“It is quite possible,” said he. The company pricked up their ears.
“The fault lies with the naturalists,” he continued; “they have not found out how to breed mares that are less than eleven months in foal.”
Poor Mlle. Cormon no more understood the meaning of the words than the difference between the ox and the bull. The Chevalier met with no gratitude for his pains; his chivalrous services were beyond the reach of the lady’s comprehension. She saw that the conversation grew livelier; she was relieved to find that she was not so stupid as she imagined. A day came at last when she settled down in her ignorance, like the Duc de Brancas; and the hero of Le Distrait, it may be remembered, made himself so comfortable in the ditch after his fall, that when the people came to pull him out, he asked what they wanted with him. Since a somewhat recent period Mlle. Cormon had lost her fears. She brought out her conversational cues with a self-possession akin to that solemn manner—the very coxcombry of stupidity—which accompanies the fatuous utterances of British patriotism.
As she went with stately steps towards the terrace therefore, she was chewing the cud of reflection, seeking for some question which should draw her uncle out of a silence which always hurt her feelings; she thought that he felt dull.
“Uncle,” she began, hanging on his arm, and nestling joyously close to him (for this was another of her make-believes, “If I had a husband, I should do just so!” she thought)—“Uncle, if everything on earth happens by the will of God, there must be a reason for everything.”
“Assuredly,” the Abbé de Sponde answered gravely. He loved his niece, and submitted with angelic patience to be torn from his meditations.
“Then if I never marry at all, it will be because it is the will of God?”
“Yes, my child.”
“But still, as there is nothing to prevent me from marrying tomorrow, my will perhaps might thwart the will of God?”
“That might be so, if we really knew God’s will,” returned the sub-prior of the Sorbonne. “Remark, my dear, that you insert an if.”
Poor Rose was bewildered. She had hoped to lead her uncle to the subject of marriage by way of an argument ad omnipotentem. But the naturally obtuse are wont to adopt the remorseless logic of childhood, which is to say, they proceed from the answer to another question, a method frequently found embarrassing.
“But, uncle,” she persisted, “God cannot mean women never to marry; for if He did, all of them ought to be either unmarried or married. Their lots are distributed unjustly.”
“My child,” said the good Abbé, “you are finding fault with the Church, which teaches that celibacy is a more excellent way to God.”
“But if the Church was right, and everybody was a good Catholic, there would soon be no more people, uncle.”
“You are too ingenious. Rose; there is no need to be so ingenious to be happy.”
Such words brought a smile of satisfaction to poor Rose’s lips and confirmed her in the good opinion which she began to conceive of herself. Behold how the world, like our friends and enemies, contributes to strengthen our faults. At this moment guests began to arrive, and the conversation was interrupted. On these high festival occasions, the disposition of the rooms brought about little familiarities between the servants and invited guests. Mariette saw the President of the Tribunal, a triple expansion glutton, as he passed by her kitchen.
“Oh, M. du Ronceret, I have been making cauliflower au gratin on purpose for you, for mademoiselle knows how fond you are of it. ‘Mind you do not fail with it, Mariette,’ she said; ‘M. le Président is coming.’ ”
“Good Mlle. Cormon,” returned the man of law. “Mariette, did you baste the cauliflowers with gravy instead of stock? It is more savory.” And the President did not disdain to enter the council-chamber where Mariette ruled the roast, nor to cast an epicure’s eye over her preparations, and give his opinion as a master of the craft.
“Good day, madame,” said Josette, addressing Mme. Grancon, who sedulously cultivated the waiting-woman. “Mademoiselle has not forgotten you; you are to have a dish of fish.”
As for the Chevalier de Valois, he spoke to Mariette with the jocularity of a great noble unbending to an inferior:
“Well, dear cordon bleu, I would give you the Cross of the Legion of Honor if I could; tell me, is there any dainty morsel for which one ought to save oneself?”
“Yes, yes, M. de Valois, a hare from the Prébaudet; it weighed fourteen pounds!”
“That’s a good girl,” said the Chevalier, patting Josette on the cheek with two fingers. “Ah! weighs fourteen pounds, does it?”
Du Bousquier was not of the party. Mlle. Cormon treated him hardly, faithful to her system before described. In the very bottom of her heart she felt an inexplicable drawing towards this man of fifty, whom she had once refused. Sometimes she repented of that refusal, and yet she had a presentiment that she should marry him after all, and a dread of him which forbade her to wish for the marriage. These ideas stimulated her interest in du Bousquier. The Republican’s herculean proportions produced an effect upon her which she would not admit to herself; and the Chevalier de Valois
