upon Brigitte, he retired, followed by Dutocq, after wishing good evening to the three Thuilliers.
“That young man has great capacity,” said Thuillier, sententiously.
“Yes, that he has,” replied Brigitte, extinguishing the lamps.
“He has religion,” said Madame Thuillier, as she left the room.
“Monsieur,” Phellion was saying to Colleville as they came abreast of the Ecole de Mines, looking about him to see that no one was near, “it is usually my custom to submit my insight to that of others, but it is impossible for me not to think that that young lawyer plays the master at our friend Thuillier’s.”
“My own opinion,” said Colleville, who was walking with Phellion behind his wife, Madame Phellion, and Celeste, “is that he’s a Jesuit; and I don’t like Jesuits; the best of them are no good. To my mind a Jesuit means knavery, and knavery for knavery’s sake; they deceive for the pleasure of deceiving, and, as the saying is, to keep their hand in. That’s my opinion, and I don’t mince it.”
“I understand you, monsieur,” said Phellion, who was arm-in-arm with Colleville.
“No, Monsieur Phellion,” remarked Flavie in a shrill voice, “you don’t understand Colleville; but I know what he means, and I think he had better stop saying it. Such subjects are not to be talked of in the street, at eleven o’clock at night, and before a young lady.”
“You are right, wife,” said Colleville.
When they reached the rue des Deux-Eglises, which Phellion was to take, they all stopped to say good-night, and Felix Phellion, who was bring up the rear, said to Colleville:—
“Monsieur, your son Francois could enter the Ecole Polytechnique if he were well-coached; I propose to you to fit him to pass the examinations this year.”
“That’s an offer not to be refused! Thank you, my friend,” said Colleville. “We’ll see about it.”
“Good!” said Phellion to his son, as they walked on.
“Not a bad stroke!” said the mother.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Felix.
“You are very cleverly paying court to Celeste’s parents.”
“May I never find the solution of my problem if I even thought of it!” cried the young professor. “I discovered, when talking with the little Collevilles, that Francois has a strong turn for mathematics, and I thought I ought to enlighten his father.”
“Good, my son!” repeated Phellion. “I wouldn’t have you otherwise. My prayers are granted! I have a son whose honor, probity, and private and civic virtues are all that I could wish.”
Madame Colleville, as soon as Celeste had gone to bed, said to her husband:—
“Colleville, don’t utter those blunt opinions about people without knowing something about them. When you talk of Jesuits I know you mean priests; and I wish you would do me the kindness to keep your opinions on religion to yourself when you are in company with your daughter. We may sacrifice our own souls, but not the souls of our children. You don’t want Celeste to be a creature without religion? And remember, my dear, that we are at the mercy of others; we have four children to provide for; and how do you know that, some day or other, you may not need the services of this one or that one? Therefore don’t make enemies. You haven’t any now, for you are a good-natured fellow; and, thanks to that quality, which amounts in you to a charm, we have got along pretty well in life, so far.”
“That’s enough!” said Colleville, flinging his coat on a chair and pulling off his cravat. “I’m wrong, and you are right, my beautiful Flavie.”
“And on the next occasion, my dear old sheep,” said the sly creature, tapping her husband’s cheek, “you must try to be polite to that young lawyer; he is a schemer and we had better have him on our side. He is playing comedy—well! play comedy with him; be his dupe apparently; if he proves to have talent, if he has a future before him, make a friend of him. Do you think I want to see you forever in the mayor’s office?”
“Come, wife Colleville,” said the former clarionet, tapping his knee to indicate the place he wished his wife to take. “Let us warm our toes and talk.—When I look at you I am more than ever convinced that the youth of women is in their figure.”
“And in their heart.”
“Well, both,” assented Colleville; “waist slender, heart solid—”
“No, you old stupid, deep.”
“What is good about you is that you have kept your fairness without growing fat. But the fact is, you have such tiny bones. Flavie, it is a fact that if I had life to live over again I shouldn’t wish for any other wife than you.”
“You know very well I have always preferred you to others. How unlucky that monseigneur is dead! Do you know what I covet for you?”
“No; what?”
“Some office at the Hotel de Ville—an office worth twelve thousand francs a year; cashier, or something of that kind; either there, or at Poissy, in the municipal department; or else as manufacturer of musical instruments—”
“Any one of them would suit me.”
“Well, then! if that queer barrister has power, and he certainly has plenty of intrigue, let us manage him. I’ll sound him; leave me to do the thing—and, above all, don’t thwart his game at the Thuilliers’.”
Theodose had laid a finger on a sore sport in Flavie Colleville’s heart; and this requires an explanation, which may, perhaps, have the value of a synthetic glance at women’s life.
At forty years of age a woman, above all, if she has tasted the poisoned apple of passion, undergoes a solemn shock; she sees two deaths before her: that of the body and that of the heart. Dividing women into two great categories which respond to the common ideas, and calling them either virtuous or guilty, it is allowable to say that after that fatal period they both suffer pangs of terrible intensity. If virtuous, and disappointed in the deepest hopes of their nature—whether they have had the courage to submit, whether they have buried their revolt in their hearts or at the foot of the altar—they never admit to themselves that all is over for them without horror. That thought has such strange and diabolical depths that in it lies the reason of some of those apostasies which have, at times, amazed the world and horrified it. If guilty, women of that age fall into one of several delirious conditions which often turn, alas! to madness, or end in suicide, or terminate in some with passion greater than the situation itself.
The following is the “dilemmatic” meaning of this crisis. Either they have known happiness, known it in a virtuous life, and are unable to breathe in any air but that surcharged with incense, or act in any but a balmy atmosphere of flattery and worship—if so, how is it possible to renounce it?—or, by a phenomenon less rare than singular, they have found only wearying pleasures while seeking for the happiness that escaped them—sustained in that eager chase by the irritating satisfactions of vanity, clinging to the game like a gambler to his double or quits; for to them these last days of beauty are their last stake against despair.
“You have been loved,
