“All women, madame, have esprit when you know them well.”
When the Homeric laughter subsided. Mlle. Cormon asked for an explanation of her success. Then the chorus of scandal grew to a height. Du Bousquier was transformed into a bachelor Père Gigogne; it was he who filled the Foundling Hospital; the immorality of his life was laid bare at last; it was all of a piece with his Paris orgies, and so forth and so forth. Led by the Chevalier de Valois, the cleverest of conductors of this kind of orchestra, the overture was something magnificent.
“I do not know,” said he, with much indulgence, “what there could possibly be to prevent a du Bousquier from marrying a Mademoiselle Suzanne whatever-it-is—what do you call her?—Suzette! I only know the children by sight, though I lodge with Mme. Lardot. If this Suzon is a tall, fine-looking forward sort of girl with gray eyes, a slender figure, and little feet—I have not paid much attention to these things, but she seemed to me to be very insolent and very much du Bousquier’s superior in the matter of manners. Besides, Suzanne has the nobility of beauty; from that point of view, she would certainly make a marriage beneath her. The Emperor Joseph, you know, had the curiosity to go to see the du Barry at Luciennes. He offered her his arm; and when the poor courtesan, overcome by such an honor, hesitated to take it, ‘Beauty is always a queen,’ said the Emperor. Remark that the Emperor Joseph was an Austrian German,” added the Chevalier; “but, believe me, that Germany, which we think of as a very boorish country, is really a land of noble chivalry and fine manners, especially towards Poland and Hungary, where there are—” Here the Chevalier broke off, fearing to make an allusion to his own happy fortune in the past; he only took up his snuffbox and confided the rest to the Princess, who had smiled on him for thirty-six years.
“The speech was delicately considerate for Louis XV,” said du Ronceret.
“But we are talking of the Emperor Joseph, I believe,” returned Mlle. Cormon, with a little knowing air.
“Mademoiselle,” said the Chevalier, seeing the wicked glances exchanged by the President, the registrar, and the notary, “Mme. du Barry was Louis Quinze’s Suzanne, a fact known well enough to us scapegraces, but which young ladies are not expected to know. Your ignorance shows that the diamond is flawless. The corruptions of history have not so much as touched you.”
At this the Abbé de Sponde looked graciously upon M. de Valois and bent his head in laudatory approval.
“Do you not know history, mademoiselle?” asked the registrar.
“If you muddle up Louis XV and Suzanne, how can you expect me to know your history?” was Mlle. Cormon’s angelic reply. She was so pleased! The dish was empty and the conversation revived to such purpose that everybody was laughing with their mouths full at her last observation.
“Poor young thing!” said the Abbé de Sponde. “When once trouble comes, that love grown divine called charity is as blind as the pagan love, and should see nothing of the causes of the trouble. You are President of the Maternity Society, Rose; this child will need help; it will not be easy for her to find a husband.”
“Poor child!” said Mlle. Cormon.
“Is du Bousquier going to marry her, do you suppose?” asked the President of the Tribunal.
“It would be his duty to do so if he were a decent man,’ ” said Mme. Granson; “but, really, my dog has better notions of decency—”
“And yet Azor is a great forager,” put in the registrar, trying a joke this time as a change from a pun.
They were still talking of du Bousquier over the dessert. He was the butt of uncounted playful jests, which grew more and more thunder-charged under the influence of wine. Led off by the registrar, they followed up one pun with another. Du Bousquier’s character was now apparent; he was not a father of the church, nor a reverend father, nor yet a conscript father, and so on and so on, till the Abbé de Sponde said, “In any case, he is not a foster-father,” with a gravity that checked the laughter.
“Not a heavy father,” added the Chevalier.
The Church and the aristocracy had descended into the arena of wordplay without loss of dignity.
“Hush!” said the registrar, “I can hear du Bousquier’s boots creaking; he is in overshoes over boots, and no mistake.”
It nearly always happens that when a man’s name is in everyone’s mouth, he is the last to hear what is said of him; the whole town may be talking of him, slandering him or crying him down, and if he has no friends to repeat what other people say of him, he is not likely to hear it. So the blameless du Bousquier, du Bousquier who would fain have been guilty, who wished that Suzanne had not lied to him, was supremely unconscious of all that was taking place. Nobody had spoken to him of Suzanne’s revelations; for that matter, everybody thought it indiscreet to ask questions about the affair, when the man most concerned sometimes possesses secrets which compel him to keep silence. So when people adjourned for coffee to the drawing-room, where several evening visitors were already assembled, du Bousquier wore an irresistible and slightly fatuous air.
Mlle. Cormon, counseled by confusion, dared not look towards the terrible seducer. She took possession of Athanase and administered a lecture, bringing out the oddest assortment of the commonplaces of Royalist doctrines and edifying truisms. As the unlucky poet had no snuffbox with a portrait of a princess on the lid to sustain him under the shower-bath of foolish utterances, it was with a vacant expression that he heard his adored lady. His eyes were fixed on that enormous bust, which maintained the absolute repose characteristic of great masses. Desire wrought a kind of intoxication in him. The old maid’s
