Madame Firmiani

MADAME FIRMIANI

By Honore De Balzac

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION

To my dear Alexandre de Berny.

His old friend,

De Balzac.

MADAME FIRMIANI

Many tales, either rich in situations or made dramatic by some of the

innumerable tricks of chance, carry with them their own particular

setting, which can be rendered artistically or simply by those who

narrate them, without their subjects losing any, even the least of their

charms. But there are some incidents in human experience to which the

heart alone is able to give life; there are certain details--shall we

call them anatomical?--the delicate touches of which cannot be made to

reappear unless by an equally delicate rendering of thought; there are

portraits which require the infusion of a soul, and mean nothing

unless the subtlest expression of the speaking countenance is given;

furthermore, there are things which we know not how to say or do

without the aid of secret harmonies which a day, an hour, a fortunate

conjunction of celestial signs, or an inward moral tendency may produce.

Such mysterious revelations are imperatively needed in order to tell

this simple history, in which we seek to interest those souls that

are naturally grave and reflective and find their sustenance in tender

emotions. If the writer, like the surgeon beside his dying friend,

is filled with a species of reverence for the subject he is handling,

should not the reader share in that inexplicable feeling? Is it so

difficult to put ourselves in unison with the vague and nervous

sadness which casts its gray tints all about us, and is, in fact, a

semi-illness, the gentle sufferings of which are often pleasing? If

the reader is of those who sometimes think upon the dear ones they have

lost, if he is alone, if the day is waning or the night has come, let

him read on; otherwise, he should lay aside this book at once. If he

has never buried a good old relative, infirm and poor, he will not

understand these pages, which to some will seem redolent of musk, to

others as colorless and virtuous as those of Florian. In short, the

reader must have known the luxury of tears, must have felt the

silent pangs of a passing memory, the vision of a dear yet far-off

Shade,--memories which bring regret for all that earth has swallowed up,

with smiles for vanished joys.

And now, believe that the writer would not, for the wealth of England,

steal from poesy a single lie with which to embellish this narrative.

The following is a true history, on which you may safely spend the

treasures of your sensibility--if you have any.

In these days the French language has as many idioms and represents as

many idiosyncracies as there are varieties of men in the great family of

France. It is extremely curious and amusing to listen to the different

interpretations or versions of the same thing or the same event by the

various species which compose the genus Parisian,--“Parisian” is here

used merely to generalize our remark.

Therefore, if you should say to an individual of the species Practical,

“Do you know Madame Firmiani?” he would present that lady to your

mind by the following inventory: “Fine house in the rue du Bac, salons

handsomely furnished, good pictures, one hundred thousand francs a year,

husband formerly receiver-general of the department of Montenotte.” So

saying, the Practical man, rotund and fat and usually dressed in black,

will project his lower lip and wrap it over the upper, nodding his head

as if to add: “Solid people, those; nothing to be said against them.”

Ask no further; Practical men settle everybody’s status by figures,

incomes, or solid acres,--a phrase of their lexicon.

Turn to the right, and put the same question to that other man, who

belongs to the species Lounger. “Madame Firmiani?” he says; “yes, yes,

I know her well; I go to her parties; receives Wednesdays; highly

creditable house.”--Madame Firmiani is metamorphosed into a house! but

the house is not a pile of stones architecturally superposed, of

course not, the word presents in Lounger’s language an indescribable

idiom.--Here the Lounger, a spare man with an agreeable smile, a sayer

of pretty nothings with more acquired cleverness than native wit, stoops

to your ear and adds, with a shrewd glance: “I have never seen Monsieur

Firmiani. His social position is that of looking after property in

Italy. Madame Firmiani is a Frenchwoman, and spends her money like a

Parisian. She has excellent tea. It is one of the few houses where you

can amuse yourself; the refreshments are exquisite. It is very difficult

to get admitted; therefore, of course, one meets only the best society

in her salons.” Here the Lounger takes a pinch of snuff; he inhales it

slowly and seems to say: “I go there, but don’t expect me to present

_you_.”

Evidently the Lounger considers that Madame Firmiani keeps a sort of

inn, without a sign.

“Why do you want to know Madame Firmiani? Her parties are as dull as the

Court itself. What is the good of possessing a mind unless to avoid such

salons, where stupid talk and foolish little ballads are the order of

the day.” You have questioned a being classed Egotist, a species who

would like to keep the universe under lock and key, and let nothing be

done without their permission. They are unhappy if others are happy;

they forgive nothing but vices, downfalls, frailties, and like none but

proteges. Aristocrats by inclination, they make themselves democrats out

of spite, preferring to consort with inferiors as equals.

“Oh, Madame Firmiani, my dear fellow! she is one of those adorable women

who serve as Nature’s excuse for all the ugly ones she creates.

Madame Firmiani is enchanting, and so kind! I wish I were in power and

possessed millions that I might--” (here a whisper). “Shall I present

you?” The speaker is a youth of the Student species, known for his

boldness among men and his timidity in a boudoir.

“Madame Firmiani?” cries another, twirling his cane. “I’ll tell you what

I think of her; she is a woman between thirty and thirty-five; faded

complexion, handsome eyes, flat figure, contralto voice worn out, much

dressed, rather rouged, charming manners; in short, my dear fellow, the

remains of a pretty woman who is still worth the trouble of a passion.”

This remark is from the species Fop, who has just breakfasted, doesn’t

weigh his words, and is about to mount his horse. At that particular

moment Fops are pitiless.

“Magnificent collection of pictures in her house; go and see them by all

means,” answers another. “Nothing finer.” You have questioned one of the

species Connoisseur. He leaves you to go to Perignon’s or Tripet’s. To

him, Madame Firmiani is a collection of painted canvases.

A Woman: “Madame Firmiani? I don’t wish you to visit her.” This remark

is rich in meanings. Madame Firmiani! dangerous woman! a siren! dresses

well, has taste; gives other women sleepless nights. Your informant

belongs to the genus Spiteful.

An Attache to an embassy: “Madame Firmiani? Isn’t she from Antwerp? I

saw her ten years ago in Rome; she was very handsome then.” Individuals

of the species Attache have a mania for talking in the style

of Talleyrand. Their wit is often so refined that the point is

imperceptible; they are like billiard-players who avoid hitting the ball

with consummate dexterity. These individuals are usually taciturn, and

when they talk it is only about Spain, Vienna, Italy, or Petersburg.

Names of countries act like springs in their mind; press them, and the

ringing of their changes begins.

“That Madame Firmiani sees a great deal of the faubourg Saint-Germain,

doesn’t she?” This from a person who desires to belong to the class

Distinguished. She gives the “de” to everybody,--to Monsieur Dupin

senior, to Monsieur Lafayette; she flings it right and left and

humiliates many. This woman spends her life in striving to know and do

“the right thing”; but, for her sins, she lives in the Marais, and her

husband is a lawyer,--a lawyer before the Royal courts, however.

“Madame Firmiani, monsieur? I do not know her.” This man belongs to the

species Duke. He recognizes none but the women who have been presented

at court. Pray excuse him, he was one of Napoleon’s creations.

“Madame Firmiani? surely she used to sing at the Opera-house.” Species

Ninny. The individuals of this species have an answer for everything.

They will tell lies sooner than say nothing.

Two old ladies, wives of former magistrates: The First (wears a cap

with bows, her face is wrinkled, her nose sharp, voice hard, carries

a prayer-book in her hand): “What was that Madame Firmiani’s maiden

name?”--The Second (small face red as a crab-apple, gentle voice):

“She was a Cadignan, my dear, niece of the old Prince de Cadignan,

consequently cousin to the present Duc de Maufrigneuse.”

Madame Firmiani is a Cadignan. She might have neither virtue, nor

wealth, nor youth, but she would still be a Cadignan; it is like a

prejudice, always alive and working.

An Original: “My dear fellow, I’ve seen no galoshes in her antechamber;

consequently you can visit her without compromising yourself, and play

cards there without fear; if there _are_ any scoundrels in her salons,

they are people of quality and come in their carriages; such persons

never quarrel.”

Old man belonging to the genus Observer: “If you call on Madame

Firmiani, my good friend, you will find a beautiful woman sitting at her

ease by the corner of her fireplace. She will scarcely rise to receive

you,--she only does that for women, ambassadors, dukes, and persons

of great distinction. She is very gracious, she possesses charm;

she converses well, and likes to talk on many topics. There are many

indications of a passionate nature about her; but she has, evidently, so

many adorers that she cannot have a favorite. If suspicion rested on two

or three of her intimates, we might say that one or other of them was

the “cavaliere servente”; but it does not. The lady is a mystery. She is

married, though none of us have seen her husband. Monsieur Firmiani is

altogether mythical; he is like that third post-horse for which we pay

though we never behold it. Madame has the finest contralto voice in

Europe, so say judges; but she has never been heard to sing more than

two or three times since she came to Paris. She receives much company,

but goes nowhere.”

The Observer speaks, you will notice, as an Oracle. His words,

anecdotes, and quotations must be accepted as truths, under pain of

being thought without social education or intelligence, and of

causing him to slander you with much zest in twenty salons where he

is considered indispensable. The Observer is forty years of age, never

dines at home, declares himself no longer dangerous to women, wears a

maroon coat, and has a place reserved for him in several boxes at the

“Bouffons.” He is sometimes confounded with the Parasite; but he has

filled too many real functions to be thought a sponger; moreover he

possesses a small estate in a certain department, the name of which he

has never been known to utter.

“Madame Firmiani? why, my dear fellow, she was Murat’s former mistress.”

This man belongs to the Contradictors,--persons who note errata in

memoirs, rectify dates, correct facts, bet a hundred to one, and are

certain about everything. You can easily detect them in some gross

blunder in the course of a single evening. They will tell you they were

in Paris at the time of Mallet’s conspiracy, forgetting that half an

hour earlier they had described how they had crossed the Beresina.

Nearly all Contradictors are “chevaliers” of the Legion of honor; they

talk loudly, have retreating foreheads, and play high.

“Madame Firmiani a hundred thousand francs a year? nonsense, you are

crazy! Some people will persist in giving millions with the liberality

of authors, to whom it doesn’t cost a penny to dower their heroines.

Madame Firmiani is simply a coquette, who has lately ruined a young man,

and now prevents him from making a fine marriage. If she were not so

handsome she wouldn’t have a penny.”

Ah, _that one_--of course you recognize him--belongs to the species

Envious. There is no need to sketch him; the species is as well known

as that of the felis domestica. But how explain the perennial vigor of

envy?--a vice that brings nothing in!

Persons in society, literary men, honest folk,--in short, individuals of

all species,--were promulgating in the month of January, 1824, so many

different opinions about Madame Firmiani that it would be tedious to

write them down. We have merely sought to show that a man seeking to

understand her, yet unwilling or unable to go to her house, would (from

the answers to his inquiries) have had equal reason to suppose her a

widow or wife, silly or wise, virtuous or the reverse, rich or poor,

soulless or full of feeling, handsome or plain,--in short, there were

as many Madame Firmianis as there are species in society, or sects in

Catholicism. Frightful reflection! we are all like lithographic

blocks, from which an indefinite number of copies can be drawn by

criticism,--the proofs being more or less like us according to a

distribution of shading which is so nearly imperceptible that our

reputation depends (barring the calumnies of friends and the witticisms

of newspapers) on the balance struck by our criticisers between Truth

that limps and Falsehood to which Parisian wit gives wings.

Madame Firmiani, like other noble and dignified women who make their

hearts a sanctuary and disdain the world, was liable, therefore, to be

totally misjudged by Monsieur de Bourbonne, an old country magnate, who

had reason to think a great deal about her during the winter of this

year. He belonged to the class of provincial Planters, men living on

their estates, accustomed to keep close accounts of everything and to

bargain with the peasantry. Thus employed, a man becomes sagacious in

spite of himself, just as soldiers in the long run acquire courage

from routine. The old gentleman, who had come to Paris from Touraine

to satisfy his curiosity about Madame Firmiani, and found it not at all

assuaged by the Parisian gossip which he heard, was a man of honor and

breeding. His sole heir was a nephew, whom he greatly loved, in whose

interests he planted his poplars. When a man thinks without annoyance

about his heir, and watches the trees grow daily finer for his future

benefit, affection grows too with every blow of the spade around her

roots. Though this phenomenal feeling is not common, it is still to be

met with in Touraine.

This cherished nephew, named Octave de Camps, was a descendant of

the famous Abbe de Camps, so well known to bibliophiles and learned

men,--who, by the bye, are not at all the same thing. People in

the provinces have the bad habit of branding with a sort of decent

reprobation any young man who sells his inherited estates. This

antiquated prejudice has interfered very much with the stock-jobbing

which the present government encourages for its own interests. Without

consulting his uncle, Octave had lately sold an estate belonging to him

to the Black Band.[*] The chateau de Villaines would have been pulled

down were it not for the remonstrances which the old uncle made to the

representatives of the “Pickaxe company.” To increase the old man’s

wrath, a distant relative (one of those cousins of small means and

much astuteness about whom shrewd provincials are wont to remark, “No

lawsuits for me with him!”) had, as it were by accident, come to visit

Monsieur de Bourbonne, and _incidentally_ informed him of his nephew’s

ruin. Monsieur Octave de Camps, he said, having wasted his means on a

certain Madame Firmiani, was now reduced to teaching mathematics for a

living, while awaiting his uncle’s death, not daring to let him know of

his dissipations. This distant cousin, a sort of Charles Moor, was not

ashamed to give this fatal news to the old gentleman as he sat by his

fire, digesting a profuse provincial dinner.

[*] The “Bande Noire” was a mysterious association of

speculators, whose object was to buy in landed estates, cut

them up, and sell them off in small parcels to the

peasantry, or others.

But heirs cannot always rid themselves of uncles as easily as they

would like to. Thanks to his obstinacy, this particular uncle refused

to believe the story, and came out victorious from the attack of

indigestion produced by his nephew’s biography. Some shocks affect the

heart, others the head; but in this case the cousin’s blow fell on the

digestive organs and did little harm, for the old man’s stomach was

sound. Like a true disciple of Saint Thomas, Monsieur de Bourbonne came

to Paris, unknown to Octave, resolved to make full inquiries as to

his nephew’s insolvency. Having many acquaintances in the faubourg

Saint-Germain, among the Listomeres, the Lenoncourts, and the

Vandenesses, he heard so much gossip, so many facts and falsities, about

Madame Firmiani that he resolved to be presented to her under the

name of de Rouxellay, that of his estate in Touraine. The astute old

gentleman was careful to choose an evening when he knew that Octave

would be engaged in finishing a piece of work which was to pay him

well,--for this so-called lover of Madame Firmiani still went to her

house; a circumstance that seemed difficult to explain. As to Octave’s

ruin, that, unfortunately, was no fable, as Monsieur de Bourbonne had at

once discovered.

Monsieur de Rouxellay was not at all like the provincial uncle at the

Gymnase. Formerly in the King’s guard, a man of the world and a

favorite among women, he knew how to present himself in society with the

courteous manners of the olden time; he could make graceful speeches

and understand the whole Charter, or most of it. Though he loved the

Bourbons with noble frankness, believed in God as a gentleman should,

and read nothing but the “Quotidienne,” he was not as ridiculous as the

liberals of his department would fain have had him. He could hold his

own in the court circle, provided no one talked to him of “Moses

in Egypt,” nor of the drama, or romanticism, or local color, nor of

railways. He himself had never got beyond Monsieur de Voltaire, Monsieur

le Comte de Buffon, Payronnet, and the Chevalier Gluck, the Queen’s

favorite musician.

“Madame,” he said to the Marquise de Listomere, who was on his arm as

they entered Madame Firmiani’s salons, “if this woman is my nephew’s

mistress, I pity him. How can she live in the midst of this luxury, and

know that he is in a garret? Hasn’t she any soul? Octave is a fool to

have given up such an estate as Villaines for a--”

Monsieur de Bourbonne belonged to the species Fossil, and used the

language of the days of yore.

“But suppose he had lost it at play?”

“Then, madame, he would at least have had the pleasure of gambling.”

“And do you think he has had no pleasure here? See! look at Madame

Firmiani.”

The brightest memories of the old man faded at the sight of his nephew’s

so-called mistress. His anger died away at the gracious exclamation

which came from his lips as he looked at her. By one of those fortunate

accidents which happen only to pretty women, it was a moment when all

her beauties shone with peculiar lustre, due perhaps to the wax-lights,

to the charming simplicity of her dress, to the ineffable atmosphere

of elegance that surrounded her. One must needs have studied the

transitions of an evening in a Parisian salon to appreciate the

imperceptible lights and shades which color a woman’s face and vary it.

There comes a moment when, content with her toilet, pleased with her own

wit, delighted to be admired, and feeling herself the queen of a salon

full of remarkable men who smile to her, the Parisian woman reaches a

full consciousness of her grace and charm; her beauty is enhanced by

the looks she gathers in,--a mute homage which she transfers with subtle

glances to the man she loves. At moments like these a woman is invested

with supernatural power and becomes a magician, a charmer, without

herself knowing that she is one; involuntarily she inspires the love

that fills her own bosom; her smiles and glances fascinate. If this

condition, which comes from the soul, can give attraction even to a

plain woman, with what radiance does it not invest a woman of natural

elegance, distinguished bearing, fair, fresh, with sparkling eyes, and

dressed in a taste that wrings approval from artists and her bitterest

rivals.

Have you ever, for your happiness, met a woman whose harmonious voice

gives to her speech the same charm that emanates from her manners? a

woman who knows how to speak and to be silent, whose words are happily

chosen, whose language is pure, and who concerns herself in your

interests with delicacy? Her raillery is caressing, her criticism never

wounds; she neither discourses nor argues, but she likes to lead a

discussion and stop it at the right moment. Her manner is affable and

smiling, her politeness never forced, her readiness to serve others

never servile; she reduces the respect she claims to a soft shadow;

she never wearies you, and you leave her satisfied with her and with

yourself. Her charming grace is conveyed to all the things with which

she surrounds herself. Everything about her pleases the eye; in her

presence you breathe, as it were, your native air. This woman is

natural. There is no effort about her; she is aiming at no effect; her

feelings are shown simply, because they are true. Frank herself, she

does not wound the vanity of others; she accepts men as God made them;

pitying the vicious, forgiving defects and absurdities, comprehending

all ages, and vexed by nothing, because she has had the sense and tact

to foresee all. Tender and gay, she gratifies before she consoles. You

love her so well that if this angel did wrong you would be ready to

excuse her. If, for your happiness, you have met with such a woman, you

know Madame Firmiani.

After Monsieur de Bourbonne had talked with her for ten minutes, sitting

beside her, his nephew was forgiven. He perceived that whatever the

actual truth might be, the relation between Madame Firmiani and Octave

covered some mystery. Returning to the illusions that gild the days

of youth, and judging Madame Firmiani by her beauty, the old gentleman

became convinced that a woman so innately conscious of her dignity as

she appeared to be was incapable of a bad action. Her dark eyes told of

inward peace; the lines of her face were so noble, the profile so pure,

and the passion he had come to investigate seemed so little to oppress

her heart, that the old man said to himself, while noting all the

promises of love and virtue given by that adorable countenance, “My

nephew is committing some folly.”

Madame Firmiani acknowledged to twenty-five. But the Practicals proved

that having married the invisible Firmiani (then a highly respectable

individual in the forties) in 1813, at the age of sixteen, she must be

at least twenty-eight in 1825. However the same persons also asserted

that at no period of her life had she ever been so desirable or so

completely a woman. She was now at an age when women are most prone to

conceive a passion, and to desire it, perhaps, in their pensive hours.

She possessed all that earth sells, all that it lends, all that

it gives. The Attaches declared there was nothing of which she was

ignorant; the Contradictors asserted that there was much she ought to

learn; the Observers remarked that her hands were white, her feet small,

her movements a trifle too undulating. But, nevertheless, individuals of

all species envied or disputed Octave’s happiness, agreeing, for once

in a way, that Madame Firmiani was the most aristocratically beautiful

woman in Paris.

Still young, rich, a perfect musician, intelligent, witty, refined,

and received (as a Cadignan) by the Princesse de Blamont-Chauvry,

that oracle of the noble faubourg, loved by her rivals the Duchesse

de Maufrigneuse her cousin, the Marquise d’Espard, and Madame de

Macumer,--Madame Firmiani gratified all the vanities which feed or

excite love. She was therefore sought by too many men not to fall a

victim to Parisian malice and its charming calumnies, whispered behind

a fan or in a safe aside. It was necessary to quote the remarks given

at the beginning of this history to bring out the true Firmiani in

contradistinction to the Firmiani of society. If some women forgave

her happiness, others did not forgive her propriety. Now nothing is so

dangerous in Paris as unfounded suspicions,--for the reason that it is

impossible to destroy them.

This sketch of a woman who was admirably natural gives only a faint idea

of her. It would need the pencil of an Ingres to render the pride of

that brow, with its wealth of hair, the dignity of that glance, and the

thoughts betrayed by the changing colors of her cheeks. In her were all

things; poets could have found an Agnes Sorel and a Joan of Arc, also

the woman unknown, the Soul within that form, the soul of Eve, the

knowledge of the treasures of good and the riches of evil, error and

resignation, crime and devotion, the Donna Julia and the Haidee of Lord

Byron.

The former guardsman stayed, with apparent impertinence, after the

other guests had left the salons; and Madame Firmiani found him sitting

quietly before her in an armchair, evidently determined to remain, with

the pertinacity of a fly which we are forced to kill to get rid of it.

The hands of the clock marked two in the morning.

“Madame,” said the old gentlemen, as Madame Firmiani rose, hoping to

make him understand that it was her good pleasure he should go, “Madame,

I am the uncle of Monsieur Octave de Camps.”

Madame Firmiani immediately sat down again, and showed her emotion. In

spite of his sagacity the old Planter was unable to decide whether

she turned pale from shame or pleasure. There are pleasures, delicious

emotions the chaste heart seeks to veil, which cannot escape the shock

of startled modesty. The more delicacy a woman has, the more she seeks

to hide the joys that are in her soul. Many women, incomprehensible in

their tender caprices, long to hear a name pronounced which at other

times they desire to bury in their hearts. Monsieur de Bourbonne did not

interpret Madame Firmiani’s agitation exactly in this way: pray forgive

him, all provincials are distrustful.

“Well, monsieur?” said Madame Firmiani, giving him one of those clear,

lucid glances in which we men can never see anything because they

question us too much.

“Well, madame,” returned the old man, “do you know what some one came to

tell me in the depths of my province? That my nephew had ruined himself

for you, and that the poor fellow was living in a garret while you were

in silk and gold. Forgive my rustic sincerity; it may be useful for you

to know of these calumnies.”

“Stop, monsieur,” said Madame Firmiani, with an imperative gesture; “I

know all that. You are too polite to continue this subject if I request

you to leave it, and too gallant--in the old-fashioned sense of the

word,” she added with a slight tone of irony--“not to agree that you

have no right to question me. It would be ridiculous in me to defend

myself. I trust that you will have a sufficiently good opinion of my

character to believe in the profound contempt which, I assure you, I

feel for money,--although I was married, without any fortune, to a man

of immense wealth. It is nothing to me whether your nephew is rich or

poor; if I have received him in my house, and do now receive him, it

is because I consider him worthy to be counted among my friends. All

my friends, monsieur, respect each other; they know that I have not

philosophy enough to admit into my house those I do not esteem; this may

argue a want of charity; but my guardian-angel has maintained in me to

this day a profound aversion for tattle, and also for dishonesty.”

Through the ring of her voice was slightly raised during the first

part of this answer, the last words were said with the ease and

self-possession of Celimene bantering the Misanthrope.

“Madame,” said Monsieur de Bourbonne, in a voice of some emotion, “I

am an old man; I am almost Octave’s father, and I ask your pardon most

humbly for the question that I shall now venture to put to you, giving

you my word of honor as a loyal gentleman that your answer shall die

here,”--laying his hand upon his heart, with an old-fashioned gesture

that was truly religious. “Are these rumors true; do you love Octave?”

“Monsieur,” she replied, “to any other man I should answer that question

only by a look; but to you, and because you are indeed almost the father

of Monsieur de Camps, I reply by asking what you would think of a woman

if to such a question she answered _you_? To avow our love for him we

love, when he loves us--ah! that may be; but even when we are certain of

being loved forever, believe me, monsieur, it is an effort for us, and a

reward to him. To say to another!--”

She did not end her sentence, but rose, bowed to the old man, and

withdrew into her private apartments, the doors of which, opening and

closing behind her, had a language of their own to his sagacious ears.

“Ah! the mischief!” thought he; “what a woman! she is either a sly one

or an angel”; and he got into his hired coach, the horses of which were

stamping on the pavement of the silent courtyard, while the coachman

was asleep on his box after cursing for the hundredth time his tardy

customer.

The next morning about eight o’clock the old gentleman mounted the

stairs of a house in the rue de l’Observance where Octave de Camps was

living. If there was ever an astonished man it was the young professor

when he beheld his uncle. The door was unlocked, his lamp still burning;

he had been sitting up all night.

“You rascal!” said Monsieur de Bourbonne, sitting down in the nearest

chair; “since when is it the fashion to laugh at uncles who have

twenty-six thousand francs a year from solid acres to which we are the

sole heir? Let me tell you that in the olden time we stood in awe of

such uncles as that. Come, speak up, what fault have you to find with

me? Haven’t I played my part as uncle properly? Did I ever require you

to respect me? Have I ever refused you money? When did I shut the door

in your face on pretence that you had come to look after my health?

Haven’t you had the most accommodating and the least domineering uncle

that there is in France,--I won’t say Europe, because that might be too

presumptuous. You write to me, or you don’t write,--no matter, I live

on pledged affection, and I am making you the prettiest estate in all

Touraine, the envy of the department. To be sure, I don’t intend to

let you have it till the last possible moment, but that’s an excusable

little fancy, isn’t it? And what does monsieur himself do?--sells his

own property and lives like a lackey!--”

“Uncle--”

“I’m not talking about uncles, I’m talking nephew. I have a right to

your confidence. Come, confess at once; it is much the easiest way; I

know that by experience. Have you been gambling? have you lost money

at the Bourse? Say, ‘Uncle, I’m a wretch,’ and I’ll hug you. But if you

tell me any lies greater than those I used to tell at your age I’ll

sell my property, buy an annuity, and go back to the evil ways of my

youth--if I can.”

“Uncle--”

“I saw your Madame Firmiani yesterday,” went on the old fellow, kissing

the tips of his fingers, which he gathered into a bunch. “She is

charming. You have the consent and approbation of your uncle, if that

will do you any good. As to the sanction of the Church I suppose that’s

useless, and the sacraments cost so much in these days. Come, speak out,

have you ruined yourself for her?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Ha! the jade! I’d have wagered it. In my time the women of the court

were cleverer at ruining a man than the courtesans of to-day; but this

one--I recognized her!--it is a bit of the last century.”

“Uncle,” said Octave, with a manner that was tender and grave, “you

are totally mistaken. Madame Firmiani deserves your esteem, and all the

adoration the world gives her.”

“Youth, youth! always the same!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne. “Well, go

on; tell me the same old story. But please remember that my experience

in gallantry is not of yesterday.”

“My dear, kind uncle, here is a letter which will tell you nearly all,”

said Octave, taking it from an elegant portfolio, _her_ gift, no doubt.

“When you have read it I will tell you the rest, and you will then know

a Madame Firmiani who is unknown to the world.”

“I haven’t my spectacles; read it aloud.”

Octave began:--

“‘My beloved--’”

“Hey, then you are still intimate with her?” interrupted his uncle.

“Why yes, of course.”

“You haven’t parted from her?”

“Parted!” repeated Octave, “we are married.”

“Heavens!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, “then why do you live in a

garret?”

“Let me go on.”

“True--I’m listening.”

Octave resumed the letter, but there were passages which he could not

read without deep emotion.

“‘My beloved Husband,--You ask me the reason of my sadness. Has

it, then, passed from my soul to my face; or have you only guessed

it?--but how could you fail to do so, one in heart as we are? I

cannot deceive you; this may be a misfortune, for it is one of the

conditions of happy love that a wife shall be gay and caressing.

Perhaps I ought to deceive you, but I would not do it even if the

happiness with which you have blessed and overpowered me depended

on it.

“‘Ah! dearest, how much gratitude there is in my love. I long to

love you forever, without limit; yes, I desire to be forever proud

of you. A woman’s glory is in the man she loves. Esteem,

consideration, honor, must they not be his who receives our all?

Well, my angel has fallen. Yes, dear, the tale you told me has

tarnished my past joys. Since then I have felt myself humiliated

in you,--you whom I thought the most honorable of men, as you are

the most loving, the most tender. I must indeed have deep

confidence in your heart, so young and pure, to make you this

avowal which costs me much. Ah! my dear love, how is it that you,

knowing your father had unjustly deprived others of their

property, that YOU can keep it?

“‘And you told me of this criminal act in a room filled with the

mute witnesses of our love; and you are a gentleman, and you think

yourself noble, and I am yours! I try to find excuses for you; I

do find them in your youth and thoughtlessness. I know there is

still something of the child about you. Perhaps you have never

thought seriously of what fortune and integrity are. Oh! how your

laugh wounded me. Reflect on that ruined family, always in

distress; poor young girls who have reason to curse you daily; an

old father saying to himself each night: “We might not now be

starving if that man’s father had been an honest man--“’”

“Good heavens!” cried Monsieur de Bourbonne, interrupting his nephew,

“surely you have not been such a fool as to tell that woman about your

father’s affair with the Bourgneufs? Women know more about wasting a

fortune than making one.”

“They know about integrity. But let me read on, uncle.”

“‘Octave, no power on earth has authority to change the principles

of honor. Look into your conscience and ask it by what name you

are to call the action by which you hold your property.’”

The nephew looked at the uncle, who lowered his head.

“‘I will not tell you all the thoughts that assail me; they can be

reduced to one,--this is it: I cannot respect the man who,

knowingly, is smirched for a sum of money, whatever the amount may

be; five francs stolen at play or five times a hundred thousand

gained by a legal trick are equally dishonoring. I will tell you

all. I feel myself degraded by the very love which has hitherto

been all my joy. There rises in my soul a voice which my

tenderness cannot stifle. Ah! I have wept to feel that I have more

conscience than love. Were you to commit a crime I would hide you

in my bosom from human justice, but my devotion could go no

farther. Love, to a woman, means boundless confidence, united to a

need of reverencing, of esteeming, the being to whom she belongs.

I have never conceived of love otherwise than as a fire in which

all noble feelings are purified still more,--a fire which develops

them.

“‘I have but one thing else to say: come to me poor, and my love

shall be redoubled. If not, renounce it. Should I see you no more,

I shall know what it means.

“‘But I do not wish, understand me, that you should make

restitution because I urge it. Consult your own conscience. An act

of justice such as that ought not to be a sacrifice made to love.

I am your wife and not your mistress, and it is less a question of

pleasing me than of inspiring in my soul a true respect.

“‘If I am mistaken, if you have ill-explained your father’s

action, if, in short, you still think your right to the property

equitable (oh! how I long to persuade myself that you are

blameless), consider and decide by listening to the voice of your

conscience; act wholly and solely from yourself. A man who loves a

woman sincerely, as you love me, respects the sanctity of her

trust in him too deeply to dishonor himself.

“‘I blame myself now for what I have written; a word might have

sufficed, and I have preached to you! Scold me; I wish to be

scolded,--but not much, only a little. Dear, between us two the

power is yours--you alone should perceive your own faults.’”

“Well, uncle?” said Octave, whose eyes were full of tears.

“There’s more in the letter; finish it.”

“Oh, the rest is only to be read by a lover,” answered Octave, smiling.

“Yes, right, my boy,” said the old man, gently. “I have had many affairs

in my day, but I beg you to believe that I too have loved, ‘et ego

in Arcardia.’ But I don’t understand yet why you give lessons in

mathematics.”

“My dear uncle, I am your nephew; isn’t that as good as saying that I

had dipped into the capital left me by my father? After I had read

this letter a sort of revolution took place within me. I paid my whole

arrearage of remorse in one day. I cannot describe to you the state I

was in. As I drove in the Bois a voice called to me, ‘That horse is not

yours’; when I ate my dinner it was saying, ‘You have stolen this food.’

I was ashamed. The fresher my honesty, the more intense it was. I

rushed to Madame Firmiani. Uncle! that day I had pleasures of the heart,

enjoyments of the soul, that were far beyond millions. Together we

made out the account of what was due to the Bourgneufs, and I condemned

myself, against Madame Firmiani’s advice, to pay three per cent

interest. But all I had did not suffice to cover the full amount. We

were lovers enough for her to offer, and me to accept, her savings--”

“What! besides her other virtues does that adorable woman lay by money?”

cried his uncle.

“Don’t laugh at her, uncle; her position has obliged her to be very

careful. Her husband went to Greece in 1820 and died there three years

later. It has been impossible, up to the present time, to get legal

proofs of his death, or obtain the will which he made leaving his whole

property to his wife. These papers were either lost or stolen, or have

gone astray during the troubles in Greece,--a country where registers

are not kept as they are in France, and where we have no consul.

Uncertain whether she might not be forced to give up her fortune,

she has lived with the utmost prudence. As for me, I wish to acquire

property which shall be _mine_, so as to provide for my wife in case she

is forced to lose hers.”

“But why didn’t you tell me all this? My dear nephew, you might have

known that I love you enough to pay all your good debts, the debts of a

gentleman. I’ll play the traditional uncle now, and revenge myself!”

“Ah! uncle, I know your vengeance! but let me get rich by my own

industry. If you want to do me a real service, make me an allowance of

two or three thousand francs a year, till I see my way to an enterprise

for which I shall want capital. At this moment I am so happy that all

I desire is just the means of living. I give lessons so that I may not

live at the cost of _any one_. If you only knew the happiness I had in

making that restitution! I found the Bourgneufs, after a good deal of

trouble, living miserably and in need of everything. The old father was

a lottery agent; the two daughters kept his books and took care of the

house; the mother was always ill. The daughters are charming girls, but

they have been cruelly taught that the world thinks little of beauty

without money. What a scene it was! I entered their house the accomplice

in a crime; I left it an honest man, who had purged his father’s memory.

Uncle, I don’t judge him; there is such excitement, such passion in a

lawsuit that even an honorable man may be led astray by them. Lawyers

can make the most unjust claims legal; laws have convenient syllogisms

to quiet consciences. My visit was a drama. To _be_ Providence itself;

actually to fulfil that futile wish, ‘If heaven were to send us twenty

thousand francs a year,’--that silly wish we all make, laughing; to

bring opulence to a family sitting by the light of one miserable lamp

over a poor turf fire!--no, words cannot describe it. My extreme justice

seemed to them unjust. Well! if there is a Paradise my father is happy

in it now. As for me, I am loved as no man was ever loved yet. Madame

Firmiani gives me more than happiness; she has inspired me with

a delicacy of feeling I think I lacked. So I call her _my dear

conscience_,--a love-word which expresses certain secret harmonies

within our hearts. I find honesty profitable; I shall get rich in time

by myself. I’ve an industrial scheme in my head, and if it succeeds I

shall earn millions.”

“Ah! my boy, you have your mother’s soul,” said the old man, his eyes

filling at the thought of his sister.

Just then, in spite of the distance between Octave’s garret and the

street, the young man heard the sound of a carriage.

“There she is!” he cried; “I know her horses by the way they are pulled

up.”

A few moments more, and Madame Firmiani entered the room.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a gesture of annoyance at seeing Monsieur

de Bourbonne. “But our uncle is not in the way,” she added quickly,

smiling; “I came to humbly entreat my husband to accept my fortune. The

Austrian Embassy has just sent me a document which proves the death of

Monsieur Firmiani, also the will, which his valet was keeping safely

to put into my own hands. Octave, you can accept it all; you are richer

than I, for you have treasures here” (laying her hand upon his heart)

“to which none but God can add.” Then, unable to support her happiness,

she laid her head upon her husband’s breast.

“My dear niece,” said the old man, “in my day we made love; in yours,

you love. You women are all that is best in humanity; you are not even

guilty of your faults, for they come through us.”

ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.

Blamont-Chauvry, Princesse de

The Thirteen

Madame Firmiani

The Lily of the Valley

Bourbonne, De

Madame Firmiani

The Vicar of Tours

Camps, Octave de

Madame Firmiani

The Member for Arcis

Camps, Madame Octave de

Madame Firmiani

The Government Clerks

A Woman of Thirty

A Daughter of Eve

The Member for Arcis