Edmond de Goncourt

“ I am for progress of every kind. But a revolution against wealth—why, it would be barbarous! We should be going back to savage times. What we want is justice and common sense. Can you imagine now a society without wealth?"
"No, not any more than a greasy pole without a silver cup."
"What," continued M. Bourjot, who in his excitement had not caught Denoisel's words, "the money that I have earned with hard work, honestly and with the greatest difficulty—the money that is mine, that I have made, and which is for my children—why, there is nothing more sacred! ”

“ I fancy that such things happen to people who have an empty heart, no one to think about; people who are not taken up, absorbed, possessed and, as it were, protected by one of those affections which take hold of you wholly and entirely—the affection one has for one's father, for instance."
Denoisel did not answer.
"You don't believe that that does preserve you?" said Renée. "Well, but I can assure you I have tried in vain to remember. Oh, I'm examining my conscience thoroughly, I promise you. Well, from my very childhood, I cannot remember anything—no, nothing at all. ”

“ Every day M. Mauperin sought for something in his daughter which he could not find—something which was no longer there. Her eyes, her smile, her gestures, her footstep, her very dress which used proudly to tell of her twenty years, the girlish vivacity which seemed to hover round her and light on others as it passed—everything about her was changing and life itself gradually leaving her. She no longer seemed to animate all that she touched. Her clothes fell loosely round her in folds as they do on old people. ”

“ She moved about gaily and briskly from one rose-tree to another, and the thorns caught hold of her dress as though they wanted to play with her. At every clip of her scissors, from a branch covered with small, open roses, with pink hearts all full of life, there fell a dead earth-coloured rose which looked to M. Mauperin like the corpse of a flower.
All at once, leaving everything, Renée flung herself into her father's arms.
"Oh, papa, how I do love you!" she said, bursting into tears. ”

“ With his daughter, M. Mauperin had had the same disappointment. She was one of those little girls who are women when they are born, and who play with their parents merely to amuse them. She scarcely had any childhood, and at the age of five, if a gentleman called to see her father, she always ran away to wash her hands. She would be kissed on certain spots, and she seemed to dread being ruffled or inconvenienced by a father's caresses and love.
Thus repelled, M. Mauperin's affection, so long hoarded up, went out to the cradle of the little newcomer whom he had named Renée after his mother. ”

“ Would there be any harm in asking such a thing in society? Come now, Denoisel! you say I am twelve years old and I agree to be twelve; but I'm twenty all the same. I'm a young person, that's true, but if you imagine that young persons of my age have never read any novels nor sung any love-songs—why, it's all humbug—it's just posing as sweet innocents. After all, just as you like. If you think I am not old enough I'll take back my question. I thought we were to consider ourselves men when we talked about things together. ”

“ It isn't my fault, for I would act anything—I'd stand on my head. But I can't find any one else, so that, unless I give a monologue—Denoisel has refused, and as for you, a sober man like you—well, I suppose it's no use asking."
"I, why, I would act right enough," answered Henri.
"You, Henri?" exclaimed Mme. Mauperin in astonishment.
"And then, too, we are not short of men," continued Renée, "there are always men to act. It's for the women's parts. Ah, that's the difficulty—to find ladies. I don't see who is to act with me." ”

“ Bourjot in a decisive tone. "And then—don't you love her? Why, it would merely be a kind of marriage of expediency," and Mme. Bourjot smiled. "You provide her with happiness."
"But what will the world say?"
"The world? My dear boy, we should close the world's mouth with truffles," and she gave her shoulders a little shrug.
"And M. Bourjot?"
"That's my part. He will like you very much before the end of two months. The only thing is, as you know, he will want a title; he has always intended his daughter to marry a count. All I can do is to get him to consent to a name tacked on to yours. ”

“ Mme. Bourjot drew back when he called her Laure as if he had touched her. "I have been struggling against it for the last year, madame," he continued. "I will not attempt to make any excuse; but everything has drawn me to her. We have known each other from childhood, and the fascination has increased lately day by day. I am very sorry, madame, to have to tell you the truth; but it is quite true that I love your daughter."
"But you never can have talked to her, surely? Why, I blush for her when we are out—you surely have not even looked at her. What in the world possesses you men, tell me! ”

“ Four hundred pounds. I paid it him, but I consider that taking advantage; it's the war against capital. Do you mean to say that because a man's name is known he should make me pay just what he likes? because he's an artist, he has no price, no fixed rate, he has a right to fleece me? Why, according to that he might ask me a million for it. It's like the doctors who make you pay according to your fortune. To begin with, how does any one know what I have? I call it an iniquity. Yes, four hundred pounds; what do you think of that?"
M. Bourjot was standing by the chimney-piece talking to Denoisel. ”

“ Just as a child's fears are calmed in the arms of its nurse, so their hopes fly to a country, a garden, or a village where they were born and where surely they could not die.
Renée began to think of Morimond. She kept saying to herself that if she were once there she should get well. She felt sure, quite sure of it. This Briche house had brought her bad luck. She had been so happy at Morimond! And with this longing for change, the wish to move about which invalids get, this fancy of hers grew, and became more and more persistent. ”

“ Formerly, when by the side of money there was something above it and beyond it, during a revolution instead of asking bluntly for money—clumsy rough coins with which to buy their happiness—the people contented themselves with asking for the change of colours on a flag, or with having a few words written over a guard-house, or even with glorious victories that were quite hollow. But in our times—oh, we all know where the heart of Paris is now. The bank would be besieged instead of the Hôtel de ville. Ah, the bourgeoisie has made a great mistake! ”

“ Denoisel, be funny—at once. And if you are very funny—very, very funny—I'll give you a picture—one of my own——"
"Another?"
"Oh, well, you are polite—I work myself to death——"
"Mademoiselle," said Denoisel to Noémi, "you shall judge of the situation. I have now a picture of a mad-apple and a parsnip, and then to hang with that a slice of pumpkin and a piece of Brie cheese. There's a great deal of feeling, I know, of course, in such subjects; but all the same from the look of my room any one would take me for a private fruiterer."
"That's how men are, you see," said Renée gaily to Noémi. ”

“ I'm your daughter, and there's too much of you in me, that's what it is. I shall never be able to swallow things that disgust me. It's the way I'm made—how can I help it? Every time I see any one I know—or even any one I don't know—fail in what you men call points of honour, well, I can't help it at all, but it has the same effect on me as the sight of a toad. I have such a horror of it, and it disgusts me so, that I want to step on it. Come now, do you call a man honourable because he takes care to only do abominable things for which he can't be tried in the law courts? ”

“ It's so ugly to be ill; and so it makes you like everything that is beautiful all the more."
With all this coquetry which the approach of death had brought to her, these fancies and caprices, these little delicacies and elegancies, other senses too seemed to come to Renée. She was becoming, and she felt herself becoming, more of a woman. Under all the languor and indolence caused by illness, her disposition, which had always been affectionate but somewhat masculine and violent, grew gentler, more unbending, and more calm. ”

“ The bed was entirely draped with muslin. At the back of it, and as though under the shelter of its curtains, all the prayer-books Renée had had since her childhood were arranged on an Algerian bracket, from which some chaplets were hanging. Then came a chest of drawers covered with a hundred little nothings: doll's-house furniture, some glass ornaments, halfpenny jewellery, trifles won in lotteries, even little animals made of bread-crumbs cooked in the stove and with matches for legs, a regular museum of childish things, such as young girls hoard up and treasure as reminiscences. ”

“ Ah, that's right!" said M. Mauperin on seeing him. "Suppose we have dinner, Mme. Mauperin, these young people must be hungry."
The solemnity of the first few moments when the appetite is keen had worn off, and the buzz of conversation could be heard in place of the silence with which a dinner usually commences, and which is followed by the noise of spoons in the soup plates.
"M. Reverchon," began Mme. Mauperin. She had placed the young man by her, in the seat of honour, and she was amiability itself, as far as he was concerned. She was most attentive to him and most anxious to please. ”

“ LIX
"Is the sky blue all over, father? Look out and tell me, will you?" said Renée, one afternoon, as she lay on the sofa.
"Yes, my child," answered M. Mauperin from the window, "it is superb."
"Oh!"
"Why? Are you in pain?"
"No, only it seemed to me that there must be clouds—as though the weather were going to change. It's very odd when one is ill, it seems as if the sky were much nearer. Oh, I'm a capital barometer now." And she went on reading the book she had laid down while she spoke.
"You tire yourself with reading, little girl; let us talk instead. ”

“ Your mother loves you dearly, too, I know, but your character and hers are different; and then, if anything happened to me. You know we must face things; and at my age. You see the thought of leaving you without a husband—and children—without any love which would make up to you for your old father's when he is no longer with you——"
M. Mauperin could not finish; his daughter had thrown her arms round him, stifling down her sobs, and her tears were flowing freely on his waistcoat. ”

“ For some people it's one place, and for others it's another. Now, I've never wanted to see any place except Venice. I'm going to say something silly—Venice seems to me like a city where all the musicians should be buried."
She put her fingers on the notes again, but she only skimmed over them without striking them at all, as if she were just caressing the silence of the piano. Her hands then fell on her knees again, and in a pensive manner, giving way to her thoughts, she half turned her head towards Denoisel. ”

“ In our times when a good tenor can marry an income of thirty thousand pounds arithmetic becomes a thing of the past. All this is what I have wanted to explain to you, and I am sure you will understand me."
Henri Mauperin took his mother's hand in his as he spoke. She was fairly aghast with surprise, admiration, and a sentiment very near akin to respect.
"Don't you worry yourself," continued her son. "I shall marry well—better even perhaps than you dream of." ”

“ She had the same opinions as the women whose hair was dressed by the famous coiffeur, Laure. She thought exactly what it was correct to think, just as she wore exactly what it was correct to wear. Everything, from her very gestures to the furniture in her drawing-room, from the game she played to the alms she gave away, from the newspaper she read to the dish she ordered from her cook, aimed at being in good style—good style being her law and her religion. She followed the fashion of the moment in everything and everywhere, even to the theatre of the Bouffes Parisiens. ”

“ This was her knee when she was a little girl."
"Yes," said Mme. Mauperin, "and Henri had the other one."
"Yes, I can see them now," continued M. Mauperin; "Henri was the girl and you were the boy, Renée. Just to fancy that all that was fifteen years ago. It used to amuse you finely when I let you put your little hands on the scars that my wounds had left. What rascals of children they were! How they laughed!" Then turning to his wife he added, "What work you had with them, my dear. It doesn't matter though, Denoisel; it's a good thing to have a family. ”