“My dear Abbé,” said she, pointing to an armchair, and speaking in a low tone, “I require the authority of your experience before I embark on a rather nasty intrigue, from which, however, I hope for a good result; I wish to learn from you whether I shall find the way of salvation very thorny in consequence.”
“Madame la Duchesse,” said the Abbé Brossette, “do not mix up spiritual and wordly matters; they are often irreconcilable.—In the first place, what is this business?”
“My daughter Sabine, you know, is dying of grief. Monsieur du Guénic neglects her for Madame de Rochefide.”
“It is terrible—a very serious matter; but you know what the beloved Saint-François de Sales says of such a case. And remember Madame de Guyon, who bewailed the lack of mysticism in the proofs of conjugal love; she would have been only too glad to find a Madame de Rochefide for her husband.”
“Sabine is only too meek, she is only too completely the Christian wife; but she has not the smallest taste for mysticism.”
“Poor young thing!” said the curé slyly. “And what is your plan for remedying the mischief?”
“I have been so sinful, my dear Director, as to think that I might let loose at her a smart little gentleman, wilful, and stocked with evil characteristics, who will certainly get my son-in-law out of the way.”
“Daughter,” said he, stroking his chin, “we are not in the tribunal of the repentant; I need not speak as your judge. —From a wordly point of view, I confess it would be final—”
“Such a proceeding strikes me as truly odious!” she put in.
“And why? It is, no doubt, far more the part of a Christian to snatch a woman from her evil ways than to push her forward in them; still, when she has already gone so far as Madame de Rochefide, it is not the hand of man, but the hand of God, that can rescue the sinner. She needs a special sign from Heaven.”
“Thank you, Father, for your indulgence,” said the Duchess. ‘But we must remember that my son-in-law is brave, and a Breton; he was heroic at the time of that poor Madame’s attempted rising. Now if the young scapegrace who should undertake to charm Madame de Rochefide were to fall out with Calyste, and a duel should ensue—”
“There, Madame la Duchesse, you show your wisdom; this proves that in such devious courses we always find some stumbling-block.”
“But I hit upon a means, my dear Abbé, of doing good, of rescuing Madame de Rochefide from the fatal path she is following, of bringing Calyste back to his wife, and of saving a poor wandering soul perhaps from hell—”
“But, then, why consult me?” said the curé, smiling.
“Well,” said the Duchess, “I should have to do some ugly things—”
“You do not mean to rob anyone?”
“On the contrary, I shall probably spend a good deal of money.”
“You will not slander anybody, nor—”
“Oh!”
“Nor do any injury to your neighbor?”
“Well, well, I cannot answer for that.”
“Let us hear this new plan,” said the curé, really curious.
“If, instead of driving one nail out by another, thought I, as I knelt on my prie-Dieu, after beseeching the Blessed Virgin to guide me, I were to get Monsieur de Rochefide to take back his wife and pack off Calyste—then, instead of abetting evil to do good, I should be doing a good action through another by means of a no less good deed of my own—” The priest looked at the lady, and seemed thoughtful.
“The idea has evidently come to you from so far that—”
“Yes,” said the simple and humble-minded woman, “and I have thanked the Virgin.—And I vowed that besides paying for a neuvaine, I would give twelve hundred francs to some poor family if I should succeed. But when I spoke of the matter to Monsieur de Grandlieu, he burst out laughing, and said—‘I really believe that at your time of life you women have a special devil all to yourselves.’ ”
“Monsieur le Duc said, in a husband’s fashion, just what I was about to observe when you interrupted me,” replied the Abbé, who could not help smiling.
“Oh, Father, if you approve of the plan, will you approve of the method of execution? The point will be to do with a certain Madame Schontz—a Béatrix of the Saint-Georges quarter—what I had intended to do with Béatrix; the Marquis will then return to his wife.”
“I am sure you will do no wrong,” said the Abbé dexterously, not choosing to know more, as he thought the result necessary. “And you can consult me if your conscience makes itself heard,” he added. “Supposing that instead of affording the lady in the Rue Saint-Georges some fresh occasion of misconduct, you were to find her a husband?—”
“Ah, my dear Director, you have set right the only bad feature of my scheme. You are worthy to be an archbishop, and I hope to live to address you as your Eminence.”
“In all this, I see but one hitch,” the priest went on.
“And what is that?”
“Madame de Rochefide might keep your son-in-law even if she returned to her husband?”
“That is my affair,” said the Duchess. “We, who so rarely intrigue, when we do—”
“Do it badly, very badly,” said the Abbé. “Practice is needed for everything. Try to annex one of the rascally race who live on intrigue, and employ him without betraying yourself.”
“Oh! Monsieur le Curé, but if we have recourse to hell, will heaven be on our side?”
“You are not in the confessional,” replied the Abbé; “save your child.”
The good Duchess, delighted with the keeper of her conscience, escorted him as far as the drawing-room door.
A storm, it will be seen, was gathering over Monsieur de Rochefide, who, at this time, was enjoying the greatest share of happiness that a Parisian need desire, finding himself quite as much the master in Madame Schontz’s house as in his wife’s; as the Duke had
