“I am inclined to think your opinion of her will be less severe in a week. I, too, have heard her highly spoken of.”
These words seemed to afford Louis great satisfaction. Victor did not continue the subject.
If you have carefully followed the conversation I have just related, you must see that Louis, though unaware of his sister’s hopes, already thought more of Mlle. Eugénie than he confessed or even acknowledged to himself. I think I shall only anticipate your wishes in making you acquainted at once with that young lady, who is to fill an important rôle in my story. And this cannot be done better than in her own home.
Eugénie is in her chamber. It is the morning of the day Louis and some other acquaintances are to dine with her father. She is engaged in completing her toilet. A more charming room cannot be imagined. It is furnished in exquisite style. Nothing is lacking. The pictures are all rare, and arranged with artistic taste. The book-case contains, not so many books, but solid works that will bear reading over and over again. What, above all, completes the charm of this young girl’s bower is the view to be seen from the two windows, which are like frames to a picture. They afford a glimpse of a terrestrial paradise through which flow the limpid waters of a deep stream. A breeze, playing through the poplars that stand on its banks, softly rustles the leaves. Directly across, on the opposite shore, is a broad meadow, bright with flowers, with here and there clumps of trees. As far as the eye can reach are objects on every side to satisfy the soul, and excite it to reverie: a windmill with its long wings of white canvas swaying in the air; a villa with its gardens; a little hamlet, and, overlooking it, a church, the slated belfry of which is glistening in the sun.
The world is full of material souls whom it would be a kind of profanation to introduce into a place so attractive. They would be unable to appreciate the charm. What is nature, however beautiful, to a man eaten up with avarice and ambition?—to a woman who only dreams of pleasure?... To such degenerate souls, nature is a sealed book—a divine picture before a sightless eye.
But to this number Eugénie did not belong. The daughter of a Catholic mother and a Protestant father, she had been educated in one of the best schools in Paris. Shall I call her pious? No; that would be exaggerating. Eugénie did not lack faith. Her religious instincts were well developed, but checked by her father’s coldness and her mother’s frivolity. She was by no means insensible to all the beautiful and true in religion. They filled her with admiration. She always fulfilled the obligations rigorously imposed by the church, but avoided going any farther through indifference as well as calculation. She had a horror of what she called petty religion and little practices of piety. Poor girl! she, too, closed her eyes in this respect to the light. The practices she disdained—frequent prayers, the raising of the soul to God, visits to the church, and assiduous frequentation of the sacraments—are they not what truly constitute religion, such as it ought to be, in order to be the companion, friend, and guide of the whole life?... This is what Eugénie did not comprehend, or rather, what she did not wish to comprehend. In short, she was religious in her own way—half-way religious—quite so in theory, but in reality much less so than she should have been.
The somewhat indirect influence her parents exercised over her in a religious point of view also affected her in other ways. Eugénie possessed two natures: she was cold like her father, and kind like her mother, but without displaying it. Let us also add another characteristic by way of completing her portrait—she was romantic. In everything, she had a repugnance to what she called commonplace. An object, an individual, or an action, to please her, must have a peculiar stamp, an original turn, which she wished might be more frequently met with. She only liked what was out of the common course, according to the elevated standard of a certain ideal she had formed in her own mind.
Eugénie’s exterior, her distinguished manners, her fluency in conversation, and the tone of her calm, well-modulated voice, all inspired a respect bordering on admiration. She was beautiful without being bewitching. She was kind, but in so inexpressive a way as to inspire at first fear rather than confidence. As has been said, she possessed a character not easily read, and, though only twenty-one years old, she passed for what is called, and with reason, a person of ability. Her father and mother doted on her: she was their only child. Yet there was a difference in their affection. Mr. Smithson tenderly loved her as a daughter: Mme. Smithson loved her with a shade of fear, as we love a companion or friend whose superiority we feel.
Her toilet otherwise completed, Eugénie rang for her waiting-maid to arrange her hair. Fanny did not keep her waiting. There was a striking contrast between mistress and maid. Fanny was towards forty years of age. She was of ordinary height, neat in person, but plain and unattractive in appearance. She had a bad complexion, large eyes hidden under thick lashes, a wide mouth, and a large fleshy nose, which made up one of those vulgar faces that are never observed except to laugh at. She was beloved by no one except her employers. This was not strange. She had an observing eye and a keen, sarcastic tongue. Her nature was soured, rather than instinctively bad. She was selfish and bitter—a good deal so. This selfishness and bitterness sprang from two causes which she would by no means have acknowledged. She was no longer young, she knew she was homely, and she had no hope of being married. Such a hope she had once, and a few days of happiness was the result. Fanny would have been so glad to be, in her turn, mistress over her own house! But her dream had vanished, and under circumstances not calculated to sweeten her temper.
For some years, Fanny was a servant at Mme. Smithson’s sister’s. That lady was in the commercial line at Paris. There Fanny made the conquest of a smart young man from the country employed by her mistress as head clerk. He was an excellent person, but, like many others, wished to reconcile his affections with his interests. He said to himself that, by waiting awhile, he might, some fine day, find a wife richer, prettier, and younger than Fanny. As he was bound to her by no actual promise, he finally obtained another situation, and disappeared without any warning. The poor girl regarded such conduct as infamous. She felt that all hope of ever marrying was now lost, and the disappointment made her ill. Unbeknown to her, her mistress had followed all the scenes of this little domestic drama. She nursed Fanny with a care that was quite motherly. When the girl recovered, she expressed her gratitude, but begged permission to go away. The house had too many cruel associations. Her mistress willingly consented, and Fanny entered Mme. Smithson’s service. When the latter left Paris, Fanny accompanied her to St. M——, and had now been in the family several years.