X

"Does it not seem to you, Mademoiselle Augustine," said the assistant,

and he trembled, "that the wife of a merchant whose credit is as good

as Monsieur Guillaume's, for instance, might enjoy herself a little

more than Madame your mother does? Might wear diamonds--or keep a

carriage? For my part, if I were to marry, I should be glad to take

all the work, and see my wife happy. I would not put her into the

counting-house. In the drapery business, you see, a woman is not so

necessary now as formerly. Monsieur Guillaume was quite right to act

as he did--and besides, his wife liked it. But so long as a woman

knows how to turn her hand to the book-keeping, the correspondence,

the retail business, the orders, and her housekeeping, so as not to

sit idle, that is enough. At seven o'clock, when the shop is shut, I

shall take my pleasures, go to the play, and into company.--But you

are not listening to me."

"Yes, indeed, Monsieur Joseph. What do you think of painting? That is

a fine calling."

"Yes. I know a master house-painter, Monsieur Lourdois. He is well-to-

do."

Thus conversing, the family reached the Church of Saint-Leu. There

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."