III
The emotion which overwhelmed Napoleon at Waterloo as he beheld his triumphant squadrons go down into the sunken road was not a whit more complete than the despair of the Comte de Bonzag when he realized that the one hundred and ten thousand francs which the laws of probability had finally produced was now the property of Francine, the cook.
One hundred and ten thousand francs! It was colossal! Five generations of Bonzags had never touched as much as that. One hundred and ten thousand francs meant the rehabilitation of the ancient name, the restoration of the Château de Keragouil, half the year at Paris, in the Cercle Royale, in the regions of art, and among the great minds that were still young in the Quartier—and all that was in the possession of a plump Gascony peasant, whose ideas of comfort and pleasure were satisfied by one hundred and twenty francs a year.
"What am I going to do?" he cried, rising in an outburst of anger. Then he sat down in despair. There was nothing to do. The fact was obvious that Francine was an heiress, possessed of the greatest fortune in the memory of Keragouil. There was nothing to do, or rather, there was manifestly but one way open, and the Comte resolved on the spot to take it. He must have back the lottery tickets, though it meant a Comtesse de Bonzag.
Fortunately for him, Francine knew nothing of the arrival of the paper. Though it was necessary to make haste, there was still time for a compatriot of D'Artagnan. There was, of course, Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier; but a Bonzag who had had three months' experience with the feminine heart of Paris was not the man to trouble himself over a Sapeur-Pompier. That evening, in the dim dining-room, when Francine arrived with the steaming soup, the Comte, who had waited with a spoon in his fist and a napkin knotted to his neck, plunged valiantly to the issue.
"Ah, what a good smell!" he said, elevating his nose. "Francine, you are the queen of cooks."
"Oh, M'sieur le Comte," Francine stammered, stopping in amazement. "Oh, M'sieur le Comte, thanks."
"Don't thank me; it is I who am grateful."
"Oh, M'sieur!"
"Yes, yes, yes! Francine—"
"What is it, M'sieur le Comte?"
"To-night you may set another cover—opposite me."
"Set another cover?"
"Exactly."
Francine, more and more astonished, proceeded to place on the table a plate, a knife and a fork.
"M'sieur le Curé is coming?" she said, drawing up a chair.
"No, Francine."
"Not M'sieur le Curé? Who, then?"
"It is for you, Francine. Sit down."
"I? I, M'sieur le Comte?"
"Sit down. I wish it."
Francine took three steps backward and so as to command the exit, stopped and stared at her master, with mingled amazement and distrust.
"My dear Francine," continued the Comte, "I am tired of eating alone. It is bad for the digestion. And I am bored. I have need of society. So sit down."
"M'sieur orders it?"
"I ask it as a favor, Francine."
Francine, with open eyes, advanced doubtfully, seating herself nicely on the chair, more astonished than complimented, and more alarmed than pleased.
"Ah, that is nicer!" said the Comte, with an approving nod. "How have I endured it all these years! Francine, you may help yourself to the wine."
The astonished maid-of-all-work, who had swallowed a spoon of soup with great discomfort, sprang up, all in a tremble, stammering with defiant virtue:
"M'sieur le Comte does not forget that I am an honest woman!"
"No, my dear Francine; I am certain of it. So sit down in peace. I will tell you the situation."
Francine hesitated, then, reassured by the devotion he gave to his soup, settled once more in her chair.
"Francine, I have made up my mind to one thing," said the Comte, filling his glass with such energy that a red circle appeared on the cloth. "This life I lead is all wrong. A man is a sociable being. He needs society. Isolation sends him back to the brute."
"Oh, yes, M'sieur le Comte," said Francine, who understood nothing.
"So I am resolved to marry."
"M'sieur will marry!" cried Francine, who spilled half her soup with the shock.
"Perfectly. It is for that I have asked you to keep me company."
"M'sieur—you—M'sieur wants to marry me!"
"Parbleu!"
"M'sieur—M'sieur wants to marry me!"
"I ask you formally to be my wife."
"I?"
"M'sieur wants—wants me to be Comtesse de Bonzag?"
"Immediately."
"Oh!"
Springing up, Francine stood a moment gazing at him in frightened alarm; then, with a cry, she vanished heavily through the door.
"She has gone to Andoche," said the Comte, angrily to himself. "She loves him!"
In great perturbation he left the room promenading on the esplanade, in the midst of his hounds, talking uneasily to himself.
"Peste, I put it to her a little too suddenly! It was a blunder. If she loves that Sapeur-Pompier, eh? A Sapeur-Pompier, to rival a Comte de Bonzag—faugh!"
Suddenly, below in the moonlight, he beheld Andoche tearing himself from the embrace of Francine, and, not to be seen, he returned nervously to the dining-room.
Shortly after, the maid-of-all-work returned, calm, but with telltale eyes.
"Well, Francine, did I frighten you?" said the Comte, genially.
"Oh, yes, M'sieur le Comte—"
"Well, what do you want to say?"
"M'sieur was in real earnest?"
"Never more so."
"M'sieur really wants to make me the Comtesse de Bonzag?"
"Dame! I tell you my intentions are honorable."
"M'sieur will let me ask him one question?"
"A dozen even."
"M'sieur remembers that I am a widow—"
"With one child, yes."
"M'sieur, pardon me; I have been thinking much, and I have been thinking of my little girl. What would M'sieur want me to do?"
The Comte reflected, and said generously: "I do not adopt her; but, if you like, she shall live here."
"Then, M'sieur," said Francine, dropping on her knees, "I thank M'sieur very much. M'sieur is too kind, too good—"
"So, it is decided then," said the Comte, rising joyfully.
"Oh, yes, M'sieur."
"Then we shall go to-morrow," said the Comte. "It is my manner; I like to do things instantly. Stand up, I beg you, Madame."
"To-morrow, M'sieur?"
"Yes, Madame. Have you any objections?"
"Oh, no, M'sieur le Comte; on the contrary," said Francine, blushing with pleasure at the twice-repeated "Madame." Then she added carefully: "M'sieur is quite right; it would be better. People talk so."
[a/]