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Page 17
D�sir�e, our _femme-de-chambre,_ before she came to us, lived in a
wealthy _roturier_ family.
"It was a good place, and I was sorry to lose it when Mademoiselle
Eug�nie was married," said she. "The little gifts the _jeunes gens_
slipped into my panier as I came with mademoiselle from mass almost
equalled my wages. Mademoiselle had a good _dot_ as well as beauty,
and _ces jeunes gens_ expected to lose nothing by what they gave
me. Mademoiselle herself often said, 'D�sir�e, walk a few steps behind
me, and, while I keep my eyes upon the pavement, tell me all the young
men who turn to look after me. If you hear any of them say, "_Comme
elle est jolie!_" (How pretty she is!) you shall have my _batiste
mouchoirs_.'"
On Sunday afternoons all the bourgeois world of our ville disports
itself upon the jetty. Not only then do all the mothers of the town with
daughters "to marry" bring those daughters to the weekly matrimonial
mart, but many of the mothers and chaperons of the near country round
about come in from rural _propri�t�_ and rustic _chalet_ to
exhibit their candidates. The method of procedure is eminently French,
of course, and eminently na�ve, as even the intrigues and machinations
of Balzac's _bourgeoisie_, although intended as marvels of finesse,
seem so often na�vet� itself to our blunter and less-plotting minds. The
mothers and daughters, or chaperons and charges, walk slowly arm in arm
up and down one side the jetty, facing the counter-current of young men
and men not young who have not lost interest in feminine attractions.
Back and forth, back and forth, for hours, move the two separate
streams, never for one instant commingling, each discussing the other's
prospects, characters, appearance, and, above all, _dots_ and
_rentes_, till twilight falls and all the world goes home to
dinner.
Once upon a time a retired man of business came to our ville,
accompanied by his son. He was one of the class known in England as
"Commys," and so obnoxious in France as _commis-voyageurs._ He
stopped at the Cheval Blanc, and in conversation with mine host inquired
if it might chance that some caf�-keeper in the town desired to sell his
caf� and marry his daughter. Monsieur Brissom mentioned to him our
caf�-keepers blessed with marriageable daughters, and "Commy" made the
rounds among them, announcing that he had a son whom he wished to marry
to some charming demoiselle _dot_ed with a caf�. One of the
caf�-keepers had "_pr�cis�ment votre affaire_." It was arranged
that Mademoiselle Clothilde should be promenaded by her mother the next
Sunday on the jetty, where the young man should join the
counter-current, and thus each take observations of the other.
As said, so done. Monsieur Henri and Mademoiselle Clothilde declared
themselves enchanted with each other.
"_Tr�s-bien_," said the reflective parents. "Now fall in love as
fast as ever you please."
Monsieur and mademoiselle not only "fell," but plunged.
Two weeks afterward, however, the papas fell out. Caf�tier exacted more
than Commis could promise, and Commis declared Mademoiselle Clothilde
_pas grand' chose_: her eyebrows were too white, and her toes
turned in.
The marriage was declared "off," and the young people were ordered to
fall out of love the quickest possible.
"Too late!" they cried.
"You have seen each other but four times."
"Quite enough," declared the lovers.
"You shall not marry," shouted the parents.
"We _will_!" screamed their offspring.
Nevertheless they could not, for the French law gives almost absolute
power to parents. Mademoiselle would have no _dot_ unless her
father chose to give her one, and no French marriage is legal without
paternal consent or the almost disgraceful expedient of _sommations
respectueuses_. Mademoiselle threatened to enter a convent. Caf�tier
assured her that no convent opens cordial doors to _dot_less girls.
Juliet was ready to defy all the Capulets when she had seen Romeo but
once; Corinne was ready to fling all her laurels at Oswald's feet at
their second interview; Rosamond Vincy planned her house-furnishing
during her second meeting with Lydgate; even Dorothea Brooke felt a
"trembling hope" the very next day after her first sight of Mr.
Casaubon. How, then, could one expect poor Clothilde to yield up her
undersized, thin-moustached, and very unheroic-looking Henri, having
seen him _four_ times?
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