“Monsieur le Chevalier,” said the poor frightened mother, “how grateful I am to you!  You are right:  my son is the tool of a bad set of people; I shall enlighten him.”

The chevalier had long since fathomed the nature of Athanase, and recognized in it that unyielding element of republican convictions to which in his youth a young man is willing to sacrifice everything, carried away by the word “liberty,” so ill-defined and so little understood, but which to persons disdained by fate is a banner of revolt; and to such, revolt is vengeance.  Athanase would certainly persist in that faith, for his opinions were woven in with his artistic sorrows, with his bitter contemplation of the social state.  He was ignorant of the fact that at thirty-six years of age,—­the period of life when a man has judged men and social interests and relations,—­the opinions for which he was ready to sacrifice his future would be modified in him, as they are in all men of real superiority.  To remain faithful to the Left side of Alencon was to gain the aversion of Mademoiselle Cormon.  There, indeed, the chevalier saw true.

Thus we see that this society, so peaceful in appearance, was internally as agitated as any diplomatic circle, where craft, ability, and passions group themselves around the grave questions of an empire.  The guests were now seated at the table laden with the first course, which they ate as provincials eat, without shame at possessing a good appetite, and not as in Paris, where it seems as if jaws gnashed under sumptuary laws, which made it their business to contradict the laws of anatomy.  In Paris people eat with their teeth, and trifle with their pleasure; in the provinces things are done naturally, and interest is perhaps rather too much concentrated on the grand and universal means of existence to which God has condemned his creatures.

It was at the end of the first course that Mademoiselle Cormon made the most celebrated of her “speeches”; it was talked about for fully two years, and is still told at the gatherings of the lesser bourgeoisie whenever the topic of her marriage comes up.

The conversation, becoming lively as the penultimate entree was reached, had turned naturally on the affair of the theatre and the constitutionally sworn rector.  In the first fervor of royalty, during the year 1816, those who later were called Jesuits were all for the expulsion of the Abbe Francois from his parish.  Du Bousquier, suspected by Monsieur de Valois of sustaining the priest and being at the bottom of the theatre intrigues, and on whose back the adroit chevalier would in any case have put those sins with his customary cleverness, was in the dock with no lawyer to defend him.  Athanase, the only guest loyal enough to stand by du Bousquier, had not the nerve to emit his ideas in the presence of those potentates of Alencon, whom in his heart he thought stupid.  None but provincial youths now retain a respectful demeanor before men of a certain age, and dare neither to censure nor contradict them.  The talk, diminished under the effect of certain delicious ducks dressed with olives, was falling flat.  Mademoiselle Cormon, feeling the necessity of maintaining it against her own ducks, attempted to defend du Bousquier, who was being represented as a pernicious fomenter of intrigues, capable of any trickery.