Numa Roumestan

by Alphonse Daudet

“It is a great responsibility, but you will be there.”

“And you too,” she answered, pressing his hand, and then turned away to meet other new-comers.

The fact was that more people kept arriving but no one went away. They were waiting for Roumestan; they wished to hear all the particulars of the affair from his own lips—how with one lift of his shoulder he had managed to upset them all. Some of the new arrivals who had just come from the Chamber were already bringing with them bits of news and scraps of conversations. Every one crowded about them in pleasurable excitement. The women especially were wildly interested. Under the big hats which came into fashion that winter their pretty cheeks flushed with that fine rosy tint, that fever one sees in the players round the tables at the gambling house at Monte Carlo. The fashion of hats this year was a revival of the days of the Fronde, soft felt hats with long feathers; perhaps it was this that made their wearers so interested in politics. But all these ladies appeared well up in such matters; they talked in purest parliamentary language, emphasizing their remarks with blows from their little muffs; all of them sang the praises of the leader. In fact this exclamation could be heard on every side: “What a man! what a man!”

In a corner sat old Béchut, a professor at the Collège de France, a very ugly man all nose—an immense scientist’s nose that seemed to have elongated itself from poking into books. He was taking the success of Roumestan as the text for one of his favorite theories—that all the weakness in the modern world comes from the too prominent place in it given to women and children. Ignorance and toilets, caprice and brainlessness! “You see, sir, that is where Roumestan is so strong! He has no children and he has known how to escape the influence of woman. So he has followed one straight, firm path; no turning aside, no deviation!” The solemn personage whom he was addressing, councillor at the Court of Cassation, a simple-looking, round-headed little man whose ideas rattled about in his empty skull like corn in a gourd, drew himself up approvingly in a magisterial way, as who should say: “I also am a superior man, sir! I also have escaped from the influences to which you refer.”

Seeing that people were listening, the professor spoke louder and cited the great names of history, Cæsar, Richelieu, Frederick, Napoleon, scientifically proving at the same time that in the scale of thinking creatures woman was on a much lower grade than man. “And, as a matter of fact, if we examine the cellular tissues....”

But what was much more amusing to examine was the expression on the faces of the wives of these two gentlemen, who were sitting side by side, all attention, taking a cup of tea—which genial meal, with its goodies hot from the oven, its steaming samovar and rattle of spoons on costly china, was just being served to the guests. The younger lady, Mme. de Boë, had made of her gourd-headed husband, a used-up nobleman with nothing but debts, a magistrate in the Court of Cassation through the influence of her family; people shuddered to think of this spendthrift, who had quickly wasted all his wife’s fortune and his own, having the public moneys in his control. Mme. Béchut, a former beauty and still beautiful, with long-lidded, intelligent eyes and delicate features, showed only by a contraction of her mouth that she had been at war with the world for years and was consumed with a tireless and unscrupulous ambition. Her sole effort had been to push into the front rank her very commonplace professor. By means that unfortunately were only too well known she had compelled the doors of the Institute and the Collège de France to open to him. There was a whole world of meaning in the grim smile that these two women exchanged over their teacups—and perhaps, if one were to search carefully among the gentlemen, there were a good many other men in the throng who had not been exactly injured by feminine influence.

Suddenly Roumestan appeared. Disregarding the shouts of welcome and congratulations of the guests, he crossed the room quickly, went straight to his wife and kissed her on both cheeks before she could prevent this rather trying demonstration before the public. But what could have better disproved the assertion of the professor? All the ladies cried “bravo!” Much hand-shaking and embracing ensued and then an attentive silence as Numa, leaning against the chimney-piece, began to relate briefly the results of the day.

The great blow arranged a week ago to be struck to-day, the plots and counter-plots, the wild rage of the Left at its defeat, his own overwhelming triumph, his rush to the tribune, even to the very intonation he had used to the Marshal when he replied: “That depends on you, Mr. President”—he told everything, forgot nothing, with a gayety and warmth that were contagious.

Then, becoming grave, he enumerated the great responsibilities of his position; the reform of the University with its crowd of youths to be brought up hoping for the realization of better things—this allusion was understood and greeted with loud applause; but he meant to surround himself with enlightened men, to beg for the good will and devotion of all. With moist eyes he mustered the groups about him. “I call on you, friend Béchut, and you, my dear De Boë—”

They were all so in earnest that no one stopped to ask in what manner the dull wits of the councillor at the Court of Cassation could aid in the reform of the University. But then the number of persons of that sort whom Roumestan had urged that afternoon to aid him in his tremendous duties of the Public Instruction was really incalculable. As regards the fine arts, however, he felt more at ease, so he said; there they would not refuse help! A flattering murmur of laughter and exclamations stopped his further words.