But let us go to Bustos," said Count Altamira who had a methodical turn of mind; "he once paid court to madame la marechale."
Don Diego Bustos had the matter explained to him at length, while he said nothing, like a barrister in his chambers. He had a big monk-like face with black moustaches and an inimitable gravity; he was, however, a good carbonaro.
"I understand," he said to Julien at last.
"Has the marechale de Fervaques had lovers, or has she not?
Have you consequently any hope of success?
That is the question.
I don't mind telling you, for my own part, that I have failed.
Now that I am no more piqued I reason it out to myself in this way; she is often bad tempered, and as I will tell you in a minute, she is quite vindictive.
"I fail to detect in her that bilious temperament which is the sign of genius, and shows as it were a veneer of passion over all its actions.
On the contrary, she owes her rare beauty and her fresh complexion to the phlegmatic, tranquil character of the Dutch."
Julien began to lose patience with the phlegmatic slowness of the imperturbable Spaniard; he could not help giving vent to some monosyllables from time to time.
"Will you listen to me?" Don Diego Bustos gravely said to him.
"Forgive the furia franchese; I am all ears," said Julien.
"The marechale de Fervaques then is a great hater; she persecutes ruthlessly people she has never seen—advocates, poor devils of men of letters who have composed songs like Colle, you know?
"J'ai la marotte
D'aimer Marote, etc."
And Julien had to put up with the whole quotation.
The Spaniard was very pleased to get a chance of singing in French.
That divine song was never listened to more impatiently.
When it was finished Don Diego said—"The marechale procured the dismissal of the author of the song:
"Un jour l'amour au cabaret."
Julien shuddered lest he should want to sing it.
He contented himself with analysing it.
As a matter of fact, it was blasphemous and somewhat indecent.
"When the marechale become enraged against that song," said Don Diego, "I remarked to her that a woman of her rank ought not to read all the stupid things that are published.
Whatever progress piety and gravity may make France will always have a cabaret literature.
"'Be careful,' I said to madame de Fervaques when she had succeeded in depriving the author, a poor devil on half-pay, of a place worth eighteen hundred francs a year, 'you have attacked this rhymster with your own arms, he may answer you with his rhymes; he will make a song about virtue.
The gilded salons will be on your side; but people who like to laugh will repeat his epigrams.'
Do you know, monsieur, what the marechale answered?
'Let all Paris come and see me walking to my martyrdom for the sake of the Lord. It will be a new spectacle for France.
The people will learn to respect the quality.
It will be the finest day of my life.'
Her eyes never looked finer."
"And she has superb ones," exclaimed Julien.
"I see that you are in love. Further," went on Don Diego Bustos gravely, "she has not the bilious constitution which causes vindictiveness.
If, however, she likes to do harm, it is because she is unhappy, I suspect some secret misfortune.
May it not be quite well a case of prude tired of her role?"
The Spaniard looked at him in silence for a good minute.
"That's the whole point," he added gravely, "and that's what may give you ground for some hope.
I have often reflected about it during the two years that I was her very humble servant.
All your future, my amorous sir, depends on this great problem. Is she a prude tired of her role and only malicious because she is unhappy?"
"Or," said Altamira emerging at last from his deep silence, "can it be as I have said twenty times before, simply a case of French vanity; the memory of her father, the celebrated cloth merchant, constitutes the unhappiness of this frigid melancholy nature.
The only happiness she could find would be to live in Toledo and to be tortured by a confessor who would show her hell wide open every day."
"Altamira informs me you are one of us," said Don Diego, whose demeanour was growing graver and graver to Julien as he went out.
"You will help us one day in re-winning our liberty, so I would like to help you in this little amusement.
It is right that you should know the marechale's style; here are four letters in her hand-writing."
"I will copy them out," exclaimed Julien, "and bring them back to you."
"And you will never let anyone know a word of what we have been saying."
"Never, on my honour," cried Julien.
"Well, God help you," added the Spaniard, and he silently escorted Altamira and Julien as far as the staircase.