“The old story,” said Berthe. “General de Karodel mismanaged his property, took to speculation by way of mending matters, and of course lost everything. He died, leaving a widow and three children to do the best they could with his pension, about a thousand francs a year. Hélène is the eldest, and what she earns pays for the education of the second sister.”
“But the rest of the family are well off. Why don’t they do something for them?” demanded Madame de Beaucœur.
“Rich relations are not given much to helping poor ones,” replied Berthe; “besides, these Karodels are as proud as Lucifer, and benefits are pills that a proud spirit finds it difficult to swallow; it takes a good deal of love to gild them.”
“Very true!” And dismissing Hélène de Karodel with a sigh, “Chère amie” said Madame de Beaucœur, “I am come to ask you to do me a service.”
Her presence indeed at so early an hour (it was not much past one) on Berthe’s “day” suggested something more important than an ordinary visit. A “day” is a thing that deserves to be noticed amongst the institutions of modern Paris life. Everybody has a day. Women in society have one from necessity, for the convenience of their visitors whose name is Legion. Women not in society have one because they like to be included amongst those with whom it is a necessity. The former speak of their day as “mon jour” and as a rule hate it, because it ties them down to stay one day in the week at home. The latter speak of it as “mon jour de réception,” and glory in it. For the former it is a mere episode, an occasion amongst many for toilette and gossip, mostly of the Grandhomme and Folibel kind, but often of a more serious character, sometimes even of conversation on such grave topics as politics, science, and theology. For the latter, it is a grand opportunity for dress, and dulness, and weary expectation. Madame, attired in state, sits on her sofa like patience on a monument, smiling, not on grief, but on hope—hope of visitors, who come like angels, few and far between. Woe be unto the false or foolish friend who, under any pretence of business, or kind inquiries, or lack of time, should pass by this day of days, and call on some insignificant day, when neither madame, nor the salon, nor the valet-de-chambre is in toilette to receive him!
But it is not into one of these dreary Saharas that we have strayed. Berthe’s day is as busy as a fair. So great is the concourse of visitors that, although the reception begins officially at three, the rooms begin to fill soon after two, those who really want to speak to her alleging, as an excuse for forcing the consigne, that, when la cour et la ville are there, it is a sheer impossibility to get a word with her.
“A service!” repeated Berthe. “I hope it is not too good to be true.”
“Toujours charmante!” Madame de Beaucœur took her hand and pressed it. “But the favor I am going to ask does not directly concern myself. You know Madame de Chassedot?”
“Slightly; I meet her here and there; we bow, but we don’t speak.”
“She has deputed me to speak for her to-day. Do you know her son at all?”