The old artist’s wonderful pantomime, his vivid, eager way of telling the story of the triumph of his shrewdness over the dealer’s ignorance, would have made a subject for a Dutch painter; but it was all thrown away upon the audience. Mother and daughter exchanged cold, contemptuous glances. – “What an oddity!” they seemed to say.
“So it amuses you?” remarked Mme. de Marville. The question sent a cold chill through Pons; he felt a strong desire to slap the Presidente.
“Why, my dear cousin, that is the way to hunt down a work of art. You are face to face with antagonists that dispute the game with you. It is craft against craft! A work of art in the hands of a Norman, an Auvergnat, or a Jew, is like a princess guarded by magicians in a fairy tale.”
“And how can you tell that this is by Wat – what do you call him?”
“Watteau, cousin. One of the greatest eighteenth century painters in France. Look! do you not see that it is his work?” (pointing to a pastoral scene, court-shepherd swains and shepherdesses dancing in a ring). “The movement! the life in it! the coloring! There it is – see! – painted with a stroke of the brush, as a writing-master makes a flourish with a pen. Not a trace of effort here! And, turn it over, look! – a ball in a drawing-room. Summer and Winter! And what ornaments! and how well preserved it is! The hinge-pin is gold, you see, and on cleaning it, I found a tiny ruby at either side.”
“If it is so, cousin, I could not think of accepting such a valuable present from you. It would be better to lay up the money for yourself,” said Mme. de Marville; but all the same, she asked no better than to keep the splendid fan.
“It is time that it should pass from the service of Vice into the hands of Virtue,” said the good soul, recovering his assurance. “It has taken a century to work the miracle. No princess at Court, you may be sure, will have anything to compare with it; for, unfortunately, men will do more for a Pompadour than for a virtuous queen, such is human nature.”
“Very well,” Mme. de Marville said, laughing, “I will accept your present. – Cecile, my angel, go to Madeleine and see that dinner is worthy of your cousin.”
Mme. de Marville wished to make matters even. Her request, made aloud, in defiance of all rules of good taste, sounded so much like an attempt to repay at once the balance due to the poor cousin, that Pons flushed red, like a girl found out in fault. The grain of sand was a little too large; for some moments he could only let it work in his heart. Cecile, a red-haired young woman, with a touch of pedantic affectation, combined her father’s ponderous manner with a trace of her mother’s hardness. She went and left poor Pons face to face with the terrible Presidente.
“How nice she is, my little Lili!” said the mother. She still called her Cecile by this baby name.
“Charming!” said Pons, twirling his thumbs.
“I cannot understand these times in which we live,” broke out the Presidente. “What is the good of having a President of the Court of Appeal in Paris and a Commander of the Legion of Honor for your father, and for a grandfather the richest wholesale silk merchant in Paris, a deputy, and a millionaire that will be a peer of France some of these days?”
The President’s zeal for the new Government had, in fact, recently been rewarded with a commander’s ribbon – thanks to his friendship with Popinot, said the envious. Popinot himself, modest though he was, had, as has been seen, accepted the title of count, “for his son’s sake,” he told his numerous friends.
“Men look for nothing but money nowadays,” said Cousin Pons. “No one thinks anything of you unless you are rich, and – ”
“What would it have been if Heaven had spared my poor little Charles! – ” cried the lady.
“Oh, with two children you would be poor,” returned the cousin. “It practically means the division of the property. But you need not trouble yourself, cousin; Cecile is sure to marry sooner or later. She is the most accomplished girl I know.”
To such depths had Pons fallen by adapting himself to the company of his entertainers! In their houses he echoed their ideas, and said the obvious thing, after the manner of a chorus in a Greek play. He did not dare to give free play to the artist’s originality, which had overflowed in bright repartee when he was young; he had effaced himself, till he had almost lost his individuality; and if the real Pons appeared, as he had done a moment ago, he was immediately repressed.
“But I myself was married with only twenty thousand francs for my portion – ”
“In 1819, cousin. And it was you, a woman with a head on your shoulders, and the royal protection of Louis XVIII.”
“Be still, my child is a perfect angel. She is clever, she has a warm heart, she will have a hundred thousand francs on her wedding day, to say nothing of the most brilliant expectations; and yet she stays on our hands,” and so on and so on. For twenty minutes, Mme. de Marville talked on about herself and her Cecile, pitying herself after the manner of mothers in bondage to marriageable daughters.
Pons had dined at the house every week for twenty years, and Camusot de Marville was the only cousin he had in the world; but he had yet to hear the first word spoken as to his own affairs – nobody cared to know how he lived. Here and elsewhere the poor cousin was a kind of sink down which his relatives poured domestic confidences. His discretion was well known; indeed, was he not bound over to silence when a single imprudent word would have shut the door of ten houses upon him? And he must combine his role of listener with a second part; he must applaud continually, smile on every one, accuse nobody, defend nobody; from his point of view, every one must be in the right. And so, in the house of his kinsman, Pons no longer counted as a man; he was a digestive apparatus.
In the course of a long tirade, Mme. Camusot de Marville avowed with due circumspection that she was prepared to take almost any son-in-law with her eyes shut. She was even disposed to think that at eight-and-forty or so a man with twenty thousand francs a year was a good match.
“Cecile is in her twenty-third year. If it should fall out so unfortunately that she is not married before she is five or six-and-twenty, it will be extremely hard to marry her at all. When a girl reaches that age, people want to know why she has been so long on hand. We are a good deal talked about in our set. We have come to the end of all the ordinary excuses – ‘She is so young. – She is so fond of her father and mother that she doesn’t like to leave them. – She is so happy at home. – She is hard to please, she would like a good name – ’ We are beginning to look silly; I feel that distinctly. And besides, Cecile is tired of waiting, poor child, she suffers – ”
“In what way?” Pons was noodle enough to ask.
“Why, because it is humiliating to her to see all her girl friends married before her,” replied the mother, with a duenna’s air.
“But, cousin, has anything happened since the last time that I had the pleasure of dining here? Why do you think of men of eight-and-forty?” Pons inquired