“Oh!” exclaimed the Baroness, “the tip of Monsieur le Curé’s nose has turned pale, he must have mistigris!”
The joy of having mistigris was so great to the Curé, as to all the players, that the poor priest could not disguise it. There is in each human face some spot where every secret motion of the heart betrays itself; and these good people, accustomed to watch each other, had, after the lapse of years, discovered the weak place in the Curé—when he had mistigris the tip of his nose turned white. Then they all took care not to play.
“You have had visitors today?” said the Chevalier to Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël.
“Yes; one of my brother-in-law’s cousins. He surprised me by telling me of the intended marriage of Madame la Comtesse de Kergarouët, a demoiselle de Fontaine—”
“A daughter of Grand-Jacques!” exclaimed du Halga, who during his stay in Paris had never left his Admiral’s side.
“The Countess inherits everything; she has married a man who was ambassador.—He told me the most extraordinary things about our neighbor, Mademoiselle des Touches; so extraordinary, that I will not believe them. Calyste could never be so attentive to her; he has surely enough good sense to perceive such monstrosities.”
“Monstrosities!” said the Baron, roused by the word.
The Baroness and the priest looked meaningly at each other. The cards were dealt. Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël had mistigris; she did not want to continue the conversation, but was glad to cover her delight under the general amazement caused by this word.
“It is your turn to lead, Monsieur le Baron,” said she, bridling.
“My nephew is not one of those young men who like monstrosities,” said Zéphirine, poking her knitting-pin through her hair.
“Mistigris!” cried Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, without answering her friend.
The Curé, who appeared fully informed as to all that concerned Calyste and Mademoiselle des Touches, did not enter the lists.
“What does she do that is so extraordinary, this Mademoiselle des Touches?” asked the Baron.
“She smokes,” said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël.
“It is very wholesome,” said the Chevalier.
“Her bacon?” asked the Baron.
“Her bacon! She does not save it,” retorted the old maid.
“Everyone played, and everyone is looed; I have the king, queen, and knave of trumps, mistigris, and a king,” said the Baroness. “The pool is ours, sister.”
This stroke, won without play, overwhelmed Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, who thought no more of Calyste and Mademoiselle des Touches. At nine o’clock no one remained in the room but the Baroness and the Curé. The four old people had gone away and to bed.
The Chevalier, as usual, escorted Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël to her own house in the Market Place, making remarks on the skill of the last player, on their good or ill luck, or on the ever-new glee with which Mademoiselle Zéphirine’s pocket engulfed her winnings, for the old blind woman made no attempt now to disguise the expression of her sentiments in her face. Madame du Guénic’s absence of mind was their subject tonight. The Chevalier had observed the charming Irishwoman’s inattention to the game. On the doorstep, when her boy had gone upstairs, the old lady replied in confidence to the Chevalier’s guesses as to the Baroness’ strange manner by these words, big with importance:
“I know the reason; Calyste is done for if he is not soon married. He is in love with Mademoiselle des Touches—an actress!”
“In that case, send for Charlotte.”
“My sister shall hear from me tomorrow,” said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, bidding him good night.
From this study of a normal evening, the commotion may be imagined that was produced in the home circles of Guérande by the arrival, the stay, the departure, or even the passing through of a stranger.
When not a sound was audible in the Baron’s room or in his sister’s, Madame du Guénic turned to the priest, who was pensively playing with the counters.
“I see that you at last share my uneasiness about Calyste,” she said.
“Did you notice Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël’s prim air this evening?” asked he.
“Yes,” replied the Baroness.
“She has, I know, the very best intentions towards our dear Calyste; she loves him as if he were her son; and his conduct in la Vendée at his father’s side, with Madame’s praise of his devoted behavior, has added to the affection Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël feels for him. She will endow either of her nieces whom Calyste may marry with all her fortune by deed of gift.
“You have, I know, in Ireland, a far richer match for your beloved boy; but it is well to have two strings to one’s bow. In the event of your family not choosing to undertake to settle anything on Calyste, Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoëls fortune is not to be despised. You could, no doubt, find your son a wife with seven thousand francs a year, but not the savings of forty years, nor lands managed, tilled, and kept up as Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoëls are. That wicked woman, Mademoiselle des Touches, has come to spoil everything. We have at last found out something about her.”
“Well?” asked the mother.
“Oh, she is a slut, a baggage,” exclaimed the Curé. “A woman of doubtful habits, always hanging about the theatres in the company of actors and actresses, squandering her fortune with journalists, painters, musicians—the devil’s own, in short! When she writes, she uses a different name in her books, and is better known by that, it is said, than by that of des Touches. A perfect imp, who has never been inside a church since her first communion, excepting to stare at statues or pictures. She has spent her fortune in decorating les Touches in the most improper manner to make it a sort of Muhammad’s Paradise, where the houris are not women. There is more good wine drunk there while she is in the place than in all Guérande besides in a year. Last year the Demoiselles Bougniol had
