“What, my dear? Do you mean building the house you were thinking of, on that bit of land which is part of Marie’s dowry? I beg of you to do nothing of the kind. We have quite enough room for them here, and for their children, if they have any. And, after this long absence, it will be a new trial to me to have Marie settled at a distance from us—not to have her near me. Besides, her husband cannot stay three-quarters of a year in the country. His engagements do not allow of it. Marie would then be alone. What can she do in a house all to herself, with her husband absent?”
“She will do, my love, as you did yourself, when my business called me—as it did too often—away from home; yet we were young then. She will have her house to see after; she will get into the way of managing her property; she will have occupation and responsibilities; and so she will be satisfied with herself and with the result of her thought and work. Believe me, I have seen the warmest family affections weakened and destroyed by the habit of married children living with their parents. The wife likes to be mistress in her own house; and this is a sound and just feeling; we should not run counter to it. A woman who has been wisely educated, having a house to look after and the responsibility and independence which responsibility in every form brings with it, is more capable of maintaining her own dignity of character than one who has been kept all her life in a state of tutelage. Marie would be very comfortable here, very happy to be with us, and her husband would be not less satisfied in knowing that she was with us; but she would not have a home of her own. An unmarried daughter is only in her place when with her mother; but a wife is only in her place in her own house. A married woman in her mother’s house takes her place only as a guest. And even if we suppose no mutual irritation to arise from this life in common—and this can hardly fail to arise—it is certain that indifference to practical interests, nonchalance, and even ennui, and all the dangers thence ensuing, are sure to be caused by it.
“You have brought up your daughter too well for her not to be ardently desirous of fulfilling all her duties; you have always shown her an example of activity too conspicuous for her not to wish to follow it. Let us, then, afford her the means of doing so. Will you not be better pleased to see her managing her own house, and delighted to entertain us there, than to have her here incessantly at your elbow, with nothing to do; a judge, silent and respectful, if you like, but still a judge, of all your ways and doings? Do you think that her husband, when he can snatch a few moments from business, will enjoy as much pleasure in finding her constantly here, as he will experience at seeing her in her own house, delighted to show him all she has done during his absence; engaged in rendering their common abode more and more agreeable and convenient from day to day? If you reflect, you will observe that those who in our day have given, though in high social position, the most occasion for scandal, have been, for the most part, women whose early married life was passed thus, without a home of their own, leading that nondescript life which is neither that of the daughter nor the mistress of the house—the responsible housekeeper, to call things by their right names.”
Some tears had moistened Madame de Gandelau’s embroidery.
“You are right again, my dear,” said she, pressing her husband’s hand; “your plan is just and reasonable.”
Paul, though turning over the leaves of an illustrated periodical, had not lost a word of this conversation. The idea of seeing a house built for his eldest sister was very agreeable to him. Already, to his youthful imagination, this house in the future seemed, as compared with the old family mansion, a fairy palace, elegant and splendid, full of light and gaiety.
It must be confessed that M. de Gandelau’s habitation had nothing to charm the eyes. Enlarged by successive additions, two long wings of gloomy aspect were clumsily patched on to the main body,—formerly a castle, two towers of which, dismantled and crowned by low roofs, flanked the angles. Between the two wings and this main building, there extended a courtyard, always damp, enclosed by old iron railings, and the remains of a moat now converted into a kitchen garden. A third wing, the prolongation of the old castellated building, erected by M. de Gandelau soon after his marriage, contained the private apartments of the family—the most attractive part of the château. The drawing and dining rooms, the billiard-room, and M. de Gandelau’s study formed part of the old main building. As to the two parallel wings, they contained rooms opening into irregular passages, which, not being all on a level, were somewhat perilous to unwary feet.
Next morning, Paul, going to inquire how his pony was, met old Master Branchu coming into the yard with a little cart full of pieces of wood, bags of plaster, and tools.
“What are you going to do with that, Master Branchu?”
“I am going to mend the pigeon-house, Monsieur Paul.”