III THREE BRETON SILHOUETTES

When night had fairly fallen, Gasselin came into the hall and asked

his master respectfully if he had further need of him.

"You can go out, or go to bed, after prayers," replied the baron,

waking up, "unless Madame or my sister"

The two ladies here made a sign of consent. Gasselin then knelt down,

seeing that his masters rose to kneel upon their chairs; Mariotte also

knelt before her stool. Mademoiselle du Guenic then said the prayer

aloud. After it was over, some one rapped at the door on the lane.

Gasselin went to open it.

"I dare say it is Monsieur le cure; he usually comes first," said

Mariotte.

Every one now recognized the rector's foot on the resounding steps of

the portico. He bowed respectfully to the three occupants of the room,

and addressed them in phrases of that unctuous civility which priests

are accustomed to use. To the rather absent-minded greeting of the

mistress of the house, he replied by an ecclesiastically inquisitive

look.

"Are you anxious or ill, Madame la baronne?" he asked.

"Thank you, no," she replied.

Monsieur Grimont, a man of fifty, of middle height, lost in his

cassock, from which issued two stout shoes with silver buckles,

exhibited above his hands a plump visage, and a generally white skin

though yellow in spots. His hands were dimpled. His abbatial face had

something of the Dutch burgomaster in the placidity of its complexion

and its flesh tones, and of the Breton peasant in the straight black

hair and the vivacity of the brown eyes, which preserved,

nevertheless, a priestly decorum. His gaiety, that of a man whose

conscience was calm and pure, admitted a joke. His manner had nothing

uneasy or dogged about it, like that of many poor rectors whose

existence or whose power is contested by their parishioners, and who

instead of being, as Napoleon sublimely said, the moral leaders of the

population and the natural justices of peace, are treated as enemies.

Observing Monsieur Grimont as he marched through Guerande, the most

irreligious of travellers would have recognized the sovereign of that

Catholic town; but this same sovereign lowered his spiritual

superiority before the feudal supremacy of the du Guenics. In their

salon he was as a chaplain in his seigneur's house. In church, when he

gave the benediction, his hand was always first stretched out toward

the chapel belonging to the Guenics, where their mailed hand and their

device were carved upon the key-stone of the arch.

"I thought that Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had already arrived," said

the rector, sitting down, and taking the hand of the baroness to kiss

it. "She is getting unpunctual. Can it be that the fashion of

dissipation is contagious? I see that Monsieur le chevalier is again

at Les Touches this evening."

"Don't say anything about those visits before Mademoiselle de Pen-

Hoel," cried the old maid, eagerly.

"Ah! mademoiselle," remarked Mariotte, "you can't prevent the town

from gossiping."

"What do they say?" asked the baroness.

"The young girls and the old women all say that he is in love with

Mademoiselle des Touches."

"A lad of Calyste's make is playing his proper part in making the

women love him," said the baron.

"Here comes Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel," said Mariotte.

The gravel in the court-yard crackled under the discreet footsteps of

the coming lady, who was accompanied by a page supplied with a

lantern. Seeing this lad, Mariotte removed her stool to the great hall

for the purpose of talking with him by the gleam of his rush-light,

which was burned at the cost of his rich and miserly mistress, thus

economizing those of her own masters.

This elderly demoiselle was a thin, dried-up old maid, yellow as the

parchment of a Parliament record, wrinkled as a lake ruffled by the

wind, with gray eyes, large prominent teeth, and the hands of a man.

She was rather short, a little crooked, possibly hump-backed; but no

one had ever been inquisitive enough to ascertain the nature of her

perfections or her imperfections. Dressed in the same style as

Mademoiselle du Guenic, she stirred an enormous quantity of petticoats

and linen whenever she wanted to find one or other of the two

apertures of her gown through which she reached her pockets. The

strangest jingling of keys and money then echoed among her garments.

She always wore, dangling from one side, the bunch of keys of a good

housekeeper, and from the other her silver snuff-box, thimble,

knitting-needles, and other implements that were also resonant.

Instead of Mademoiselle Zephirine's wadded hood, she wore a green

bonnet, in which she may have visited her melons, for it had passed,

like them, from green to yellowish; as for its shape, our present

fashions are just now bringing it back to Paris, after twenty years

absence, under the name of Bibi. This bonnet was constructed under her

own eye and by the hands of her nieces, out of green Florence silk

bought at Guerande, and an old bonnet-shape, renewed every five years

at Nantes,for Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel allowed her bonnets the

longevity of a legislature. Her nieces also made her gowns, cut by an

immutable pattern. The old lady still used the cane with the short

hook that all women carried in the early days of Marie-Antoinette. She

belonged to the very highest nobility of Brittany. Her arms bore the

ermine of its ancient dukes. In her and in her sister the illustrious

Breton house of the Pen-Hoels ended. Her younger sister had married a

Kergarouet, who, in spite of the deep disapproval of the whole region,

added the name of Pen-Hoel to his own and called himself the Vicomte

de Kergarouet-Pen-Hoel.

"Heaven has punished him," said the old lady; "he has nothing but

daughters, and the Kergarouet-Pen-Hoel name will be wiped out."

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel possessed about seven thousand francs a year

from the rental of lands. She had come into her property at thirty-six

years of age, and managed it herself, inspecting it on horseback, and

displaying on all points the firmness of character which is noticeable

in most deformed persons. Her avarice was admired by the whole country

round, never meeting with the slightest disapproval. She kept one

woman-servant and the page. Her yearly expenses, not including taxes,

did not amount to over a thousand francs. Consequently, she was the

object of the cajoleries of the Kergarouet-Pen-Hoels, who passed the

winters at Nantes, and the summers at their estate on the banks of the

Loire below l'Indret. She was supposed to be ready to leave her

fortune and her savings to whichever of her nieces pleased her best.

Every three months one or other of the four demoiselles de Kergarouet-

Pen-Hoel, (the youngest of whom was twelve, and the eldest twenty

years of age) came to spend a few days with her.

A friend of Zephirine du Guenic, Jacqueline de Pen-Hoel, brought up to

adore the Breton grandeur of the du Guenics, had formed, ever since

the birth of Calyste, the plan of transmitting her property to the

chevalier by marrying him to whichever of her nieces the Vicomtesse de

Kergarouet-Pen-Hoel, their mother, would bestow upon him. She dreamed

of buying back some of the best of the Guenic property from the farmer

/engagistes/. When avarice has an object it ceases to be a vice; it

becomes a means of virtue; its privations are a perpetual offering; it

has the grandeur of an intention beneath its meannesses. Perhaps

Zephirine was in the secret of Jacqueline's intention. Perhaps even

the baroness, whose whole soul was occupied by love for her son and

tenderness for his father, may have guessed it as she saw with what

wily perseverance Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel brought with her her

favorite niece, Charlotte de Kergarouet, now sixteen years of age. The

rector, Monsieur Grimont, was certainly in her confidence; it was he

who helped the old maid to invest her savings.

But Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel might have had three hundred thousand

francs in gold, she might have had ten times the landed property she

actually possessed, and the du Guenics would never have allowed

themselves to pay her the slightest attention that the old woman could

construe as looking to her fortune. From a feeling of truly Breton

pride, Jacqueline de Pen-Hoel, glad of the supremacy accorded to her

old friend Zephirine and the du Guenics, always showed herself honored

by her relations with Madame du Guenic and her sister-in-law. She even

went so far as to conceal the sort of sacrifice to which she consented

every evening in allowing her page to burn in the Guenic hall that

singular gingerbread-colored candle called an /oribus/ which is still

used in certain parts of western France.

Thus this rich old maid was nobility, pride, and grandeur personified.

At the moment when you are reading this portrait of her, the Abbe

Grimont has just indiscreetly revealed that on the evening when the

old baron, the young chevalier, and Gasselin secretly departed to join

MADAME (to the terror of the baroness and the great joy of all

Bretons) Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had given the baron ten thousand

francs in gold,an immense sacrifice, to which the abbe added another

ten thousand, a tithe collected by him,charging the old hero to

offer the whole, in the name of the Pen-Hoels and of the parish of

Guerande, to the mother of Henri V.

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel treated Calyste as if she felt that her

intentions gave her certain rights over him; her plans seemed to

authorize a supervision. Not that her ideas were strict in the matter

of gallantry, for she had, in fact, the usual indulgence of the old

women of the old school, but she held in horror the modern ways of

revolutionary morals. Calyste, who might have gained in her estimation

by a few adventures with Breton girls, would have lost it considerably

had she seen him entangled in what she called innovations. She might

have disinterred a little gold to pay for the results of a love-

affair, but if Calyste had driven a tilbury or talked of a visit to

Paris she would have thought him dissipated, and declared him a

spendthrift. Impossible to say what she might not have done had she

found him reading novels or an impious newspaper. To her, novel ideas

meant the overthrow of succession of crops, ruin under the name of

improvements and methods; in short, mortgaged lands as the inevitable

result of experiments. To her, prudence was the true method of making

your fortune; good management consisted in filling your granaries with

wheat, rye, and flax, and waiting for a rise at the risk of being

called a monopolist, and clinging to those grain-sacks obstinately. By

singular chance she had often made lucky sales which confirmed her

principles. She was thought to be maliciously clever, but in fact she

was not quick-witted; on the other hand, being as methodical as a

Dutchman, prudent as a cat, and persistent as a priest, those

qualities in a region of routine like Brittany were, practically, the

equivalent of intellect.

"Will Monsieur du Halga join us this evening?" asked Mademoiselle de

Pen-Hoel, taking off her knitted mittens after the usual exchange of

greetings.

"Yes, mademoiselle; I met him taking his dog to walk on the mall,"

replied the rector.

"Ha! then our /mouche/ will be lively to-night. Last evening we were

only four."

At the word /mouche/ the rector rose and took from a drawer in one of

the tall chests a small round basket made of fine osier, a pile of

ivory counters yellow as a Turkish pipe after twenty years' usage, and

a pack of cards as greasy as those of the custom-house officers at

Saint-Nazaire, who change them only once in two weeks. These the abbe

brought to the table, arranging the proper number of counters before

each player, and putting the basket in the centre of the table beside

the lamp, with infantine eagerness, and the manner of a man accustomed

to perform this little service.

A knock at the outer gate given firmly in military fashion echoed

through the stillness of the ancient mansion. Mademoiselle de Pen-

Hoel's page went gravely to open the door, and presently the long,

lean, methodically-clothed person of the Chevalier du Halga, former

flag-captain to Admiral de Kergarouet, defined itself in black on the

penumbra of the portico.

"Welcome, chevalier!" cried Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

"The altar is raised," said the abbe.

The chevalier was a man in poor health, who wore flannel for his

rheumatism, a black-silk skull-cap to protect his head from fog, and a

spencer to guard his precious chest from the sudden gusts which

freshen the atmosphere of Guerande. He always went armed with a gold-

headed cane to drive away the dogs who paid untimely court to a

favorite little bitch who usually accompanied him. This man, fussy as

a fine lady, worried by the slightest /contretemps/, speaking low to

spare his voice, had been in his early days one of the most intrepid

and most competent officers of the old navy. He had won the confidence

of de Suffren in the Indian Ocean, and the friendship of the Comte de

Portenduere. His splendid conduct while flag-captain to Admiral

Kergarouet was written in visible letters on his scarred face. To see

him now no one would have imagined the voice that ruled the storm, the

eye that compassed the sea, the courage, indomitable, of the Breton

sailor.

The chevalier never smoked, never swore; he was gentle and tranquil as

a girl, as much concerned about his little dog Thisbe and her caprices

as though he were an elderly dowager. In this way he gave a high idea

of his departed gallantry, but he never so much as alluded to the

deeds of surpassing bravery which had astonished the doughty old

admiral, Comte d'Estaing. Though his manner was that of an invalid,

and he walked as if stepping on eggs and complained about the

sharpness of the wind or the heat of the sun, or the dampness of the

misty atmosphere, he exhibited a set of the whitest teeth in the

reddest of gums,a fact reassuring as to his maladies, which were,

however, rather expensive, consisting as they did of four daily meals

of monastic amplitude. His bodily frame, like that of the baron, was

bony, and indestructibly strong, and covered with a parchment glued to

his bones as the skin of an Arab horse on the muscles which shine in

the sun. His skin retained the tawny color it received in India,

whence, however, he did not bring back either facts or ideas. He had

emigrated with the rest of his friends, lost his property, and was now

ending his days with the cross of Saint-Louis and a pension of two

thousand francs, as the legal reward of his services, paid from the

fund of the Invalides de la Marine. The slight hypochondria which made

him invent his imaginary ills is easily explained by his actual

suffering during the emigration. He served in the Russian navy until

the day when the Emperor Alexander ordered him to be employed against

France; he then resigned and went to live at Odessa, near the Duc de

Richelieu, with whom he returned to France. It was the duke who

obtained for this glorious relic of the old Breton navy the pension

which enabled him to live. On the death of Louis XVIII. he returned to

Guerande, and became, after a while, mayor of the city.

The rector, the chevalier, and Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel had regularly

passed their evenings for the last fifteen years at the hotel de

Guenic, where the other noble personages of the neighborhood also

came. It will be readily understood that the du Guenics were at the

head of the faubourg Saint-Germain of the old Breton province, where

no member of the new administration sent down by the government was

ever allowed to penetrate. For the last six years the rector coughed

when he came to the crucial words, /Domine, salvum fac regem/.

Politics were still at that point in Guerande.