At the time of his daughter’s marriage to a Borniche—she was since dead—it was necessary to give a dinner to the Borniche family. The bridegroom, who expected to inherit a fine fortune, died soon after of grief at having failed in business, and yet more at his father’s and mother’s refusal to help him. These old Bomiches were still living, delighted to have seen Monsieur Hochon take the guardianship of his grandchildren on account of his daughter’s settlement, which he had succeeded in saving.
On the day when the marriage contract was to be signed, all the relations of both families had assembled in the drawing-room—the Hochons on one side, and the Borniches on the other, all in their Sunday best. In the midst of reading the contract, very solemnly performed by young Héron the notary, the cook came in and asked Monsieur Hochon for some packthread to truss the turkey—an important item in the bill of fare. The old tax-collector pulled out of the depths of his coat-pocket an end of string, which had, no doubt, tied up some parcel, and gave it to her; but before the woman had reached the door, he called out, “Gritte, let me have it back!” Gritte is a local abbreviation of Marguerite.
This will enable you to understand Monsieur Hochon, and the joke perpetrated by the town on the name of the family, consisting of the father, mother, and three children—les cinq cochons, the five pigs.
As years went by old Hochon became more and more niggardly and careful, and he was now eighty-five years of age. He was one of those who will stoop in the street, in the midst of an animated conversation, to pick up a pin, saying, “That is a woman’s wage!” and stick it into his coat cuff. He complained bitterly of the inferior quality of cloth nowadays, remarking that his coat had lasted only ten years. Tall, lean, and bony, with a yellow complexion, speaking little, reading little, never fatiguing himself, as ceremonious as an Oriental, he maintained a rule of strict sobriety in his household, doling out food and drink to his fairly numerous family, consisting of his wife née Lousteau, of his grandson Baruch and granddaughter Adolphine, the heirs of the old Borniches, and of his other grandson, François Hochon.
His eldest son, caught for the army in 1813 by the levy of men of respectable birth who escaped the conscription, and who were enrolled under the name of guards of honor, was killed at the battle of Hanau. The heir-presumptive had married, very young, a rich woman, hoping thus to evade any call to arms; but then he ran through all his money, foreseeing the end. His wife, who followed the French army at a distance, died at Strasbourg in 1814, leaving debts which old Hochon would not pay, quoting to the creditors the axiom of a past code, “Women are minors.”
So folks could still say les cinq Hochons, since the household consisted of three grandchildren and two grandparents; and the jest still survived, for in the country no jest grows too stale. Gritte, now sixty years old, managed all the work of the house.
The house, though spacious, was scantily furnished. However, Madame Bridau could be very decently lodged in two rooms on the second floor. Old Hochon now repented of having kept two beds in these rooms, and belonging to each an old armchair in unvarnished wood, with a worsted-work seat, and a walnut wood table, on which stood a wide-mouthed water jug in a basin edged with blue. The old man kept his apples and winter pears, his quinces and medlars, on straw in these two rooms, where the rats and mice had a high time, and there was a strong flavor of fruit and mice. Madame Hochon had everything cleaned; the paper, where it had fallen from the walls, was stuck on again with wafers; she furnished the windows with muslin blinds cut out of some old skirts of her own. Then, when her husband refused to buy two little list rugs, she placed her own bedside rug for her little Agathe, talking of this mother of past seven-and-forty as “Poor child!”
Madame Hochon borrowed two bed-tables from the Borniches, and most daringly hired from a secondhand shop two old chests of drawers with brass handles. She possessed two pairs of candlesticks, made of some scarce wood by her father, who had had a passion for turning. From 1770 to 1780 it had been the fashion among rich people to learn a trade; and Monsieur Lousteau the elder, head commissioner of subsidies, was a turner, as Louis XVI was a locksmith. These candlesticks were decorated with rings in brier-root, peach, and apricot wood. Madame Hochon risked these precious relics!
All these preparations and this great sacrifice added to Monsieur Hochon’s serious mien; he did not yet believe that the Bridaus would come.
On the very morning of the day made famous by the trick played on Fario, Madame Hochon said to her husband after breakfast:
“I hope, Hochon, that you will make Madame Bridau, my goddaughter, properly welcome.” Then, after assuring herself that her grandchildren had left the room, she added: “I am mistress of my own fortune; do not compel me to indemnify Agathe by my will for an unpleasant reception.”
“And do you suppose, madame,” said Hochon gently, “that at my age I do not know how to behave with decent civility.”
“You know very well what I mean, old fox! Be kind to our guests, and remember how truly I love Agathe—”
“Yes, and
