The Jealousies of a Country Town

Very early one Tuesday morning in the middle of spring in the year ’ (to use his own expression), the Chevalier was just slipping on his dressing-gown, an old-fashioned green silk damask of a flowered pattern, when, in spite of the cotton in his ears, he heard a girl’s light footstep on the stairs. In another moment someone tapped discreetly three times on the door, and then, without waiting for an answer, a very handsome damsel slipped like a snake into the old bachelor’s apartment.

“Ah, Suzanne, is that you?” said the Chevalier de Valois, continuing to strop his razor. “What are you here for, deal little jewel of mischief?”

“I have come to tell you something which perhaps will give you as much pleasure as annoyance.”

“Is it something about Césarine?”

“Much I trouble myself about your Césarine,” pouted she, half careless, half in earnest.

“Here I am!” said Suzanne, sitting down on the bed; the curtain-rings grated along the rods as she swept them sharply back with an imperious gesture.

“Quésaco, my charmer?” asked du Bousquier, sitting upright.

“Monsieur,” Suzanne began, with much gravity, “you must be surprised to see me come in this way; but, under the circumstances, it is no use my minding what people will say.”

“What is all this about?” asked du Bousquier, folding his arms.

“Why, do you not understand?” returned Suzanne. “I know” (with an engaging little pout), “I know how ridiculous it is when a poor girl comes to bother a man about things that you think mere trifles. But if you really know me, monsieur, if you only knew all that I would do for a man, if he cared about me as I could care about you, you would never repent of marrying me. It is not that I could be of so much use to you here, by the way; but if we went to Paris, you should see how far I could bring a man of spirit with such brains as yours, and especially just now, when they are remaking the Government from top to bottom, and the foreigners are the masters. Between ourselves, does this thing in question really matter after all? Is it not a piece of good fortune for which you would be glad to pay a good deal one of these days? For whom are you going to think and work?”

Mlle. Cormon considered it a duly to talk; not that she was naturally loquacious, for, unfortunately, with her dearth of ideas and very limited stock of phrases, it was difficult to hold forth at any length; but she thought that in this way she was fulfilling the social duties prescribed by religion, which bids us be agreeable to our neighbor. It was a duty which weighed so much upon her mind, that she had submitted this case of conscience out of the Child’s Guide to Manners to her director, the Abbé Couturier. Whereupon, so far from being disarmed by the penitent’s humble admission of the violence of her mental struggles to find something to say, the old ecclesiastic, being firm in matters of discipline, read her a whole chapter out of St. François de Sales on the Duties of a Woman in the World; on the decent gaiety of the pious Christian female, and the duty of confining her austerities to herself; a woman, according to this authority, ought to be amiable in her home and to act in such a sort that her neighbor never feels dull in her company. After this Mlle. Cormon, with a deep sense of duty, was anxious to obey her director at any cost. He had bidden her to discourse agreeably, so every time the conversation languished she felt the perspiration breaking out over her with the violence of her exertions to find something to say which should stimulate the flagging interest.

If you have fully comprehended the degree of monomania to which Mlle. Cormon had been driven by her desire to marry, you will share her excitement. Her worthy uncle informed her that M. de Troisville, a retired soldier from the Russian service, the grandson of one of his best friends, wishing to settle down in Alençon, had asked for his hospitality for the sake of the Abbé’s old friendship with the mayor, his grandfather, the Vicomte de Troisville of the reign of Louis XV. M. de Sponde, in alarm, begged his niece to come home at once to help him to entertain the guest and to do the honors of the house; for as there had been some delay in forwarding the letter, M. de Troisville might be expected to drop in upon him that very evening.

How was it possible after reading that letter to give any attention to affairs at the Prébaudet? The tenant and the bailiff, beholding their mistress’ dismay, lay low and waited for orders. When they stopped her passage to ask for instructions. Mlle. Cormon, the despotic old maid, who saw to everything herself at the Prébaudet, answered them with an “As you please,” which struck them dumb with amazement. This was the mistress who carried administrative zeal to such lengths that she counted the fruit and entered it under headings, so that she could regulate the consumption by the quantity of each sort!

M. de Valois. “So M. le Vicomte is coming to settle here, people say.”

M. de Troisville. “Yes, monsieur. I have come to look for a house.” (Mlle. Cormon turns, cup in hand.) “And I must have a large one”⁠—(Mlle. Cormon offers the cup of coffee) “to hold my family.” (The room grows dark before the old maid’s eyes.)

M. de Valois. “Are you married?”

M. de Troisville. “Yes, I have been married for sixteen years. My wife is the daughter of the Princess Scherbelloff.”

Mlle. Cormon dropped like one thunderstruck. Du Bousquier, seeing her reel, sprang forward, and caught her in his arms. Somebody opened the door to let him pass out with his enormous burden. The mettled Republican, counseled by Josette, summoned up his strength, bore the old maid to her room, and deposited her upon the bed. Josette, armed with a pair of scissors, cut the stay-laces, drawn outrageously tight. Du Bousquier, rough and ready, dashed cold water over Mlle. Cormon’s face and the bust, which broke from its bounds like Loire in flood. The patient opened her eye’s, saw du Bousquier, and gave a cry of alarmed modesty. Du Bousquier withdrew, leaving half-a-dozen women in possession, with Mme. Granson at their head, Mme. Granson beaming with joy.

What had the Chevalier de Valois done? True to his system, he had been covering the retreat.