LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Ah! if anything of that kind happens to Provins,” said Monsieur Desfondrilles, “let us hope that somewhere in the Upper or Lower town they will set up a bas-relief of the head of Monsieur Opoix, the re-discoverer of the mineral waters of Provins.”

      “My dear friend, the revival of Provins is impossible,” replied Monsieur Martener; “the town was made bankrupt long ago.”

      “What!” cried Rogron, opening his eyes very wide.

      “It was once a capital, holding its own against Paris in the twelfth century, when the Comtes de Champagne held their court here, just as King Rene held his in Provence,” replied the man of learning; “for in those days civilization, gaiety, poesy, elegance, and women, in short all social splendors, were not found exclusively in Paris. It is as difficult for towns and cities as it is for commercial houses to recover from ruin. Nothing is left to us of the old Provins but the fragrance of our historical glory and that of our roses,—and a sub-prefecture!”

      “Ah! what mightn’t France be if she had only preserved her feudal capitals!” said Desfondrilles. “Can sub-prefects replace the poetic, gallant, warlike race of the Thibaults who made Provins what Ferrara was to Italy, Weimar to Germany,—what Munich is trying to be to-day.”

      “Was Provins ever a capital?” asked Rogron.

      “Why! where do you come from?” exclaimed the archaeologist. “Don’t you know,” he added, striking the ground of the Upper town where they stood with his cane, “don’t you know that the whole of this part of Provins is built on catacombs?”

      “Catacombs?”

      “Yes, catacombs, the extent and height of which are yet undiscovered. They are like the naves of cathedrals, and there are pillars in them.”

      “Monsieur is writing a great archaeological work to explain these strange constructions,” interposed Monsieur Martener, seeing that the deputy-judge was about to mount his hobby.

      Rogron came home much comforted to know that his house was in the valley. The crypts of Provins kept him occupied for a week in explorations, and gave a topic of conversation to the unhappy celibates for many evenings.

      In the course of these ramblings Rogron picked up various bits of information about Provins, its inhabitants, their marriages, together with stale political news; all of which he narrated to his sister. Scores of times in his walks he would stop and say,—often to the same person on the same day,—“Well, what’s the news?” When he reached home he would fling himself on the sofa like a man exhausted with labor, whereas he was only worn out with the burden of his own dulness. Dinner came at last, after he had gone twenty times to the kitchen and back, compared the clocks, and opened and shut all the doors of the house. So long as the brother and sister could spend their evenings in paying visits they managed to get along till bedtime; but after they were compelled to stay at home those evenings became like a parching desert. Sometimes persons passing through the quiet little square would hear unearthly noises as though the brother were throttling the sister; a moment’s listening would show that they were only yawning. These two human mechanisms, having nothing to grind between their rusty wheels, were creaking and grating at each other. The brother talked of marrying, but only in despair. He felt old and weary; the thought of a woman frightened him. Sylvie, who began to see the necessity of having a third person in the home, suddenly remembered the little cousin, about whom no one in Provins had yet inquired, the friends of Madame Lorrain probably supposing that mother and child were both dead.

      Sylvie Rogron never lost anything; she was too thoroughly an old maid even to mislay the smallest article; but she pretended to have suddenly found the Lorrains’ letter, so as to mention Pierrette naturally to her brother, who was greatly pleased at the possibility of having a little girl in the house. Sylvie replied to Madame Lorrain’s letter half affectionately, half commercially, as one may say, explaining the delay by their change of abode and the settlement of their affairs. She seemed desirous of receiving her little cousin, and hinted that Pierrette would perhaps inherit twelve thousand francs a year if her brother Jerome did not marry.

      Perhaps it is necessary to have been, like Nebuchadnezzar, something of a wild beast, and shut up in a cage at the Jardin des Plantes without other prey than the butcher’s meat doled out by the keeper, or a retired merchant deprived of the joys of tormenting his clerks, to understand the impatience with which the brother and sister awaited the arrival of their cousin Lorrain. Three days after the letter had gone, the pair were already asking themselves when she would get there.

      Sylvie perceived in her spurious benevolence towards her poor cousin a means of recovering her position in the social world of Provins. She accordingly went to call on Madame Tiphaine, of whose reprobation she was conscious, in order to impart the fact of Pierrette’s approaching arrival,—deploring the girl’s unfortunate position, and posing herself as being only too happy to succor her and give her a position as daughter and future heiress.

      “You have been rather long in discovering her,” said Madame Tiphaine, with a touch of sarcasm.

      A few words said in a low voice by Madame Garceland, while the cards were being dealt, recalled to the minds of those who heard her the shameful conduct of old Rogron about the Auffray property; the notary explained the iniquity.

      “Where is the little girl now?” asked Monsieur Tiphaine, politely.

      “In Brittany,” said Rogron.

      “Brittany is a large place,” remarked Monsieur Lesourd.

      “Her grandfather and grandmother Lorrain wrote to us—when was that, my dear?” said Rogron addressing his sister.

      Sylvie, who was just then asking Madame Garceland where she had bought the stuff for her gown, answered hastily, without thinking of the effect of her words:—

      “Before we sold the business.”

      “And have you only just answered the letter, mademoiselle?” asked the notary.

      Sylvie turned as red as a live coal.

      “We wrote to the Institution of Saint-Jacques,” remarked Rogron.

      “That is a sort of hospital or almshouse for old people,” said Monsieur Desfondrilles, who knew Nantes. “She can’t be there; they receive no one under sixty.”

      “She is there, with her grandmother Lorrain,” said Rogron.

      “Her mother had a little fortune, the eight thousand francs which your father—no, I mean of course your grandfather—left to her,” said the notary, making the blunder intentionally.

      “Ah!” said Rogron, stupidly, not understanding the notary’s sarcasm.

      “Then you know nothing about your cousin’s position or means?” asked Monsieur Tiphaine.

      “If Monsieur Rogron had known it,” said the deputy-judge, “he would never have left her all this time in an establishment of that kind. I remember now that a house in Nantes belonging to Monsieur and Madame Lorrain was sold under an order of the court, and that Mademoiselle Lorrain’s claim was swallowed up. I know this, for I was commissioner at the time.”

      The notary spoke of Colonel Lorrain, who, had he lived, would have been much amazed to know that his daughter was in such an institution. The Rogrons beat a retreat, saying to each other that the world was very malicious. Sylvie perceived that the news of her benevolence had missed its effect,—in fact, she had lost ground in all minds; and she felt that henceforth she was forbidden to attempt an intimacy with the upper class of Provins. After this evening the Rogrons no longer concealed their hatred of that class and all its adherents. The brother told the sister the scandals that Colonel Gouraud and the lawyer Vinet had put into his head about the Tiphaines, the Guenees, the Garcelands, the Julliards, and others:—

      “I declare, Sylvie, I don’t see why Madame Tiphaine should turn up her nose at shopkeeping in the rue Saint-Denis; it is more honest than what she comes from. Madame Roguin, her mother, is cousin to those Guillaumes of the ‘Cat-playing-ball’

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