Hearing these words, which seemed to her like homicide, Josette stood still for a moment, speechless.Then, at a gesture from her mistress, she ran headlong down the steps of the portico.
"The devil is in her, Jacquelin," were the first words she uttered.
Thus all things conspired on this fateful day to produce the great scenic effect which decided the future life of Mademoiselle Cormon.
The town was already topsy-turvy in mind, as a consequence of the five extraordinary circumstances which accompanied Mademoiselle Cormon's return; to wit, the pouring rain; Penelope at a gallop, in a lather, and blown; the early hour; the parcels half-packed; and the singular air of the excited old maid.But when Mariette made an invasion of the market, and bought all the best things; when Jacquelin went to the principal upholsterer in Alencon, two doors from the church, in search of a bed,--there was matter for the gravest conjectures.These extraordinary events were discussed on all sides; they occupied the minds of every one, even Mademoiselle Armande herself, with whom was Monsieur de Valois.Within two days the town of Alencon had been agitated by such startling events that certain good women were heard to remark that the world was coming to an end.This last news, however, resolved itself into a single question, "What is happening at the Cormons?"The Abbe de Sponde, adroitly questioned when he left Saint-Leonard's to take his daily walk with the Abbe Couturier, replied with his usual kindliness that he expected the Vicomte de Troisville, a nobleman in the service of Russia during the Emigration, who was returning to Alencon to settle there.From two to five o'clock a species of labial telegraphy went on throughout the town; and all the inhabitants learned that Mademoiselle Cormon had at last found a husband by letter, and was about to marry the Vicomte de Troisville.Some said, "Moreau has sold them a bed." The bed was six feet wide in that quarter; it was four feet wide at Madame Granson's, in the rue du Bercail; but it was reduced to a simple couch at Monsieur du Ronceret's, where du Bousquier was dining.The lesser bourgeoisie declared that the cost was eleven hundred francs.But generally it was thought that, as to this, rumor was counting the chickens before they were hatched.In other quarters it was said that Mariette had made such a raid on the market that the price of carp had risen.At the end of the rue Saint-Blaise, Penelope had dropped dead.This decease was doubted in the house of the receiver-general; but at the Prefecture it was authenticated that the poor beast had expired as she turned into the courtyard of the hotel Cormon, with such velocity had the old maid flown to meet her husband.The harness-maker, who lived at the corner of the rue de Seez, was bold enough to call at the house and ask if anything had happened to Mademoiselle Cormon's carriage, in order to discover whether Penelope was really dead.From the end of the rue Saint-Blaise to the end of the rue du Bercail, it was then made known that, thanks to Jacquelin's devotion, Penelope, that silent victim of her mistress's impetuosity, still lived, though she seemed to be suffering.
Along the road to Brittany the Vicomte de Troisville was stated to be a younger son without a penny, for the estates in Perche belonged to the Marquis de Troisville, peer of France, who had children; the marriage would be, therefore, an enormous piece of luck for a poor emigre.The aristocracy along that road approved of the marriage;Mademoiselle Cormon could not do better with her money.But among the Bourgeoisie, the Vicomte de Troisville was a Russian general who had fought against France, and was now returning with a great fortune made at the court of Saint-Petersburg; he was a FOREIGNER; one of those ALLIES so hated by the liberals; the Abbe de Sponde had slyly negotiated this marriage.All the persons who had a right to call upon Mademoiselle Cormon determined to do so that very evening.
During this transurban excitement, which made that of Suzanne almost a forgotten affair, Mademoiselle was not less agitated; she was filled with a variety of novel emotions.Looking about her salon, dining-room, and boudoir, cruel apprehensions took possession of her.Aspecies of demon showed her with a sneer her old-fashioned luxury.The handsome things she had admired from her youth up she suddenly suspected of age and absurdity.In short, she felt that fear which takes possession of nearly all authors when they read over a work they have hitherto thought proof against every exacting or blase critic:
new situations seem timeworn; the best-turned and most highly polished phrases limp and squint; metaphors and images grin or contradict each other; whatsoever is false strikes the eye.In like manner this poor woman trembled lest she should see on the lips of Monsieur de Troisville a smile of contempt for this episcopal salon; she dreaded the cold look he might cast over that ancient dining-room; in short, she feared the frame might injure and age the portrait.Suppose these antiquities should cast a reflected light of old age upon herself?
This question made her flesh creep.She would gladly, at that moment, spend half her savings on refitting her house if some fairy wand could do it in a moment.Where is the general who has not trembled on the eve of a battle? The poor woman was now between her Austerlitz and her Waterloo.
"Madame la Vicomtesse de Troisville," she said to herself; "a noble name! Our property will go to a good family, at any rate."She fell a prey to an irritation which made every fibre of her nerves quiver to all their papillae, long sunk in flesh.Her blood, lashed by this new hope, was in motion.She felt the strength to converse, if necessary, with Monsieur de Troisville.