Lying on the slope between the town of Tours and the heights of Saint-Georges, facing the south, and sheltered by cliffs, Madame de Listomère’s estate combined all the charms of the country with the pleasures of the town. It was not more than a ten-minutes’ drive from the Bridge of Tours to the gate of this house, known as l’Alouette (the Lark)—an immense convenience in a place where no one will disturb himself for any earthly thing, not even in quest of pleasure.
The Abbé Birotteau had been about ten days at l’Alouette, when one morning, at the breakfast hour, the lodge-keeper came to tell him that Monsieur Caron wished to speak with him. Monsieur Caron was a lawyer employed by Mademoiselle Gamard. Birotteau, not remembering this, and conscious of no litigious difficulty to be settled with anybody in the world, left the table, not without some anxiety, to meet the lawyer; he found him sitting modestly on the parapet of a terrace.
“Your intention of remaining no longer as a resident under Mademoiselle Gamard’s roof being now quite evident—” the man of business began.
“Dear me, monsieur,” cried Birotteau, interrupting him, “I never thought of leaving her.”
“And yet, monsieur,” the lawyer went on, “you must certainly have expressed yourself to that effect to Mademoiselle, since she has sent me to inquire whether you intend remaining long in the country. The event of a prolonged absence not having been provided for in your agreement, might give rise to some discussion. Now, as Mademoiselle Gamard understands it, your board—”
“Monsieur,” said Birotteau in surprise, and again interrupting the lawyer, “I did not think it could be necessary to take steps, almost legal in their nature, to—”
“Mademoiselle Gamard, wishing to preclude any difficulty,” said Monsieur Caron, “has sent me to come to an understanding with you.”
“Very well, if you will be so obliging as to call again tomorrow, I, on my part, will have taken advice.”
“So be it,” said Caron with a bow.
The scrivener withdrew. The hapless priest, appalled by the pertinacity of Mademoiselle Gamard’s persecution, went back to Madame de Listomère’s dining-room looking quite upset. At his mere appearance everyone asked him, “Why, Monsieur Birotteau, what is the matter?”
The Abbé, greatly distressed, sat down without answering, so overwhelmed was he by the vague vision of his misfortune. But after breakfast, when several of his friends had gathered round a good fire in the drawing-room, Birotteau artlessly told them the tale of his catastrophe. The hearers, who were just beginning to be bored by their stay in the country, were deeply interested in an intrigue so completely in keeping with provincial life. Everybody took the Abbé’s part against the old maid.
“Why!” cried Madame de Listomère, “do you not plainly see that the Abbé Troubert wants your rooms?”
In this place the historian would have a right to sketch this lady’s portrait; but it occurs to him that even those persons to whom Sterne’s cognomology is unknown could surely not utter the three words Madame de Listomère without seeing her—noble and dignified, tempering the austerity of piety by the antique elegance of monarchical and classic manners and polite distinction; kind, but a little formal; speaking slightly through her nose; allowing herself to read la Nouvelle Héloïse, and to go to the play; still wearing her own hair.
“The Abbé Birotteau must certainly not yield to that nagging old woman!” cried Monsieur de Listomère, a lieutenant in the navy, spending a holiday with his aunt. “If the Abbé has any courage, and will follow my advice, he will soon have recovered his peace of mind.”
In short, everybody began to analyze Mademoiselle Gamard’s proceedings with the acumen peculiar to provincials, who, it certainly cannot be denied, possess the talent of laying bare the most secret human actions.
“You have not hit the mark,” said an old landowner who knew the country. “There is something very serious under this which I have not yet mastered. The Abbé Troubert is far too deep to be so easily seen through. Our good friend Birotteau is only at the beginning of his troubles. In the first place, would he be happy and left in peace even if he gave up his rooms to Troubert? I doubt it.—If Caron came to tell you,” he went on, turning to the puzzled Abbé, “that you had intended to leave Mademoiselle Gamard, with the object of getting you out of her house. … Well, you will have to go, willy nilly. That kind of man never risks a chance; they only play when they hold the trumps.”
This old gentleman, a certain Monsieur de Bourbonne, epitomized provincial ideas as completely as Voltaire epitomized the spirit of his time. This withered little old man professed in matters of dress all the indifference of a proprietor whose estate has a quotable value in the department. His countenance, tanned by the sun of Touraine, was shrewd rather than clever. He was accustomed to weigh his words, to consider his actions, and he concealed his deep caution under a delusive bluntness. The very least observation was enough to discover that, like a Norman peasant, he would get the advantage in every stroke of business. He was great in oenology—the favorite science of the Tourangeaux. He had managed to extend the circle of one of his estates by taking in the alluvial land of the Loire without getting into a lawsuit with the State. This achievement had established his reputation as a clever man. If, charmed by Monsieur de Bourbonne’s conversation, you had asked his biography of one of his fellow-provincials, “Oh! he is a cunning old fox,” would have been the proverbial reply of all who envied him, and they were many. In Touraine, as in most provinces, jealousy lies at the base of the tongue.
Monsieur
