Chapter 6

The Abbé Blampoix had all the fascination of the priest who is well educated, talented, and accomplished. He could talk well during confession, and could put some wit into his exhortations and a certain graciousness into his unction. He knew how to move and interest his hearers. He was well versed in words that touch the heart and in speeches that are flattering and pleasing to the ear. His voice was musical and his style flowery. He called the devil "_the Prince of evil_," and the eucharist "_the Divine aliment_"! He abounded in periphrases as highly coloured as sacred pictures. He talked of Rossini, quoted Racine, and spoke of "_the Bois_" for the Bois de Boulogne. He talked of divine love in words which were somewhat disconcerting, of present-day vices with piquant details, and of society in society language. Occasionally, expressions which were in vogue and which had only recently been invented, expressions only known among worldly people, would slip into his spiritual consultations and had the same effect as extracts from a newspaper in an ascetic book. There was a pleasant odour of the century about him. His priestly robe seemed to be impregnated with all the pretty little sins which had approached it. He was very well up and always to the point with regard to subtle temptations, admirably shrewd, keen, and tactful in his discussions on sensuality. Women doted on him.

His first step, his _début_ in the ecclesiastical career, had been distinguished by a veritable seduction and capturing of souls, by a success which had been a perfect triumph and indeed almost a scandal. After taking the catechism classes for a year in the parish of B----, the archbishop had appointed him to other work, putting another priest in his place. The result of this was a rebellion, as all the girls who had attended the catechism classes refused to speak or listen to the newcomer. They had lost their young hearts and heads, and there were tears shed by all the flock, a regular riot of wailing and sorrow, which before long changed into revolt. The elder girls, the chief members of the society, kept up the struggle several months. They agreed together not to go to the classes, and they went so far as to refuse to hand over to the curé the cash-box which had been intrusted to them. It was with the greatest difficulty that they were appeased.

The success which all this augured to the Abbé Blampoix had not failed him. His fame had quickly spread. That great force, Fashion, which in Paris affects everything, even a priest's cassock, had taken him up and launched him. People came to him from all parts. The ordinary, commonplace confessions were heard by other priests; but all the choice sins were brought to him. Around him was always to be heard a hubbub of great names, of large fortunes, of pretty contritions, and the rustling of beautiful dresses. Mothers consulted him about taking their daughters out, and the daughters were instructed by him before going into society. He was appealed to for permission to wear low-necked dresses, and he was the man who regulated the modesty of ball costumes and the propriety of reading certain books. He was also asked for titles of novels and lists of moral plays. He prepared candidates for confirmation and led them on to marriage. He baptized children and listened to the confession of the adulterous in thought. Wives who considered themselves slighted or misunderstood came to him to lament over the materiality of their husbands, and he supplied them with a little idealism to take back to their homes. All who were in trouble or despair had recourse to him, and he ordered a trip to Italy for them, with music and painting for diversions and a good confession in Rome.

Wives who were separated from their husbands addressed themselves to him when they wanted to return quietly to their home. His conciliations came between the love of wives and the jealousy of mothers-in-law. He found governesses for the mothers and lady's maids of forty years of age for young wives. Newly married wives learned from him to secure their happiness and to keep their husband's affection by their discreet and dainty toilettes, by cleanliness and care, by the spotlessness and elegance of their linen. "My dear child," he would say sometimes, "a wife should have just a faint perfume of the _lorette_ about her." His experience intervened in questions of the hygiene of marriage. He was consulted on such matters as maternity and pregnancy. He would decide whether a wife should become a mother and whether a mother should suckle her child.

This vogue and rôle, the dealings that he had with women and the possession of all their secrets, so many confidences and so much knowledge on all subjects, his intercourse of all kinds with the dignitaries and lady-treasurers of various societies, and the acquaintance he had, thanks to the steps he was obliged to take in the interests of charity, with all the important personages of Paris, all the influence that, as a clever, discreet, and obliging priest, he had succeeded in obtaining, had given to the Abbé Blampoix an immense power and authority which radiated silently and unseen. Worldly interests and social ambitions were confessed to him. Nearly all the marriageable individuals in society were recommended to this priest, who professed no political preferences, who mixed with every one, and who was admirably placed for bringing families together, for uniting houses, arranging matches of expediency or balancing social positions, pairing off money with money, or joining an ancient title to a newly made fortune. It was as though marriages in Paris had an occult Providence in the person of this rare sort of man in whom were blended the priest and the lawyer, the apostle and the diplomatist--Fénelon and M. de Foy. The Abbé Blampoix had an income of sixteen hundred pounds, the half of which he gave to the poor. He had refused a bishopric for the sake of remaining what he was--a priest.

"To whom have I the honour," began the abbé, who appeared to be searching his memory for a name.

"Mme. Mauperin, the mother of Mme. Davarande."

"Oh, excuse me, madame, excuse me. Your family are not persons whom one could forget. Do sit down, please--let me give you this arm-chair."

And then, taking a seat himself with his back to the light, he continued:

"I like to think of that marriage, which gave me the opportunity of making your acquaintance--the marriage of your daughter with M. Davarande. You and I, madame, you, with the devotion of a mother, and I--well, with just the feeble insight of a humble priest--brought about a truly Christian marriage, a marriage which has satisfied the needs of the dear child as regards her religion and her affection and which was also in accordance with her social position. Mme. Davarande is one of my model penitents; I am thoroughly satisfied with her. M. Davarande is an excellent young man who shares the religious beliefs of his wife, and that is a rare thing nowadays. One's mind is easy about such happy and superior young couples, and I am quite convinced beforehand that you have not come about either of these dear children----"

"You are right. I am quite satisfied as regards them, and their happiness is a great joy in my life. It is such a responsibility to get one's children married. No, monsieur, it is not for them that I have come; it is for myself."

"For yourself--madame?"

And the abbé glanced quickly at her with an expression which softened just as quickly.

"Ah, monsieur, time brings many changes. One has a hundred things to think about before one reaches my age. There are the people one meets, and society ties, and all that is very entertaining. We give ourselves up to such things, enjoy them and count on them. We fancy we shall never need anything beyond. Well, now, monsieur, I have reached the age when one does need something beyond. You will understand me, I am sure. I have begun to feel the emptiness of the world. Nothing interests me, and I should like to come back to what I had given up. I know how indulgent and charitable you are. I need your counsel and your hand to lead me back to duties that I have neglected far too long, although I have always remembered and respected them. You must know how wretched I am, monsieur."

While speaking thus, with that easy flow of words so natural to a woman, and especially to a Parisian woman, and which in Parisian slang is known as _bagou_, Mme. Mauperin, who had avoided meeting the priest's eyes, which she had felt fixed on her, now glanced mechanically at a light which was being stirred by the abbé's hands and which flamed up under a ray of sunshine, shining brightly in the midst of this room--the severe-looking, solemn, cold room of a man of business. This light came from a casket containing some diamonds with which the abbé was idly playing.

"Ah, you are looking at this!" said the abbé, catching Mme. Mauperin's eye and answering her thoughts instead of her phrases. "You are surprised to see it, are you not? Yes, a jewel-case, a case of diamonds--and just look at them--rather good ones, too." He passed her the necklace. "It's odd for that to be here, isn't it? But what was I to do? This is our modern society. We are obliged to see a little of all sorts. Such a pitiful scene! I don't feel myself again yet, after it--such sobs and tears! Perhaps you heard--a poor young wife throwing herself down here at my feet--a mother of a family, madame! Alas! that's how the world is--this is what the love of finery and the fondness of admiration will lead to. People spend and spend, until finally they can only pay the interest of what they owe at the shops. Yes, indeed, madame, that happens constantly. I could mention the shops. People hope to be able to pay the capital some day; they count on a son-in-law to whom they can tell everything and who will only be too happy to pay his mother-in-law's debts. But in the meantime the shops get impatient; and at last they threaten to tell the husband everything. Then--oh, just think of the anguish then! Do you know that this woman talked just now of throwing herself into the river? I had to promise to find her twelve hundred pounds. I beg your pardon, though--a thousand times. Here I am talking of my own affairs. Let us go back to yours. You had another daughter--a charming girl. I prepared her for confirmation. Let me see, now, what was her name?"

"Renée."

"Oh, yes, of course, a very intelligent child, very quick--quite an exceptional character. Tell me now, isn't she married?"

"No, monsieur, and it's a great trouble to me. You've no idea what a headstrong girl she is. She is nothing like her sister. It's very unfortunate for a mother to have a daughter with a character like hers. I would rather she were a little less intelligent. We have found most suitable matches for her, and she refuses them in the most thoughtless, foolish way. There was another one yesterday. And her father spoils her so."

"Ah, that's a pity. You have no idea what a maternal affection we have for these dear children that we have led to Christ. But you don't say anything about your son, a delightful young man, so good-looking--and just the age to marry, it seems to me----"

"Do you know him, monsieur?"

"I had the pleasure of meeting him once at his sister's, at Mme. Davarande's, when I went to see her during her illness; those are the only visits we pay, you know--visits to the sick. Then, too, I have heard all sorts of good reports about him. You are a fortunate mother, madame. Your son goes to church, and at Easter he took communion with the Jesuit Fathers. He has not told you, probably, but he was one of those society men, true Christians, who waited nearly all night to get to the confessional--there was such a crowd. Yes, people do not believe it, but, thank God, it is quite true. Some of the young men waited until five o'clock in the morning to confess. I need not tell you how deeply the Church is touched by such zeal, how thankful she is to those who give her this consolation and who pay her this homage in these sad times of demoralization and incredulity. We are drawn towards young men who set such a good example and who are so willing to do what is right, and we are always ready to give them what help we can and to use any influence that we may have in certain families in their favour."

"Oh, monsieur, you are too good. And our gratitude--mine and my son's--if only you would interest yourself on his behalf. What a happy thought it was to come to you! You see I came to you as a woman, but as a mother too. My son is angelic--and then, monsieur, you can do so much."

The abbé shook his head with a deprecatory smile of mingled modesty and melancholy.

"No, madame, you overestimate our power. We are far from all that you say. We are able to do a little good sometimes, but it is with great difficulty. If only you knew how little a priest can do in these days. People are afraid of our influence; they do not care to meet us outside the church, nor to speak to us except in the confessional. You yourself, madame, would be surprised if your confessor ventured to speak to you about your daily conduct. Thanks to the deplorable prejudices of people with regard to us, every one's object is to keep us at a distance and to stand on the defensive."

"Oh, dear, why, it is one o'clock--and I saw that your table was laid when I came. I'm quite ashamed of myself. May I come again in a few days?"

"My luncheon can always wait," said the Abbé Blampoix, and turning to a desk covered with papers at his side, he made a sign to Mme. Mauperin to sit down again. There was a moment's silence, broken only by the rustle of papers which the abbé was turning over. Finally he drew out a visiting-card, turned down at the corner, from under a pile of papers, held it to the light, and read:

"Twelve thousand pounds in deeds and preference shares. Six hundred pounds a year from the day of marriage; father and mother dead. Twenty-four thousand pounds on the death of some uncles and aunts who will never marry. Young girl, nineteen, charming, much prettier than she imagines herself to be. You see," said the abbé, putting the card back among the papers. "Think it over. Anyhow, you will see. I have, too, at this very moment a thousand pounds a year on her marriage--an orphan--Ah, no, that would not do--her guardian wants to find some one who is influential. He is sub-referendary judge on the Board of Finance and he will only marry his ward to a son-in-law who can get him promoted. Ah, wait a minute--this would do, perhaps," and he read aloud from some notes: "Twenty-two years of age, not pretty, accomplished, intelligent, dresses well, father sixty thousand pounds, three children, substantial fortune. He owns the house in the Rue de Provence, where the offices of the _Security_ are, an estate in the Orne, eight thousand pounds in the Crédit Foncier. Rather an opinionated sort of man, of Portuguese descent. The mother is a mere cipher in the house. There is no family, and the father would be annoyed if you went to see his relatives. I am not keeping anything back, as you see; a family dinner party once a year and that is all. The father will give twelve thousand pounds for the dowry; he wants his daughter to live in the same house.

"Yes," continued the abbé, looking through his notes, "that's all I see that would do for you just now. Will you talk it over with your son, madame, and consult your husband? I am quite at your service. When I have the pleasure of seeing you here again, will you bring with you just a few figures, a little note that would give me an idea of your intentions with regard to settling your son. And bring your daughter with you. I should be delighted to see the dear child again."

"Would you mind fixing some time when I should not disturb you quite so much as I have done to-day, monsieur?"

"Oh, madame, my time belongs to every one who has need of me, and I am only too much honoured. The thing is that in a fortnight's time--if you came then, I should be in the country, and I only come one day a week to Paris, then. Yes, it's a sheer necessity, and so I have had to make up my mind to it. By the end of the winter I get so worn out; I have so much to attend to, and then these four flights of stairs kill me. But what am I to do? I am obliged to pay in some way for the right of having my chapel, for the precious privilege of being able to have mass in my own home. No one could sleep over a chapel, you see. Ah, an idea has just struck me: why should you not come to see me in the country--at Colombes? It would be a little excursion. I have plenty of fruit, and I take a landowner's pride in my fruit. I could offer you luncheon, a very informal luncheon. Will you come, madame--and your daughter? Would your son give me the pleasure of his company too?"

VII

A quarter of an hour later a footman in a red coat opened the door of a flat on a first floor in the Rue Taitbout in answer to Mme. Mauperin's ring.

"Good-morning, Georges. Is my son in?"

"Yes, madame, monsieur is there."

Mme. Mauperin had smiled on her son's domestic, and as she walked along she smiled on the rooms, on the furniture, and on everything she saw. When she entered the study her son was writing and smoking at the same time.

"Well, I never!" he exclaimed, taking his cigar out of his mouth and leaning his head against the back of his chair for his mother to kiss him. "It's you, is it, mamma?" he went on, continuing to smoke. "You didn't say a word about coming to Paris to-day. What brings you here?"

"Oh, I had some shopping and some visits to pay--you know I am always behind. How comfortable you are here!"

"Ah, yes, to be sure, you hadn't seen my new arrangements."

"Dear me, how well you do arrange everything! There's no one like you, really. It isn't damp here is it, are you quite sure?" and Mme. Mauperin put her hand against the wall. "Tell Georges to air the room always when you are away, won't you?"

"Yes, yes, mother," said Henri in a bored way, as one answers a child.

"Oh, why do you have those? I don't like your having such things." Mme. Mauperin had just caught sight of two swords above the bookcase. "The very sight of them! When one thinks--" and Mme. Mauperin closed her eyes for an instant and sat down. "You don't know how your dreadful bachelor life makes us poor mothers tremble. If you were married, it seems to me that I should not be so worried about you. I do wish you were married, Henri!"

"I do, too, I can assure you."

"Really? Come, now--mothers, you know--well, secrets ought not to be kept from them. I am so afraid, when I look at you, handsome as you are, and so distinguished and clever and fascinating. You are just the sort of man that any one would fall in love with, and I'm so afraid----"

"Of what?"

"Lest you should have some reason for not----"

"For not marrying, you mean, don't you? A chain--is that what you mean?"

Mme. Mauperin nodded and Henri burst out laughing.

"Oh, my dear mamma, if I had one, make your mind easy, it should be a polished one. A man who has any respect for himself would not wear any other."

"Well, then, tell me about Mlle. Herbault. It was your fault that it all came to nothing."

"Mlle. Herbault? The introduction at the Opéra with father? Oh, no, it wasn't that. Yes, yes, I remember, the dinner at Mme. Marquisat's, wasn't it--the last one? That was a trap you laid for me. I must say you are sweetly innocent! I was announced: '_Môssieu Henri Mauperin_,' in that grand, important sort of way which being interpreted meant: '_Behold the future husband!_' I found all the candles in the drawing-room lighted up. The mistress of the house, whom I had seen just twice in my life, overpowered me with her smiles; her son, whom I did not know at all, shook hands with me. There was a lady with her daughter in the room, they neither of them appeared to see me. My place at dinner was next the young person, of course; a provincial family, their money placed in farms, simple tastes, etc. I discovered all that before the soup was finished. The mother, on the other side of the table, was keeping watch over us; an impossible sort of mother, in such a get-up! I asked the daughter whether she had seen the 'Prophet' at the Opéra. 'Yes, it was superb--and then there was that wonderful effect in the third act. Oh, yes, that effect, that wonderful effect.' She hadn't seen it any more than I had. A fibber to begin with. I entertained myself with keeping her to the subject, and that made her crabby. We went back to the drawing-room and then the hostess began: 'What a pretty dress!' she said to me. 'Did you notice it? Would you believe that Emmeline has had that dress five years. I can remember it. She is so careful--so orderly!' 'All right,' I thought to myself, 'a lot of miserly wretches who mean to take me in.'"

"Do you really think so? And yet, from what we were told about them----"

"A woman who makes her dresses last five years! That speaks for itself, that's quite enough. I can picture the dowry hoarded up in a stocking. The money would be in land at two and a half per cent; repairs, taxes, lawsuits, farmers who don't pay their rent, a father-in-law who makes over to you unsalable property. No, no, I'm not quite young enough. I want to get married, but I mean to marry well. Leave me to manage it, and you'll see. You can make your mind easy; I'm not the sort to be taken in with: '_She has such beautiful hair and she is so devoted to her mother!_' You see, mamma, I've thought a great deal about marriage, although you may not imagine I have. The most difficult thing to get in this world, the thing we pay the most dearly for, snatch from each other, fight for, the thing we only obtain by force of genius or by luck, by meanness, privations, by wild efforts, perseverance, resolution, energy, audacity or work, is money--isn't that so? Now money means happiness and the honour of being rich, it means enjoyment, and it brings with it the respect and esteem of the million. Well, I have discovered that there is a way of getting it, straightforwardly and promptly, without any fatigue, without difficulty and without genius, quite simply, naturally, quickly and honourably; and this way is by marriage. Another thing I have discovered is that there is no need to be remarkably handsome nor astonishingly intelligent in order to make a rich marriage; the only thing necessary is to will it, to will it coolly, calmly and with all one's force of will-power, to stake all one's chances on that card; in fact to look upon getting married as one's object in life, one's future career. I see that in playing that game it is no more difficult to make an extraordinary marriage than an ordinary one, to get a dowry of fifty thousand pounds than one of five thousand; it is merely a question of cool-headedness and luck; the stake is the same in both cases. In our times when a good tenor can marry an income of thirty thousand pounds arithmetic becomes a thing of the past. All this is what I have wanted to explain to you, and I am sure you will understand me."

Henri Mauperin took his mother's hand in his as he spoke. She was fairly aghast with surprise, admiration, and a sentiment very near akin to respect.

"Don't you worry yourself," continued her son. "I shall marry well--better even perhaps than you dream of."

As soon as his mother had gone Henri took up his pen and, continuing the article he had commenced for the _Revue économique_, wrote: "The trajectory of humanity is a spiral and not a circle----"

VIII