery of the 9th
Regiment of artillery, but the distinct images of two Americans with
black eyes and golden hair; and, at the moment when he listened
respectfully to the well-merited lecture from his Captain, he was in the
act of saying to himself:

"The prettier is Mrs. Scott!"

Every morning the exercise is divided into two parts by a little interval
of ten minutes. The officers gathered together and talked; Jean remained
apart, alone with his recollections of the previous evening. His
thoughts obstinately gathered round the vicarage of Longueval.

"Yes! the more charming of the two sisters is Mrs. Scott; Miss Percival
is only a child."

He saw again Mrs. Scott at the Cure's little table. He heard her story
told with such frankness, such freedom. The harmony of that very
peculiar, very fascinating voice, still enchanted his ear. He was again
in the church; she was there before him, bending over her prie-Dieu, her
pretty head resting in her two little hands; then the music arose, and
far off, in the dusk, Jean perceived the fine and delicate profile of
Bettina.

"A child--is she only a child?"

The trumpets sounded, the practice was resumed; this time, fortunately,
no command, no responsibility. The four batteries executed their
evolutions together; this immense mass of men, horses, and carriages,
deployed in every direction, now drawn out in a long line, again
collected into a compact group. All stopped at the same instant along
the whole extent of the ground; the gunners sprang from their horses, ran
to their pieces, detached each from its team, which went off at a trot
and prepared to fire with amazing rapidity. Then the horses returned,
the men re-attached their pieces; sprang quickly to saddle, and the
regiment started at full gallop across the field.

Very gently in the thoughts of Jean Bettina regained her advantage over
Mrs. Scott. She appeared to him smiling and blushing amid the sunlit
clouds of her floating hair. Monsieur Jean, she had called him, Monsieur
Jean, and never had his name sounded so sweet. And that last pressure of
the hand on taking leave, before entering the carriage. Had not Miss
Percival given him a more cordial clasp than Mrs. Scott had done? Yes,
positively a little more.

"I was mistaken," thought Jean; "the prettier is Miss Percival."

The day's work was finished; the pieces were ranged regularly in line one
behind the other; they defiled rapidly, with a horrible clatter, and in a
cloud of dust. When Jean, sword in hand, passed before his Colonel, the
images of the two sisters were so confused and intermingled in his
recollection that they melted the one in the other, and became in some
measure the image of one and the same person. Any parallel became
impossible between them, thanks to this singular confusion of the two
points of comparison. Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival remained thus
inseparable in the thoughts of Jean until the day when it was granted to
him to see them again. The impression of that meeting was not effaced;
it was always there, persistent, and very sweet, till Jean began to feel
disturbed.

"Is it possible"--so ran his meditations--"is it possible that I have
been guilty of the folly of falling in love madly at first sight? No;
one might fall in love with a woman, but not with two women at once."

That thought reassured him. He was very young, this great fellow of
four-and-twenty; never had love entered fully into his heart. Love!
He knew very little about it, except from books, and he had read but few
of them. But he was no angel; he could find plenty of attractions in the
grisettes of Souvigny, and when they would allow him to tell them that
they were charming, he was quite ready to do so, but it had never entered
his head to regard as love those passing fancies, which only caused the
slightest and most superficial disturbance in his heart.

Paul de Lavardens had marvellous powers of enthusiasm and idealization.
His heart sheltered always two or three grandes passions, which lived
there in perfect harmony. Paul had been so clever as to discover, in
this little town of 15,000 souls, numbers of pretty girls, all made to be
adored. He always believed himself the discoverer of America, when, in
fact, he had done nothing but follow in the track of other navigators.

The world-Jean had scarcely encountered it. He had allowed himself to be
dragged by Paul, a dozen times, perhaps, to soirees or balls at the great
houses of the neighborhood. He had invariably returned thoroughly bored,
and had concluded that these pleasures were not made for him. His tastes
were simple, serious. He loved solitude, work, long walks, open space,
horses, and books. He was rather savage--a son of the soil. He loved
his village, and all the old friends of his childhood. A quadrille in a
drawing-room caused him unspeakable terror; but every year, at the
festival of the patron saint of Longueval, he danced gayly with the young
girls and farmers' daughters of the neighborhood.

If he had seen Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival at home in Paris, in all
the splendor of their luxury, in all the perfection of their costly
surroundings, he would have looked at them from afar, with curiosity,
as exquisite works of art. Then he would have returned home, and would
have slept, as usual, the most peaceful slumber in the world.

Yes, but it was not thus that the thing had come to pass, and hence his
excitement, hence his disturbance. These two women had shown themselves
before him in the midst of a circle with which he was familiar, and which
had been, if only for this reason, singularly favorable to them. Simple,
good, frank, cordial, such they had shown themselves the very first day,
and delightfully pretty into the bargain--a fact which is never
insignificant. Jean fell at once under the charm; he was there still!

At the moment when he dismounted in the barrack-yard, at nine o'clock,
the old priest began his campaign joyously. Since the previous evening
the Abbe's head had been on fire; Jean had not slept much, but he had not
slept at all. He had risen very early, and with closed doors, alone with
Pauline, he had counted and recounted his money, spreading out his one
hundred Louis-d'or, gloating over them like a miser, and like a miser
finding exquisite pleasure in handling his hoard. All that was his! for
him! that is to say, for the poor.

"Do not be too lavish, Monsieur le Cure," said Pauline; "be economical.
I think that if you distribute to-day one hundred francs--"

"That is not enough, Pauline. I shall only have one such day in my life,
but one I will have. How much do you think I shall give to-day?"

"How much, Monsieur le Cure?"

"One thousand francs!"

"One thousand francs!"

"Yes. We are millionaires now; we possess all the treasures of America,
and you talk about economy? Not to-day, at all events; indeed, I have no
right to think of it."

After saying mass at nine o'clock he set out and showered gold along his
way. All had a share--the poor who acknowledged their poverty and those
who concealed it. Each alms was accompanied by the same little
discourse:

"This comes from the new owners of the Longueval--two American ladies,
Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival. Remember their names, and pray for them."

Then he made off without waiting for thanks, across the fields, through
the woods, from hamlet to hamlet, from cottage to cottage--on, on, on.
A sort of intoxication mounted to his brain. Everywhere were cries of
joy and astonishment. All these louis-d'or fell, as if by a miracle,
into the poor hands accustomed to receive little pieces of silver. The
Curb was guilty of follies, actual follies. He was out of bounds; he did
not recognize himself; he had lost all control over himself; he even gave
to those who did not expect anything.

He met Claude Rigal, the old sergeant, who had left one of his arms at
Sebastopol. He was growing gray--nay, white; for time passes, and the
soldiers of the Crimea will soon be old men.

"Here!" said the Cure, "I have twenty francs for you."

"Twenty francs? But I never asked for anything; I don't want anything;
I have my pension."

His pension! Seven hundred francs!

"But listen; it will be something to buy you cigars. It comes from
America."

And then followed the Abbe's little speech about the masters of
Longueval.

He went to a poor woman whose son had gone to Tunis.

"Well, how is your son getting on?"

"Not so bad, Monsieur le Cure; I had a letter from him yesterday. He
does not complain; he is very well; only he says there are no Kroomirs.
Poor boy! I have been saving for a month, and I think I shall soon be
able to send him ten francs."

"You shall send him thirty francs. Take this."

"Thirty francs! Monsieur le Cure, you give me thirty francs?"

"Yes, that is for you."

"For my boy?"

"For your boy. But listen; you must know from whom it comes, and you
must take care to tell your son when you write to him."

Again the little speech about the new owners of Longueval, and again the
adjuration to remember them in their prayers. At six o'clock he returned
home, exhausted with fatigue, but with his soul filled with joy.

"I have given away all," he cried, as soon as he saw Pauline, "all! all!
all!"

He dined, and then went in the evening to perform the usual service for
the month of Mary. But this time, the harmonium was silent; Miss
Percival was no longer there.

The little organist of the evening before was at that moment much
perplexed. On two couches in her dressing-room were spread two frocks--
a white and a blue. Bettina was meditating which of these two frocks she
would wear to the opera that evening. After long hesitation she fixed on
the blue. At half-past nine the two sisters ascended the grand staircase
at the opera-house. Just as they entered their box the curtain rose on
the second scene of the second act of Aida, that containing the ballet
and march.

Two young men, Roger de Puymartin and Louis de Martillet, were seated in
the front of a stage-box. The young ladies of the corps de ballet had
not yet appeared, and these gentlemen, having no occupation, were amusing
themselves with looking about the house. The appearance of Miss Percival
made a strong impression upon both.

"Ah! ah!" said Puymartin, "there she is, the little golden nugget!"

"She is perfectly dazzling this evening, this little golden nugget,"
continued Martillet. "Look at her, at the line of her neck, the fall of
her shoulders--still a young girl, and already a woman."

"Yes, she is charming, and tolerably well off into the bargain."

"Fifteen millions of her own, and the silver mine is still productive."

"Berulle told me twenty-five millions, and he is very well up in American
affairs."

"Twenty-five millions! A pretty haul for Romanelli!"

"What? Romanelli!"

"Report says that that will be a match; that it is already settled."

"A match may be arranged, but with Montessan, not with Romanelli.
Ah! at last! Here is the ballet."

They ceased to talk. The ballet in Aida lasts only five minutes, and for
those five minutes they had come. Consequently they must be enjoyed
respectfully, religiously, for there is that peculiarity among a number
of the habitues of the opera, that they chatter like magpies when they
ought to be silent, to listen, and that they observe the most absolute
silence when they might be allowed to speak, while looking on.

The trumpets of Aida had given their last heroic 'fanfare' in honor of
Rhadames before the great sphinxes under the green foliage of the palm-
trees, the dancers advanced, the light trembling on their spangled robes,
and took possession of the stage.

With much attention and pleasure Mrs. Scott followed the evolutions of
the ballet, but Bettina had suddenly become thoughtful, on perceiving in
a box, on the other side of the house, a tall, dark young man. Miss
Percival talked to herself, and said:

"What shall I do? What shall I decide on? Must I marry him, that
handsome, tall fellow over there, who is watching me, for it is I that he
is looking at? He will come into our box directly this act is over, and
then I have only to say, 'I have decided; there is my hand; I will be
your wife,' and then all would be settled! I should be Princess!
Princess Romanelli! Princess Bettina! Bettina Romanelli! The names go
well together; they sound very pretty. Would it amuse me to be a
princess? Yes--and no! Among all the young men in Paris, who, during
the last year, have run after my money, this Prince Romanelli is the one
who pleases me best. One of these days I must make up my mind to marry.
I think he loves me. Yes, but the question is, do I love him? No, I
don't think I do, and I should so much like to love--so much, so much!"

At the precise moment when these reflections were passing through
Bettina's pretty head, Jean, alone in his study, seated before his desk
with a great book under the shade of his lamp, looked through, and took
notes of, the campaigns of Turenne. He had been directed to give a
course of instruction to the non-commissioned officers of the regiment,
and was prudently preparing his lesson for the next day.

But in the midst of his notes--Nordlingen, 1645; les Dunes, 1658;
Mulhausen and Turckheim, 1674-1675--he suddenly perceived (Jean did not
draw very badly) a sketch, a woman's portrait, which all at once appeared
under his pen. What was she doing there, in the middle of Turenne's
victories, this pretty little woman? And then who was she--Mrs. Scott
or Miss Percival? How could he tell? They resembled each other so much;
and, laboriously, Jean returned to the history of the campaigns of
Turenne.

And at the same moment, the Abbe Constantin, on his knees before his
little wooden bedstead, called down, with all the strength of his soul,
the blessings of Heaven on the two women through whose bounty he had
passed such a sweet and happy day. He prayed God to bless Mrs. Scott in
her children, and to give to Miss Percival a husband after her own heart.

CHAPTER V

THE FAIR AMERICANS

Formerly Paris belonged to the Parisians, and that at no very remote
period-thirty or forty years ago. At that epoch the French were the
masters of Paris, as the English are the masters of London, the Spaniards
of Madrid, and the Russians of St. Petersburg. Those times are no more.
Other countries still have their frontiers; there are now none to France.
Paris has become an immense Babel, a universal and international city.
Foreigners do not only come to visit Paris; they come there to live.
At the present day we have in Paris a Russian colony, a Spanish colony,
a Levantine colony, an American colony. The foreigners have already
conquered from us the greater part of the Champs-Elysees and the
Boulevard Malesherbes; they advance, they extend their outworks; we
retreat, pressed back by the invaders; we are obliged to expatriate
ourselves. We have begun to found Parisian colonies in the plains of
Passy, in the plain of Monceau, in quarters which formerly were not Paris
at all, and which are not quite even now. Among the foreign colonies,
the richest, the most populous, the most brilliant, is the American
colony. There is a moment when an American feels himself rich enough, a
Frenchman never. The American then stops, draws breath, and while still
husbanding the capital, no longer spares the income. He knows how to
spend, the Frenchman knows only how to save.

The Frenchman has only one real luxury--his revolutions. Prudently and
wisely he reserves himself for them, knowing well that they will cost
France dear, but that, at the same time, they will furnish the
opportunity for advantageous investments. The Frenchman says to himself:

"Let us hoard! let us hoard! let us hoard! Some of these mornings
there will be a revolution, which will make the 5 per cents. fall 50 or
60 francs. I will buy then. Since revolutions are inevitable, let us
try at least to make them profitable."

They are always talking about the people who are ruined by revolutions,
but perhaps the number of those enriched by revolutions is still greater.

The Americans experience the attraction of Paris very strongly. There is
no town in the world where it is easier or more agreeable to spend a
great dial of money. For many reasons, both of race and origin, this
attraction exercised over Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival a very remarkable
power.

The most French of our colonies is Canada, which is no longer ours.
The recollection of their first home has been preserved faithfully and
tenderly in the hearts of the emigrants to Montreal and Quebec. Susie
Percival had received from her mother an entirely French education, and
she had brought up her sister in the same love of our country. The two
sisters felt themselves Frenchwomen; still better, Parisians. As soon as
the avalanche of dollars had descended upon them, the same desire seized
them both--to come and live in Paris. They demanded France as if it had
been their fatherland. Mr. Scott made some opposition.

"If I go away from here," he said, "your incomes will suffer."

"What does that matter?" replied Susie. "We are rich--too rich. Do let
us go. We shall be so happy, so delighted!"

Mr. Scott allowed himself to be persuaded, and, at the beginning of
January, 1880, Susie wrote the following letter to her friend, Katie
Norton, who had lived in Paris for some years:

"Victory! It is decided! Richard has consented. I shall arrive in
April, and become a Frenchwoman again. You offered to undertake all the
preparations for our settlement in Paris. I am horribly presuming--
I accept! When I arrive in Paris, I should like to be able to enjoy
Paris, and not be obliged to lose my first month in running after
upholsterers, coach-builders, horse-dealers. I should like, on arriving
at the railway station, to find awaiting me my carriage, my coachman, my
horses. That very day I should like you to dine with me at my home.
Hire or buy a mansion, engage the servants, choose the horses, the
carriages, the liveries. I depend entirely upon you. As long as the
liveries are blue, that is the only point. This line is added at the
request of Bettina.

"We shall bring only seven persons with us. Richard will have his valet,
Bettina and I two ladies' maids; then there are the two governesses for
the children, and, besides these, two boys, Toby and Bobby, who ride to
perfection. We should never find in Paris such a perfect pair.

"Everything else, people and things, we shall leave in New York. No, not
quite everything; I had for gotten four little ponies, four little gems,
black as ink. We have not the heart to leave them; we shall drive them
in a phaeton; it is delightful. Both Bettina and I drive four-in-hand
very well. Ladies can drive four-in-hand in the Bois very early in the
morning; can't they? Here it is quite possible. Above all, my dear
Katie, do not consider money. Be as extravagant as you like, that is all
I ask." The same day that Mrs. Norton received this letter witnessed the
failure of a certain Garneville. He was a great speculator who had been
on a false scent. Stocks had fallen just when he had expected a rise.
This Garneville had, six weeks before, installed himself in a brand-new
house, which had no other fault than a too startling magnificence. Mrs.
Norton signed an agreement--100,000 francs a year, with the option of
buying house and furniture for 2,000,000 during the first year of
possession. A famous upholsterer undertook to correct and subdue the
exaggerated splendor of a loud and gorgeous luxury. That done, Mrs.
Scott's friend had the good fortune to lay her hand on two of those
eminent artists without whom the routine of a great house can neither be
established nor carried on. The first, a chef of the first rank, who had
just left an ancient mansion of the Faubourg St. Germain, to his great
regret, for he had aristocratic inclinations.

"Never," said he to Mrs. Norton, "never would I have left the service of
Madame la Duchesse if she had kept up her establishment on the same
footing as formerly; but Madame la Duchesse has four children--two sons
who have run through a good deal, and two daughters who will soon be of
an age to marry; they must have their dowries. Therefore, Madame la
Duchesse is obliged to draw in a little, and the house is no longer
important enough for me."

This distinguished character, of course, made his conditions. Though
excessive, they did not alarm Mrs. Norton, who knew that he was a man of
the most serious merit; but he, before deciding, asked permission to
telegraph to New York. He wished to make certain inquiries. The reply
was favorable; he accepted.

The second great artist was a stud-groom of the rarest and highest
capacity, who was just about to retire after having made his fortune.
He consented, however, to organize the stables for Mrs. Scott. It was
thoroughly understood that he should have every liberty in purchasing the
horses, that he should wear no livery, that he should choose the
coachmen, the grooms, and everyone connected with the stables; that he
should never have less than fifteen horses in the stables, that no
bargain should be made with the coach-builder or saddler without his
intervention, and that he should never mount the box, except early in the
morning, in plain clothes, to give lessons in driving to the ladies and
children, if necessary.

The cook took possession of his stores, and the stud-groom of his
stables. Everything else was only a question of money, and with regard
to this Mrs. Norton made full use of her extensive powers. She acted in
conformity with the instructions she had received. In the short space of
two months she performed prodigies, and that is how, when, on the 15th of
April, 1880, Mr. Scott, Susie, and Bettina alighted from the mail train
from Havre, at half-past four in the afternoon, they found Mrs. Norton at
the station of St. Lazare, who said:

"Your caleche is there in the yard; behind it is a landau for the
children; and behind the landau is an omnibus for the servants. The
three carriages bear your monogram, are driven by your coachman, and
drawn by your horses. Your address is 24 Rue Murillo, and here is the
menu of your dinner to-night. You invited me two months ago; I accept,
and will even take the liberty of bringing a dozen friends with me. I
shall furnish everything, even the guests. But do not be alarmed; you
know them all; they are mutual friends, and this evening we shall be able
to judge of the merits of your cook."

The first Parisian who had the honor and pleasure of paying homage to the
beauty of Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival was a little Marmiton fifteen
years old, who stood there in his white clothes, his wicker basket on his
head, at the moment when Mrs. Scott's carriage, entangled in the
multitude of vehicles, slowly worked its way out of the station. The
little cook stopped short on the pavement, opened wide his eyes, looked
at the two sisters with amazement, and boldly cast full in their faces
the single word:

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