What a beautiful family it was, to be sure, that gathered round that table! Paul with his girlish ringlets, Robert also in curls. Helene, who sat next to her father, with her jet-black hair loose down her back, and her bright eyes contrasting with the ivory pallor of her face, worn out as the poor child is with care and sorrow and hard work as her mother’s penwoman. Then there was Lolo, a young lady of eighteen, roughly dressed, but of great elegance, who looked even sadder than the rest, but who tried to be bright and gay; and on the other side of her, Solange, who though she is quite a woman in appearance, hates to be considered so, and wants to be treated as a child, and refuses to wear long dresses, and loves to climb trees in the park and to give picnics to her little brothers and sisters in a mud hovel which she has constructed in the garden. Then there is Zi-Zi and Griselle—more than twenty in all around the long oval table. Every now and then one of the children rises from its seat, and runs up to the old father and kisses him on the cheek, or presses his hand; and I think all envied Helene who sat next to him and could caress him when she liked. I was seated just opposite the old man, and I am afraid my presence disturbed him; for he seemed to listen to what I said, and to wonder who I was, and what I might want. I shall never forget the sight of him as he faced me, sunk down in his chair, with one trembling hand holding his napkin to his breast, and feebly with the other guiding the morsels to his mouth. He seemed to eat with some appetite, though under persistent drowsiness, which was only shaken off for a moment when his wife, who came in late, took her seat at the table. Then his head was lifted, and a bright look came into his eyes, as if of salute to the comrade of his life. Whatever Madame de Lesseps may have suffered, I am sure that she feels herself repaid each time that those eyes are so lifted to hers. The dejeuner was a simple though ample one, the menu being in keeping with the manner of life at Chesnaye, which is that of comfort without ostentation. The wine is grown by Madame de Lesseps herself, on vineyards of her own planting, and is that “gray wine” which is so much appreciated by connoisseurs. It has a beautiful color in a cut-glass decanter. The conversation was a halting one. Each tried to be gay, each tried to forget the deep shadow that lay over that family gathering. 92 When the old man’s eyes wandered around the table as if in quest of some one whom he desired but who was not there, a silence imposed itself on all, for all knew whom he was seeking, and where that dear one was.
In his buttonhole was Helene’s bouquet of violets, underneath which peeped out the rosette of the grand officer of the Legion of Honor, alas, in jeopardy!
We took coffee in the drawing-room. It was served on a table which stood underneath a fine portrait of Agnes Sorel, once the mistress of the house. Facing us were two pictures of the inauguration of the Suez Canal. The furniture was covered with tapestries mostly from the needle of the countess.
It was here that Madame de Lesseps told me of the old man’s present life. “He has the fixed idea that the Queen of England will come and make all things right. He often rises in his chair and asks if Queen Victoria has arrived, and when any visitor comes he thinks that it is she at last.”
Then blanching the countess added, “You think, sir, do you not, that he is in ignorance of what has happened? You do not think that he has any suspicion? Sometimes the dreadful thought troubles me that he knows all, and that, great-hearted gentleman that he is, he lends himself to this most tragic comedy that we are playing. I sometimes doubt. Would not that be terrible? And again there are times when I am convinced that our efforts to hide all that is, are successful. We give him last year’s papers to read. I have had collections sent down. Formerly we used to cut out or erase parts which we did not want him to see, but he seemed to notice the alterations, and so we ordered down papers of a year ago. And it is quite pathetic to hear the remarks he occasionally makes. Thus a few days ago he called me to his side in high glee, and said how happy he was to hear that his old friend M. Ressman had been appointed Italian Ambassador to France, an event of more than a year ago. There are times, too, when he gets very impatient at being kept down here, and what he misses chiefly is the French Academy. He is constantly telling me how anxious he is to attend, and I have to invent the sorriest fables to explain to him that the Academicians are not holding any meetings; as, for instance, that they are all old men, and that they are taking a long holiday.”
The countess sighed and said: “I do what I can, but that terrible doubt pursues me often. You see, he did know that the Panama affair had resulted in ruin. It is since he was called before that examining magistrate, M. Prinet, that he has been as you have seen him. He must suspect something. How much, we shall never know.”
Then she added: “He is constantly asking after Charles. He knows that he is in trouble, but we hope that he does not suspect what the trouble is. Before he was taken as he is, Charles had, to his knowledge, become involved in that Société des Comptes Courants bankruptcy, which ruined him; and perhaps his father thinks that his son’s troubles are in connection with that affair.” Then the stepmother broke out into impassioned praise of the stepson: “The noblest heart! He will suffer all, rather than let the slightest harm come to his father. He is a hero, a gentleman, a hero, a hero! When he was here he told us what he had undergone, and said that he was willing to undergo ten times as much, so that his father be left unmolested.
“It is strangers who send us expressions of their sympathy. Those whom De Lesseps has enriched have forgotten him. And yet I am unjust. I have had letters from people who risked their positions, their daily bread, in writing to me as they did. But not a single political man has written a word to express condolence with the great patriot or with his family. They dare not. None of my letters are safe. Many of my friends have received my letters open. Many letters addressed to me have gone astray. It is dangerous to-day to be the friend of the man who gave a fortune to his country.