There was another pause, during which Lousteau turned away, took out his handkerchief, and seemed to wipe away a tear.
“How much do you want, Étienne,” she went on in motherly tones. “We are at this moment old comrades; speak to me as you would to—to Bixiou.”
“To save my furniture from vanishing into thin air tomorrow morning at the auction mart, eighteen hundred francs! To repay my friends, as much again! Three quarters’ rent to the landlord—whom you know.—My ‘uncle’ wants five hundred francs—”
“And you!—to live on?”
“Oh! I have my pen—”
“It is heavier to lift than anyone could believe who reads your articles,” said she, with a subtle smile.—“I have not such a sum as you need, but come tomorrow at eight; the bailiff will surely wait till nine, especially if you bring him away to pay him.”
She must, she felt, dismiss Lousteau, who affected to be unable to look at her; she herself felt such pity as might cut every social Gordian knot.
“Thank you,” she added, rising and offering her hand to Lousteau. “Your confidence has done me good! It is long indeed since my heart has known such joy—”
Lousteau took her hand and pressed it tenderly to his heart.
“A drop of water in the desert—and sent by the hand of an angel! God always does things handsomely!”
He spoke half in jest and half pathetically; but, believe me, as a piece of acting it was as fine as Talma’s in his famous part of Leicester, which was played throughout with touches of this kind. Dinah felt his heart beating through his coat; it was throbbing with satisfaction, for the journalist had had a narrow escape from the hulks of justice; but it also beat with a very natural fire at seeing Dinah rejuvenescent and restored by wealth.
Madame de la Baudraye, stealing an examining glance at Étienne, saw that his expression was in harmony with the flowers of love, which, as she thought, had blossomed again in that throbbing heart; she tried to look once into the eyes of the man she had loved so well, but the seething blood rushed through her veins and mounted to her brain. Their eyes met with the same fiery glow as had encouraged Lousteau on the Quay by the Loire to crumple Dinah’s muslin gown. The Bohemian put his arm round her waist, she yielded, and their cheeks were touching.
“Here comes my mother, hide!” cried Dinah in alarm. And she hurried forward to intercept Madame Piédefer.
“Mamma,” said she—this word was to the stern old lady a coaxing expression which never failed of its effect—“will you do me a great favor? Take the carriage and go yourself to my banker, Monsieur Mongenod, with a note I will give you, and bring back six thousand francs. Come, come—it is an act of charity; come into my room.”
And she dragged away her mother, who seemed very anxious to see who it was that her daughter had been talking with in the boudoir.
Two days afterwards, Madame Piédefer held a conference with the curé of the parish. After listening to the lamentations of the old mother, who was in despair, the priest said very gravely:
“Any moral regeneration which is not based on a strong religious sentiment, and carried out in the bosom of the Church, is built on sand.—The many means of grace enjoined by the Catholic religion, small as they are, and not understood, are so many dams necessary to restrain the violence of evil promptings. Persuade your daughter to perform all her religious duties, and we shall save her yet.”
Within ten days of this meeting the Hôtel de la Baudraye was shut up. The Countess, the children, and her mother, in short, the whole household, including a tutor, had gone away to Sancerre, where Dinah intended to spend the summer. She was everything that was nice to the Count, people said.
And so the Muse of Sancerre had simply come back to family and married life; but certain evil tongues declared that she had been compelled to come back, for that the little peer’s wishes would no doubt be fulfilled—he hoped for a little girl.
Gatien and Monsieur Gravier lavished every care, every servile attention on the handsome Countess. Gatien, who during Madame de la Baudraye’s long absence had been to Paris to learn the art of lionnerie or dandyism, was supposed to have a good chance of finding favor in the eyes of the disenchanted “Superior Woman.” Others bet on the tutor; Madame Piédefer urged the claims of religion.
In 1844, about the middle of June, as the Comte de la Baudraye was taking a walk on the Mall at Sancerre with the two fine little boys, he met Monsieur Milaud, the Public Prosecutor, who was at Sancerre on business, and said to him:
“These are my children, cousin.”
“Ah, ha! so these are our children!” replied the lawyer, with a mischievous twinkle.
Endnotes
-
The name of an Elegy written by Millevoye. ↩
-
The rendering given above is only intended to link the various speeches into coherence; it has no resemblance with the French. In the original,
“Font chatoyer les mots.”
“Et quelquefois les morts,” dit Monsieur de Clagny.
“Ah! Lousteau! vous vous donnez de ces R-là (airs-là).”
Literally: “And sometimes the dead.”—“Ah, are those the airs you assume?”—the play on the insertion of the letter R (mots, morts) has no meaning in English. ↩
Colophon
Parisians in the Country
was published in 1842 by
Honoré de Balzac.
It was translated from French in 1901 by
Ellen Marriage.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Vince Rice,
and is based on a transcription produced in 1999 by
John Bickers, Dagny, and David Widger
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.
The cover page is adapted from
The Village of La Celle-sous-Moret,
a painting completed circa 1875 by
Eugène Lavieille.
The cover and title pages feature
