At the Sign of the Cat and Racket
Madame Guillaume reasserted her rights, and, for the first time, placed
Augustine next herself, Virginie taking her place on the fourth chair,
next to Lebas. During the sermon all went well between Augustine and
Theodore, who, standing behind a pillar, worshiped his Madonna with
fervent devotion; but at the elevation of the Host, Madame Guillaume
discovered, rather late, that her daughter Augustine was holding her
prayer-book upside down. She was about to speak to her strongly, when,
lowering her veil, she interrupted her own devotions to look in the
direction where her daughter’s eyes found attraction. By the help of her
spectacles she saw the young artist, whose fashionable elegance seemed
to proclaim him a cavalry officer on leave rather than a tradesman of
the neighborhood. It is difficult to conceive of the state of violent
agitation in which Madame Guillaume found herself--she, who flattered
herself on having brought up her daughters to perfection--on discovering
in Augustine a clandestine passion of which her prudery and ignorance
exaggerated the perils. She believed her daughter to be cankered to the
core.
“Hold your book right way up, miss,” she muttered in a low voice,
tremulous with wrath. She snatched away the tell-tale prayer-book and
returned it with the letter-press right way up. “Do not allow your
eyes to look anywhere but at your prayers,” she added, “or I shall
have something to say to you. Your father and I will talk to you after
church.”
These words came like a thunderbolt on poor Augustine. She felt faint;
but, torn between the distress she felt and the dread of causing a
commotion in church she bravely concealed her anguish. It was, however,
easy to discern the stormy state of her soul from the trembling of her
prayer-book, and the tears which dropped on every page she turned. From
the furious glare shot at him by Madame Guillaume the artist saw the
peril into which his love affair had fallen; he went out, with a raging
soul, determined to venture all.
“Go to your room, miss!” said Madame Guillaume, on their return home;
“we will send for you, but take care not to quit it.”
The conference between the husband and wife was conducted so secretly
that at first nothing was heard of it. Virginie, however, who had tried
to give her sister courage by a variety of gentle remonstrances, carried
her good nature so far as to listen at the door of her mother’s bedroom
where the discussion was held, to catch a word or two. The first time
she went down to the lower floor she heard her father exclaim, “Then,
madame, do you wish to kill your daughter?”
“My poor dear!” said Virginie, in tears, “papa takes your part.”
“And what do they want to do to Theodore?” asked the innocent girl.
Virginie, inquisitive, went down again; but this time she stayed longer;
she learned that Joseph Lebas loved Augustine. It was written that on
this memorable day, this house, generally so peaceful, should be a hell.
Monsieur Guillaume brought Joseph Lebas to despair by telling him of
Augustine’s love for a stranger. Lebas, who had advised his friend to
become a suitor for Mademoiselle Virginie, saw all his hopes wrecked.
Mademoiselle Virginie, overcome by hearing that Joseph had, in a way,
refused her, had a sick headache. The dispute that had arisen from the
discussion between Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, when, for the third
time in their lives, they had been of antagonistic opinions, had shown
itself in a terrible form. Finally, at half-past four in the afternoon,
Augustine, pale, trembling, and with red eyes, was haled before her
father and mother. The poor child artlessly related the too brief tale
of her love. Reassured by a speech from her father, who promised to
listen to her in silence, she gathered courage as she pronounced to her
parents the name of Theodore de Sommervieux, with a mischievous little
emphasis on the aristocratic _de_. And yielding to the unknown charm of
talking of her feelings, she was brave enough to declare with innocent
decision that she loved Monsieur de Sommervieux, that she had written to
him, and she added, with tears in her eyes: “To sacrifice me to another
man would make me wretched.”
“But, Augustine, you cannot surely know what a painter is?” cried her
mother with horror.
“Madame Guillaume!” said the old man, compelling her to
silence.--“Augustine,” he went on, “artists are generally little better
than beggars. They are too extravagant not to be always a bad sort. I
served the late Monsieur Joseph Vernet, the late Monsieur Lekain, and
the late Monsieur Noverre. Oh, if you could only know the tricks played
on poor Father Chevrel by that Monsieur Noverre, by the Chevalier de
Saint-Georges, and especially by Monsieur Philidor! They are a set of
rascals; I know them well! They all have a gab and nice manners. Ah,
your Monsieur Sumer--, Somm----”
“De Sommervieux, papa.”
“Well, well, de Sommervieux, well and good. He can never have been half
so sweet to you as Monsieur le Chevalier de Saint-Georges was to me the
day I got a verdict of the consuls against him. And in those days they
were gentlemen of quality.”
“But, father, Monsieur Theodore is of good family, and he wrote me that
he is rich; his father was called Chevalier de Sommervieux before the
Revolution.”
At these words Monsieur Guillaume looked at his terrible better half,
who, like an angry woman, sat tapping the floor with her foot while
keeping sullen silence; she avoided even casting wrathful looks
at Augustine, appearing to leave to Monsieur Guillaume the whole
responsibility in so grave a matter, since her opinion was not listened
to. Nevertheless, in spite of her apparent self-control, when she
saw her husband giving way so mildly under a catastrophe which had no
concern with business, she exclaimed:
“Really, monsieur, you are so weak with your daughters! However----”
The sound of a carriage, which stopped at the door, interrupted the
rating which the old draper already quaked at. In a minute Madame Roguin
was standing in the middle of the room, and looking at the actors in
this domestic scene: “I know all, my dear cousin,” said she, with a
patronizing air.
Madame Roguin made the great mistake of supposing that a Paris notary’s
wife could play the part of a favorite of fashion.
“I know all,” she repeated, “and I have come into Noah’s Ark, like
the dove, with the olive-branch. I read that allegory in the _Genie du
Christianisme_,” she added, turning to Madame Guillaume; “the allusion
ought to please you, cousin. Do you know,” she went on, smiling at
Augustine, “that Monsieur de Sommervieux is a charming man? He gave me
my portrait this morning, painted by a master’s hand. It is worth at
least six thousand francs.” And at these words she patted Monsieur
Guillaume on the arm. The old draper could not help making a grimace
with his lips, which was peculiar to him.
“I know Monsieur de Sommervieux very well,” the Dove ran on. “He has
come to my evenings this fortnight past, and made them delightful. He
has told me all his woes, and commissioned me to plead for him. I know
since this morning that he adores Augustine, and he shall have her. Ah,
cousin, do not shake your head in refusal. He will be created Baron, I
can tell you, and has just been made Chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
by the Emperor himself, at the Salon. Roguin is now his lawyer, and
knows all his affairs. Well! Monsieur de Sommervieux has twelve thousand
francs a year in good landed estate. Do you know that the father-in-law
of such a man may get a rise in life--be mayor of his _arrondissement_,
for instance. Have we not seen Monsieur Dupont become a Count of the
Empire, and a senator, all because he went as mayor to congratulate the
Emperor on his entry into Vienna? Oh, this marriage must take place! For
my part, I adore the dear young man. His behavior to Augustine is only
met with in romances. Be easy, little one, you shall be happy, and every
girl will wish she were in your place. Madame la Duchesse de Carigliano,
who comes to my ‘At Homes,’ raves about Monsieur de Sommervieux. Some
spiteful people say she only comes to me to meet him; as if a duchesse
of yesterday was doing too much honor to a Chevrel, whose family have
been respected citizens these hundred years!
“Augustine,” Madame Roguin went on, after a short pause, “I have seen
the portrait. Heavens! How lovely it is! Do you know that the Emperor
wanted to have it? He laughed, and said to the Deputy High Constable
that if there were many women like that in his court while all the kings
visited it, he should have no difficulty about preserving the peace of
Europe. Is not that a compliment?”
The tempests with which the day had begun were to resemble those of
nature, by ending in clear and serene weather. Madame Roguin displayed
so much address in her harangue, she was able to touch so many strings
in the dry hearts of Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, that at last she hit
on one which she could work upon. At this strange period commerce and
finance were more than ever possessed by the crazy mania for seeking
alliance with rank; and the generals of the Empire took full advantage
of this desire. Monsieur Guillaume, as a singular exception, opposed
this deplorable craving. His favorite axioms were that, to secure
happiness, a woman must marry a man of her own class; that every one was
punished sooner or later for having climbed too high; that love could
so little endure under the worries of a household, that both husband and
wife needed sound good qualities to be happy, that it would not do for
one to be far in advance of the other, because, above everything, they
must understand each other; if a man spoke Greek and his wife Latin,
they might come to die of hunger. He had himself invented this sort
of adage. And he compared such marriages to old-fashioned materials of
mixed silk and wool. Still, there is so much vanity at the bottom of
man’s heart that the prudence of the pilot who steered the Cat and
Racket so wisely gave way before Madame Roguin’s aggressive volubility.
Austere Madame Guillaume was the first to see in her daughter’s
affection a reason for abdicating her principles and for consenting to
receive Monsieur de Sommervieux, whom she promised herself she would put
under severe inquisition.
The old draper went to look for Joseph Lebas, and inform him of the
state of affairs. At half-past six, the dining-room immortalized by the
artist saw, united under its skylight, Monsieur and Madame Roguin, the
young painter and his charming Augustine, Joseph Lebas, who found his
happiness in patience, and Mademoiselle Virginie, convalescent from her
headache. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume saw in perspective both their
children married, and the fortunes of the Cat and Racket once more in
skilful hands. Their satisfaction was at its height when, at dessert,
Theodore made them a present of the wonderful picture which they had
failed to see, representing the interior of the old shop, and to which
they all owed so much happiness.
“Isn’t it pretty!” cried Guillaume. “And to think that any one would pay
thirty thousand francs for that!”
“Because you can see my lappets in it,” said Madame Guillaume.
“And the cloth unrolled!” added Lebas; “you might take it up in your
hand.”
“Drapery always comes out well,” replied the painter. “We should be
only too happy, we modern artists, if we could touch the perfection of
antique drapery.”
“So you like drapery!” cried old Guillaume. “Well, then, by Gad! shake
hands on that, my young friend. Since you can respect trade, we shall
understand each other. And why should it be despised? The world began
with trade, since Adam sold Paradise for an apple. He did not strike