That divine song was never listened to more impatiently. When it was finished Don Diego said—“The maréchale procured the dismissal of the author of the song:
“Un jour l’amour au cabaret.”
Julien shuddered lest he should want to sing it. He contented himself with analysing it. As a matter of fact, it was blasphemous and somewhat indecent.
“When the maréchale become enraged against that song,” said Don Diego, “I remarked to her that a woman of her rank ought not to read all the stupid things that are published. Whatever progress piety and gravity may make France will always have a cabaret literature.
“‘Be careful,’ I said to madame de Fervaques when she had succeeded in depriving the author, a poor devil on half-pay, of a place worth eighteen hundred francs a year, ‘you have attacked this rhymster with your own arms, he may answer you with his rhymes; he will make a song about virtue. The gilded salons will be on your side; but people who like to laugh will repeat his epigrams.’ Do you know, monsieur, what the maréchale answered? ‘Let all Paris come and see me walking to my martyrdom for the sake of the Lord. It will be a new spectacle for France. The people will learn to respect the quality. It will be the finest day of my life.’ Her eyes never looked finer.”
“And she has superb ones,” exclaimed Julien.
“I see that you are in love. Further,” went on Don Diego Bustos gravely, “she has not the bilious constitution which causes vindictiveness. If, however, she likes to do harm, it is because she is unhappy, I suspect some secret misfortune. May it not be quite well a case of prude tired of her rôle?”
The Spaniard looked at him in silence for a good minute.
“That’s the whole point,” he added gravely, “and that’s what may give you ground for some hope. I have often reflected about it during the two years that I was her very humble servant. All your future, my amorous sir, depends on this great problem. Is she a prude tired of her rôle and only malicious because she is unhappy?”
“Or,” said Altamira emerging at last from his deep silence, “can it be as I have said twenty times before, simply a case of French vanity; the memory of her father, the celebrated cloth merchant, constitutes the unhappiness of this frigid melancholy nature. The only happiness she could find would be to live in Toledo and to be tortured by a confessor who would show her hell wide open every day.”