A Very French Christmas Page 9

  “Well, but it is very difficult to do two things at once, keep time with the music and kiss your partner.”

  “I remember when Mamma asked me how I tore my gown, I felt that I was blushing up to the roots of my hair. And Madame D., that old yellow witch, said to me with her Lenten smile, ‘What a brilliant color you have tonight, my child!’ I could have choked her! I said I had caught my gown on a nail in the door. I was watching you out of the corner of my eye. You were twirling your mustache, and you seemed quite vexed. You keep all the truffles for yourself, how nice of you! Not that one; I want that big black one there, in the corner. Well, after all, it was none the less very wrong, because no, no, don’t fill my glass; I don’t want to get tipsy because if we had not married (that might have happened, you know; they say that marriages hang by a thread), well, if the thread had not been strong enough, here I was left with that kiss on my shoulder, a pretty plight!”

  “Nonsense! It does not stain.”

  “Yes, sir, it does; I beg your pardon, but it does stain, and so much so that there are husbands, I am told, who spill their blood to wash out those little stains.”

  “I was only jesting, dear. Heavens! I should think it did! Fancy! Why—”

  “Ah, I am glad to hear you say so. I like to see you get angry. You are just a wee bit jealous, tell me, are you not? Well, upon my word! I asked you for the big black one, and you are quietly eating it!”

  “I am very sorry, my love; I beg your pardon. I forgot all about it.”

  “Yes, just as you did when we were being married. I was obliged to touch your elbow to make you answer yes to Monsieur the Mayor’s kind words!”

  “Kind words?”

  “Yes, kind words. I thought the mayor was charming. No one could have been more happy than he was in addressing me. ‘Mademoiselle, do you consent to take this great big ugly little man who stands beside you for your lawful— (Laughing with her mouth full.) I was about to say to him, ‘Let us understand each other, Monsieur; there is much to be said for and against.’ Heavens! I am choking! (Bursts into great peals of laughter.) I was wrong in not making some restrictions. There! I am teasing you, and that is stupid. I said yes with my whole heart, I assure you, my darling, and the word was only too weak. When I think that all women, even the bad ones, use that same word, I feel ashamed of not having invented a better one. (Holding up her glass.) Here is to our golden wedding!”

  “And here is to his christening, little mother!”

  In an undertone: “Tell me, dear, are you sorry you married me?”

  (Laughing.) “Yes. (Kissing her on the shoulder.) I think I have found the stain. Here it is.”

  “Do you realize that it is two o’clock. The fire is out. I am—you won’t laugh? Well, I am just a little dizzy!”

  “That was a famous pâté.”

  “A famous pâté! We will have a cup of tea in the morning, eh, dear?”

  1870

  THE LOST CHILD

  François Coppée

  On that morning, which was the morning before Christmas, two important events happened simultaneously—the sun rose, and so did M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy.

  Unquestionably the sun, illuminating suddenly the whole of Paris with its morning rays, is an old friend, regarded with affection by everybody. It is particularly welcome after a fortnight of misty atmosphere and gray skies, when the wind has cleared the air and allowed the sun’s rays to reach the earth again. Besides all of which the sun is a person of importance. Formerly, he was regarded as a god, and was called Osiris, Apollyon, and I don’t know what else. But do not imagine that because the sun is so important he is of greater influence than M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, millionaire banker, director of the Comptoir Général de Crédit, administrator of several big companies, deputy and member of the General Counsel of the Eure, officer of the Legion of Honor, etc., etc. And whatever opinion the sun may have about himself, he certainly has not a higher opinion than M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy has of himself. So we are authorized to state, and we consider ourselves justified in stating, that on the morning in question, at about a quarter to eight, the sun and M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rose.

  Certainly the manner of rising of these two great powers mentioned was not the same. The good old sun began by doing a great many pretty actions. As the sleet had, during the night, covered the bare branches of the trees in the Boulevard Malesherbes, where the Godefroy townhouse is situated, with a powdered coating, the great magician sun amused himself by transforming the branches into great bouquets of red coral. At the same time he scattered his rays impartially on those poor passersby whom necessity sent out, so early in the morning, to gain their daily bread. He even had a smile for the poor clerk, who, in a thin overcoat, was hurrying to his office, as well as for the grisette, shivering under her thin, insufficient clothing; for the workman carrying half a loaf under his arm, for the car-conductor as he punched the tickets, and for the dealer in roast chestnuts, who was roasting his first panful. In short, the sun gave pleasure to everybody in the world. M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, on the contrary, rose in quite a different frame of mind. On the previous evening he had dined with the Minister for Agriculture. The dinner, from the removal of the potage to the salad, bristled with truffles, and the banker’s stomach, aged forty-seven years, experienced the burning and biting of pyrosis. So the manner in which M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rang for his valet de chambre was so expressive, that as he got some warm water for his master’s shaving, Charles said to the kitchen-maid:

  “There he goes! The monkey is barbarously ill-tempered again this morning. My poor Gertrude, we’re going to have a miserable day.”

  Whereupon, walking on tiptoe, with eyes modestly cast down, he entered the chamber of his master, opened the curtains, lit the fire, and made all the necessary preparations for the toilette, with the discreet demeanor and respectful gestures of a sacristan placing the sacred vessels on the altar for the priest.

  “What sort of weather this morning?” demanded M. Godefroy curtly, as he buttoned his undervest of gray swan down upon a stomach that was already a little too prominent.

  “Very cold, sir,” replied Charles meekly. “At six o’clock the thermometer marked seven degrees above zero. But, as you will see, sir, the sky is quite clear, and I think we are going to have a fine morning.”

  In stropping his razor, M. Godefroy approached the window, drew aside one of the hangings, looked on the boulevard, which was bathed in brightness, and made a slight grimace which bore some resemblance to a smile.

  It is all very well to be perfectly stiff and correct, and to know that it is bad taste to show feeling of any kind in the presence of domestics, but the appearance of the roguish sun, in the middle of December, sends such a glow of warmth to the heart that it is impossible to disguise the fact. So M. Godefroy deigned, as before observed, to smile. If someone had whispered to the opulent banker that his smile had anything in common with that of the printer’s boy, who was enjoying himself by making a slide on the pavement, M. Godefroy would have been highly incensed. But it really was so, all the same; and during the space of one minute this man, who was so occupied by business matters, this leading light in the financial and political worlds, indulged in the childish pastime of watching the passersby, and following with his eyes the files of conveyances as they gaily rolled in the sunshine.

  But pray do not be alarmed. Such a weakness could not last long. People of no account, and those who have nothing to do, may be able to let their time slip by in doing nothing. It is very well for women, children, poets, and riffraff. M. Godefroy had other fish to fry; and the work of the day which was commencing promised to be exceptionally heavy. From half past eight to ten o’clock he had a meeting at his office with a certain number of gentlemen, all of whom bore a striking resemblance to M. Godefroy. Like him, they were very agitated; they had risen with the sun, and like him lacked freshness in their souls, and they all had the same object in view—to gain money. After breakfast (which he
took after the meeting), M. Godefroy had to leap into his carriage and rush to the Bourse to exchange a few words with other gentlemen who had also risen at dawn, but who had not the least spark of imagination among them. (The conversations were always on the same subject—money.) From there, without losing an instant, M. Godefroy went to preside over another meeting of acquaintances entirely void of compassion and tenderness. The meeting was held around a baize-covered table, which was strewn with heaps of papers and well provided with inkwells. The conversation again turned on money, and various methods of gaining it. After the aforesaid meeting he, in his capacity of deputy, had to appear before several commissions (always held in rooms where there were baize-covered tables and inkwells and heaps of papers). There he found men as devoid of sentiment as he was, all utterly incapable of neglecting any occasion of gaining money, but who, nevertheless, had the extreme goodness to sacrifice several hours of the afternoon to the glory of France.

  After having quickly shaved he donned a morning suit, the elegant cut and finish of which showed that the old beau of nearly fifty had not ceased trying to please. When he shaved he spared the narrow strip of pepper-and-salt beard around his chin, as it gave him the air of a trustworthy family man in the eyes of the Auvergnats and of fools in general. Then he descended to his cabinet, where he received the file of men who were entirely occupied by one thought—that of augmenting their capital. These gentlemen discussed several projected enterprises, all of them of considerable importance, notably that of a new railroad to be laid across a wild desert. Another scheme was for the founding of a monstrous factory in the environs of Paris, another of a mine to be worked in one of the South American republics. It goes without saying that no one asked if the railway would have passengers or goods to carry, or if the proposed factory should manufacture cotton nightcaps or distil whiskey; whether the mine was to be of virgin gold or of second-rate copper: certainly not. The conversation of M. Godefroy’s morning callers turned exclusively upon the profits which it would be possible to realize during the week which should follow the issue of the shares. They discussed particularly the values of the shares, which they knew would be destined before long to be worth less than the paper on which they were printed in fine style.

  These conversations, bristling with figures, lasted till ten o’clock precisely, and then the director of the Comptoir Général de Crédit, who, by the way, was an honest man—at least, as honest as is to be found in business—courteously conducted his last visitor to the head of the stairway. The visitor named was an old villain, as rich as Croesus, who, by a not uncommon chance, enjoyed the general esteem of the public; whereas, had justice been done to him, he would have been lodging at the expense of the state in one of those large establishments provided by a thoughtful government for smaller delinquents; and there he would have pursued a useful and healthy calling for a lengthy period, the exact length having been fixed by the judges of the supreme court. But M. Godefroy showed him out forcefully, notwithstanding his importance—it was absolutely necessary to be at the Bourse at 11 o’clock—and went into the dining room.

  It was a luxuriously furnished room. The furniture and silver would have served to endow a cathedral. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that M. Godefroy took a gulp of bicarbonate of soda, his indigestion refused to subside; consequently the banker could take only the scantiest breakfast—that of a dyspeptic. In the midst of such luxury, and under the eye of a well-paid butler, M. Godefroy could eat only a couple of boiled eggs, and nibble a little mutton-chop. The man of money trifled with dessert—took “only a crumb of Roquefort—not more than two cents’ worth.” Then the door opened and an overdressed but charming little child—young Raoul, four years old—the son of the company director, entered the room, accompanied by his German nursery governess.

  This event occurred every day at the same hour—a quarter to eleven, precisely, while the carriage which was to take the banker to the Bourse was awaiting the gentleman who had only a quarter of an hour to give to paternal sentiment. It was not that he did not love his son. He did love him—nay, he adored him, in his own particular way. But then, you know, business is business.

  At the age of forty-two, when already worldly-wise and blasé, he had fancied himself in love with the daughter of one of his club friends—Marquis de Neufontaine, an old rascal—a nobleman, but one whose card playing was more than open to suspicion, and who would have been expelled from the club more than once, but for the influence of M. Godefroy. The nobleman was only too happy to become the father-in-law of a man who would pay his debts, and without any scruples he handed over his daughter—a simple and ingenuous child of seventeen, who was taken from a convent to be married—to the worldly banker. The girl was certainly sweet and pretty, but she had no dowry except numerous aristocratic prejudices and romantic illusions, and her father thought he was fortunate in getting rid of her on such favorable terms. M. Godefroy, who was the son of an avowed old miser of Andelys, had always remained a man of the people, and intensely vulgar. In spite of his improved circumstances, he had not improved. His entire lack of tact and refinement was painful to his young wife, whose tenderest feelings he ruthlessly and thoughtlessly trampled upon. Things were looking unpromising, when, happily for her, Madame Godefroy died in giving birth to her firstborn. When he spoke of his deceased wife, the banker waxed poetical, although, had she lived, they would have been divorced in six months. His son he loved dearly for several reasons—first, because the child was an only son; secondly, because he was a scion of two such houses as Godefroy and Neufontaine; finally, because the man of money had naturally great respect for the heir to many millions. So the youngster had golden rattles and other similar toys, and was brought up like a young dauphin. But his father, overwhelmed with business worries, could never give the child more than fifteen minutes per day of his precious time— and, as on the day mentioned, it was always during the cheese course at the end of the meal—and for the rest of the day the father abandoned the child to the care of the servants.

  “Good morning, Raoul.”

  “Good morning, Papa.”

  And the company director, having put his serviette away, sat young Raoul on his left knee, took the child’s head between his big paws, and in stroking and kissing it actually forgot all his money matters and even his note of the afternoon, which was of great importance to him, as by it he could gain quite an important amount of patronage.

  “Papa,” said little Raoul suddenly, “will Father Christmas put anything in my shoe tonight?”

  The father answered with “Yes, if you are a good child.” This was very striking from a man who was a pronounced freethinker, who always applauded every anticlerical attack in the Chamber with a vigorous “Hear, hear.” He made a mental note that he must buy some toys for his child that very afternoon.

  Then he turned to the nursery governess with:

  “Are you quite satisfied with Raoul, Mademoiselle Bertha?”

  Mademoiselle Bertha became as red as a peony at being addressed, as if the question were scarcely comme il faut, and replied by a little imbecile snigger, which seemed fully to satisfy M. Godefroy’s curiosity about his son’s conduct.

  “It’s fine today,” said the financier, “but cold. If you take Raoul to Parc Monceau, mademoiselle, please be careful to wrap him up well.”

  Mademoiselle, by a second fit of idiotic smiling, set at rest M. Godefroy’s doubts and fears on that essential point. He kissed his child, left the room hastily, and in the hall was enveloped in his fur coat by Charles, who also closed the carriage door. Then the faithful fellow went off to the café which he frequented, rue de Miromesnil, where he had promised to meet the coachman of the baroness who lived opposite, to play a game of billiards, thirty up—and spot-barred, of course.

  Thanks to the brown bay horse—for which a thousand francs over and above its value was paid by M. Godefroy as a result of a sumptuous snail supper given to that gentleman’s coachman by the horse dealer—thanks to
the expensive brown bay which certainly moved along well, the financier was able to get through his many engagements satisfactorily. He appeared punctually at the Bourse, sat at several committee tables, and at a quarter to five, by voting with the ministry, he helped to reassure France and Europe that the rumors of a ministerial crisis had been totally unfounded. He voted with the ministry because he had succeeded in obtaining the favors which he demanded as the price of his vote.

  After he had thus nobly fulfilled his duty to himself and his country, M. Godefroy remembered what he had said to his child on the subject of Father Christmas, and gave his coachman the address of a dealer in toys. There he bought, and had put in his carriage, a fantastic rocking horse, mounted on castors—a whip in each ear; a box of leaden soldiers—all as exactly alike as those grenadiers of the Russian regiment of the time of Paul I, who all had black hair and snub noses; and a score of other toys, all equally striking and costly. Then, as he returned home, softly reposing in his well-swung carriage, the rich banker, who, after all, was a father, began to think with pride of his little boy and to form plans for his future.

  When the child grew up he should have an education worthy of a prince, and he would be one, too, for there was no longer any aristocracy except that of money, and his boy would have a capital of about 30,000,000 francs. If his father, a pettifogging provincial lawyer, who had formerly dined in the Latin Quarter when in Paris, who had remarked every evening when putting on a white tie that he looked as fine as if he were going to a wedding—if he had been able to accumulate an enormous fortune, and to become thereby a power in the republic, if he had been able to obtain in marriage a young lady, one of whose ancestors had fallen at Marignan, what an important personage little Raoul might have become. M. Godefroy imagined an array of grand futures for his boy, forgetting that Christmas is the birthday of a very poor little child, son of a couple of vagrants, born in a stable, where the parents found lodging only through charity.