he cab which was carrying madame worms-clavelin into paris passed through the porte maillot between the gratings crowned in civic style with a hedge of pike-heads. near these lay dusty custom-house officers and sunburnt flower-girls asleep in the sun. as it passed, it left, on the right, the avenue de la révolte, where low, mouldy, red-bedaubed inns and stunted arbours face the chapel of saint-ferdinand, which crouches, lonely and dwarfish, on the edge of a gloomy military moat covered with sickly patches of scorched grass. thence it emerged into the melancholy rue de chartres, with its everlasting pall of dust from the stone-cutting yards, and passed down it into the beautiful shady roads that open into the royal park, now cut up into small, middle-class estates. as the cab rumbled heavily along the causeway down an avenue of plane-trees, every second or so, through the silent solitude, there202 passed lightly-clad bicyclists who skimmed by with bent backs and heads cutting the air like quick-moving animals. with their rapid flight and long, swift, bird-like movements, they were almost graceful through sheer ease, almost beautiful by the mere amplitude of the curves they described. between the bordering tree-trunks madame worms-clavelin could see lawns, little ponds, steps, and glass-door canopies in the most correct taste, cut off by rows of palings. then she lost herself in a vague dream of how, in her old age, she would live in a house like those whose fresh plaster and slate she could see through the leaves. she was a sensible woman and moderate in her desires, so that now she felt a dawning love of fowls and rabbits rising in her breast. here and there, in the larger avenues, big buildings stood out, chapels, schools, asylums, hospitals, an anglican church with its gables of stern gothic, religious houses, severely peaceful in appearance, with a cross on the gate and a very black bell against the wall and, hanging down, the chain by which to ring it. then the cab plunged into the low-lying, deserted region of market-gardens, where the glass roofs of hot-houses glittered at the end of narrow, sandy paths, or where the eye was caught by the sudden appearance of one of those ridiculous summer-houses that country builders delight to construct, or by the203 trunks of dead trees imitated in stoneware by an ingenious maker of garden ornaments. in this bas-neuilly district one can feel the freshness of the river hard by. vapours rise there from a soil that is still damp with the waters which covered it, up to quite a late period, according to the geologists—exhalations from marshes on which the wind bent the reeds scarcely a thousand or fifteen hundred years ago.
madame worms-clavelin looked out of the carriage window: she had nearly arrived. in front of her the pointed tops of the poplars which fringe the river rose at the end of the avenue. once more the surroundings were varied and bustling. high walls and zigzag roof-ridges followed one another uninterruptedly. the cab stopped in front of a large modern house, evidently built with special regard to economy and even stinginess, in defiance of all considerations of art or beauty. yet the effect was neat and pleasant on the whole. it was pierced with narrow windows, among which one could distinguish those of the chapel by the leaden tracery that bound the window-panes. on its dull, plain fa?ade one was discreetly reminded of the traditions of french religious art by means of triangular dormer windows set in the woodwork of the roof and capped with trefoils. on the pediment of the front door an204 ampulla was carved, typifying the phial in which was contained the blood of the saviour that joseph of arimath?a had carried away in a glove. this was the escutcheon of the sisters of the precious blood, a confraternity founded in 1829 by madame marie latreille, which received state recognition in 1868, thanks to the goodwill of the empress eugénie. the sisters of the precious blood devoted themselves to the training of young girls.
jumping from the carriage, madame worms-clavelin rang at the door, which was carefully and circumspectly half opened for her. then she went into the parlour, while the sister who attended to the turnstile gave notice through the wicket that mademoiselle de clavelin was wanted to come and see her mother. the parlour was only furnished with horsehair chairs. in a niche on the whitewashed wall there stood a figure of the holy virgin, painted in pale colours. there was a certain air of archness about the figure, which stood erect, with the feet hidden and the hands extended. this large, cold, white room carried with it a suggestion of peace, order and rectitude. one could feel in it a secret power, a social force that remained unseen.
madame worms-clavelin sniffed the air of this parlour with a solemn sense of satisfaction, though205 it was damp, and suffused with the stale smell of cooking. her own girlhood had been spent in the noisy little schools of montmartre, amidst daubs of ink and lumps of sweetmeats, and in the perpetual interchange of offensive words and vulgar gestures. she therefore appreciated very highly the austerity of an aristocratic and religious education. in order that her daughter might be admitted into a famous convent, she had had her baptized, for she thought to herself, “jeanne will then be better bred and she will have a chance of making a better marriage.”
jeanne had accordingly been baptized at the age of eleven and with the utmost secrecy, because they were then under a radical administration. since then the church and the republic had become more reconciled to each other, but in order to avoid displeasing the bigots of the department, madame worms-clavelin still concealed the fact that her daughter was being educated in a nunnery. somehow, however, the secret leaked out, and now and then the clerical organ of the department published a paragraph which m. lacarelle, counsel to the prefecture, blue-pencilled and sent to m. worms-clavelin. for instance, m. worms-clavelin read:
“is it a fact that the jewish persecutor whom the freemasons have placed at the head of our departmental administration, in order that he may oppose the cause of206 god among the faithful, has actually sent his daughter to be educated in a convent?”
m. worms-clavelin shrugged his shoulders and threw the paper into the waste-paper basket. two days later the catholic editor inserted another paragraph, as, after reading the first, one would have prophesied his doing.
“i asked whether our jewish préfet, worms-clavelin, was really having his daughter educated in a convent. and now that this freemason has, for good reasons of his own, avoided giving me any answer, i will myself reply to my own question. after having had his daughter baptized, this dishonourable jew sent his daughter to a catholic place of education.
“mademoiselle worms-clavelin is at neuilly-sur-seine, being educated by the sisters of the precious blood.
“what a pleasure it is to witness the sincerity of jesters like these!
“a lay, atheistic, homicidal education is good enough for the people who maintain them! would that our people’s eyes were opened to discern on which side are the tartuffes!”
m. lacarelle, the counsel to the prefecture, first blue-pencilled the paragraph and then placed the open sheet on the préfet’s desk. m. worms-clavelin threw it into his waste-paper basket and warned the meddlesome papers not to engage in discussions of that sort. hence this little episode was soon forgotten and fell into the bottomless pit of oblivion, into that black darkness of night which,207 after one outburst of excitement, swallows up the shame and the honour, the scandals and the glories of an administration. in view of the wealth and power of the church, madame worms-clavelin had stuck energetically to her point that jeanne should be left to these nuns who would train the young girl in good principles and good manners.
she modestly sat down, hiding her feet under her dress, like the red, white and blue virgin of the niche, and holding in her finger-tips by the string the box of chocolates she had brought for jeanne.
a tall girl, looking very lanky in her black dress with the red girdle of the middle school, burst into the room.
“good morning, mamma!”
madame worms-clavelin looked her up and down with a curious mixture of motherly solicitude and horse-dealer’s curiosity. drawing her close, she glanced at her teeth, made her stand upright; looked at her figure, her shoulders and her back, and seemed pleased.
“heavens! how tall you are!” she exclaimed. “you have such long arms!...”
“don’t worry me about them, mamma! as it is, i never know what to do with them.”
she sat down and clasped her red hands across208 her knees. she replied with a graceful air of boredom to the questions which her mother asked about her health, and listened wearily to her instructions about healthy habits and to her advice in the matter of cod-liver oil. then she asked:
“and how is papa?”
madame worms-clavelin was almost astonished whenever anyone asked her about her husband, not because she was herself indifferent to him, but because she felt it was impossible to say anything new about this firm, unchangeable, stolid man, who was never ill and who never said or did anything original.
“your father? what could happen to him? we have a very good position and no wish to change it.”
all the same, she thought it would soon be advisable to look out for a suitable sinecure, either in the treasury, or, perhaps rather, in the council of state. at the thought her beautiful eyes grew dim with reverie.
her daughter asked what she was thinking about.
“i was thinking that one day we might return to paris. i like paris for my part, but there we should hardly count.”
“yet papa has great abilities. sister sainte-marie-des-anges209 said so once in class. she said: ‘mademoiselle de clavelin, your father has shown great administrative talents.’”
madame worms-clavelin shook her head. “one wants so much money to live in style in paris.”
“you like paris, mamma, but for my part i like the country best.”
“you know nothing about it, pet.”
“but, mamma, one doesn’t care only for what one knows.”
“there is, perhaps, some truth in what you say.”
“you haven’t heard, mamma?... i have won the prize for history composition. madame de saint-joseph said i was the only one who had treated the subject thoroughly.”
madame worms-clavelin asked gently:
“what subject?”
“the pragmatic sanction.”
madame worms-clavelin asked, this time with an accent of real surprise:
“what is that?”
“it was one of charles vii’s mistakes. it was, indeed, the greatest mistake he ever made.”
madame worms-clavelin found this answer by no means enlightening. but since she took no210 interest in the history of the middle ages, she was willing to let the matter drop. but jeanne, who was full of her subject, went on in all seriousness:
“yes, mamma. it was the greatest crime of that reign, a flagrant violation of the rights of the holy see, a criminal robbery of the inheritance of st. peter. but happily the error was set right by francis i. and whilst we are on this subject, mamma, do you know we have found out that alice’s governess was an old wanton?...”
madame worms-clavelin begged her daughter anxiously and earnestly not to join her young friends in research work of this kind. then she flew into a rage:
“you are perfectly absurd, jeanne, for you use words without paying any heed...”
jeanne looked at her in mysterious silence. then she said suddenly:
“mamma, i must tell you that my drawers are in such a state that they are a positive sight. you know you have never been overwhelmingly interested in the question of linen. i don’t say this as a reproach, for one person goes in for linen, another for dresses, another for jewels. you, mamma, have always gone in for jewels. for my part it’s linen that i’m mad about.... and211 besides, we’ve just had a nine days’ prayer. i prayed hard both for you and for papa, i can tell you! and, then, i’ve earned four thousand nine hundred and thirty-seven days of indulgence.”
