I.
MONTSÉGUR had been most unexpectedly elected deputy in February, 1871. Although possessing no political record, and having scarcely attained the age of parliamentary eligibility—twenty-five—he had a fine estate in the neighborhood of Saint Chamond. He commanded a battalion of mobiles during the war, displayed great bravery, and was wounded at the battle of Mans, January 10, 1871.
He was enjoying the comforts of a temporary hospital established at the residence of the fathers of Sainte Croix, when he received with profound amazement the news of his election to the Assembly of Bordeaux. He certainly could not be charged with having resorted to political intrigues and maneuvers. A candidate without knowing it, he had become a deputy without wishing for it.
This is what had happened. Who does not remember in what turmoil and confusion the elections of 1871 took place? A Conservative Committee had been formed in great haste at the principal town of the Department of the Lower Saône, and it had made out a list of seven names. On this first list, Montségur’s did not appear.
But on the eve of the election, one of the seven—M. de Lormieux—had refused to allow his name to be used, and the committee, greatly embarrassed and taken by surprise, had hurriedly prepared new ballots on which was found that of M. de Montségur. The electors had voted for the latter as readily as they would have voted for the original candidate.
This is one of the advantages of the scrutin de liste. The electors vote with their eyes closed and with entire confidence, without knowing why, or for whom. With the scrutin d’arrondissement the voter may have some vague idea of the folly he is about to commit; but with the scrutin de liste he never even suspects it.
Thus Montségur, as by a miracle, found himself a deputy. As soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his wound, about the middle of March, he went straight from the hospital at Mans to the theater at Bordeaux in which the sittings of the legislature were held.
France, at that moment, had very few opinions, and Montségur had fewer even than France. However, the majority in the Chamber inclined toward a re-establishment of the Monarchy, since the Empire had ended badly and the Republic had not begun any better.
Montségur studied the list of the names of his colleagues. Recognizing those of two of his friends among the members of the Right Centre, he took his seat beside them and for five years, from 1871 till 1876, quietly and obediently voted with them on every proper occasion.
During these five years Montségur spent a good deal of money. He was young, rich, unmarried, and master both of his life and of his fortune, but made a stupid use of both. He became infatuated with a young person who called herself Réginette, and who, at rare intervals, played trifling parts in the lettres de rideau at the Theatre of the Palais Royal.
Montségur was so fortunate, or rather so unfortunate, as to fall easily in love, and had already had considerable experience. At the first glimpse of Réginette he had surrendered at discretion, and received the dart squarely in his breast. Réginette was blonde, with big black eyes; her heart was very large, but her hands were very small. In his comedy of “The Attaché,” M. Meilhac makes this very witty and true observation: “One would never suspect how much money a woman’s hand can hold—especially when it’s small.” Thus it had happened that, during this first legislative session, five or six thousand francs, that had dropped from Montségur’s pocket-book, had been picked up by the diminutive hands of Réginette.
At the elections of 1876, there was no longer any scrutin de liste. M. Buffet had secured the re-adoption of the scrutin d’arrondissement. Montségur wanted to remain deputy. He had acquired a taste for politics and had become quite accustomed to that kind of life. At first the business had seemed somewhat exacting, since he had begun by conscientiously discharging his duties—attending every session of the Chamber, serving religiously on all the committees, listening to every debate, being present at every division, shouting enthusiastically when he saw that the group was pleased, and groaning when he noticed that it was dissatisfied. In short, he was a model deputy.
His afternoons belonged to France; his evenings to Réginette. She had left the Palais Royal, or, to speak more accurately, the Palais Royal had left her. She was without an engagement, and, greatly annoyed at being so, sought a new one; but not in the line of insignificant comedy parts. One evening she said to Montségur:
“How I should like to get back to the theater, but not to any of your minor ones—to a real theater, to the Comédie Française, for example.”
“The Comédie Française!”
“Yes, the Comédie Française. I’m sure it isn’t any harder to play there than anywhere else. And I know what would suit me; I should play tragedy.”
“Tragedy!”
“Yes, tragedy; I have many good points, but nothing better than my arms. They’re splendid! Now it seems that they’re indispensable in tragedy, as one is all the time raising them to Heaven, or shaking them convulsively in the air,—railing against fate, invoking the gods! Oh, I know what tragedy is! The antique costume would fit me like a glove. Once I dressed up in the character of a Vestal.”
“A Vestal!”
“Yes, like a Vestal. What are you laughing at?”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“It was at a masked ball; and when I entered, there was a general cry of admiration at my arms. And there was an author there, a real one, who knew what he was talking about, and had said something in verse played somewhere, and he said that with arms like mine, I had only to come on the stage to succeed in tragedy. Well! isn’t the Comédie Française connected with the government? You’ve only got to say a word, then, on the eve of some important division, the eve of some day when your vote will be valuable. You dined Wednesday at one of the ministers. What did you talk about?—some railroad in which deputies are interested? But what I’m interested in doesn’t trouble you. The voters elected you over the other candidates. Well! so did I choose you from among your rivals, and still I haven’t had anything—not a thing!”
“What? nothing!”
“No, nothing, nothing! Not even the tobacco shop for papa. You will tell me that he has no claim on the government. I have a right to expect one. But that’s just it; if he had, I shouldn’t trouble you. Valérie has had better luck than me. She took up with a deputy that wasn’t afraid to ask for things, and knew how to get them when he asked. He got a place for her aunt whom she had to provide for, as box-opener at the Odeon. And her father has been appointed overseer of a little park, a square that is never opened, which means that he only has to go and look every morning to see whether the gate is shut. That would be just the place for papa. But me first. Come, Fernand, be good. I beg of you, go and see the minister to-morrow and get me into the Théâtre Français.”
While awaiting the day of her début at the Comédie Française, poor Réginette, not being able to act herself, went every night to see others act. Every evening she installed herself in a lower proscenium box, while Montségur was obliged to keep guard, behind his divinity, at the back of the loge, in an asphyxiating atmosphere, blinded and scorched by the foot-lights, seeing the same fairy spectacle and the same annual “Review,” fifteen or twenty times.
He would frequently attempt to escape, and take a brief stroll on the Boulevard; but, on his return, he was sure to find the box invaded by a crowd of very young men. On his complaining, Réginette would say:
“It’s all your fault. If you will go away, I can’t prevent my friends coming to speak to me. They see me alone; they come in.”
Montségur, who was very much in love and very jealous, didn’t dare to budge. His life was therefore a rather sedentary and confined one. One day, in the spring of 1873, his tailor brought him a frock-coat. When he tried to button it, he experienced some difficulty; he had grown a little stouter. The discovery annoyed him. He was rather a fine-looking man and prided himself on his figure. He went to see his physician.
“I am very uneasy,” he said to him.
“Are you ill?”
“No, but I’m growing stout.”
“Do you take exercise?”
“None at all. I pass my days seated in the legislative chamber at Versailles, and my evenings in the theaters in Paris.”
“You must go out and walk in the morning.”
“In the morning I sleep. I’ve never been able to rise before ten or eleven o’clock. I need a great deal of sleep.”
“Still you must get the fresh air and walk, walk a good deal, three or four hours a day. There is no other remedy when you first notice that you’re growing stout. Walk either in the morning, or in the evening, since, during the day, you are necessarily compelled to attend the sessions of the Chamber.”
“To walk in the morning and thus sacrifice his sleep—never! To walk in the evening and lose sight of Réginette—never, again! Montségur gave up the Chamber. He, however, went regularly to Versailles. The short railway trips were approved by his physician. It was, be it remembered, a very wholesome mode of life—that led by our legislators when the Chamber was sitting at Versailles. Statistics have proved conclusively that parliamentary mortality has greatly increased since its return to Paris.
Montségur therefore continued to go to Versailles, only on his arrival he merely passed through the Palace. He would stroll about for ten minutes among the benches, shake hands with his acquaintances, and then go for tremendous “constitutionals” in the park. His name, however, was to be found on all the voting lists—that was the main point—as he had arranged with his right-hand neighbor, who was never absent, to vote for him.
Montségur, thanks to his enthusiasm for exercise, at the end of six months found that his coat fitted him admirably. He had grown thin. Such was his daily life, and such the reasons why his parliamentary duties sat so lightly on him, and why he was strongly disposed to continue his hygienic promenades in the park at Versailles. These walks, by the way, brought him annually, or rather brought Réginette, an income of ten thousand francs. It appears that the latter had one day dismissed a blonde youth whose attentions annoyed Montségur, and that the deputy, in a spasm of gratitude, had made over to the young actress of the Palais Royal his entire salary. She had thus become a component part of the national budget, and in consequence naturally urged Montségur not to give up his political career, but to energetically carry on the fight in the arrondissement of Saint Chamond.
For this time a fight was inevitable. Montségur was opposed by both a Legitimist and a Radical. He was consequently compelled to have views, to organize a campaign, like his opponents, to arrange public meetings, to make a profession of political faith, and to have mapped out something like a programme of action. He managed the affair with considerable skill. He declared that the form of government was indifferent to him, that he would agree to a republic on condition that it strongly resembled a monarchy, or to a monarchy on condition that it strongly resembled a republic. He was elected by six thousand votes, over the Legitimist, who received two thousand, and the Radical, who only got five hundred.
Montségur resumed his seat with the Right Center, and his place by Réginette. She was more blonde and more avaricious than ever. He continued to see his money fly away from him until the day when his colleague, Lambertin, member and secretary of the Left Center, begged him to honor him with his presence at dinner on Wednesday, March 15, at seven o’clock.
II.
And on Wednesday, March 15, at seven o’clock, at the door of a salon furnished in white and red, No. 67, Boulevard Haussmann, on the first floor above the entresol, Montségur’s susceptible heart was suddenly pierced by a second dart much sharper than that which he had received one evening at the Palais Royal theater while seated in orchestra chair No. 92. Madame Lambertin was a charming woman, dark, slender, delicate, but not unpleasantly thin. She was of fairy stature—fifty-two centimeters—and her shoulders were beyond criticism. She took pleasure in doing the honors to her guests, and graciously refused to conceal her bust, at least any more of it than was necessary to hide at a political dinner. For it was a political dinner. Mme. Lambertin was a very circumspect, a very intelligent, and a very ambitious woman. She was quite well aware of her husband’s ardent significance, and that apart from her, Laura neither merit nor political value.
It was she, and she alone, who had made Lambertin Municipal Counselor, Mayor, Counselor-General, Deputy, Secretary of the Left Center, et cetera, et cetera. In short, she had made him what he was. She dreamed of still greater honors for him; she saw him a Cabinet Minister, and the road to the Ministry lay through the presidency of the Left Center. That was the stepping-stone! Thus her aim was to swell the ranks of his party; to recruit it from among her personal friends, friends devoted to the Lambertin fortunes. She was active, ardent, energetic, and impassioned.
Mme. Lambertin seized Montségur after dinner and delivered, for his sole benefit, in one corner of the salon, an eloquent political address:
“What? He was tarrying on the benches of the Right Center? It was madness. France had marched on, and it was necessary to march on with France. The country was Left Center; it had to be Left Center!”
Laura Lambertin spoke with great power and warmth. Her animation heightened her beauty. Slightly swollen by emotion, the little blue veins could be traced under her delicate, transparent skin.
Montségur did not listen to Mme. Lambertin. He watched her talk. So have I known one of my friends, who was passionately enamored of a singer who had beautiful features, but a harsh, untuneful voice, to stuff his ears with cotton that he might “see her sing” with comfort. Montségur remained motionless, lost in the contemplation of those faultless shoulders. He had heard many orators in the Chamber when he used to attend the sessions simply as a listener; but neither M. Thiers, the Duke de Broglie, M. Gambetta, nor Monseigneur Dupanloup had made anything like such an impression on him.
One evening he had dined at M. Thiers’, and the President of the Republic, on leaving the table, had taken him aside in a corner of the grand salon at the préfecture of Versailles. The mise en scène had been the same and the address the same. M. Thiers, who was a wonderful talker as well as a great orator, had rehearsed the virtues and the attractions of the Left Center at great length. Montségur had held his own against the eloquence of M. Thiers, but he was nearly assailed by that of Mme. Lambertin. Was it because M. Thiers was not décolleté? Was it because his words were not re-enforced by a smile on lips as red as cherries, and which disclosed teeth as white as pearls? Was it because his sentences were not emphasized by the graceful gestures of those beautiful arms, separated from those victorious shoulders only by an almost imperceptible shred of mauve satin?
At the beginning of Marivaux’s pretty romance, Marianne is upset in the street by Valville’s coach. (In those days lovers were called Valville, and carriages were always coaches.) Poor Marianne’s foot is hurt. Valville springs down from his coach, lifts her up and carries her into his house, where he places her on a couch. A surgeon is sent for, and having arrived, asks to see the lady’s foot. The latter blushes deeply, although she firmly believes that she has the smallest foot in the world, and that, as Valville will be compelled to admire it, she will not come so badly out of the adventure. She, however, makes a show of resisting, and pretends that she will only take off her shoe; but this is not enough. She then resigned herself to circumstances, and in relating the incident afterward, said:
“When my foot was ready, the surgeon examined and felt it. The good man, in order the better to decide as to the extent of the injury, bent over a good deal, as he was old, and Valville mechanically followed his example and also stooped a good deal—because he was young. He didn’t know much about my wound, but he became thoroughly acquainted with my foot!”
So it was with Montségur. He didn’t know much about politics, but he was a connoisseur in shoulders, and felt himself being gently drawn toward the Left Center, when Mme. Lambertin said: “Believe me, Monsieur, believe me. There is no Group but ours; there’s no Group but ours.”
Laura Lambertin’s dressmaker was one of the most skillful in her profession, and the corsage she had devised for the cunning diplomatist was a masterpiece of boldness and precision. Its effect on Montségur was such that during the second fortnight of March, ties that bound him to Réginette were sensibly weakened; during the first fortnight of April they had yielded still more; while in the second fortnight of April they were finally and irretrievably broken. Montségur was preparing for his passage to the Left Center. He became one of the frequenters of the Lambertin salon.
One evening, in the midst of a political dissertation, he introduced an expression referring to a subject of a more ardent and more personal nature. His hostess saw a smile. The following evening he grew bolder, and the entire conversation turned on love rather than politics, protestations of eternal devotion taking the place of arguments regarding MM. Dufaure, Jules Simon, de Marcère, de Fourtou and other public men. At last one day—the 15th of May, 1877 (and this date should be kept in the reader’s mind as one of capital importance)—Montségur reached Mme. Lambertin’s about two p.m. The husband had been called to the Chamber to preside over a committee-meeting, and Montségur, taking advantage of the opportunity, declared his infatuation in unmistakable terms. He was eloquent, he was audacious—and Madame entered no protest. He was about turning on new floods of eloquence, when, suddenly, pretty Mme. Lambertin, releasing her hands which Montségur had been holding close prisoners in his, exclaimed:
“You say that you love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
“That you worship me?”
“Yes, I worship you.”
“And you have the hardihood to confess it?”
“Yes, I dare confess it.”
“And you are not yet enrolled among the members of the Left Center?”
Then Montségur burst forth in a frenzy of enthusiasm: “On leaving here I shall go and enroll my name among the members of the Left Center. I swear it, Laura, I swear it.”
It was the first time he had called her Laura, but it was not the last.
The same afternoon, about five o’clock, faithful to his oath, Montségur enrolled himself with the Left Center. There was a cry of joy throughout the Liberal press. The Monarchists were coming over to the Republic. The surprise and indignation among Montségur’s old political friends were great; they talked of “treason!”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked in reply; “France is marching on; I must keep step with her.”
Remember that all this passed on May 15, 1877, and Marshal McMahon on the day following perpetrated his famous coup d’état, or rather his coup de tête, by writing that famous letter to M. Jules Simon.
On what trifles does the fate of empires depend! If Marshal MacMahon had written his letter on May 14th, instead of May 16th; if Lambertin had not been called on the 15th to the Palais Bourbon, to preside over a committee meeting; if Montségur had not taken advantage of his absence to pay Laura this decisive visit, I beg of you to note the consequences. The 16th of May would have found Montségur still a member of the Right Center. One vote would have changed the result. Only three hundred and sixty-two Deputies, instead of three hundred and sixty-three, would have declared that “the Cabinet of May 17th, representing the coalition of parties hostile to the Republic, was a menace to order and peace, as well as a source of annoyance to the commercial and other interests of the country.”
Instead of being ranked among “those noble citizens whose steadfast convictions, whose proud attitude had saved the public liberties,” Montségur figured pitifully among “the shameless members of that odious coalition which was plotting to revive the darkest days the history of France had ever known.”
Such was the language of the time. But for Mme. Lambertin’s victorious shoulders the three hundred and sixty-three would only have been three hundred and sixty-two. Montségur was therefore a turncoat for love, much as one out of politeness makes the fourteenth at dinner.
It was Love again that re-elected Montségur. The arrondissement of Saint Chamond had also marched on. It would have ejected Montségur as a member of the Right Center; it welcomed him with open arms as a representative of the Left, giving him seven thousand votes. The editor of the Saint Chamond Libéral declared that Montségur had, “with admirable political foresight, seen in time the reefs on which the ship of state was about to founder.”
But that was not all that Montségur had to do. He returned to the Chamber more amorous, and consequently more Left Center, than ever. He did not suspect what was awaiting him. If Saint Chamond had “marched on,” the arrondissement of Bargeton, which Lambertin sat for, had advanced still more rapidly and recklessly. Lambertin, in order to secure his election, had had to promise to take a seat with the Republican Left!
At the end of this electoral turmoil, which seemed to him eternal in its duration, since it separated him from her he loved, Montségur hastened to Mme. Lambertin’s and seemed to take it for granted that he was to be received on the same footing as during the previous session, but Laura gently undeceived him. “Mon ami, with which party do you intend to act?”
“With which party?” exclaimed Montségur in great astonishment: “do you believe me capable of abandoning the Left Center?”
” Mon Dieu! ” was the reply, “that is precisely the party that we have just left. Edouard has just enrolled his name with the Republican Left.”
“With the Republican Left?”
“Yes, and what Edouard has done you can not but do. You owe it to him to follow his example.”
The Republican Left! He was thunderstruck. He remonstrated, argued. It was going ahead too fast. “Not so fast as France, mon ami. She no longer walks, she runs! and we must run with her.”
“You are asking too much of me. I can’t do it, Laura; I really can’t. Only think of it. There are my convictions—my political relations—my—”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, passionately, “what is all that in comparison with our love?”
Mme. Lambertin had such winning, gentle ways that she never failed to carry her point. Two hours later Montségur enrolled himself with the Republican Left.
Thus Montségur and Lambertin walked, like two good friends, arm in arm into the camp of the new coalition. This latter group was much more important, much more numerous; Mme. Lambertin redoubled her charms, did not spare herself, and displayed phenomenal activity. Her salon took on a more decided tone; her politeness wore a little more highly colored. Her pretty lips did not hesitate to form the word “democracy,” lips that thus far had stopped short at “liberalism.”
Success crowned such sacrifice! Mme. Lambertin, during the first session, managed to win over to the Republican Left a dozen hesitating and timid members of the Left Center, and soon enjoyed in her new Group the same popularity that had been hers in the old. But poor Montségur felt himself a little neglected. He had been already won, and was, therefore, not worth wasting more time upon. Laura was quite sure of him and did not care to expend her energy uselessly. Yes, she no doubt preferred him to others, but she could not afford to neglect any one on his account. He complained, grumbled, got himself snubbed for his pains, and then grew sullen and morose.
In the evening when the salon was full to overflowing with senators and deputies, office-holders and journalists; when, with wonderful grace, Mme. Lambertin endeavored to say a word to each, Montségur did not lose sight of her for an instant, and would now and then catch her in a corner, and enact tragic scenes that annoyed her terribly and did not at all accord with her complicated scheme of politics. During one of these encounters, she grew quite red in the face and declared that he was becoming insufferable.
“You will ruin my salon,” she said. “Your conduct last evening was intolerable. You compromise me, and make me conspicuous, while you render yourself ridiculous. You insist on interrupting the most harmless interviews with your tragic manner. Lambertin would never act like that. You are a permanent obstacle to my husband’s fortune and future.”
“I love you.”
“And I, too, my dear, I love you. I have already said so, and I repeat it—I love you! I love you!! I love you!!! Does that satisfy you? Is that enough? Are you contented, or shall I say it over again? Is it understood? This ought to be sufficient. Then have confidence. Confidence is so nice, and he is so stupid to be jealous.”
Three long years elapsed—years of storms and agitation, of anger and tenderness, of quarrels and peace-making, of eternal separations and sudden reconciliations—Montségur was constantly threatening to pack up his luggage and return to the Left Center—nay, even to the Right Center. He would, he said, find his old friends there, and they would welcome his return like that of the repentant Prodigal! Then he allowed himself to be persuaded to remain, captured by a little cajolery, by some piece of condescension, by a four-line note which contained no political allusion. He would fall again under the charm, take up his yoke, and his torments would begin anew. In reality he was very much in love, and, consequently, very unhappy.
The Lambertins owned the pretty château of Larnas, near Bargeton, and there was excellent sport in the neighborhood. Montségur went there every year to enjoy the opening of the hunting season, for four or five weeks, quite by himself and away from the Chamber and politics. It was like a halt in parliamentary intrigue, a delicious moment of repose from partisan strife! In the morning he would ride with Laura, and in the evening he would walk with her in the moonlight by the banks of the tiny stream that wound through the park. He had her to himself, altogether to himself, free from the presence of any disquieting guest. There was only the husband between them, and a husband counts for so little when he is not—everything!
The opening of the hunting season in the month of September, 1880, assumed at the Lambertins a quite political character. The elections were approaching. Montségur saw a half-dozen deputies of the Republican Left and a half-dozen of the Union Républicaine arrive at Larnas. The session was to be continued on a smaller scale at Mme. Lambertin’s. In the evening, by the banks of the tiny stream, and in the moonlight, instead of tales of love the echoes only resounded to stupid discussions as to the comparative merits of the scrutin de liste and the scrutin d’arrondissement.
Laura became entirely preoccupied. She was arranging a great Republican fête champêtre, which was to be given in the park. The presence of at least two cabinet ministers was counted upon. There was to be a banquet, fireworks, and an elaborate address by Lambertin. And as he was incapable of composing it himself, it was Laura who had to shut herself up with one of the lights of the Union Républicaine, a tall dark fellow, not too stupid and a good talker. This was more than Montségur could stand. His anger burst forth and a scene was the result. She listened coldly, and when he declared that he would leave, she replied with perfect placidity: “My dear, there are two express trains, one in the morning at nine, the other in the evening at ten. Whenever you wish, I will have you driven to the station.”
“Well, then, this evening.”
“So be it. It is a fifty minutes’ drive, the carriage will be ready at nine.”
Montségur pleaded the necessity of going to report to his constituents, packed his trunk, and left the same evening. Laura pressed his hand as he was getting into the carriage, and whispered in his ear:
“You’re a great baby; you’ll soon be coming back.”
“No,” was his reply.
And what was still more remarkable was, that he unwittingly spoke the truth.
III.
Montségur had at Saint Chamond an election committee presided over by one Brinquart, a large manufacturer who had lived long enough to have been an enthusiastic Philippist under Louis Philippe, an enthusiastic Cavaignacist under Cavaignac, an enthusiastic Bonapartist under Bonaparte, an enthusiastic Thiersist under M. Thiers, and an enthusiastic Grévist since the election of M. Grévy to the Presidency. M. Brinquart was equally determined to become an enthusiastic Gambettist on the day, which seemed rapidly approaching, when M. Gambetta should become master of France and of the Republic.
Brinquart was one of those men, who, while they cried, “Long live the government of to-day!” were prepared to exclaim, with equal ardor, “Long live the government of to-morrow!” Our unfortunate country is frightfully slandered; France is being constantly stigmatized as a land of revolutions. Nothing could be more unjust. The French, on the contrary, are so conservative a people that they generally arrange for two governments at once—the one actually in office, and which has been legally chosen, and another, which stands waiting in the wings ready to go on the stage and overturn the existing order of things at a moment’s notice.
Montségur now had to call his committee together, and render an account of his labors during the session just ended. Had he wished to be scrupulously exact, that account would have been couched in these words:
“I have continued to adore the wife of my colleague, Lambertin, but she is a terrible coquette, and has made me suffer martyrdom during the entire session.”
Such would have been the report made by the Lover, but the Deputy was compelled to use more parliamentary language—to allude to the burning questions of the hour, such as the expulsion of the Jesuits, the separation of Church and State, the abolition of the Senate, the revision of the Constitution, etc., etc. Montségur’s explanations were slightly involved and somewhat reactionary. To grow really enthusiastic on the subject of the Republic, it was necessary for him to be in the presence of the Gentle Being who knew so well how to show up the shortcomings of Monarchy.
The Committee received Montségur’s account of his stewardship rather coldly. Chemist Mignonet asked to be heard. Brinquart gave him the floor. Mignonet used pretty severe language. According to him, Montségur had been indolent, feeble, timid, irresolute! He had not listened to the voice of France, although she spoke loud and clear. France would be heard; France would be obeyed. There must be progress! progress!! progress!!! The watchword was, “En avant!” always “En avant!”
Montségur replied that he had already marched forward to some purpose, and was, in point of fact, becoming somewhat tired. He felt the need of rest, and he was of the opinion that the majority of Frenchmen fully coincided with him.
That settled it. At the mere suggestion of a pause in the onward and upward progress of his country, the chemist expressed the greatest indignation. He would not admit that France could ever stop. Brinquart, with a friendly interest in Montségur, seeing that he was about to still further commit himself, suddenly adjourned the meeting and taking him aside, said:
“You’re on the wrong track. Come and dine with me to-night in a quiet way. We shall be alone and we can talk.”
Brinquart was no fool. It would have been an easy matter for him to have compelled Montségur’s resignation, and to have had himself chosen deputy of Saint Chamond at the next election. A little vulgar, but rich, industrious, bustling, endowed with a good head for business, and having several great commercial enterprises on hand, he had no desire to go to Paris to waste ink and paper and make speeches among the five hundred and fifty rulers of France. He didn’t wish to be deputy himself and he was equally unwilling that Mignonet should fill that office; but the chemist would certainly get the place if Montségur didn’t manage matters with a little more common sense. Brinquart wished to spare the arrondissement of Saint Chamond the ridicule of being represented by Mignonet, who, although a freethinker and a freemason, was—a fool.
Montségur went that evening to dine with Brinquart. There were only five at table—Brinquart and Madame Brinquart, M. Lucien Brinquart, lieutenant in the Second Hussars, Mlle. Adrienne Brinquart, and himself.
Dinner-time was mainly occupied by an address by Brinquart père, delivered for his guest’s benefit. It was necessary to come to a decision, to come out clearly, boldly before the general elections. Montségur must leave the Republican Left as he had in turn left the Left Center and the Right Center. There was no future save for the Union Républicaine; the future was with Gambetta; and one should always belong to the Party of the Future! Such was M. Brinquart’s theory, and it was the theory of a good many people. But Montségur was not listening to Brinquart celebrating the glory of the Union Républicaine, as on a certain evening in the past he had been equally oblivious when Mme. Lambertin had sung the praises of the Left Center.
He was looking at Adrienne—for the third time an arrow had gone straight to his heart. He was at once entranced and dumbfounded. He remembered to have seen, three or four years before, a dark-complexioned, thick-set child walking in the environs of Saint Chamond with an English governess. She wore short dresses which allowed her large feet to be seen, and she was thin, angular, plain, severe, but, and without the slightest pretension to grace of form. Her one redeeming feature was a pair of rather fine eyes. Such was Mlle. Brinquart as he remembered her.
For some years he had not met her when he came to St. Chamond. She had gone to Paris to be educated, and educated in a convent! M. Brinquart was at heart a disciple of Voltaire. He was accustomed to inveigh against Clericalism, dwelt on the advantages of secular education, and had approved of the establishment of government schools for girls—but he had intrusted Adrienne to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. She had just left the convent, and had bloomed forth in all the grace and freshness of her spring-time. She had a slender, delicate figure, with great eyes—at once bold and ingenuous—that looked out at one from a smooth complexion, and thick braids of golden hair that fell behind on the pleats of her white muslin dress. Her waist had become shapely and the feet were now in proper proportion to the rest of the body; for the waist and the feet are the two things with women which, after having increased in size from ten to fifteen years of age, diminish from fifteen to twenty.
Brinquart prosed, and prosed, and prosed. Montségur admired, admired, admired! What was wanting in the father’s words he found in the daughter’s eyes, and the beauty of the one helped him to endure the eloquence of the other. However, the address of M. Brinquart called for a reply, and Montségur’s response was a decided one. He declared that he had determined not to take one step toward the Left. It might cost him his election, but he cared not. Having been home several days at his country-seat, he had suddenly taken a liking for the old place. He felt as though he were being born again; he had kissed his mother earth! He was out of doors from morning till night, roaming around the country on foot, on horseback, or in a carriage!
“You ride, Monsieur?”
It was the first time Adrienne had addressed him. He thought the question charming, uttered in an earnest, musical tone of voice.
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he replied.
“And you like it?”
“Exceedingly.”
“And I, passionately. I ride every morning with my brother.”
“And we have a troublesome trespasser,” added that young officer, “with sometimes playing truant on your property.”
“On my property?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Adrienne. “Papa’s woods are in some places a little mixed up with yours. There is in particular a ha-ha hedge that makes such a good leap—such a very tempting leap—that—”
“You take it sometimes?”
“Not sometimes, Monsieur, but every time when we ride in that direction; and once started, we can’t resist the temptation of taking an illegal gallop on your grounds.”
“And you are quite right, Mademoiselle. My woods are entirely at your disposal, and you may leap the hedge with an easy conscience.”
Politics were abandoned, and the conversation turned on horses, hunting, dogs—subjects quite as perennial and inexhaustible. But, dinner ended, M. Brinquart again took possession of Montségur and continued his speech. Adrienne, however, succeeded in effecting the release of the unhappy victim.
“Come, papa, be reasonable. Let M. de Montségur take his coffee in comfort. How many pieces of sugar, Monsieur?”
“Two, Mademoiselle.”
“There, Monsieur; and do you know what we ought to do, papa, right away? Look! what splendid weather! We should go for a stroll in the park.”
And they went for a stroll. There was there, as at Larnas, a babbling stream, and also, as at Larnas, plenty of moonlight; and while M. Brinquart explained to Montségur how he had filled up a ravine here and made a grotto there, the latter was watching Adrienne. He admired the frankness and decision of her manner and the graceful harmony of her movements.
“A young goddess,” he said to himself; “a young goddess!”
The reader is aware that Montségur easily fell in love, and this capacity for self-surrender is a great resource in life. In an instant, as if by magic, the gentle and soothing presence of this young girl had driven from Montségur’s mind the tormenting recollection of Laura Lambertin. In fact, there is but one cure for Love, and that is—Love.
On returning to the house, I regret to say, that Montségur fiddled shamelessly. While in point of fact it also must be said, he claimed that he idolized it. He played with both M. and Mme. Brinquart! But Heavens! what revoking, and what extraordinary leads! Playing weak suits when he should have led strong ones, and strong ones when it would have been better policy to have concealed his strength!
It was Adrienne who was responsible for this. She was not still an instant; now taking a few stitches in her embroidery, then going to look at her brother who was sketching; stopping a moment before the piano, and without sitting down, striking a few notes of the slow waltz “Sylvia,” and finally nestling down by her father, opposite Montségur, and saying: “I must try and understand something about this game.”
It was Montségur who seemed to have lost all knowledge of it. He was hopelessly at sea, playing a heart to a club, and a spade to a diamond. Brinquart, who never jested at whist, and regarded it as a serious amusement, observed severely: “You don’t seem to have had much practice.”
“Not much,” replied poor Montségur; “not much.”
“You seem to understand the game, but your play is uneven—you forget yourself sometimes.”
Imagining that the dinner would be a bore, and the evening but little less tiresome than the dinner, Montségur had ordered his carriage for ten o’clock. It was midnight when he started home, having lost one hundred and forty counters, at ten sous the counter. Mme. Brinquart had won them, and, delighted with her evening, she declared that she had never seen a more charming or accomplished man. The conquest of Mme. Brinquart had only cost Montségur seventy francs—and it was cheap at the price!
Seven o’clock the next morning saw him on horseback, on his way to take up a position in the woods opposite the entrance to the Brinquarts’ park. He remained there a whole hour, himself invisible, but having a very good view. Had she not said the day before: “I ride every morning with my brother?”
And, in fact, about eight o’clock, he saw both brother and sister appear. They entered the wood, and Montségur for a while kept them in sight, then by taking a cross-cut and a turning of an avenue in apparently the most accidental manner possible. They then trotted and galloped along in company on one of the finest mornings imaginable. They directed their course toward the locality where the Brinquart woods and the Montségur woods intermingled. All three took the ha-ha jump at the same moment and with equal success, after which Montségur, finding himself at home, did the honors of his park and of his forest. Adrienne ambled by his side, and he watched her closely, thinking her as charming when mounted as she had been on foot, and prettier yet by daylight than she had seemed by moonlight, because he could see her better.
Whist party succeeded whist party, ride followed ride. When it was time for the Chamber to meet, Montségur got himself granted leave of absence on account of illness. But a still more remarkable circumstance was that M. Brinquart no longer talked of progress, or made the slightest allusion to the Union Républicaine. Three months glided by, and Montségur was thinking of inviting his Aunt Caroline to come from Paris and make a formal proposal, when an event occurred that decided him to risk everything and throw formality to the winds. It was only a very trifling event, nothing more than the pressure of a hand. As Montségur was leaving one evening, Adrienne, in saying good-bye, had pressed his hand so tenderly, so caressingly, that he was instantly filled with impatience and hope.
During the three months not a word had marred the perfect propriety of their intercourse, and while gently drawn to each other, they had found a way to impart the tender secret by means of these slight pressures of the hand, whose meaning daily became clearer and less liable to misinterpretation. There are so many ways of saying that we love!
There had been many phases in this peculiar mode of intercourse. At first, the hand-shaking had been hasty, uncertain, hesitating. Then, as they gradually became friends, the couple had reached the common ground of good fellowship, and they had grasped each other’s hands frankly, openly, and in a fraternal spirit. Then, suddenly, as if through their interlaced fingers an electric current had run, both at the same day exclaimed that same day against the embarrassment. The hand-shaking became brief, nervous, excited! This crisis, however, proved to be brief. A more tender sentiment had unconsciously taken possession of them, and hands were now pressed in a lingering, fondling grasp. It was at this point that on the previous evening Adrienne had allowed her hand to rest a moment in that of Montségur, while they conversed in tones slightly affected by emotion, of quite indifferent subjects. Suddenly she had blushed crimson, and had said to herself:
“My hand! Heavens, where is my hand, and how long has it been there!”
The two having come to the end of their remarks, their hands had unconsciously remained grasped until, after a pause which had seemed to her eternal, although pleasurable, Adrienne summoned up energy enough to withdraw the offending member.
This was the cause that brought Montségur, serious and grave, into M. Brinquart’s working-room the following morning. He sat down and began with the following sentence, which he had spent much time in elaborating:
“My dear Monsieur Brinquart, I have to make you an important confession, to state, in fact, that—”
His voice slightly trembled, and he stopped.
M. Brinquart looked at him and replied: “I know what it is.”
“You know?”
“You have fallen in love with Adrienne, and you have come to ask for her hand.”
“You have guessed right.”
“Why, you don’t think I go around with my eyes in my pocket? You’re a thoroughly good fellow and an honest man. You have a fine fortune, and although we are neighbors, we have never had the slightest misunderstanding regarding boundaries, party-walls, depredations, or the preservation of game, a fact which I cite as complimentary to us both. In short, I shall be most willing to call you my son-in-law, and my wife feels as I do. You captured her heart the very first day.
“This is the reason why we put no obstacles in the way when we saw that you were becoming interested in Adrienne. You may be sure that, had our feelings been otherwise, we should not have permitted all these meetings and rides in the park. Thus, so far as my wife and I are concerned, you have nothing to fear. As regards Adrienne, I will go and ascertain her views, listen to her confession, which, between you and me, won’t prove a long one. Go take a turn in the park, go all around it, and in half an hour come back. You will then receive my answer.”
And as Montségur rose, M. Brinquart added: “Don’t be too anxious.”
No, Montségur was not anxious. He walked obediently around the park, but he walked rapidly. As he again came in sight of the château, and at the end of the avenue, about a hundred paces before him, he saw a white dress against the verdure. It was Adrienne. She was coming courageously to him, all alone. When she had arrived within a few steps, when she was quite close to him, he saw that no formal reply was necessary. Adrienne’s answer was in her eyes, in her smile, in the ingenuous and undisguised emotion of her whole being. She took Montségur’s arm, and they returned slowly to the château, still without speaking. When there is so much to be said, the easiest way to make one’s self understood is to say nothing at all. Still, as they approached the house, Adrienne stopped and remarked with slight embarrassment:
“Papa has given his consent on one condition.”
“Oh! anything he likes; anything you like.”
“Oh! it’s all the same to me, I assure you—so indifferent am I that I scarcely know what I’m going to ask you. But if you are re-elected to the Chamber, you are to enroll yourself with the Union Républicaine. Is that the right name?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“And you consent?”
“Consent? Why, with all my heart. I shall enroll myself wherever you wish me to, understand, wherever you wish. I only make one condition—you must allow me to worship you.”
“Oh! yes, I’ll allow it.”
And this is how Love again made Montségur’s election sure. The chemist ran but was annihilated. Montségur secured the seat.
A few days ago that incorruptible representative of the French people redeemed his promise, and enrolled himself as an adherent of the Union Républicaine. Another deputy was also engaged in signing the register; it was Lambertin.
“Ah!” he exclaimed on seeing Montségur, “you’re following my example, and you’re right. France is marching on, and we must follow her. Mme. de Montségur is in Paris with you, I presume. You must bring her to see us some evening. My wife will be delighted to make her acquaintance.”
