Chapter Six.
The Bliss of Monsieur Bourget.
M. Bourget of Tours, meanwhile, should have been a happy man, for he had all but reached the very summit of his desires. His daughter was installed at Poissy, and twenty times a day he turned in the direction of the château, as a fire-worshipper turns towards the sun, to offer a silent and rapturous homage, partly to past generations of Beaudrillarts, and partly to his own sagacious industry which had achieved this triumph. To his acquaintances he made no effort to conceal his elation. Conversation could not be carried on for five minutes without a dexterous twist bringing it round to Poissy. The very name in his mouth became larger and more substantial. To his cronies, those especially who had daughters, he grew insupportable, or only to be endured from fear of offending a man who was a powerful enemy, and had obtained great influence in town matters. His short, square, vigorous figure, attired in a light-coloured alpaca coat, and surmounted by a round grizzled head, red-faced and bull-necked, might be seen advancing towards the café where he daily took his coffee—just flavoured with absinthe—with an indescribable air of majesty, which excited the mockery of those who dared to laugh, but was not without its awe-inspiring influence upon others. Always his walk led him in the direction of the photographer’s, and always he stood for a few moments to gaze upon Poissy, but by some singular hesitation, out of keeping, as it seemed, with the pride which he made no attempt to conceal, he had never allowed himself to buy a copy of the object of his worship.
Outside the café, woe betide the acquaintance whom M. Bourget signalled to sit with him at one of the small tables where he took his usual refreshment! It was necessary that he should hear everything connected with the past, present, or future history of Poissy; its rooms had to be described in detail, the great question of who was to be trusted with the necessary repairs must be discussed, and the point whether they should begin with the hall or the chapel. He invited opinions, but if the opinions differed from his own he grew heated, brought down his fist upon the little table, and declared that only a fool could hold such ridiculous theories. One of his first victims was the little lawyer, M. Leroux, who, being miserably poor, endured like a peppery martyr, with the hope that for the sake of a good listener M. Bourget would be moved to the unusual generosity of paying for both portions of coffee. For this end he promised himself that, let his temper incite him as it might, nothing should induce him to contradict the formidable new aristocrat. He manfully endured a double-dose of Poissy, and choked down certain strong expressions which rose to the tip of his tongue when he heard M. Bourget excusing his son-in-law’s political opinions.
“After all, it is natural that if a man is born to such ideas, they should stick to him,” he said, paternally. “You and I, Leroux, are shot into the world, and left to pick up what we can; we have no traditions to offend, and no rights to relinquish. With my son-in-law it is different. He arrives. Behind him stretch a long line of Beaudrillarts, crying out, ‘Thou art of the race, thou; and the race must continue. We give thee Poissy for thy life; guard it, and pass it on.’ That puts him in another position from us, hein?”
“Altogether,” agreed the lawyer, sourly. He would have liked to have darted Léon’s extravagances at M. Bourget, and inquired where then had been his duty to his ancestors; but he feared.
“Besides, one must remember,” said the ex-builder, pouring an exactly measured spoonful of absinthe into his cup, and replacing the bottle before him, without apparently noticing M. Leroux’s clink of his own spoon, “one must remember that the De Beaudrillarts have earned their repose. In their day, and when you and I did not exist, they gave and received a pretty number of hard knocks.”
“Pray, did Monsieur de Beaudrillart then exist!” demanded the lawyer, with an irrepressible sneer; for he was stung by the distance of the absinthe bottle, and objected to such distinctions.
“His representatives. His former representatives,” repeated M. Bourget, imperturbably, with a grand air which embraced the ancient family. “No, I do not blame the young man for thinking differently from you and me. If he had an inclination to stand for the Chamber, I should even give him my vote.”
“Yes,” said Leroux, eyeing his cup, and reflecting whether he could venture on a second with the hope that M. Bourget would pay. As the waiter passed at this moment he decided to risk the outlay, and to humour his neighbour. “Well, and I have no doubt you would be right.”
“If I did it, certainly it would be right,” M. Bourget returned, superbly; “for you know very well that I do not act without reason.”
“No, no. Never to change one’s opinions would be to pass through life like a machine.”
“What!” cried M. Bourget, with a snort resembling that of an angry bull.
“I remarked merely that, from time to time, one must accommodate one’s ideas,” the lawyer hastened to explain. “I should do so myself.”
“Accommodate one’s ideas! Pray, monsieur, to what do you allude!”
“Peste!” cried M. Leroux, losing patience, “have you not just remarked that were Monsieur de Beaudrillart to stand for the Chamber you would vote for him! I presume that means a change of opinion.”
“Then you are an imbecile!” thundered M. Bourget. “I have never changed my opinions by a jot, and I should despise myself if I did so. Because I consider that Monsieur de Beaudrillart, the owner of Poissy, and the descendant of a long line of ancestors, has a right to be heard in the councils of his country, no one who had not the most mediocre intelligence would conclude that I had embraced his politics. Go, monsieur,” he continued, standing up, and leaning on the table with the points of his fingers. “You are ridiculous!”
If M. Leroux had dared, it would have given him extreme pleasure to have committed M. Bourget, his son-in-law, and Poissy, which by this time he detested, to the hottest place that could have been provided for them. But, although the coffee represented only a lost hope, M. Bourget was now and then able to throw him a few minor law cases which he could not afford to imperil, and he hastened to attempt to pacify his irritated sensibilities.
“Pardon, monsieur; certainly I should have understood you better. Now that you have explained, I see exactly what you meant to express, and what I might have known. Certainly that is a very different thing from changing your opinions.”
(“Devil take me if it is!” he muttered, under his breath.)
M. Bourget still glared at him.
“I am glad you have come to your senses,” he said, surlily.
“Poissy is, of coarse, an ornament of our neighbourhood.” The lawyer managed to get out the words without grimacing.
“The ornament, the ornament, monsieur.”
“The ornament, I should say.”
“And the De Beaudrillarts among our most ancient families.”
“Oh, con—Certainly, Monsieur Bourget, certainly. The most ancient.”
“Precisely. Are you aware that you have not paid for your coffee?”
The lawyer rummaged his pockets. “I am not certain that I have enough change with me.”
“Ah, that is inconvenient,” remarked M. Bourget, carelessly. “Never mind. Antoine will trust you. And I will give you a word of advice. Always take a little, a very little, absinthe with your coffee. It is more wholesome. What were we talking about? Oh, it was Poissy, was it not?”
But M. Leroux could endure no more.
“Excuse me, Monsieur Bourget, I am already late for an appointment. I must not lose time any longer, even over such an interesting subject.”
“Well, look in, and I will show you my suggestions for the north wing,” the ex-builder called after him. “Ah, ha, there is Fléchier; he might have an idea. Fléchier!”
The individual addressed, on the other side of the street, only quickened his steps, with a wave of his hand.
“Ah, my friend, it is you! Grieved that I can’t stop. Business. Another day. Au revoir.”
“What has come to the world, then, that every one is so confoundedly busy to-day?” grumbled M. Bourget. “I should have said I knew most of the affairs that are going on in Tours. I must go and inquire. The house is not so agreeable, now there is no one but old Fanchon to give one a word of welcome. However, Nathalie is a good girl, and deserves the good-fortune I have found for her. Madame Léon de Beaudrillart—or should it be Madame la baronne? No, certainly. There are baronesses in plenty, but not so many Beaudrillarts. Madame Léon de Beaudrillart, née Bourget. Ah, it is magnificent!”
So far—it was a month after the marriage—M. Bourget had abstained from going to Poissy. What withheld him is difficult to conjecture. Was it a certain shyness, strangely at variance with his brusque, sometimes brutal, bearing? This man, who had fought down opposition, and made himself terrible to his foes—this man, who cared little what he said himself, and laughed his great laugh when he heard what was said of him—was it possible that the bare idea of finding himself received on an equality at Poissy, which after all he had so largely benefited, made him tremble like any young girl presented to royalty? Whatever it was, and he gave no hint of his sensations to a living soul, the fact remained that while Mme. de Beaudrillart shivered at the idea of an invasion in which he would march round Poissy as if he were its purchaser, he had not yet so much as set foot within its walls. His daughter and Léon had come in two or three times to see him, and it had given him exquisite pleasure to perceive them driving along the street in the charming carriage which had been his wedding present to Nathalie. The first time that he saw them he happened to be standing at his own door, and the blood rushed to his face so violently that, all unused to the sensation, he imagined himself ill, and put his hand out to support himself. His greeting, however, was as brusque as ever, and neither Nathalie nor Léon had the smallest suspicion of his emotion. The second time he found fault with Léon for putting up the ponies at a small inn instead of at the principal hotel.
“Not suitable,” he grumbled.
“Decidedly, Nathalie, your father means you to spend your money,” said her husband, laughingly, as they drove home again, “yet he does not afford himself too much luxury.”
“He has never begrudged me anything,” she said, with compunction, “and it made me feel more than ever ashamed to-day to see him in his bare, uncomfortable room, lonely and cold-looking, and to feel that I—I—”
She did not finish, for Léon put his head near hers and whispered:
“He should be satisfied to be your father.”
She smiled, and let him murmur caressing nothings, but said, presently:
“Léon, I think my father would like to come to Poissy.”
“Well, why not? Of course. Why didn’t you ask him? Now that I think of it, I believe he has never been there since our engagement. Why, it is disgraceful! Certainly he must come. You should have fixed a day.”
She laughed a little shyly. “Perhaps I should, but, to tell you the truth, I was afraid, until you had spoken to Madame de Beaudrillart and your sisters. Are you sure they would not object?”
He turned away his head with a momentary hesitation. Then, “My sisters have nothing to say to it,” he said, impatiently. “As for my mother, certainly she will not object.”
“But will she make it pleasant for him? You understand, Léon, that she thinks we—my father and I—are different—not of her class. With you near, it matters very little to me, but for my father I should feel it another matter, and I could not endure slights for him. That was why I said nothing to-day, though I am sure he expected it.”
“We will drive in to-morrow, and carry him off.”
To this she did not answer, perhaps aware that her husband had said a little more than he meant. She only remarked:
“Will you ask your mother?”
“Certainly, or—why not you?”
“I think you might explain rather more fully—what I have just said,” she added, with difficulty. “Unless it is to be what he would like, I would rather he did not come—rather, even, that he thought me ungrateful.”
“Oh, you will see! My mother has a good heart; all will go well,” said Léon, confidently. He took an opportunity of saying to Mme. de Beaudrillart, “Mother, don’t you think that Monsieur Bourget should be asked here one day?”
“Certainly, Léon, if you desire it. It is what I expected.”
“Nathalie had a sort of notion that you might not like it, and that it would not be very agreeable for him?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“The reverse, I imagine! But what would you have me do? I cannot transform Poissy into Monsieur Bourget’s back parlour, or provide him with the sort of companions with whom he would feel at ease.”
“All that I ask,” said Léon, a little hotly, “is that he should be treated here as my wife’s father.”
“My dear Léon, you need not insist on the relationship. We are all aware of it, and, indeed, I think myself that it is only proper he should come.”
“My sisters can show him the place. He is immensely proud of Poissy, and anxious that anything in the way of repair should be done at once.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart bit her lip.
“I hope you do not attend to his suggestions.”
“Oh, indeed I do,” said Léon, with a laugh. “I think them extremely valuable.”
“Ah, he was a builder, was he not?”
“Certainly,” her son said, imperturbably, “and, luckily for us, a most successful builder. Why, mother, you must be aware of the name he has in Tours for shrewdness and good sense?”
“Yes, I know too well,” said Mme. de Beaudrillart, impatiently, “and I am sorry to displease you, Léon, for I am certain you acted for the best; but I would rather, far rather, you had Monsieur de Cadanet for your creditor than this Monsieur Bourget for your father-in-law.”
“Ah, mother, but I could not part with my Nathalie. However, it is settled, is it not? Monsieur Bourget will come, and you will be charming to him for my sake?”
And he departed, whistling, to assure his wife that everything was satisfactorily arranged, and that she might take the first opportunity of inviting her father.
Nathalie drove in for him one morning, in order to bring him out for the second breakfast, and though she was glad, it must be owned she rather dreaded the time they would spend together, lest he should ask questions which she might have difficulty in parrying. She need not have feared. M. Bourget rode on the crest of exultation. He sat upright in the carriage, looking round him, at Nathalie, at the pretty pair of grey ponies, at the rug laid across his knees, with pride like that of a child’s. Every now and then he broke off what he was saying to remark in a tone of profound satisfaction, “Ah, ha, this goes well! This is something like!” To please him she called at one or two of the principal shops, and, drawn up there, when his acquaintances passed, he saluted them with the air of an emperor. All the way out to the château he plied her with questions about Poissy, more than once mentioning facts in its history which it displeased him to find she did not know.
“I thought you had had a proper education—certainly it cost me enough,” he grumbled; “and here you don’t even know what has happened in your own family.”
“No, it is disgraceful!” she agreed, laughing. “I must set to work at once. There are sure to be books about it in the library. But, I assure you, father, I try to keep up a habit of reading.”
“Ah, well, that’s all very well, that’s as your husband pleases; but certainly you’re no business to be ignorant about what so nearly concerns you. I tell you what, Nathalie, it’s the way of all others to vex madame. A fine woman, that! She looks a De Beaudrillart to her fingers’ ends.”
The meeting and the breakfast passed off fairly. Léon was there, and his good-humoured charm of manner succeeded in warding off one or two dangerous subjects. Claire studied M. Bourget as if he were a specimen of some strange species, with scarcely-veiled impertinences, which set his daughter’s cheeks burning. Félicie, on the other hand, sat mute, her eyes on her plate. M. Bourget, who had for some time regarded her in silence, at last touched Mme. de Beaudrillart’s arm.
“The poor young lady!” he said, sympathetically. “How long has it been so with her?”
“How?” demanded Mme. de Beaudrillart, amazed.
“That she has lost her hearing? I see she has cotton-wool in her ears. I once tried it myself, but I don’t like it; it heats the ear. Can she talk on her fingers?”
“Félicie!” cried her mother, sharply. Claire interposed.
“It’s a curious kind of intermittent deafness, monsieur, which only seizes her at times. By-and-by, probably, it will have departed as quickly as it came, but I am afraid you must resign yourself to her being stone-deaf while you are here.”
“When you know us better, Monsieur Bourget, you will find that we have many peculiarities,” said Léon, pleasantly.
“Do you like this wine? It has been brought out especially in your honour.”
“Ah,” said his father-in-law, eagerly; “it is old?”
“Very old.”
M. Bourget looked at his glass with admiration. To tell the truth, he preferred the sourer vintage to which he was accustomed, but it gave him deep delight to be drinking ancient wine from the cellars of Poissy.
“Nathalie,” said Léon again, “we must show your father your room—”
“And the north wing. That should be the first to be repaired,” announced M. Bourget, loudly. Claire lifted her eyebrows.
“Is Poissy, then, to be taken in hand at once?”
“Certainly. I hope so,” said the ex-builder, in the same strong voice. “As it is, I am afraid there will be difficulties; but if it had been left another winter—well, certainly, it would have been very bad. And the plaster-work in this room, how it has suffered! Still, there is a man I know very clever at such jobs, and if the baron will put it into his hands I can answer that he will make a good job of it, and not be unreasonable.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart rose, abruptly.
“Monsieur Bourget will, I am sure, excuse me, if I leave him to the care of my son and Madame Léon. There will be coffee later in the drawing-room. Come, Claire!”
“No, mamma, I remain.” She added in a slightly lowered tone, “Some one must protect our poor Poissy.”
Félicie, with downcast eyes, rose to follow her mother, when a shout in her ear made her start violently.
“Try syringing, mademoiselle. That did me a great deal of good.” He added, to Nathalie, “You should look after your sister. I can see she wants rousing and fresh air, and eats no more than a fly. Now, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, I am at your service.”
He was completely in his element when going over the château, with the eye of a lynx for whatever was wanting, and an absolute horror for the tiny plants which, thrusting their rootlets between the stones, added so much grace to the walls. Where they were within reach he dragged them ruthlessly out, in spite of Claire’s remonstrances.
“Oh yes, mademoiselle, very pretty, and all the rest of it, no doubt; but do you know what they effect, these little mischief-makers? It is they that loosen the stones, and bring the walls of Poissy rattling about the ears of those that come after you. And it is those others of whom we have to think,” he announced loudly, proceeding to demolish a small tuft of harts-tongue, by prodding it with the point of his stick. “For myself, I have no doubt that the whole building should be scraped. However, at any rate, Monsieur de Beaudrillart, you will set about what is necessary at once.”
Léon, catching sight of his sister’s face, felt his own momentary irritation subside. Besides, were not Nathalie’s eyes imploring him?
“Certainly,” he said, quietly. “You have, no doubt, the right, Monsieur Bourget, to speak.”
“Ah, and I know what I am talking about, too. See here, monsieur, Poissy is as dear to me as to you.”
“Really? You do us too much honour.”
“Not at all. But I think of the future, which you young people are too apt to forget, and I want to see matters put straight. Now that you can afford it, that must be your business. Show me the land that was sold last year.”
Somewhat to his dismay, Léon found that his father-in-law was perfectly acquainted with all his enforced sales, and the value of the property parted with. His remarks were shrewd. “You had no reason to blame Monsieur Georges, who was an honest man;” and at another time, “You set store on your wine. In your place I should have preferred to keep the vineyard,” or “Ah, Paris ate up this farm. She swallows without difficulty, our fine Paris!” Léon, who was not easily abashed, felt as if there were something terrible in the square ungainly figure, marching from point to point, and seeing everything. Had Claire not been there, Nathalie would have attempted a diversion; as it was she remained silent, hoping, for her husband’s sake, that the ordeal once over would not be repeated. At last M. Bourget stood still.
“Now for the château,” he said.
Here, except where his sharp eyes espied falling plaster or a stain of wet, the awe of Poissy was upon him, and placed him at a disadvantage. It was soon evident, however, that the simplicity of the furniture shocked his sense of what was fitting, and in Nathalie’s own room he gave this feeling a voice.
“Hum, ha, oh, very nice, very nice; but couldn’t you have had a little more gold about?”
“You know I was never very fond of gold,” she said, with a smile.
“If you didn’t like it in our house, you couldn’t have any objection here. It seems to me that you want cheering up a bit. Your curtains, now. Wouldn’t tapestry be richer than chintz?”
“Oh, my curtains are charming!” she said, brightly. “Admit that nothing could be prettier than the whole effect! But you must come into the salon; that room will delight you.”
In the salon sat Mme. de Beaudrillart, very upright, and with more state than was ordinary. The coffee was brought in an antique silver service. M. Bourget looked at his cup with admiration, and choked down his desire to ask for a teaspoonful of absinthe. Léon had vanished to avoid hearing possible sharp speeches, and nothing could have been more frigid and uncomfortable than the conversation when the guest again descanted upon the work of repair which should be speedily undertaken at Poissy.
“My son must do what he thinks best, monsieur,” announced Mme. de Beaudrillart, with her grandest air; “at any rate, he is more likely to know what is needed than a stranger. For myself, I think the less done the better.”
M. Bourget stared at her, set down his cup, jumped up, and marched to the window. There he stood, the delicate lines about him contrasting strangely with the sturdy squareness of his figure.
“Then, madame, permit me to say that you must be ignorant of the principles of building. You see that wall!” He waved a thick hand in its direction.
“Well, monsieur?” returned Mme. de Beaudrillart, glancing languidly.
“It already bulges, and in another twenty years it will be down, unless something is done. Perhaps you do not believe me.”
“Oh, monsieur, on the contrary,” put in Claire. “We know that you are an undisputed authority in such matters.”
If he perceived the taunt, he disregarded it. He had made his point, and it appeared to him impossible that it should be ignored. “Well, then?” he said, inquiringly.
“All this takes money.”
“True enough.” He rubbed his hands. “But now that you have money?”
There was a sort of rustle in the room; no one answered. Nathalie flushed crimson. To her relief a servant entered with a message from Léon.
“Monsieur le baron regrets exceedingly that he has been called away on business, and cannot himself have the pleasure of driving Monsieur Bourget back to Tours, but the coachman awaits orders.”
“I will drive my father myself,” said Nathalie, quickly. “Shall we start at once, father?” It was too much for her strength; but pride, different from the pride of the Beaudrillarts, though quite as intense, insisted upon clinging to him at this juncture. When they were in the carriage, he looked at his hand.
“Damme!” he said; “so that is how great folks shake hands, is it?”
“How?” asked his daughter, trying to smile.
“With two fingers, to be sure. You must learn that trick, my girl.”