Cousin Pons Page 10

  *

  As they made their way to the rue de Richelieu, Pons obtained from Schmucke (whose mind was on other things) the detailed story of the modern Prodigal Son in whose interests death had killed the fatted calf, namely the innkeeper. Pons, now reconciled with his nearest relations, was instantly seized with the desire to make a match between Fritz Brunner and Cécile de Marville. By a stroke of chance, the notary employed by the brothers Graff turned out to be the son-in-law and successor of Cardot, who had once been assistant head clerk in the latter’s office. Pons had often dined at his house.

  ‘How good to see you, Monsieur Berthier,’ said the old musician, offering his hand to his former amphitryon.

  ‘How is it that you no longer give us the pleasure of dining with us?’ asked the notary. ‘My wife has been anxious about you. We saw you at the opening performance of The Devil’s Betrothed, and our anxiety made us inquisitive.’

  ‘Old men are touchy,’ Pons replied. ‘They make the mistake of being a century behind the times. But how can they help that? They have quite enough to do to represent their own century – they can’t belong as well to the one which is only awaiting their demise.’

  ‘True,’ said the notary, with a subtle air, ‘one can’t cope with two centuries at one and the same time.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said the old fellow, drawing the young notary into a corner, ‘why don’t you get my cousin Cécile de Marville married?’

  ‘Why not indeed?’ the notary replied. ‘In this century, now that luxury has made its way even into the lodges of concierges, young men think twice about joining their lot with that of the daughter of a presiding judge in the Royal Court of Paris, when her dowry only amounts to a hundred thousand francs. In the social class to which Mademoiselle de Marville’s husband will belong, the woman who will cost her husband only three thousand francs a year has yet to be found. The interest on such a dowry could scarcely pay for the future wife’s cosmetics. A bachelor with an income of fifteen to twenty thousand francs can live in a cosy mezzanine. Society doesn’t expect him to spread himself. He can manage on one servant and devote all his money to his enjoyments. The only appearances he has to keep up are his tailor’s concern. He has all the match-making mammas bustling around, and he lords it over the fashionable world of Paris. On the other hand, a wife demands a well-furnished house; she commandeers the carriage when she goes to the theatre; she expects a box, whereas a bachelor only has a single seat to pay for. In a word, she becomes the show-piece and she herself spends the money which, as a bachelor, the man had to himself. Suppose a couple have thirty thousand francs to live on: in our present society, the rich bachelor has become a needy fellow who has to consider even the cost of going to the races. And when children come, they are hard-up. Since Monsieur and Madame de Marville are only in their early fifties, “expectations” have to be postponed for fifteen or twenty years. No bachelor is inclined to make such long-term investments, and arithmetical calculations are such a canker in the hearts of these irresponsible young men who dance the polka with easy-going girls in the popular ballrooms that all eligible young males study both sides of the question without needing to consult us lawyers. Confidentially, Mademoiselle de Marville leaves her suitors so emotionally undisturbed that they are able to think the matter out and take all these anti-connubial considerations into account. If some young man, in his right mind and enjoying an income of twenty thousand francs, is thinking in petto of some marriage project which will meet his ambitions, Mademoiselle de Marville is not the answer to his prayer.’

  ‘But why not?’ asked the bewildered musician.

  ‘Just because almost all bachelors, even if they are as ugly as you and myself, my dear Pons, have the impertinence to demand a dowry of six hundred thousand francs and girls of good family, beautiful to look at, very intelligent, very well brought-up, with no blemishes: in short, perfect.’

  ‘So my cousin will find it difficult to get a husband?’

  ‘She will remain a spinster until her parents decide to settle Marville on her as a marriage portion. If they had been willing to do that, she would already be Madame la Vicomtesse Popinot… But here comes Monsieur Brunner. I am going to read out the Articles of Association for the Brunner firm, and then the marriage contract.’

  Once the introductions were made and compliments exchanged, Pons was asked by the relations to witness the contract. He listened while the deeds were read out; and after that, at about five-thirty, they went through into the dining-room. The dinner was one of those sumptuous repasts which business people provide when they take time off from business. It also bore witness to the close contact existing between the hotel proprietor and the most expensive caterers of Paris. Never had Pons and Schmucke partaken of such fare. There were dishes to send you into raptures: such delicious vermicelli as had never been tasted before: fried smelts which dissolved in the mouth: a ferra from Geneva in a real Genevese dressing: and a sauce for plum-pudding which would have astonished the London doctor who is said to have invented it. They rose from table at ten o’clock in the evening. The variety of Rhenish and French wines they had drunk would have amazed our native dandies, for no one can conceive how much liquid a German can absorb while remaining calm and peaceful. You must dine in Germany to see bottle succeeding bottle as wave succeeds wave on a beautiful Mediterranean shore, and vanishing as if Germans were as absorbent as sponges or stretches of sand. But harmony reigns: there is no French rowdiness, and conversation remains as smooth as a moneylender’s patter: faces become flushed by imperceptible degrees, like those of betrothed damsels in the frescoes of Cornelius or Schnor. Reminiscences pour leisurely forth like the smoke from tobacco pipes.

  At about ten-thirty, Pons and Schmucke were sitting on a bench in the garden, with the ex-flautist between them, and they had come round, they scarcely knew how, to the mutual revelation of their characters, opinions and misfortunes. While this hotch-potch of confidential communications went on, Wilhelm spoke with vinous energy and eloquence of his desire to see Fritz married.

  ‘What do you think of this idea for your friend Brunner?’ said Pons, turning to Wilhelm: ‘a charming young person, reasonable, twenty-four, belonging to a highly distinguished family. The father holds one of the most eminent magisterial posts. She will have a dowry of a hundred thousand francs and expectations of a million.’

  ‘Wait a bit!’ answered Schwab, ‘I’m going to put it to Fritz this very minute.’

  And the two musicians saw Brunner and his friend circle round the garden, pacing to and fro in front of them, listening to each other in turn. Pons was a trifle bemused. He was not quite intoxicated, but the ideas which passed through his brain were as light as the skull which contained them was heavy. He gazed at Fritz Brunner through the diaphanous mist which wine engenders, and tried to detect in his facial expression some aspiration to family bliss. Not long after, Schwab introduced his friend and associate to Monsieur Pons, and Fritz thanked the old man for deigning to take such trouble on his behalf. A conversation ensued: the two bachelors, Schmucke and Pons, sang the praises of married life and, without any malicious intent, hazarded the pun that ‘marriage was the end of man’. When ices, tea, punch and cakes were served in the flat destined for the engaged couple, hilarity reached a climax among these respectable businessmen – almost all of them drunk – when they learned that the sleeping partner of the banking house was thinking of following his working partner’s example.

  At two in the morning, Schmucke and Pons made their way home along the boulevards, lost in philosophical divagations about the harmonious disposition of events on this earth.

  *

  The next day Pons went to visit his cousin the Présidente, full of joy at the thought of returning good for evil. Poor, dear, candid soul! Sublime magnanimity, as each one of us will agree, for do we not live in the century of the Montyon Prize, awarded to those who do their duty, although they are only following the precepts of the Gospel?

  ‘Oh, th
ey will be tremendously obliged to their hanger-on!’ he told himself as he turned into the rue de Choiseul.

  Any man less wrapped up in self-satisfaction, any man of the world, any wary man would have kept an observant eye on the Présidente and her daughter on re-visiting their home. But this poor musician was a child, a simple-minded artist, with as much faith in moral goodness as he had in artistic beauty. He was delighted at the fuss that Cécile and the Présidente made of him. Poor simpleton! For twelve years he had been watching vaudevilles, comedies and dramas. He should have had no illusions about the play-acting which goes on in social life: yet he could not recognize humbug when he saw it. Those who frequent polite circles in Paris and have realized how desiccated in body and soul the Présidente was, how avid for worldly honours, how exasperated at having kept her virtue, how hypocritical in religion, how arrogant in character, accustomed as she was to ruling the roost in her house, can imagine what secret hatred she bore her cousin after putting herself in the wrong. Any show of friendliness therefore on the part of the Présidente and her daughter concealed a formidable craving for vengeance, clearly only deferred. For the first time in her life, Amélie had been on the losing side in a conflict with a husband she usually dominated – and she had to simulate affection for the author of her defeat! There is nothing analagous to such a situation except certain hypocrisies which last for years in the Sacred College of Cardinals or the chapter-houses of abbots and priors. At three o’clock, just as the Président arrived home from the Courts, Pons had scarcely finished recounting the marvellous details of his meeting with Brunner, the previous night’s banquet which had lasted till morning, and also everything to do with this same Frederick Brunner. Cécile had come straight to the point. She had inquired about Frederick’s clothes, his height, his appearance, the colour of his hair and eyes, and after surmising that he looked quite distinguished, she expressed approval of his generosity.

  ‘Fancy giving five hundred thousand francs to his companion in misfortune! Oh, Mamma, I shall have a carriage and a box at the Italiens!’ And Cécile looked almost pretty at the thought that all her mother’s ambitions for her were about to be fulfilled and that she would no longer have to go on hoping against hope.

  As for the Présidente, she made just one remark: ‘Dear little girl, we’ll have you married in a fortnight.’ – All mothers call their daughters ‘little girl’, even when they are twenty-three!

  ‘All the same,’ said the Présidente, ‘we must have time to collect information. Never will I give away my daughter to a nobody.’

  ‘As regards information,’ the old artist replied, ‘Berthier is in charge of the legal side. As for the young man, my dear cousin Amélie, you know what you told me. Well, he’s over forty, and he’s half bald. He’s looking for family life as a haven of refuge, and I did not discourage him: it’s a natural thing to want.’

  ‘All the more reason for inspecting Monsieur Frederick Brunner,’ retorted the Présidente. ‘I don’t want to give my daughter to a valetudinarian.’

  ‘Well, cousin, you can take stock of my candidate, within five days if you like, for, in view of your requirements, one interview would be enough.’

  Cécile and the Présidente made a gesture of delight.

  ‘Frederick is quite a distinguished connoisseur, and he has asked me to let him inspect my little collection,’ Cousin Pons replied. ‘You have never seen my pictures or my antiques. Come along as ladies brought by my friend Schmucke. In that way you will make the acquaintance of the prospective bridegroom without committing yourselves, and Frederick needn’t have any idea who you are.’

  ‘Splendid!’ cried the Présidente.

  It may be guessed what attentions were lavished on the parasite, once so scorned. That day, the poor man was indeed the Présidente’s cousin. The happy mother, submerging her hatred under a flood of joy, mustered kind glances, smiles and compliments which sent the old fellow into raptures because of the good he was doing and the future he saw looming ahead of him. Was he not sure of getting, in the homes of Brunner, Schwab and Graff, yet more dinners like the one he had had at the signing of the marriage-contract? He could look forward to a rosy existence – a wonderful succession of ‘covered dishes’, gastronomic surprises and exquisite wines!

  ‘If our cousin Pons can help us to bring off this affair,’ said the Président to his wife when Pons had gone, ‘we must settle an income on him equivalent to his conductor’s salary.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the Présidente. And Cécile was commissioned – provided she approved of the young man – to persuade the old musician to accept this humiliating munificence.

  Next morning, the Président, avid for authentic proof of Monsieur Frederick Brunner’s affluence, went to see the notary. Forewarned by the Présidente, Berthier had summoned his new client, Schwab the banker and ex-flautist. Everyone knows what great respect is paid to social distinctions in Germany, where a woman is Frau General, Frau Hofrat, Frau Advokat; and dazzled at the prospect of his friend contracting such an alliance, Schwab was as smooth as a collector trying to outwit a dealer.

  ‘What matters most is this,’ said Cécile’s father to Schwab: ‘since I shall contract to hand over my Marville estate, I should want to make her a settlement in trust. Then Monsieur Brunner would invest a million in land in order to round off Marville. Thus a marriage-settlement would be constituted which would ensure my daughter’s future, and that of her children, against the hazards of banking.’

  Berthier stroked his chin and said to himself, ‘The Président’s getting on nicely!’

  When Schwab had had the working of a settlement in trust explained to him, he came out strongly in his friend’s favour. This provision would fulfil the desire to which he had heard Fritz give voice – that of finding some arrangement which would prevent him from ever again falling into penury.

  ‘At this very moment twelve hundred thousand francs’ worth of farms and grazing-land are being put up for sale,’ said the Président.

  ‘A million francs’ worth of Bank of France shares will be enough,’ said Schwab, ‘to guarantee the solvency of our banking house. Fritz does not want to put more than two million francs into business. He will do what you ask, Président.’

  When the Président told the two women this news, they were almost beside themselves with joy. Never had so rich a catch swum so obligingly into the matrimonial net.

  ‘You will be Madame Brunner de Marville,’ said the father to his daughter, ‘for I shall obtain leave for your husband to add this name to his own; and later he will take out naturalization papers. If I am made a Peer of France, he will succeed me!’

  The Présidente spent five days getting her daughter ready. On the day of the interview she dressed Cécile herself and rigged her out with her own two hands, taking as much care as the Admiral of the ‘Blue Fleet’ took to fit out Queen Victoria’s pleasure yacht when she set off on her journey down the Rhine.

  On their side, Pons and Schmucke cleaned and dusted Pons’s museum, the flat and the furniture, with all the nimbleness of seamen making the Admiral’s flagship spick and span. Not a speck of dust remained on the wood carvings. All the bronzes were refulgent. The glass frames of the pastels gave a clear view of the works of Latour, Greuze and Liautard, the illustrious painter of ‘The Chocolate-Girl’, a miraculous specimen of a pictorial art which, alas, was so ephemeral. The inimitable enamel of the Florentine bronzes was glistening. The stained-glass windows were resplendent with their exquisite tints. Every object had its own particular brilliance and its special theme to delight the soul in that concert of masterpieces organized by two musicians who were each of them poets in their own way.

  10. A German whimsy

  THE women were clever enough to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entry; and so, in order to choose their ground, they were the first to arrive. Pons introduced Schmucke to his relations, to whom he seemed mentally deficient. They had no thought for anything but this fiancé with
four millions, and, philistines as they were, they paid scant attention to Pons’s exhibition of his treasures. They threw a casual glance at Petitot’s enamels set out on a background of red velvet in three wonderful frames. The floral studies of Van Huysum and David van Heim, Abraham Mignon’s insects, the canvases of Van Eyck and Albrecht Dürer, the genuine works of the elder Cranach, the Giorgione, the Sebastiano del Piombo, the Backuysen, the Hobbema, the Géricault – all the pick of rare paintings – nothing stirred their curiosity, for they were waiting for the solar deity who was to light up these riches. None the less, they were impressed by the loveliness of certain Etruscan jewels and the solid value of Pons’s snuff-boxes. To humour him, they were handling and gushing over some Florentine bronzes when Madame Cibot ushered in Monsieur Brunner. They did not turn round, but made use of a splendid Venetian mirror, set in a massive carved ebony frame, in order to scrutinize this Phoenix among suitors.

  Previously schooled by Wilhelm, Fritz had made the best he could of his few remaining hairs. He was wearing smart trousers of a soft, subdued shade, a supremely elegant waistcoat cut in the latest fashion, a shirt with drawn thread-work made of Frisian hand-woven linen, and a blue cravat with white pinstripes. His watch-chain and the knob of his cane had been bought from Florent and Chanor. As for his coat, Graff himself had cut it from his finest cloth. His suede gloves betokened the extravagance of a man who had already squandered his mother’s fortune. From the sheen on his polished boots the two women could have guessed he had come in the light open carriage-and-pair typical of a banker, even if they had not already heard it rumbling along the rue de Normandie.