Friend Joseph
For a whole winter in Paris they had been great friends and after losing sight of each other, as is usual, on leaving college, they met again in society when they were both old and grey; the one a bachelor, the other a married man.
Monsieur de Méroul spent six months in Paris and six months in his little château at Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a neighbouring squire, he had lived a quiet peaceful life, indolently, the life of a man who has nothing to do. He was calm, methodical by nature; he had no sudden flashes of intelligence, or fits of independence, he spent his time quietly regretting the past, deploring the habits and institutions of the day, and continually repeating to his wife, who raised her eyes and occasionally her hands in sign of complete agreement: “What a government we’ve got, to be sure!”
Intellectually, Monsieur and Madame de Méroul were as much alike as if they had been brother and sister. She knew, by tradition, that first and foremost, the Pope and the King must be respected. And she loved and respected them from the bottom of her heart—not knowing them—with romantic fervour, hereditary devotion, and the tenderness of a woman of good birth. She was kindness itself. She had no children and never ceased to regret the fact.
When Monsieur de Méroul met his old friend Joseph Mourador at a ball, he was filled with unaffected joy at the meeting, for they had been great friends in their youth. After the first ejaculations of surprise on the changes age had wrought in their appearance, each one wanted to know what kind of life the other had led. Joseph Mourador, a Southerner, was a District Councillor. Frank of aspect, he talked quickly and without reserve, saying exactly what he thought without any consideration for the feelings of others. He was a Republican, one of those good-natured Republicans who make a virtue of being casual, and who stand for that freedom of speech which borders on brutality.
He visited his friend’s house, where, in spite of his advanced ideas, he was very popular on account of his easy cordiality. Madame de Méroul would exclaim: “What a pity! Such a charming man!” Monsieur de Méroul would say to his friend, seriously and confidentially: “You have no idea of the harm you are doing to our country.” Nevertheless he loved him, for nothing is stronger than the ties of childhood renewed in old age. Joseph Mourador bantered the husband and wife and called them “my dear slowcoaches,” and sometimes he would hold forth against old-fashioned people, against prejudice, and against tradition.
When he was engaged in this flow of democratic eloquence the couple, ill at ease, would keep silent out of politeness and good manners; then the husband would try to change the conversation so as to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings. Joseph Mourador never went to formal receptions at the De Mérouls’.
Then summer came, when the Mérouls’ greatest pleasure was to have their friends on a visit to their country-house at Tourbeville. They were actuated by a simple friendly feeling, the pleasure of kindly disposed folk, country landowners. They would go to the nearest station to meet their guests and bring them back in the carriage, on the lookout for compliments about the country, its luxuriant vegetation, the departmental roads, the cleanliness of the peasants’ houses, the size of the cattle to be seen in the fields, in fact everything within sight.
They would call attention to the remarkable speed with which their horse trotted, remarkable for an animal employed in the fields part of the year; and they would anxiously await the newcomer’s opinion on their family estate, sensitive to the least word, and grateful for the slightest kindly appreciation.
Joseph Mourador had received an invitation and had written to announce his arrival.
Husband and wife had gone to meet the train, delighted to welcome him to their home. As soon as he caught sight of them, Joseph Mourador leaped from the carriage with an enthusiasm that increased their pleasure; he shook hands with them, congratulating them, and overwhelming them with compliments.
All the way home he was charming: he was surprised at the height of the trees, the richness of the crops, and the speed of the horse. When he set foot on the threshold of the house, Monsieur de Méroul said with a certain friendly solemnity: “You are at home, now,” and Joseph Mourador replied: “Thanks, my friend, I was expecting to be so. Anyhow I never stand on ceremony with my friends. That’s not my idea of hospitality.”
Then he went upstairs to his room to dress as a peasant, so he said, and came down in a blue linen suit, with a straw boater, yellow shoes, in fact in the getup of a Parisian on the spree. He seemed more vulgar, more jovial, more familiar, having apparently put on with his country clothes the free and easy manner which he considered the right thing. His new manners rather shocked Monsieur and Madame de Méroul, who were always serious and correct even in the country, as if compelled by the particle preceding their name to keep up a certain formality even in the friendliest intercourse.
After lunch they visited the farms, and the Parisian quite staggered the respectful peasants by his tone of hail-fellow-well-met. In the evening the priest came to dinner, an old, fat priest—a regular Sunday guest—who had been especially invited in honour of the new arrival.
As soon as he saw him, Joseph made a face, later he watched him with astonishment as if he were a rare creature of some peculiar race that he had never been able to observe at close quarters. During the meal he told some free and easy anecdotes permissible among friends but which to the Mérouls seemed out of place in the presence of a priest. He did not say “Monsieur l’Abbé” but simply “Monsieur”; and he made the priest uncomfortable by discussing the different superstitions current throughout the world. He said: “Your God is a God to be respected, but also one to be discussed. My god is called Reason and has always been the enemy of your God.”
The Mérouls, distressed, tried to change the conversation. The priest left very early.
The husband said very gently: “Perhaps you went a little too far with the priest.”
But Joseph burst out at once: “Well, that’s a good one, that is! As if I should put myself out for a sky-pilot! Moreover, you will be kind enough not to inflict his presence upon me at meals. You others can make as much use of him as you like, Sundays and weekdays, but don’t serve him up to your friends, hang it!”
“But, my dear fellow, think of his holy—”
Joseph Mourador interrupted him: “Yes, I know, they must be treated like the Queen of the May! Everybody knows that, my dear man! Let them respect my convictions and I will respect theirs!”
That was all for that day.
When Madame Méroul went into the drawing room the next morning, she noticed in the middle of the table three newspapers that gave her a shock: the Voltaire, the République Française, and Justice. At the same time Joseph Mourador, still in blue, appeared at the door reading the Intransigeant attentively. He exclaimed: “There’s a great article by Rochefort in this! He is an amazing chap!” He read it out loud, emphasising the points, and was so full of enthusiasm that he did not notice his friend come into the room.
Monsieur de Méroul brought the Gaulois for himself and the Clairon for his wife.
The fiery prose of the great writer who was overturning the Empire, recited with violence, sung with a southern accent, rang through the peaceful drawing room, shaking the old curtains with their straight folds, seeming to fling itself in a storm of leaping, impudent, ironical and destructive words against the walls, the big tapestry chairs and the solemn furniture that had never been moved from its place for over a century.
Monsieur standing and Madame seated listened with amazement, so shocked that they were unable to make any protest.
Mourador made his last point like setting off fireworks, and declared with triumph: “Well? That’s slashing enough?”
Then he caught sight of the two papers his friend was carrying, and he in his turn was filled with surprise. With long strides he crossed the room and asked indignantly: “What are you going to do with those papers?”
Monsieur de Méroul replied hesitatingly: “But—these are my—my papers!”
“Your papers—come, come, you’re making fun of me! You are going to read mine. They will broaden your ideas. As for your papers—there, that’s how I treat them!”
Before his astonished host could prevent it, he had seized the two papers and thrown them out of the window. Then he gravely handed Justice to Madame de Méroul, the Voltaire to her husband, and sank into an armchair to finish the Intransigeant.
Out of politeness the couple made a pretence of reading some of the news, then returned the Republican papers to their friend, handling them very gingerly as if they were poisoned. He laughed and declared: “One week of this regime and you will be converted to my ideas.”
True enough, at the end of the week he was running the house. He had closed the door against the priest, whom Madame de Méroul secretly went to see; he would not allow the Gaulois and the Clairon to be brought to the house, but a servant went to the post office to fetch them every day and they were promptly hidden under the sofa cushions the minute Joseph appeared. He arranged everything according to his wishes, was always charming and good-natured; in fact, an all-powerful, jovial tyrant.
Other friends were expected, religious friends with Legitimist political opinions, but the hosts saw that a meeting with their old friend was impossible, and not knowing what to do, one evening they told him that they were obliged to go away on business for a few days, and begged him to stay on alone. He was not at all worried, and answered:
“Very well, I don’t mind. I will wait here as long as you like. I have already said that there should be no formality between friends. Hang it all! You are quite right to go and attend to your business affairs. I would never be offended at that; on the contrary, it makes me feel quite at home. Off you go, my friends, I will wait for you!”
Monsieur and Madame de Méroul left the following day. He is still waiting for their return.