A Woman of Thirty [63]
had said the Torrent of the Valley, that would have been something clear, something precise, something definite and comprehensible. But never mind that. Now, how is the drama to take place in a torrent and in a valley? You will tell me that in these days the principal attraction lies in the scenic effect, and the title is a capital advertisement.--And did you enjoy it, my little friend?" he continued, sitting down before the child.
When the notary pursued his inquiries as to the possibilities of a drama in the bed of a torrent, the little girl turned slowly away and began to cry. Her mother did not notice this in her intense annoyance.
"Oh! yes, monsieur, I enjoyed it very much," said the child. "There is a dear little boy in the play, and he was all alone in the world, because his papa could not have been his real papa. And when he came to the top of the bridge over the torrent, a big, naughty man with a beard, dressed all in black, came and threw him into the water. And then Helene began to sob and cry, and everybody scolded us, and father brought us away quick, quick----"
M. de Vandenesse and the Marquise looked on in dull amazement, as if all power to think or move had been suddenly paralyzed.
"Do be quiet, Gustave!" cried the General. "I told you that you were not to talk about anything that happened at the play, and you have forgotten what I said already."
"Oh, my lord Marquis, your lordship must excuse him," cried the notary. "I ought not to have asked questions, but I had no idea--"
"He ought not to have answered them," said the General, looking sternly at the child.
It seemed that the Marquise and the master of the house both perfectly understood why the children had come back so suddenly. Mme. d'Aiglemont looked at her daughter, and rose as if to go to her, but a terrible convulsion passed over her face, and all that could be read in it was relentless severity.
"That will do, Helene," she said. "Go into the other room, and leave off crying."
"What can she have done, poor child!" asked the notary, thinking to appease the mother's anger and to stop Helene's tears at one stroke. "So pretty as she his, she must be as good as can be; never anything but a joy to her mother, I will be bound. Isn't that so, my little girl?"
Helene cowered, looked at her mother, dried her eyes, struggled for composure, and took refuge in the next room.
"And you, madame, are too good a mother not to love all your children alike. You are too good a woman, besides, to have any of those lamentable preferences which have such fatal effects, as we lawyers have only too much reason to know. Society goes through our hands; we see its passions in that most revolting form, greed. Here it is the mother of a family trying to disinherit her husband's children to enrich the others whom she loves better; or it is the husband who tries to leave all his property to the child who has done his best to earn his mother's hatred. And then begin quarrels, and fears, and deeds, and defeasances, and sham sales, and trusts, and all the rest of it; a pretty mess, in fact, it is pitiable, upon my honor, pitiable! There are fathers that will spend their whole lives in cheating their children and robbing their wives. Yes, robbing is the only word for it. We were talking of tragedy; oh! I can assure you of this that if we were at liberty to tell the real reasons of some donations that I know of, our modern dramatists would have the material for some sensational /bourgeois/ dramas. How the wife manages to get her way, as she invariably does, I cannot think; for in spite of appearances, and in spite of their weakness, it is always the women who carry the day. Ah! by the way, they don't take /me/ in. I always know the reason at the bottom of those predilections which the world politely styles 'unaccountable.' But in justice to the husbands, I must say that /they/ never discover anything. You will tell me that this is a merciful dispens--"
Helene had come back to the drawing-room with her father, and was listening attentively. So well
When the notary pursued his inquiries as to the possibilities of a drama in the bed of a torrent, the little girl turned slowly away and began to cry. Her mother did not notice this in her intense annoyance.
"Oh! yes, monsieur, I enjoyed it very much," said the child. "There is a dear little boy in the play, and he was all alone in the world, because his papa could not have been his real papa. And when he came to the top of the bridge over the torrent, a big, naughty man with a beard, dressed all in black, came and threw him into the water. And then Helene began to sob and cry, and everybody scolded us, and father brought us away quick, quick----"
M. de Vandenesse and the Marquise looked on in dull amazement, as if all power to think or move had been suddenly paralyzed.
"Do be quiet, Gustave!" cried the General. "I told you that you were not to talk about anything that happened at the play, and you have forgotten what I said already."
"Oh, my lord Marquis, your lordship must excuse him," cried the notary. "I ought not to have asked questions, but I had no idea--"
"He ought not to have answered them," said the General, looking sternly at the child.
It seemed that the Marquise and the master of the house both perfectly understood why the children had come back so suddenly. Mme. d'Aiglemont looked at her daughter, and rose as if to go to her, but a terrible convulsion passed over her face, and all that could be read in it was relentless severity.
"That will do, Helene," she said. "Go into the other room, and leave off crying."
"What can she have done, poor child!" asked the notary, thinking to appease the mother's anger and to stop Helene's tears at one stroke. "So pretty as she his, she must be as good as can be; never anything but a joy to her mother, I will be bound. Isn't that so, my little girl?"
Helene cowered, looked at her mother, dried her eyes, struggled for composure, and took refuge in the next room.
"And you, madame, are too good a mother not to love all your children alike. You are too good a woman, besides, to have any of those lamentable preferences which have such fatal effects, as we lawyers have only too much reason to know. Society goes through our hands; we see its passions in that most revolting form, greed. Here it is the mother of a family trying to disinherit her husband's children to enrich the others whom she loves better; or it is the husband who tries to leave all his property to the child who has done his best to earn his mother's hatred. And then begin quarrels, and fears, and deeds, and defeasances, and sham sales, and trusts, and all the rest of it; a pretty mess, in fact, it is pitiable, upon my honor, pitiable! There are fathers that will spend their whole lives in cheating their children and robbing their wives. Yes, robbing is the only word for it. We were talking of tragedy; oh! I can assure you of this that if we were at liberty to tell the real reasons of some donations that I know of, our modern dramatists would have the material for some sensational /bourgeois/ dramas. How the wife manages to get her way, as she invariably does, I cannot think; for in spite of appearances, and in spite of their weakness, it is always the women who carry the day. Ah! by the way, they don't take /me/ in. I always know the reason at the bottom of those predilections which the world politely styles 'unaccountable.' But in justice to the husbands, I must say that /they/ never discover anything. You will tell me that this is a merciful dispens--"
Helene had come back to the drawing-room with her father, and was listening attentively. So well