The next day, Mademoiselle Cormon, packed into the old carriole with Josette, and looking like a pyramid on a vast sea of parcels, drove up the rue² Saint-Blaise on her way to Prebaudet, where she was overtaken by an event which hurried on her marriage,—an event entirely³ unlooked for by either Madame Granson, du Bousquier, Monsieur de Valois, or Mademoiselle Cormon himself. Chance is the greatest of all artificers.  
The day after her arrival at Prebaudet, she was innocently employed, about eight o’clock in the morning, in listening, as she breakfasted, to the various reports of her keeper and her gardener, when Jacquelin made a violent irruption into the dining-room.
 
“Mademoiselle,” he cried, out of breath, “Monsieur l’abbe sends you an express, the son of Mere⁴ Grosmort, with a letter. The lad left Alencon before daylight, and he has just arrived; he ran like Penelope! Can’t I give him a glass of wine?”
 
“What can have happened, Josette? Do you think my uncle can be—”
 
“He couldn’t write if he were,” said Josette, guessing her mistress’s fears.
 
“Quick! quick!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon, as soon as she had read the first lines. “Tell Jacquelin to harness Penelope—Get ready, Josette; pack up everything in half an hour. We must go back to town—”
 
“Jacquelin!” called Josette, excited by the sentiment she saw on her mistress’s face.
 
Jacquelin, informed by Josette, came in to say,—
 
“But, mademoiselle, Penelope is eating her oats.”
 
“What does that signify? I must start at once.”
 
“But, mademoiselle, it is going to rain.”
 
“Then we shall get wet.”
 
“The house is on fire!” muttered Josette, piqued⁵ at the silence her mistress kept as to the contents of the letter, which she read and reread.
 
“Finish your coffee, at any rate, mademoiselle; don’t excite your blood; just see how red you are.”
 
“Am I red, Josette?” she said, going to a mirror, from which the quicksilver was peeling, and which presented her features to her upside down.
 
“Good heavens!” thought Mademoiselle Cormon, “suppose I should look ugly! Come, Josette; come, my dear, dress me at once; I want to be ready before Jacquelin has harnessed Penelope. If you can’t pack my things in time, I will leave them here rather than lose a single minute.”
 
If you have thoroughly⁶ comprehended the positive monomania to which the desire of marriage had brought Mademoiselle Cormon, you will share her emotion. The worthy⁷ uncle announced in this sudden missive that Monsieur de Troisville, of the Russian army during the Emigration, grandson of one of his best friends, was desirous of retiring to Alencon, and asked his, the abbe’s hospitality, on the ground of his friendship for his grandfather, the Vicomte de Troisville. The old abbe, alarmed at the responsibility, entreated⁸ his niece to return instantly and help him to receive this guest, and do the honors of the house; for the viscount’s letter had been delayed, and he might descend⁹ upon his shoulders that very night.
 
After reading this missive could there be a question of the demands of Prebaudet? The keeper and the gardener, witnesses to Mademoiselle Cormon’s excitement, stood aside and awaited her orders. But when, as she was about to leave the room, they stopped her to ask for instructions, for the first time in her life the despotic old maid, who saw to everything at Prebaudet with her own eyes, said, to their stupefaction, “Do what you like.” This from a mistress who carried her administration to the point of counting her fruits, and marking them so as to order their consumption according to the number and condition of each!
 
“I believe I’m dreaming,” thought Josette, as she saw her mistress flying down the staircase like an elephant to which God has given wings.
 
Presently, in spite of a driving rain, Mademoiselle Cormon drove away from Prebaudet, leaving her factotums¹⁰ with the reins¹¹ on their necks. Jacquelin dared not take upon himself to hasten the usual little trot¹² of the peaceable Penelope, who, like the beautiful queen whose name she bore, had an appearance of making as many steps backward as she made forward. Impatient with the pace, mademoiselle ordered Jacquelin in a sharp voice to drive at a gallop¹³, with the whip, if necessary, to the great astonishment¹⁴ of the poor beast, so afraid was she of not having time to arrange the house suitably to receive Monsieur de Troisville. She calculated that the grandson of her uncle’s friend was probably about forty years of age; a soldier just from service was undoubtedly¹⁵ a bachelor; and she resolved, her uncle aiding, not to let Monsieur de Troisville quit their house in the condition he entered it. Though Penelope galloped¹⁶, Mademoiselle Cormon, absorbed in thoughts of her trousseau and the wedding-day, declared again and again that Jacquelin made no way at all. She twisted about in the carriole without replying to Josette’s questions, and talked to herself like a person who is mentally revolving¹⁷ important designs.
 
The carriole at last arrived in the main street of Alencon, called the rue Saint-Blaise at the end toward Montagne, but near the hotel du More it takes the name of the rue de la Porte-de-Seez, and becomes the rue du Bercail as it enters the road to Brittany. If the departure of Mademoiselle Cormon made a great noise in Alencon, it is easy to imagine the uproar¹⁸ caused by her sudden return on the following day, in a pouring rain which beat her face without her apparently¹⁹ minding it. Penelope at a full gallop was observed by every one, and Jacquelin’s grin, the early hour, the parcels stuffed into the carriole topsy-turvy, and the evident impatience²⁰ of Mademoiselle Cormon were all noted²¹.
 
The property of the house of Troisville lay between Alencon and Mortagne. Josette knew the various branches of the family. A word dropped by mademoiselle as they entered Alencon had put Josette on the scent²² of the affair; and a discussion having started between them, it was settled that the expected de Troisville must be between forty and forty-two years of age, a bachelor, and neither rich nor poor. Mademoiselle Cormon beheld²³ herself speedily Vicomtesse de Troisville.
 
“And to think that my uncle told me nothing! thinks of nothing! inquires nothing! That’s my uncle all over. He’d forget his own nose if it wasn’t fastened to his face.”
 
Have you never remarked that, under circumstances such as these, old maids become, like Richard III., keen-witted, fierce, bold, promissory,—if one may so use the word,—and, like inebriate²⁴ clerks, no longer in awe²⁵ of anything?
 
Immediately the town of Alencon, speedily informed from the farther end of the rue de Saint-Blaise to the gate of Seez of this precipitate²⁶ return, accompanied by singular circumstances, was perturbed²⁷ throughout its viscera, both public and domestic. Cooks, shopkeepers, street passengers, told the news from door to door; thence it rose to the upper regions. Soon the words: “Mademoiselle Cormon has returned!” burst like a bombshell into all households. At that moment Jacquelin was descending²⁸ from his wooden seat (polished by a process unknown to cabinet-makers), on which he perched in front of the carriole. He opened the great green gate, round at the top, and closed in sign of mourning; for during Mademoiselle Cormon’s absence the evening assemblies did not take place. The faithful invited the Abbe de Sponde to their several houses; and Monsieur de Valois paid his debt by inviting²⁹ him to dine at the Marquis d’Esgrignon’s. Jacquelin, having opened the gate, called familiarly to Penelope, whom he had left in the middle of the street. That animal, accustomed to this proceeding³⁰, turned in of herself, and circled round the courtyard in a manner to avoid injuring the flower-bed. Jacquelin then took her bridle³¹, and led the carriage to the portico³².
 
“Mariette!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon.
 
“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed Mariette, who was occupied in closing the gate.
 
“Has the gentleman arrived?”
 
“No, mademoiselle.”
 
“Where’s my uncle?”
 
“He is at church, mademoiselle.”
 
Jacquelin and Josette were by this time on the first step of the portico, holding out their hands to manoeuvre³³ the exit of their mistress from the carriole as she pulled herself up by the sides of the vehicle and clung to the curtains. Mademoiselle then threw herself into their arms; because for the last two years she dared not risk her weight on the iron step, affixed³⁴ to the frame of the carriage by a horrible mechanism³⁵ of clumsy bolts.
 
When Mademoiselle Cormon reached the level of the portico she looked about her courtyard with an air of satisfaction.
 
“Come, come, Mariette, leave that gate alone; I want you.”
 
“There’s something in the wind,” whispered Jacquelin, as Mariette passed the carriole.
 
“Mariette, what provisions have you in the house?” asked Mademoiselle Cormon, sitting down on the bench in the long antechamber like a person overcome with fatigue³⁷.
 
“I haven’t anything,” replied Mariette, with her hands on her hips³⁸. “Mademoiselle knows very well that during her absence Monsieur l’abbe dines out every day. Yesterday I went to fetch him from Mademoiselle Armande’s.”
 
“Where is he now?”
 
“Monsieur l’abbe? Why, at church; he won’t be in before three o’clock.”
 
“He thinks of nothing! he ought to have told you to go to market. Mariette, go at once; and without wasting money, don’t spare it; get all there is that is good and delicate. Go to the diligence office and see if you can send for pates³⁹; and I want shrimps⁴⁰ from the Brillante. What o’clock is it?”
 
“A quarter to nine.”
 
“Good heavens! Mariette, don’t stop to chatter⁴¹. The person my uncle expects may arrive at any moment. If we had to give him breakfast, where should we be with nothing in the house?”
 
Mariette turned back to Penelope in a lather⁴², and looked at Jacquelin as if she would say, “Mademoiselle has put her hand on a husband this time.”
 
“Now, Josette,” continued the old maid, “let us see where we had better put Monsieur de Troisville to sleep.”
 
With what joy she said the words, “Put Monsieur de Troisville” (pronounced Treville) “to sleep.” How many ideas in those few words! The old maid was bathed in hope.
 
“Will you put him in the green chamber³⁶?”
 
“The bishop⁴³’s room? No; that’s too near mine,” said Mademoiselle Cormon. “All very well for monseigneur; he’s a saintly man.”
 
“Give him your uncle’s room.”
 
“Oh, that’s so bare; it is actually indecent.”
 
“Well, then, mademoiselle, why not arrange a bed in your boudoir? It is easily done; and there’s a fire-place. Moreau can certainly find in his warerooms a bed to match the hangings.”
 
“You are right, Josette. Go yourself to Moreau; consult with him what to do; I authorize⁴⁴ you to get what is wanted. If the bed could be put up to-night without Monsieur de Troisville observing it (in case Monsieur de Troisville arrives while Moreau is here), I should like it. If Moreau won’t engage to do this, then I must put Monsieur de Troisville in the green room, although Monsieur de Troisville would be so very near to me.”
 
Josette was departing when her mistress recalled her.
 
“Stop! explain the matter to Jacquelin,” she cried, in a loud nervous tone. “Tell him to go to Moreau; I must be dressed! Fancy if Monsieur de Troisville surprised me as I am now! and my uncle not here to receive him! Oh, uncle, uncle! Come, Josette; come and dress me at once.”
 
“But Penelope?” said Josette, imprudently.
 
“Always Penelope! Penelope this, Penelope that! Is Penelope the mistress of this house?”
 
“But she is all of a lather, and she hasn’t had time to eat her oats.”
 
“Then let her starve!” cried Mademoiselle Cormon; “provided I marry,” she thought to herself.
 
Hearing these words, which seemed to her like homicide, Josette stood still for a moment, speechless. Then, at a gesture from her mistress, she ran headlong down the steps of the portico.
 
“The devil is in her, Jacquelin,” were the first words she uttered.
 
Thus all things conspired⁴⁵ on this fateful day to produce the great scenic⁴⁶ effect which decided⁴⁷ the future life of Mademoiselle Cormon. The town was already topsy-turvy in mind, as a consequence of the five extraordinary circumstances which accompanied Mademoiselle Cormon’s return; to wit, the pouring rain; Penelope at a gallop, in a lather, and blown; the early hour; the parcels half-packed; and the singular air of the excited old maid. But when Mariette made an invasion of the market, and bought all the best things; when Jacquelin went to the principal upholsterer in Alencon, two doors from the church, in search of a bed,—there was matter for the gravest conjectures⁴⁸. These extraordinary events were discussed on all sides; they occupied the minds of every one, even Mademoiselle Armande herself, with whom was Monsieur de Valois. Within two days the town of Alencon had been agitated⁴⁹ by such startling events that certain good women were heard to remark that the world was coming to an end. This last news, however, resolved itself into a single question, “What is happening at the Cormons?”
 
The Abbe de Sponde, adroitly⁵⁰ questioned when he left Saint-Leonard’s to take his daily walk with the Abbe Couturier, replied with his usual kindliness⁵¹ that he expected the Vicomte de Troisville, a nobleman in the service of Russia during the Emigration, who was returning to Alencon to settle there. From two to five o’clock a species of labial⁵² telegraphy went on throughout the town; and all the inhabitants learned that Mademoiselle Cormon had at last found a husband by letter, and was about to marry the Vicomte de Troisville. Some said, “Moreau has sold them a bed.” The bed was six feet wide in that quarter; it was four feet wide at Madame Granson’s, in the rue du Bercail; but it was reduced to a simple couch at Monsieur du Ronceret’s, where du Bousquier was dining. The lesser⁵³ bourgeoisie declared that the cost was eleven hundred francs. But generally it was thought that, as to this, rumor⁵⁴ was counting the chickens before they were hatched. In other quarters it was said that Mariette had made such a raid on the market that the price of carp had risen. At the end of the rue Saint-Blaise, Penelope had dropped dead. This decease was doubted in the house of the receiver-general; but at the Prefecture it was authenticated⁵⁵ that the poor beast had expired as she turned into the courtyard of the hotel Cormon, with such velocity⁵⁶ had the old maid flown to meet her husband. The harness-maker, who lived at the corner of the rue de Seez, was bold enough to call at the house and ask if anything had happened to Mademoiselle Cormon’s carriage, in order to discover whether Penelope was really dead. From the end of the rue Saint-Blaise to the end of the rue du Bercail, it was then made known that, thanks to Jacquelin’s devotion, Penelope, that silent victim of her mistress’s impetuosity, still lived, though she seemed to be suffering.
 
Along the road to Brittany the Vicomte de Troisville was stated to be a younger son without a penny, for the estates in Perche belonged to the Marquis de Troisville, peer of France, who had children; the marriage would be, therefore, an enormous piece of luck for a poor emigre. The aristocracy along that road approved of the marriage; Mademoiselle Cormon could not do better with her money. But among the Bourgeoisie, the Vicomte de Troisville was a Russian general who had fought against France, and was now returning with a great fortune made at the court of Saint-Petersburg; he was a foreigner; one of those allies so hated by the liberals; the Abbe de Sponde had slyly negotiated this marriage. All the persons who had a right to call upon Mademoiselle Cormon determined⁵⁷ to do so that very evening.
 
During this transurban excitement, which made that of Suzanne almost a forgotten affair, Mademoiselle was not less agitated; she was filled with a variety of novel emotions. Looking about her salon⁵⁸, dining-room, and boudoir, cruel apprehensions⁵⁹ took possession of her. A species of demon⁶⁰ showed her with a sneer⁶¹ her old-fashioned luxury. The handsome things she had admired from her youth up she suddenly suspected of age and absurdity⁶². In short, she felt that fear which takes possession of nearly all authors when they read over a work they have hitherto thought proof against every exacting⁶³ or blase⁶⁴ critic: new situations seem timeworn; the best-turned and most highly polished phrases limp and squint⁶⁵; metaphors⁶⁶ and images grin or contradict each other; whatsoever⁶⁷ is false strikes the eye. In like manner this poor woman trembled lest she should see on the lips of Monsieur de Troisville a smile of contempt for this episcopal salon; she dreaded⁶⁸ the cold look he might cast over that ancient dining-room; in short, she feared the frame might injure and age the portrait. Suppose these antiquities⁶⁹ should cast a reflected light of old age upon herself? This question made her flesh creep. She would gladly, at that moment, spend half her savings⁷⁰ on refitting her house if some fairy wand could do it in a moment. Where is the general who has not trembled on the eve of a battle? The poor woman was now between her Austerlitz and her Waterloo.
 
“Madame la Vicomtesse de Troisville,” she said to herself; “a noble name! Our property will go to a good family, at any rate.”
 
She fell a prey⁷¹ to an irritation⁷² which made every fibre of her nerves quiver to all their papillae, long sunk in flesh. Her blood, lashed⁷³ by this new hope, was in motion. She felt the strength to converse⁷⁴, if necessary, with Monsieur de Troisville.
 
It is useless to relate the activity with which Josette, Jacquelin, Mariette, Moreau, and his agents went about their functions. It was like the busyness of ants about their eggs. All that daily care had already rendered neat and clean was again gone over and brushed and rubbed and scrubbed. The china of ceremony saw the light; the damask linen⁷⁵ marked “A, B, C” was drawn⁷⁶ from depths where it lay under a triple guard of wrappings, still further defended by formidable lines of pins. Above all, Mademoiselle Cormon sacrificed on the altar of her hopes three bottles of the famous liqueurs of Madame Amphoux, the most illustrious of all the distillers of the tropics,—a name very dear to gourmets⁷⁷. Thanks to the devotion of her lieutenants⁷⁸, mademoiselle was soon ready for the conflict. The different weapons—furniture, cookery, provisions, in short, all the various munitions⁷⁹ of war, together with a body of reserve forces—were ready along the whole line. Jacquelin, Mariette, and Josette received orders to appear in full dress. The garden was raked. The old maid regretted that she couldn’t come to an understanding with the nightingales nesting in the trees, in order to obtain their finest trilling.
 
At last, about four o’clock, at the very moment when the Abbe de Sponde returned home, and just as mademoiselle began to think she had set the table with the best plate and linen and prepared the choicest dishes to no purpose, the click-clack of a postilion was heard in the Val-Noble.
 
“‘Tis he!” she said to herself, the snap of the whip echoing in her heart.
 
True enough; heralded⁸¹ by all this gossip, a post-chaise, in which was a single gentleman, made so great a sensation coming down the rue Saint-Blaise and turning into the rue du Cours that several little gamains and some grown persons followed it, and stood in groups about the gate of the hotel Cormon to see it enter. Jacquelin, who foresaw his own marriage in that of his mistress, had also heard the click-clack in the rue Saint-Blaise, and had opened wide the gates into the courtyard. The postilion, a friend of his, took pride in making a fine turn-in, and drew up sharply before the portico. The abbe came forward to greet his guest, whose carriage was emptied with a speed that highwaymen might put into the operation; the chaise itself was rolled into the coach-house, the gates closed, and in a few moments all signs of Monsieur de Troisville’s arrival had disappeared. Never did two chemicals blend into each other with greater rapidity than the hotel Cormon displayed in absorbing the Vicomte de Troisville.
 
Mademoiselle, whose heart was beating like a lizard⁸² caught by a herdsman, sat heroically still on her sofa, beside the fire in the salon. Josette opened the door; and the Vicomte de Troisville, followed by the Abbe de Sponde, presented himself to the eyes of the spinster.
 
“Niece, this is Monsieur le Vicomte de Troisville, the grandson of one of my old schoolmates; Monsieur de Troisville, my niece, Mademoiselle Cormon.”
 
“Ah! that good uncle; how well he does it!” thought Rose-Marie-Victoire.
 
The Vicomte de Troisville was, to paint him in two words, du Bousquier ennobled. Between the two men there was precisely⁸³ the difference which separates the vulgar style from the noble style. If they had both been present, the most fanatic⁸⁴ liberal would not have denied the existence of aristocracy. The viscount’s strength had all the distinction of elegance⁸⁵; his figure had preserved its magnificent dignity. He had blue eyes, black hair, an olive skin, and looked to be about forty-six years of age. You might have thought him a handsome Spaniard preserved in the ice of Russia. His manner, carriage, and attitude, all denoted a diplomat⁸⁶ who had seen Europe. His dress was that of a well-bred traveller. As he seemed fatigued⁸⁷, the abbe offered to show him to his room, and was much amazed when his niece threw open the door of the boudoir, transformed into a bedroom.
 
Mademoiselle Cormon and her uncle then left the noble stranger to attend to his own affairs, aided by Jacquelin, who brought up his luggage, and went themselves to walk beside the river until their guest had made his toilet. Although the Abbe de Sponde chanced to be even more absent-minded than usual, Mademoiselle Cormon was not less preoccupied⁸⁸. They both walked on in silence. The old maid had never before met any man as seductive as this Olympean viscount. She might have said to herself, as the Germans do, “This is my ideal!” instead of which she felt herself bound from head to foot, and could only say, “Here’s my affair!” Then she flew to Mariette to know if the dinner could be put back a while without loss of excellence⁸⁹.
 
“Uncle, your Monsieur de Troisville is very amiable⁹⁰,” she said, on returning.
 
“Why, niece, he hasn’t as yet said a word.”
 
“But you can see it in his ways, his manners, his face. Is he a bachelor?”
 
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the abbe, who was thinking of a discussion on mercy, lately begun between the Abbe Couturier and himself. “Monsieur de Troisville wrote me that he wanted to buy a house here. If he was married, he wouldn’t come alone on such an errand,” added the abbe, carelessly, not conceiving the idea that his niece could be thinking of marriage.
 
“Is he rich?”
 
“He is a younger son of the younger branch,” replied her uncle. “His grandfather commanded a squadron, but the father of this young man made a bad marriage.”
 
“Young man!” exclaimed the old maid. “It seems to me, uncle, that he must be at least forty-five.” She felt the strongest desire to put their years on a par¹.
 
“Yes,” said the abbe; “but to a poor priest of seventy, Rose, a man of forty seems a youth.”
 
All Alencon knew by this time that Monsieur de Troisville had arrived at the Cormons. The traveller soon rejoined his hosts, and began to admire the Brillante, the............