The Marquis of Fumerol
Roger de Tourneville was talking, straddling a chair in the middle of a circle of his friends; he held a cigar in his hand and now and then took a pull at it and blew out a little cloud of smoke.
… We were sitting at the table when a letter was brought in. Papa opened it. You all know that papa considers himself regent of France. I call him Don Quixote because he has tilted for twelve years against the Republican windmill without ever being really sure whether he did it in the name of the Bourbons or of the Orléans. Today, he breaks his lance only for the Orléans because they alone are left. In any event, papa considers himself the first gentleman of France, the best-known, the most influential, the head of his party; and as he is senator for life he considers neighbouring kings to occupy less secure thrones than his.
As for mamma, she is papa’s soul, the soul of religion and the monarchy, the right hand of God on earth and the scourge of evil-thinkers.
Well, a letter was brought in while we were at table. Papa opened it, read it, then looked at mamma and said: “Your brother is on the point of death.” Mamma turned pale. My uncle’s name was hardly even spoken in the house. I did not know the whole story. I only knew that common gossip had it that he had led and was leading a wild life. After wasting his fortune in the company of an incredible number of women, he had kept for himself only two mistresses, with whom he lived in a small apartment in the Rue des Martyrs.
An old peer of France and an old cavalry colonel, he believed, they say, neither in God nor the devil. Doubting the existence of a future life, he had misused this one in every conceivable way; and he had become the gnawing canker of mamma’s heart.
“Give me the letter, Paul,” said she.
When she had finished reading it, I asked for it too. This is what it said:
“Monsieur le comte, I think it’s only right to tell you your brother-in-law the Marquis de Fumerol is dying. Perhaps you’ll be wanting to see about the will, and don’t forget it was me warned you.
Papa murmured: “We must act prudently. In my position, I ought to keep an eye on your brother’s last moments.”
Mamma answered: “I will send for Father Poivron, and ask his advice. Then I, the abbé, and Roger will go to see my brother. You stay here, Paul. You must not be compromised. A woman can and must do these things. But it’s quite another matter for a political man in your position. An enemy would like nothing better than to turn against you your most praiseworthy actions.”
“You are right,” said my father. “Do what you think best, my dear.”
A quarter of an hour later, Father Poivron entered the drawing room and the situation was set out, analysed and discussed in all its phases.
If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the great names of France, died without the offices of religion, the blow would assuredly be a terrible one for the nobility in general and the Comte de Tourneville in particular. The freethinkers would triumph. The gutter press would rejoice over the victory for six months; my mother’s name would be dragged in the mud and the columns of socialist rags; and my father’s name covered with infamy. Such a thing could not be allowed to happen.
So it was at once agreed to make a crusade, with Father Poivron as leader; he was a neat plump little priest, faintly perfumed, a typical vicar of a big church in a rich and aristocratic quarter.
A landau was made ready and the three of us set out, mamma, the priest and I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.
It had been decided that we should see first the writer of the letter, Mme. Mélanie, who was doubtless the janitress or my uncle’s servant.
I got out at a seven-storied house to reconnoitre the position and I walked into a dark passage where I had the greatest difficulty in finding the porter’s obscure den. The man eyed me contemptuously.
“Can I see Mme. Mélanie?” I asked.
“Don’t know her.”
“But I’ve had a letter from her.”
“Very likely, but I don’t know her. Is it some wench or other you’re wanting?”
“No, a servant probably. She wrote to me about a place.”
“A servant? … a servant? … Maybe it’s her the Marquis has. Go and see, fifth floor on the left.”
As soon as he knew I was not looking for a woman of the town, he had become more friendly and he stepped out into the passage. He was a tall thin fellow with drooping, white whiskers; his gestures were magnificent and he had the air of a verger.
I ran up a long greasy spiral staircase, not daring to touch the rail, and I gave three discreet knocks on the door of the fifth floor left.
It opened immediately; and a slovenly massive woman stood in front of me, barring the entrance with open arms stretched across the doorway.
“What d’you want?” she growled.
“You are Madame Mélanie?”
“Yes.”
“I am the Vicomte de Tourneville.”
“Good. Come in.”
“Well—er … mamma is downstairs with a priest.”
“Good. Go and fetch them. But mind the porter.”
I went down and came back again with mamma, followed by the abbé. I thought I heard other footsteps behind us.
As soon as we were in the kitchen, Mélanie drew out chairs and we all four sat down to consider the situation.
“Is he very low?” mama asked.
“Oh, yes, Madame, he is not long for this world.”
“Does he seem disposed to receive the attention of a priest?”
“Oh … I don’t think so.”
“Can I see him?”
“Well … yes … Madame … but … but … there’s those young women with him.”
“What young women?”
“Well—er … his friends.”
“Ah.”
Mamma had blushed crimson.
Father Poivron lowered his eyes.
I was beginning to find it amusing and I said:
“Suppose I were to go in first. I should see how he received me and I could perhaps prepare his heart.”
My malice was lost on mamma, who answered:
“Yes, do, my child.”
But a door opened somewhere and a voice, a woman’s voice, called:
“Mélanie.”
The clumsy servant jumped up and answered:
“What is it you want, Mamzelle Claire?”
“The omelette, at once.”
“In a minute, Mamzelle.”
And turning to us, she explained this request.
“They ordered me to make a cheese omelette at two o’clock for lunch.”
Whereupon she broke the eggs into a salad bowl and began to beat them vigorously.
I went out on to the staircase and rang the bell by way of an official announcement of my arrival.
Mélanie opened the door, gave me a seat in an anteroom, went to tell my uncle I was there, then returned and asked me to come in.
The abbé hid himself behind the door, ready to make an appearance at the first sign.
The first sight of my uncle certainly surprised me. He was very handsome, very majestic, very elegant, the old rake.
Sitting, almost reclining in a big armchair, his legs wrapped in a quilt, his hands, long pale hands, lying limply on the arms of the chair, he was waiting for death with patriarchal dignity. His white beard fell over his chest, and hair as white as the beard fell down his cheeks to mingle with it.
Standing behind his armchair, as if they were defending him against me, two young women, two plump women, regarded me with the bold stare of their kind. Bare-armed, hair black as the devil down their necks, clad in petticoats and peignoirs, wearing gold-embroidered oriental slippers, they looked, standing round the dying man, like figures of evil in a symbolic painting. Between the armchair and the bed a little table covered with a cloth and set with two plates, two glasses, two forks and two knives, awaited the cheese omelette just ordered from Mélanie.
My uncle spoke in a faint, muffled voice, but clearly:
“How do you do, my boy? You are very late coming to see me. Our acquaintance will not be a long one.”
“It is not my fault, Uncle,” I stammered.
“No,” he answered, “I know. It is more your father’s and your mother’s fault than yours … How are they?”
“Fairly well, thanks. When they heard you were ill, they sent me for news of you.”
“Ah, why didn’t they come themselves?”
I glanced at the two young women and said softly: “It’s not their fault they can’t come, Uncle. It would be difficult for my father, and impossible for my mother to come here …”
The old man said nothing, but lifted his hand to mine. I took the pale cold hand and held it.
The door opened: Mélanie came in with the omelette and put it on the table. The two women sat down in their places at once and began to eat without even glancing at me.
I said: “Uncle, it would make my mother very happy to come and see you.”
“I too,” he murmured, “I would like …” He fell silent. I could think of no suggestions to make him and nothing was heard but the scraping of forks on china and the faint sound of moving jaws.
But the abbé, who was listening behind the door, seeing our embarrassment and thinking the position carried, judged the time ripe for intervention, and revealed himself.
My uncle was so thunderstruck by this apparition that he sat perfectly still for a moment; then he opened his mouth as if he were going to swallow the priest; then, in a loud, deep, angry voice, he shouted:
“What do you want here?”
The abbé, at home in delicate situations, continued to advance, murmuring:
“I come on behalf of your sister, sir: she sends me. … She would, sir, be so happy …”
But the Marquis was not listening. Lifting his hand, he pointed to the door with a magnificent and tragic gesture, and said savagely, gasping for breath:
“Get out of here … get out of here … robber of souls.—Get out of here, violator of consciences. Get out of here, picker of dying men’s locks!”
The abbé recoiled, and I with him recoiled to the door, beating a retreat with my ecclesiastical reserves; and avenged, the two little women got to their feet, leaving the omelette half eaten, and stationed themselves on each side of my uncle’s armchair, placing their hands on his arms to calm him and protect him against the criminal enterprises of the Family and the Church.
The abbé and I rejoined mamma in the kitchen. Again Mélanie offered us chairs.
“I was sure you couldn’t pull it off like that,” she said. “We’ll have to think of something else or he’ll slip between our fingers.”
We took counsel again. Mamma had one plan; the abbé favoured another. I contributed a third.
We had been carrying on a low-voiced discussion for half an hour perhaps when a terrific noise of overturned furniture and my uncle’s voice shouting more furiously and dreadfully than ever, brought us all four to our feet.
Through doors and partitions we heard: “Out … out … mountebanks … hedge parsons … out, scoundrels … out … out.”
Mélanie rushed out, and came back immediately to summon me to help her. I ran in. My uncle, galvanised by anger, was almost standing up and shouting at the top of his voice, and two men, one behind the other, were staring at him with the apparent intention of waiting until he died of rage.
By his absurd long-skirted coat, his long square shoes, his general air of an out-of-work schoolmaster, his stiff collar, white tie, sleek hair, and his meek face, face of the sham priest of a bastard religion, I recognised the first at once for a Protestant clergyman.
The second was the house porter, who belonged to the reformed faith, had followed us, seen our defeat, and run to fetch his own priest, hoping for better luck.
My uncle seemed to have gone mad with rage. If the sight of a Catholic priest, the priest of his father’s faith, had irritated the freethinking Marquis de Fumerol, the appearance of his porter’s minister drove him beside himself.
I seized both men by the arms and threw them out so roughly that they cannoned violently into each other twice on their way through the two doors that led to the staircase.
Then I withdrew myself and returned to the kitchen, our headquarters, to take counsel with my mother and the abbé.
But a distracted Mélanie ran in wailing. … “He’s dying … he’s dying … come at once … he’s dying.”
My mother rushed out. My uncle had fallen down, and lay stretched out to his full height upon the floor. I was sure he was already dead.
In the crisis, mamma was magnificent. She walked straight up to the two wenches who were kneeling beside the body and trying to raise it. And showing them the door with an authority, a dignity and a majesty that were quite irresistible, she said carefully:
“And now you will go.”
And they went, unprotesting, mute. I should add that I was prepared to expel them as joyfully as I had expelled the pastor and the porter.
Then Father Poivron administered all the proper rites to my uncle and gave him absolution.
Mamma was sobbing, prostrate at her brother’s side.
Suddenly she cried:
“He knows me. He pressed my hand. I am sure he knows me! … and is thanking me. Oh, my God, how happy I am!”
Poor mamma! If she had realised or guessed to whom and to what the thanks must have been addressed!
We laid my uncle on his bed. He was dead this time.
“Madame,” said Mélanie, “we have no sheets for laying him out. All the linen belongs to those women.”
As for me, I looked at the omelette they had not finished eating and I wanted to cry and laugh in the same breath. Life presents us with queer moments and queer sensations sometimes!
Well, we gave my uncle a magnificent funeral, with five sermons over the grave. Senator Baron de Croisselles proved, in an admirable speech, that the sometimes erring heart of your true aristocrat always opens at last to a victorious God. All the members of the Royalist and Catholic party followed the hearse with the enthusiasm of conquerors, talking of this good end to a life that had been a little restless.
Vicomte Roger ceased. His listeners laughed. Someone said: “Bah! that’s the true version of all deathbed repentances.”