The Jealousies of a Country Town | Page 9

presently. But you are
rather previous, it seems to me."
"Why, Monsieur le chevalier, ought I to wait until my mother beats me

and Madame Lardot turns me off? If I don't get away soon to Paris, I
shall never be able to marry here, where men are so ridiculous."
"It can't be helped, my dear; society is changing; women are just as
much victims to the present state of things as the nobility themselves.
After political overturn comes the overturn of morals. Alas! before long
woman won't exist" (he took out the cotton-wool to arrange his ears):
"she'll lose everything by rushing into sentiment; she'll wring her
nerves; good-bye to all the good little pleasures of our time, desired
without shame, accepted without nonsense." (He polished up the little
negroes' heads.) "Women had hysterics in those days to get their ends,
but now" (he began to laugh) "their vapors end in charcoal. In short,
marriage" (here he picked up his pincers to remove a hair) "will
become a thing intolerable; whereas it used to be so gay in my day! The
reigns of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.--remember this, my child--said
farewell to the finest manners and morals ever known to the world."
"But, Monsieur le chevalier," said the grisette, "the matter now
concerns the morals and honor of your poor little Suzanne, and I hope
you won't abandon her."
"Abandon her!" cried the chevalier, finishing his hair; "I'd sooner
abandon my own name."
"Ah!" exclaimed Suzanne.
"Now, listen to me, you little mischief," said the chevalier, sitting down
on a huge sofa, formerly called a duchesse, which Madame Lardot had
been at some pains to find for him.
He drew the magnificent Suzanne before him, holding her legs between
his knees. She let him do as he liked, although in the street she was
offish enough to other men, refusing their familiarities partly from
decorum and partly for contempt for their commonness. She now stood
audaciously in front of the chevalier, who, having fathomed in his day
many other mysteries in minds that were far more wily, took in the
situation at a single glance. He knew very well that no young girl
would joke about a real dishonor; but he took good care not to knock

over the pretty scaffolding of her lie as he touched it.
"We slander ourselves," he said with inimitable craft; "we are as
virtuous as that beautiful biblical girl whose name we bear; we can
always marry as we please, but we are thirsty for Paris, where charming
creatures--and we are no fool--get rich without trouble. We want to go
and see if the great capital of pleasures hasn't some young Chevalier de
Valois in store for us, with a carriage, diamonds, an opera-box, and so
forth. Russians, Austrians, Britons, have millions on which we have an
eye. Besides, we are patriotic; we want to help France in getting back
her money from the pockets of those gentry. Hey! hey! my dear little
devil's duck! it isn't a bad plan. The world you live in may cry out a bit,
but success justifies all things. The worst thing in this world, my dear,
is to be without money; that's our disease, yours and mine. Now
inasmuch as we have plenty of wit, we thought it would be a good
thing to parade our dear little honor, or dishonor, to catch an old boy;
but that old boy, my dear heart, knows the Alpha and Omega of female
tricks,--which means that you could easier put salt on a sparrow's tail
than to make me believe I have anything to do with your little affair.
Go to Paris, my dear; go at the cost of an old celibate, I won't prevent it;
in fact, I'll help you, for an old bachelor, Suzanne, is the natural
money-box of a young girl. But don't drag me into the matter. Listen,
my queen, you who know life pretty well; you would me great harm
and give me much pain, --harm, because you would prevent my
marriage in a town where people cling to morality; pain, because if you
are in trouble (which I deny, you sly puss!) I haven't a penny to get you
out of it. I'm as poor as a church mouse; you know that, my dear. Ah! if
I marry Mademoiselle Cormon, if I am once more rich, of course I
would prefer you to Cesarine. You've always seemed to me as fine as
the gold they gild on lead; you were made to be the love of a great
seigneur. I think you so clever that the trick you are trying to play off
on me doesn't surprise me one bit; I expected it. You are flinging the
scabbard after the sword, and that's daring