"And the grand pickles I'll teach her to make,--green as grass and crisp as hazelnuts. Oh, you shall see what nice little dishes we will fix up for you, your little wife and I."
Gerald, to whom M. de Maillefort had been obliged to confide the secret of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's masquerade, could not help laughing heartily at the idea of Madame Barbancon giving her cooking recipes to the richest heiress in France.
"What are you laughing at, M. Gerald?" asked the housekeeper. "Have you no confidence in my recipes?"
"I believe in them as I believe in the gospels. I am laughing just because I am so happy, I suppose. That is only natural, I imagine, on one's marriage day."
"There have been monsters who were more ferocious than ever on their marriage day," responded Madame Barbancon, with a gloomy and profoundly mysterious air.
"Nonsense!"
"Think, M. Gerald. Don't you recollect how he conducted himself on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise?--the scoundrel!"
Madame Barbancon evidently thought it entirely superfluous to mention the object of her execration by name.
"Come, Mother Barbancon, you had better give us our coffee now,"
interposed the commander. "It is nearly six o'clock."
"Well, monsieur, that wretch whom you admire so much, on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise, behaved more cruelly than any tiger to that darling little King of Rome, who, clasping his tiny hands, pleaded in his fresh, sweet voice: 'Papa Emperor, do not desert poor Mamma Josephine.'"
"Oh, yes, yes; I remember it very well," replied Gerald, with wonderful _sang-froid_. "You are speaking of the King of Rome, Josephine's son."
"Certainly, M. Gerald; there were no other children. But, after all, that is nothing in comparison to what the wretch had the audacity to do to the Holy Father, on the very steps of the altar at Notre-Dame."
"What was it he did? I have forgotten."
"It seems," began Madame Barbancon, sententiously, "it seems that at coronations the Pope always takes the crown and places it on the head of the monarch he is crowning. You can imagine how much this must have angered your Bu-u-onaparte, who was already in a huff because he had had to kiss the Pope's toe in the middle of the Carrousel, before those swaggering guards of his. But he kissed it, the scoundrel! He had to. If he hadn't, the _petit homme rouge_, who was against Roustan, and for the pope, would have wrung his neck that very night."
"The Pope's?" asked Gerald.
"Roustan's?" inquired Olivier.
"No, no, gentlemen, not theirs, but Bu-u-onaparte's. Still, no matter about that. What I was going to say was that when the Holy Father was about to crown him, what did that Corsican ogre you are so fond of do--like the low common grocer that he was--but grab the crown from the hands of the poor Holy Father and put it on his head with one hand, while with the other he gave the Holy Father a sound rap on the skull, as if to say to the French people: 'Down with religion, the clergy, and all! It is only to me you must bow the knee.' It was such a blow that he gave the poor Holy Father that he reeled and fell headlong on the steps of the altar with his cap down over his eyes, and there he gave thanks in Latin, that angel of a man! This goes to prove, M. Olivier," added the housekeeper, as a sort of conclusion and moral, "that marriage only renders Corsican ogres still more ferocious, while I am sure your and M.
Gerald's marriage to such dear girls as your sweethearts must be will only make you still more kind and amiable."
And the worthy woman hurried off to bring the coffee and serve it while Commander Bernard filled his big Kummer pipe.
The hilarity caused by Madame Barbancon's story soon gave place to graver and nobler thoughts.
"In spite of her peculiarities, this good woman is right in reminding us that our marriage ought to increase whatever good we have in us,"
remarked Gerald. "I hardly see how it can fail to do so, do you, Olivier?"
Then perceiving that his friend had fallen into a sort of reverie, Gerald laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder and asked:
"What are you thinking about, Olivier?"
"I was thinking, my dear Gerald, that it was while we were seated at this table, just six months ago, that I spoke to you for the first time about the charming girl everybody here called the duchess, and that you replied: 'Duchesses, don't talk to me of duchesses. I've had enough of them!' and now, thanks to you, she is a real duchess, the Duchesse de Senneterre. How strangely things come about in this world of ours!"
"You are right, my dear boys," said the old naval officer, "and when the present is all that one can desire, it is very pleasant to look back upon the past. Six months ago, for example, who would have guessed that my brave Olivier would now be on the eve of marrying a dear, sweet girl who had saved my life at the risk of her own?"
"And who ever would have supposed that the Mlle. de Beaumesnil we talked so much about, and upon whom I had matrimonial designs myself, would ever have fallen in love with Olivier?" added Gerald, with a keen look at his friend.
"Oh, don't say any more about that foolish affair, Gerald. It was a mere whim on the part of a spoiled child,--a whim that is probably forgotten even now."
"You are mistaken, Olivier," replied Gerald, gravely. "I have seen Mlle.
de Beaumesnil and talked with her, and though she is no older than your Ernestine, she is not a spoiled or capricious child by any means, but a young woman full of good sense and discernment."
"My opinion is that Mlle. de Beaumesnil is at least a young lady of excellent taste, as she was so much pleased with my Olivier," exclaimed the commander, gaily. "But it was too late; the fortress had already surrendered to our dear little Ernestine, who isn't overburdened with money, it is true, but who has the very bravest and noblest heart in the world."
"You are right, uncle," replied Olivier. "The fortress had surrendered, surrendered unconditionally, but even if I had not--"
"What do you mean?" asked Gerald, looking at his friend rather anxiously. "If your affections had been fancy free, wouldn't you have married Mlle. de Beaumesnil?"
"You're mad, Gerald; of course I wouldn't."
"But why?"
"Do you remember what you said here, at this very table, a few months ago: that when an immensely wealthy man marries an attractive girl because she is charming and worthy of him nobody disapproves of it; but that when a man who has nothing, marries a woman who brings him an enormous fortune, it is disgraceful. Those were almost his very words, were they not, uncle?"
"Undoubtedly."
"One moment," exclaimed Gerald, unable to control his growing anxiety, "you should also recall the arguments you yourself used, Olivier, to overcome my scruples on the subject of Mlle. de Beaumesnil: if, in spite of her immense fortune, it is evident that you love this young lady as much as you would have loved her had she been poor and obscure, the most suspicious person could not disapprove of such a marriage. Wasn't that what Olivier said, commander, and didn't you agree with him?"
"That is true, M. Gerald; and I am sure nothing could be more just and reasonable, but, thank Heaven, we have no such delicate question to deal with in this instance. Olivier only acted like any other honourable man in refusing to make a wealthy marriage because he loved elsewhere; it was all perfectly natural, it seems to me. I am sure neither you nor I ought to be at all surprised, for you are making a love match as well as Olivier."
"A love match! That is the very word for it!" exclaimed the young officer, enthusiastically. "Ernestine is as gentle and kind as she is ingenuous; and then the dear girl is so grateful that a fine gentleman like myself should be generous enough to marry her!" added Olivier, smiling. "Ah, if you only knew what a charming letter she wrote me yesterday, telling me that her relative consented to everything, and that, if my intentions had not changed, the marriage contract could be signed to-day. You cannot imagine anything more artless, and yet more exquisitely modest and touching than this letter. It proves Ernestine to be the very person I judged her to be from her countenance."
"I have never seen a more attractive face according to my ideas," said the old officer.
"Is it not, my dear uncle? Her features are not so remarkably regular, it is true, but what a gentle expression she has, and what a charming smile, with her little white teeth. And then what superb chestnut hair she has, and such a slender waist and such a pretty little hand, and the tiniest foot imaginable!"
"Olivier, my boy," said the old officer, pulling out his watch, "you are so engaged in enumerating your sweetheart's charms, that you forget it is almost time to join her, to say nothing of the fact that M. Gerald must have time to go home for his mother so as to take her with him to Mlle. Herminie's house."
"We shall have plenty of time, commander," said Gerald, "but I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see Olivier so deeply in love with his Ernestine."
"Deeply in love, unquestionably, my dear Gerald, to say nothing of the fact that I love her all the more devotedly because she is your dear Herminie's most intimate friend."
"Really, Olivier, it is enough to turn one's head completely, to think of so much happiness and felicity, after so many obstacles and difficulties! Come, my friend, my brother,--for is it not almost as if we were marrying two sisters, or they were marrying two brothers; upon my word, the tears come to my eyes in spite of me, when I think of it!--come, embrace me here before we start. We should look too absurd doing it before all the grand relatives!"
And the two young men embraced each other with fraternal tenderness, while Commander Bernard, anxious to maintain his dignity as a grand relative, tried to conceal his emotion by puffing away lustily at his pipe; after which, Gerald left in hot haste to escort his mother to Herminie's.
Olivier and his uncle were about to start themselves, when they were stopped by Madame Barbancon, who advanced towards them with measured steps, holding on the palms of her extended hands, for fear of soiling it, a superb white cravat starched to the last degree of stiffness and folded ready for wear.
"What the deuce is that, Mother Barbancon?" asked the veteran, who had already picked up his hat and cane, preparatory to departure.
"It is a cravat I have made for you, monsieur," said the worthy housekeeper,--"a little surprise I ventured upon, as you have nothing but your black cravat to wear on this happy day--and--I--I thought that--"
And the worthy woman, quite overcome with excitement and emotion, burst into tears, unable to finish the sentence.