My grandmother lived in the Rue du Hameau-de-l'Abbaye, in a house whose gardens ran terrace-wise into a dale, at the bottom of which was a spring surrounded by willows. Madame de Bedée could no longer walk, but with this exception she suffered from none of the inconveniences attendant upon her age. She was a pleasant old woman, fat, white-haired, neat, with the grand air and fine and noble manners. She wore old-fashioned plaited gowns and a head-dress of black lace fastened under her chin. Her mind was cultivated, her conversation grave, her mood was serious. She was cared for by her sister, who resembled her only in kind-heartedness. Mademoiselle de Boisteilleul was a little lean person, sprightly, talkative, addicted to raillery. She had been in love with a certain Comte de Trémigon, and the said count, after becoming engaged to her, had broken his promise. My great-aunt had consoled herself by singing her love, for she was poetically inclined. I remember often hearing her hum, in snuffling fashion, with her glasses on her nose, while embroidering double-rowed ruffles for her sister, an apologue commencing:
Un épervier aimait une fauvette
Et, ce dit-on, il en était aimé[46],
which I always thought strange for a sparrow-hawk.
The song ended with this refrain:
Ah! Trémigon, la fable est-elle obscure?
Ture, lure[47].
How many things in this world end, like my aunt's love, in "Derry down!"
My grandmother left the housekeeping to my sister. She dined at eleven o'clock in the morning, took her siesta, woke up at one; she was carried down the garden terraces and placed under the willows near the spring, where she sat knitting, surrounded by her sister, her children, and grandchildren. At that time old age was a distinction; nowadays it is an encumbrance. At four o'clock, my grandmother was carried back to her drawing-room; Pierre, the man-servant, set out a card-table; Mademoiselle de Boisteilleul knocked with the tongs against the back of the fire-place, and a few minutes later three other old maids would walk in, who had come from the next house in obedience to my aunt's summons.
These three sisters were called the Demoiselles Vildéneux[48]; they were the daughters of a poor gentleman, and instead of dividing his slender inheritance, they had enjoyed it in common, had never left one another, had never been out of their natal village. They had been intimate with my grandmother since childhood, lived next door to her, and came every day, at the preconcerted signal in the chimney, to make up their friend's party at quadrille. The game began; the good ladies quarrelled; it was the only incident in their lives, the only moment that spoiled the evenness of their temper. At eight o'clock, supper restored their serenity. Often my uncle de Bedée[49], with his son and his three daughters, would be present at my grandmother's supper. The latter would tell a thousand stories of the old days; my uncle, in his turn, would describe the battle of Fontenoy, at which he was present, and crown his boasting with stories which were a little free and which made the worthy spinsters die with laughing. At nine o'clock, supper over, the servants entered; all went on their knees, and Mademoiselle de Boisteilleul said prayers aloud. At ten o'clock all in the house slept, except my grand-mother, who made her waiting-woman read to her till one in the morning.
This society, which was the first I saw in my life, was also the first to disappear from my eyes. I saw death enter that abode of peace and bliss, making it gradually lonely, closing first one room and then another which were never reopened. I saw my grandmother obliged to forego her quadrille, for want of her accustomed partners; I saw the number of her constant friends diminish until the day came when my grand-mother was the last to fall. She and her sister had promised to call each other so soon as one had preceded the other; they kept their word, and Madame de Bedée survived Mademoiselle de Boisteilleul but a few months. I am perhaps the only man living that knows that these persons existed. Twenty times since that period I have made the same remark; twenty times have societies been formed and dissolved around me. The impossibility of long duration in human relations, the profound forgetfulness that pursues us, the invincible silence that takes possession of our tomb and spreads thence over our house, constantly recall me to the necessity of isolation. Any hand will serve to give us the glass of water which we may need in the fever preceding death. Ah, that it may not be too dear to us! For how can one forsake without despair the hand which he has covered with kisses, and which he would like to hold to his heart for ever?
The Bedée family.