Books: Monsieur de Camors, v1
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"'Et curvae rigidum falces conflantur in ensem,"'
said Camors, continuing the broken quotation.
"Ah! you quote Virgil. You read the classics. I am charmed, really
charmed. That is not the characteristic of our rising generation, for
modern youth has an idea it is bad taste to quote the ancients. But that
is not my idea, young sir--not in the least. Our fathers quoted freely
because they were familiar with them. And Virgil is my poet. Not that I
approve of all his theories of cultivation. With all the respect I
accord him, there is a great deal to be said on that point; and his plan
of breeding in particular will never do--never do! Still, he is
delicious, eh? Very well, Monsieur Camors, now you see my little domain
--'mea paupera regna'--the retreat of the sage. Here I live, and live
happily, like an old shepherd in the golden age--loved by my neighbors,
which is not easy; and venerating the gods, which is perhaps easier. Ah,
young sir, as you read Virgil, you will excuse me once more. It was for
me he wrote:
'Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota,
Et fontes sacros frigus captabis opacum.'
And this as well:
'Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes,
Panaque, Silvanumque senem!'"
"Nymphasque sorores!" finished Camors, smiling and moving his head
slightly in the direction of Madame de Tecle and her daughter, who
preceded them.
"Quite to the point. That is pure truth!" cried M. des Rameures, gayly.
"Did you hear that, niece?"
"Yes, uncle."
"And did you understand it, niece?"
"No, uncle."
"I do not believe you, my dear! I do not believe you!" The old man
laughed heartily. "Do not believe her, Monsieur de Camors; women have
the faculty of understanding compliments in every language."
This conversation brought them to the chateau, where they sat down on a
bench before the drawing-room windows to enjoy the view.
Camors praised judiciously the well-kept park, accepted an invitation to
dinner the next week, and then discreetly retired, flattering himself
that his introduction had made a favorable impression upon M. des
Rameures, but regretting his apparent want of progress with the fairy-
footed niece.
He was in error.
"This youth," said M. des Rameures, when he was left alone with Madame de
Tecle, "has some touch of the ancients, which is something; but he still
resembles his father, who was vicious as sin itself. His eyes and his
smile recall some traits of his admirable mother; but positively, my dear
Elise, he is the portrait of his father, whose manners and whose
principles they say he has inherited."
"Who says so, uncle?"
"Current rumor, niece."
"Current rumor, my dear uncle, is often mistaken, and always exaggerates.
For my part, I like the young man, who seems thoroughly refined and at
his ease."
"Bah! I suppose because he compared you to a nymph in the fable."
"If he compared me to a nymph in the fable he was wrong; but he never
addressed to me a word in French that was not in good taste. Before we
condemn him, uncle, let us see for ourselves. It is a habit you have
always recommended to me, you know."
"You can not deny, niece," said the old man with irritation, "that he
exhales the most decided and disagreeable odor of Paris! He is too
polite--too studied! Not a shadow of enthusiasm--no fire of youth!
He never laughs as I should wish to see a man of his age laugh; a young
man should roar to split his waistband!"
"What! you would see him merry so soon after losing his father in such a
tragic manner, and he himself nearly ruined! Why, uncle, what can you
mean?"
"Well, well, perhaps you are right. I retract all I have said against
him. If he be half ruined I will offer him my advice--and my purse if he
need it--for the sake of the memory of his mother, whom you resemble.
Ah, 'tis thus we end all our disputes, naughty child! I grumble; I am
passionate; I act like a Tartar. Then you speak with your good sense and
sweetness, my darling, and the tiger becomes a lamb. All unhappy beings
whom you approach in the same way submit to your subtle charm. And that
is the reason why my old friend, La Fontaine, said of you:
'Sur differentes fleurs l'abeille se repose,
Et fait du miel de toute chose!'"
CHAPTER VIII
A DISH OF POLITICS
Elise de Tecle was thirty years of age, but appeared much younger. At
seventeen she had married, under peculiar conditions, her cousin Roland
de Tecle. She had been left an orphan at an early age and educated by
her mother's brother, M. des Rameures. Roland lived very near her
Everything brought them together--the wishes of the family, compatibility
of fortune, their relations as neighbors, and a personal sympathy. They
were both charming; they were destined for each other from infancy, and
the time fixed for their marriage was the nineteenth birthday of Elise.
In anticipation of this happy event the. Comte de Tecle rebuilt almost
entirely one wing of his castle for the exclusive use of the young pair.
Roland was continually present, superintending and urging on the work
with all the ardor of a lover.
One morning loud and alarming cries from the new wing roused all the
inhabitants of the castle; the Count burned to the spot, and found his
son stunned and bleeding in the arms of one of the workmen. He had
fallen from a high scaffolding to the pavement. For several months the
unfortunate young man hovered between life and death; but in the
paroxysms of fever he never ceased calling for his cousin--his betrothed;
and they were obliged to admit the young girl to his bedside. Slowly he
recovered, but was ever after disfigured and lame; and the first time
they allowed him to look in a glass he had a fainting-fit that proved
almost fatal.
But he was a youth of high principle and true courage. On recovering
from his swoon he wept a flood of bitter tears, which would not, however,
wash the scars from his disfigured face. He prayed long and earnestly;
then shut himself up with his father. Each wrote a letter, the one to M.
des Rameures, the other to Elise. M. des Rameures and his niece were
then in Germany. The excitement and fatigue consequent upon nursing her
cousin had so broken her health that the physicians urged a trial of the
baths of Ems. There she received these letters; they released her from
her engagement and gave her absolute liberty.
Roland and his father implored her not to return in haste; explained that
their intention was to leave the country in a few weeks' time and
establish themselves at Paris; and added that they expected no answer,
and that their resolution--impelled by simple justice to her--was
irrevocable.
Their wishes were complied with. No answer came.
Roland, his sacrifice once made, seemed calm and resigned; but he fell
into a sort of languor, which made fearful progress and hinted at a
speedy and fatal termination, for which in fact he seemed to long. One
evening they had taken him to the lime-tree terrace at the foot of the
garden. He gazed with absent eye on the tints with which the setting sun
purpled the glades of the wood, while his father paced the terrace with
long strides-smiling as he passed him and hastily brushing away a tear as
he turned his back.
Suddenly Elise de Tecle appeared before them, like an angel dropped from
heaven. She knelt before the crippled youth, kissed his hand, and,
brightening him with the rays of her beautiful eyes, told him she never
had loved him half so well before. He felt she spoke truly; he accepted
her devotion, and they were married soon after.
Madame de Tecle was happy--but she alone was so. Her husband,
notwithstanding the tenderness with which she treated him--
notwithstanding the happiness which he could not fail to read in her
tranquil glance--notwithstanding the birth of a daughter--seemed never to
console himself. Even with her he was always possessed by a cold
constraint; some secret sorrow consumed him, of which they found the key
only on the day of his death.
"My darling," he then said to his young wife--"my darling, may God reward
you for your infinite goodness! Pardon me, if I never have told you how
entirely I love you. With a face like mine, how could I speak of love to
one like you! But my poor heart has been brimming over with it all the
while. Oh, Elise! how I have suffered when I thought of what I was
before--how much more worthy of you! But we shall be reunited, dearest--
shall we not?--where I shall be as perfect as you, and where I may tell
you how much I adore you! Do not weep for me, my own Elise! I am happy
now, for the first time, for I have dared to open my heart to you. Dying
men do not fear ridicule. Farewell, Elise--darling-wife! I love you!"
These tender words were his last.
After her husband's death, Madame de Tecle lived with her father-in-law,
but passed much of her time with her uncle. She busied herself with the
greatest solicitude in the education of her daughter, and kept house for
both the old men, by both of whom she was equally idolized.
From the lips of the priest at Reuilly, whom he called on next day,
Camors learned some of these details, while the old man practiced the
violoncello with his heavy spectacles on his nose. Despite his fixed
resolution of preserving universal scorn, Camors could not resist a vague
feeling of respect for Madame de Tecle; but it did not entirely eradicate
the impure sentiment he was disposed to dedicate to her. Fully
determined to make her, if not his victim, at least his ally, he felt
that this enterprise was one of unusual difficulty. But he was
energetic, and did not object to difficulties--especially when they took
such charming shape as in the present instance.
His meditations on this theme occupied him agreeably the rest of that
week, during which time he overlooked his workmen and conferred with his
architect. Besides, his horses, his books, his domestics, and his
journals arrived successively to dispel ennui. Therefore he looked
remarkably well when he jumped out of his dog-cart the ensuing Monday in
front of M. des Rameures's door under the eyes of Madame de Tecle. As
the latter gently stroked with her white hand the black and smoking
shoulder of the thoroughbred Fitz-Aymon, Camors was for the first time
presented to the Comte de Tecle, a quiet, sad, and taciturn old
gentleman. The cure, the subprefect of the district and his wife, the
tax-collector, the family physician, and the tutor completed, as the
journals say, the list of the guests.
During dinner Camors, secretly excited by the immediate vicinity of
Madame de Tecle, essayed to triumph over that hostility that the presence
of a stranger invariably excites in the midst of intimacies which it
disturbs. His calm superiority asserted itself so mildly it was pardoned
for its grace. Without a gayety unbecoming his mourning, he nevertheless
made such lively sallies and such amusing jokes about his first mishaps
at Reuilly as to break up the stiffness of the party. He conversed
pleasantly with each one in turn, and, seeming to take the deepest
interest in his affairs, put him at once at his ease.
He skilfully gave M. des Rameures the opportunity for several happy
quotations; spoke naturally to him of artificial pastures, and
artificially of natural pastures; of breeding and of non-breeding cows;
of Dishley sheep--and of a hundred other matters he had that morning
crammed from an old encyclopaedia and a county almanac.
To Madame de Tecle directly he spoke little, but he did not speak one
word during the dinner that was not meant for her; and his manner to
women was so caressing, yet so chivalric, as to persuade them, even while
pouring out their wine, that he was ready to die for them. The dear
charmers thought him a good, simple fellow, while he was the exact
reverse.
On leaving the table they went out of doors to enjoy the starlight
evening, and M. des Rameures--whose natural hospitality was somewhat
heightened by a goblet of his own excellent wine--said to Camors:
"My dear Count, you eat honestly, you talk admirably, you drink like a
man. On my word, I am disposed to regard you as perfection--as a paragon
of neighbors--if in addition to all the rest you add the crowning one.
Do you love music?"
"Passionately!" answered Camors, with effusion.
"Passionately? Bravo! That is the way one should love everything that
is worth loving. I am delighted, for we make here a troupe of fanatical
melomaniacs, as you will presently perceive. As for myself, I scrape
wildly on the violin, as a simple country amateur--'Orpheus in silvis'.
Do not imagine, however, Monsieur le Comte, that we let the worship of
this sweet art absorb all our faculties--all our time-certainly not.
When you take part in our little reunions, which of course you will do,
you will find we disdain no pursuit worthy of thinking beings. We pass
from music to literature--to science--even to philosophy; but we do this
--I pray you to believe--without pedantry and without leaving the tone of
familiar converse. Sometimes we read verses, but we never make them; we
love the ancients and do not fear the moderns: we only fear those who
would lower the mind and debase the heart. We love the past while we
render justice to the present; and flatter ourselves at not seeing many
things that to you appear beautiful, useful, and true.
"Such are we, my young friend. We call ourselves the 'Colony of
Enthusiasts,' but our malicious neighbors call us the 'Hotel de
Rambouillet.' Envy, you know, is a plant that does not flourish in the
country; but here, by way of exception, we have a few jealous people--
rather bad for them, but of no consequence to us.
"We are an odd set, with the most opposite opinions. For me, I am a
Legitimist; then there is Durocher, my physician and friend, who is a
rabid Republican; Hedouin, the tutor, is a parliamentarian; while
Monsieur our sub-prefect is a devotee to the government, as it is his
duty to be. Our cure is a little Roman--I am Gallican--'et sic ceteris'.
Very well--we all agree wonderfully for two reasons: first, because we
are sincere, which is a very rare thing; and then because all opinions
contain at bottom some truth, and because, with some slight mutual
concessions, all really honest people come very near having the same
opinions.
"Such, my dear Count, are the views that hold in my drawing-room, or
rather in the drawing-room of my niece; for if you would see the divinity
who makes all our happiness--look at her! It is in deference to her good
taste, her good sense, and her moderation, that each of us avoids that
violence and that passion which warps the best intentions. In one word,
to speak truly, it is love that makes our common tie and our mutual
protection. We are all in love with my niece--myself first, of course;
next Durocher, for thirty years; then the subprefect and all the rest of
them.
"You, too, Cure! you know that you are in love with Elise, in all honor
and all good faith, as we all are, and as Monsieur de Camors shall soon
be, if he is not so already--eh, Monsieur le Comte?"
Camors protested, with a sinister smile, that he felt very much inclined
to fulfil the prophecy of his host; and they reentered the dining-room to
find the circle increased by the arrival of several visitors. Some of
these rode, others came on foot from the country-seats around.
M. des Rameures soon seized his violin; while he tuned it, little Marie
seated herself at the piano, and her mother, coming behind her, rested
her hand lightly on her shoulder, as if to beat the measure.
"The music will be nothing new to you," Camors's host said to him. "It
is simply Schubert's Serenade, which we have arranged, or deranged, after
our own fancy; of which you shall judge. My niece sings, and the curate
and I--'Arcades ambo'--respond successively--he on the bass-viol and I on
my Stradivarius. Come, my dear Cure, let us begin--'incipe, Mopse,
prior."
In spite of the masterly execution of the old gentleman and of the
delicate science of the cure, it was Madame de Tecle who appeared to
Camors the most remarkable of the three virtuosi. The calm repose of her
features, and the gentle dignity of her attitude, contrasting with the
passionate swell of her voice, he found most attractive.
In his turn he seated himself at the piano, and played a difficult
accompaniment with real taste; and having a good tenor voice, and a
thorough knowledge of its powers, he exerted them so effectually as to
produce a profound sensation. During the rest of the evening he kept
much in the background in order to observe the company, and was much
astonished thereby. The tone of this little society, as much removed
from vulgar gossip as from affected pedantry, was truly elevated. There
was nothing to remind him of a porter's lodge, as in most provincial
salons; or of the greenroom of a theatre, as in many salons of Paris; nor
yet, as he had feared, of a lecture-room.
There were five or six women--some pretty, all well bred--who, in
adopting the habit of thinking, had not lost the habit of laughing, nor
the desire to please. But they all seemed subject to the same charm; and
that charm was sovereign. Madame de Tecle, half hidden on her sofa, and
seemingly busied with her embroidery, animated all by a glance, softened
all by a word. The glance was inspiring; the word always appropriate.
Her decision on all points they regarded as final--as that of a judge who
sentences, or of a woman who is beloved.
No verses were read that evening, and Camors was not bored. In the
intervals of the music, the conversation touched on the new comedy by
Augier; the last work of Madame Sand; the latest poem of Tennyson; or the
news from America.
"My dear Mopsus," M. des Rameures said to the cure, "you were about to
read us your sermon on superstition last Thursday, when you were
interrupted by that joker who climbed the tree in order to hear you
better. Now is the time to recompense us. Take this seat and we will
all listen to you."
The worthy cure took the seat, unfolded his manuscript, and began his
discourse, which we shall not here report: profiting by the example of
our friend Sterne, not to mingle the sacred with the profane.
The sermon met with general approval, though some persons, M. des
Rameures among them, thought it above the comprehension of the humble
class for whom it was intended. M. de Tecle, however, backed by
republican Durocher, insisted that the intelligence of the people was
underrated; that they were frequently debased by those who pretended to
speak only up to their level--and the passages in dispute were retained.
How they passed from the sermon on superstition to the approaching
marriage of the General, I can not say; but it was only natural after
all, for the whole country, for twenty miles around, was ringing with it.
This theme excited Camors's attention at once, especially when the sub-
prefect intimated with much reserve that the General, busied with his new
surroundings, would probably resign his office as deputy.
"But that would be embarrassing," exclaimed Des Rameures. "Who the deuce
would replace him? I give you warning, Monsieur Prefect, if you intend
imposing on us some Parisian with a flower in his buttonhole, I shall
pack him back to his club--him, his flower, and his buttonhole! You may
set that down for a sure thing--"
"Dear uncle!" said Madame de Tecle, indicating Camors with a glance.
"I understand you, Elise," laughingly rejoined M. des Rameures, "but I
must beg Monsieur de Camors to believe that I do not in any case intend
to offend him. I shall also beg him to tolerate the monomania of an old
man, and some freedom of language with regard to the only subject which
makes him lose his sang froid."
"And what is that subject, Monsieur?" said Camors, with his habitual
captivating grace of manner.
"That subject, Monsieur, is the arrogant supremacy assumed by Paris over
all the rest of France. I have not put my foot in the place since 1825,
in order to testify the abhorrence with which it inspires me. You are an
educated, sensible young man, and, I trust, a good Frenchman. Very well!
Is it right, I ask, that Paris shall every morning send out to us our
ideas ready-made, and that all France shall become a mere humble, servile
faubourg to the capital? Do me the favor, I pray you, Monsieur, to
answer that?"
"There is doubtless, my dear sir," replied Camors, "some excess in this
extreme centralization of France; but all civilized countries must have
their capitals, and a head is just as necessary to a nation as to an
individual."
"Taking your own image, Monsieur, I shall turn it against you. Yes,
doubtless a head is as necessary to a nation as to an individual; if,
however, the head becomes monstrous and deformed, the seat of
intelligence will be turned into that of idiocy, and in place of a man of
intellect, you have a hydrocephalus. Pray give heed to what Monsieur the
Sub-prefect, may say in answer to what I shall ask him. Now, my dear
Sub-prefect, be frank. If tomorrow, the deputation of this district
should become vacant, can you find within its broad limits, or indeed
within the district, a man likely to fill all functions, good and bad?"
"Upon my word," answered the official, "if you continue to refuse the
office, I really know of no one else fit for it."
"I shall persist all my life, Monsieur, for at my age assuredly I shall
not expose myself to the buffoonery of your Parisian jesters."
"Very well! In that event you will be obliged to take some stranger--
perhaps, even one of those Parisian jesters."
"You have heard him, Monsieur de Camors," said M. des Rameures, with
exultation. "This district numbers six hundred thousand souls, and yet
does not contain within it the material for one deputy. There is no
other civilized country, I submit, in which we can find a similar
instance so scandalous. For the people of France this shame is reserved
exclusively, and it is your Paris that has brought it upon us. Paris,
absorbing all the blood, life, thought, and action of the country, has
left a mere geographical skeleton in place of a nation! These are the
benefits of your centralization, since you have pronounced that word,
which is quite as barbarous as the thing itself."
"But pardon me, uncle," said Madame de Tecle, quietly plying her needle,
"I know nothing of these matters, but it seems to me that I have heard
you say this centralization was the work of the Revolution and of the
First Consul. Why, therefore, do you call Monsieur de Camors to account
for it? That certainly does not seem to me just."
"Nor does it seem so to me," said Camors, bowing to Madame de Tecle.
"Nor to me either," rejoined M. des Rameures, smiling.
"However, Madame," resumed Camors, "I may to some extent be held
responsible in this matter, for though, as you justly suggest, I have not
brought about this centralization, yet I confess I strongly approve the
course of those who did."
"Bravo! So much the better, Monsieur. I like that. One should have his
own positive opinions, and defend them."
"Monsieur," said Camors, "I shall make an exception in your honor, for
when I dine out, and especially when I dine well, I always have the same
opinion with my host; but I respect you too highly not to dare to differ
with you. Well, then, I think the revolutionary Assembly, and
subsequently the First Consul, were happily inspired in imposing a
vigorous centralized political administration upon France. I believe,
indeed, that it was indispensable at the time, in order to mold and
harden our social body in its new form, to adjust it in its position, and
fix it firmly under the new laws--that is, to establish and maintain this
powerful French unity which has become our national peculiarity, our
genius and our strength."
"You speak rightly, sir," exclaimed Durocher.
"Parbleu I unquestionably you are right," warmly rejoined M. des
Rameures. "Yes, that is quite true. The excessive centralization of
which I complain has had its hour of utility, nay, even of necessity,
I will admit; but, Monsieur, in what human institution do you pretend to
implant the absolute, the eternal? Feudalism, also, my dear sir, was a
benefit and a progress in its day, but that which was a benefit yesterday
may it not become an evil to-morrow--a danger? That which is progress
to-day, may it not one hundred years hence have become mere routine, and
a downright trammel? Is not that the history of the world? And if you
wish to know, Monsieur, by what sign we may recognize the fact that a
social or political system has attained its end, I will tell you: it is
when it is manifest only in its inconveniences and abuses. Then the
machine has finished its work, and should be replaced. Indeed, I declare
that French centralization has reached its critical term, that fatal
point at which, after protecting, it oppresses; at which, after
vivifying, it paralyzes; at which, having saved France, it crushes her."
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