So do not despair, madame; you still have friends, among whom I beg to be accounted one of the sincerest, and I send you my best wishes with every respect.—From your very devoted servant,
Portenduère, August 1829.
To Madame de Portenduère.
My Dear Aunt—I am as much vexed as pained by Savinien’s scapegrace doings. Married, as I am, the father of two sons and a daughter, my fortune, moderate indeed in comparison with my position and expectations, does not allow of my reducing it by such a sum as a hundred thousand francs to ransom a Portenduère captive to the Lombards. Sell your farm, pay his debts, and come to Portenduère; you will here find the welcome due to you from us, even if our hearts were not wholly yours. You will live happy, and we will find a wife for Savinien, whom my wife thinks charming. This disaster is nothing; do not let it distress you; it will never be heard of in our remote district, where we know several girls with money—nay, very rich—who will be enchanted to belong to us.
My wife joins me in assuring you how happy you would make us, and begs you to accept her hopes that this plan may be carried out, with the assurance of our affectionate respect.
“What letters to write to a Kergarouët!” cried the old Bretonne, wiping her eyes.
“The admiral does not know that his nephew is in prison,” said the Abbé Chaperon presently. “Only the Countess has read your letter, and she alone has answered it. But something must be done,” he added after a pause, “and this is the advice I have the honor to offer you. Do not sell your farm. The present lease is nearly out; it has been running four-and-twenty years; in a few months you can raise the rent to six thousand francs, and demand a premium equal to two years’ rent. Borrow from some honest man—not from the townspeople, who make a traffic of mortgages. Your neighbor, now, is a worthy man, a man of the world, who knew the upper classes before the Revolution, and who from being an Atheist has become a Catholic. Do not feel any repugnance for coming to call on him this evening; he will be deeply sensible of your taking such a step; forget for one moment that you are a Kergarouët.”
“Never!” said the old mother in a strident tone.
“At any rate, be an amiable Kergarouët. Come when he is alone; he will only take three-and-a-half percent, perhaps not more than three, and he will do you the service in the most delicate manner. You will be quite satisfied with him. He will go himself to release Savinien, for he will be obliged to sell some securities, and he will bring him home to you.”
“Do you mean that little Minoret?”
“Little Minoret is eighty-three years of age,” replied the Abbé with a smile. “My dear lady, have a little Christian charity; do not hurt his feelings, he may be useful to you in more ways than one.”
“How, may I ask?”
“Well, he has living with him an angel, the heavenliest young girl—”
“Yes, that little Ursule.—Well, and what then?”
The poor curé dared say no more as he heard this.
“Well, what then?” Its harsh severity cut short beforehand the proposal he had been about to make.
“Doctor Minoret is, I believe, exceedingly rich—”
“So much the better for him.”
“You have already been the indirect cause of your son’s present misfortunes by giving him no opening in life. Beware for the future,” said the Abbé sternly. “Shall I announce your proposed visit to your neighbor?”
“But why, if he were told that I want him, should he not come to me?”
“Well, madame, if you go to him, you will pay three percent, and if he comes to you, you will pay five,” said the Abbé, hitting on this argument to persuade the old lady. “And if you should be forced to sell your farm through Dionis the notary, or Massin the clerk, who would refuse to advance money in the hope of profiting by your disaster, you would lose half the value of Les Bordières. I have not the smallest influence over the Dionis, the Massins, the Levraults, rich country folks who covet your farm, and know that your son is in prison.”
“They know it I They know it!” she cried, throwing up her hands.—“Oh, my poor friend, you have let your coffee get cold.—Tiennette! Tiennette!”
Tiennette, an old Brittany peasant of sixty, in the jacket and cap of her province, hastened in and took the curé’s coffee to heat it again.
“Wait a minute. Monsieur le Recteur,” said she, seeing that the curé was about to drink it. “I will heat it in a bain-marie, and it will be none the worse.”
“Very well, then,” the priest began again, in his persuasive voice, “I will give the doctor notice of your intended visit, and you will come.”
The old lady still would not give in till at the end of an hour’s discussion, during which the curé was forced to repeat his arguments ten times over. And even then the haughty daughter of the Kergarouëts only yielded to these last words:
“Savinien would go!”
“Then it had better be I,” said she.
Nine o’clock was striking when the little door in the great gate closed behind the curé, who forthwith rang eagerly at the doctor’s entrance. The Abbé Chaperon escaped Tiennette to fall on La Bougival, for the old nurse said to
