The Baronne de Bonmont had invited all the titled landowners and the big manufacturers and financiers of the district to a charity fÊte which she was giving on the 29th of the month, in the famous ChÂteau de Montil which Bernard de Paves, Grand Master of Artillery in the reign of Louis XII, had built in 1508 for Nicolette de Vaucelles, his fourth wife, and which had been bought by Baron Jules after the French loan of 1871. She had been tactful enough to send no invitations to the Jewish landowners, although she had friends and relations among them. After the death of her husband she was baptized, and had now been five years naturalized. She was wholly devoted to her religion and country. Like her brother Wallstein, of Vienna, she was careful to distinguish herself from her former co-religionists by a sincere anti-Semitism. She was quite unambitious, however, and her natural inclination was for the pleasures of domestic life. She would have been satisfied with a modest position among the Christian aristocracy of France, if her son had not urged her to “make a splash.” It was the little Baron Ernest who had induced her to get in with the BrÉcÉs; it was he who had inscribed the entire aristocracy of the province on the list of the guests invited to the projected fÊte. It was he who brought the little Duchesse de Mausac to Montil to take part in the play. As she was given to remarking, she was of good enough birth to sup with circus-riders and drink with grooms.

The programme of the fÊte included a performance of Joconde by society amateurs, a fair in the park, a Venetian fÊte on the lake, and illuminations.

It was already the 17th. The preparations were proceeding hurriedly, amidst extreme confusion. The little company of actors were rehearsing their play in the long Renaissance gallery, the panels of whose ceiling bore, in an ingenious variety of design, the peacock of Bernard de Paves tied by the foot to the lute of Nicolette de Vaucelles.

Monsieur Germaine was accompanying the singers on the piano, while in the park the carpenters were putting together the framework of the booths with great blows of their mallets. LargilliÈre, from the OpÉra-Comique, was acting as stage manager.

“Your turn, Duchess.”

Monsieur Germaine’s hands, stripped of their rings, excepting one that remained on his thumb, struck a chord.

“La, la.”

But, taking the glass handed her by young Bonmont, the Duchess cried:

“Let me drink my cocktail first.”

When she had finished, LargilliÈre repeated:

“Come, Duchess.”

And Monsieur Germaine’s hands, despoiled of gold and gems save for an amethyst on the thumb, once more struck a chord. But the Duchess did not sing. She was staring with interest at the accompanist.

“My dear Germaine, I am lost in admiration! You have grown a bust and hips! I congratulate you! You’ve really done something! While as for me—look!” She drew her hands down over her cloth costume. “I’ve got rid of all that!” She made a half-turn. “Nothing left! It’s all gone! And in the meantime you’ve been growing them! Now that’s really funny! But there’s no harm in it. One thing makes up for another.”

But RenÉ Chartier, who was playing Joconde, was standing motionless with his neck extended like a stove-pipe, thinking only of the velvet and pearls of his voice, which was deep and just a little gloomy. He grew impatient at last, remarking coldly:

“We shall never be in time; it’s deplorable!”

“Let us start from the quartette,” said LargilliÈre.

“Come along, Monsieur Quatrebarbe.”

Monsieur GÉrard Quatrebarbe was the son of the diocesan architect. Since he had broken the windows of Mayer, the bootmaker, who was supposed to be a Jew, he was received everywhere in society. He had a good voice but he missed his cues, and RenÉ Chartier cast furious glances at him.

“You are not in your place, Duchess,” said LargilliÈre.

“No, I dare say not!” replied the Duchess.

RenÉ Chartier went up to young Bonmont and whispered in his ear:

“For goodness’ sake don’t give the Duchess any more cocktails, she will spoil everything.”

LargilliÈre was grumbling too; the choruses were confused and unimpressive. However, they attacked the trio. “Monsieur Lacrisse, you are not in your place.”

Joseph Lacrisse was not in his place, and it is only fair to say that it was not his fault. Madame de Bonmont was perpetually enticing him into corners and murmuring to him:

“Tell me you love me still; if you don’t still love me I feel I shall die!”

She also asked him for news of the plot, and as the latter was not going on at all well the question irritated him. He was annoyed with her, too, because she had not given any money to the cause. He strode off stiffly to join the chorus, while RenÉ Chartier sang as though he meant it:

Young Bonmont went up to his mother.

“Don’t trust Lacrisse, mother.”

She started. Then, in a tone of affected indifference:

“What do you mean? He is very serious, more serious than is usual at his age. He is occupied with important matters. He——”

The young Baron shrugged his strong crooked shoulders.

“I tell you, don’t trust him. He wants to come down on you for a hundred thousand francs. He asked me to help to get the cheque out of you. But at the present time I don’t see that it’s necessary. I am for the King, but a hundred thousand francs is a large sum.”

RenÉ Chartier sang:

A servant brought the Baronne a letter. It was from the BrÉcÉs, who enclosed a contribution to the charity and expressed their regrets that they would not be able to attend the fÊte, being obliged to go away before the 29th.

She handed the letter to her son, who smiled unpleasantly, and asked:

“What about the Courtrais?”

“They refused yesterday, and Madame Cartier de Chalmot as well.”

“The cats!”

“We shall have the Terremondres and the Gromances.”

“The deuce, it’s part of their business to come to our house.”

They reviewed the situation; it was unsatisfactory. Terremondre had not, as usual, promised to hunt up his cousins and his aunts and all the rest of the small gentry. The big manufacturers themselves seemed to be hesitating and seeking excuses for not coming. Young Bonmont concluded: “It’s all up with your fÊte, mother! We are in quarantine, that’s very evident.”

These words grieved the gentle Elisabeth. Her beautiful face, always adorned by a loving smile, seemed overcast.

At the other end of the room, above the confused babel of sounds, LargilliÈre’s voice reiterated:

“Not like that! That’s not the way! We shall never be ready in time.”

“Do you hear?” said the Baronne. “He says we shall not be ready in time. Suppose we postpone the fÊte if it’s not going to be a success.”

“You are soft, mother! But I’m not blaming you. It’s your nature. You are a forget-me-not and will always remain one. I am a fighting man, a strong man. I’m pretty well played out, as far as my health goes, but—I shall struggle on to the end.”

“My child!”

“Don’t let that worry you. I’m done for, but I shall struggle on.”

RenÉ Chartier’s voice flowed forth like a limpid fountain:

Suddenly the accompanist ceased playing amidst a great uproar. Monsieur Germaine was chasing the Duchess who was running off with his rings. She fled into the monumental fireplace, where on the Angevin slate were engraven the loves of the nymphs and the metamorphoses of the gods. Then, pointing to a little pocket in her corsage she said:

“Here are your rings, my old Germaine. Come and fetch them. Look here! Here’s a pair of Louis XIII tongs! You can use them!”

And she jangled an enormous pair of tongs under the musician’s nose. RenÉ Chartier, savagely rolling his eyes, threw down his score, saying that he returned his part.

“I don’t believe the Luzancourts are coming either,” said the Baronne, with a sigh.

“All is not lost. I have an idea,” said the little Baron. “One must know how to make a sacrifice when it’s useful. Say nothing to Lacrisse!”

“Nothing to Lacrisse?”

“Nothing that matters. Leave it to me.”

He left her and approached the noisy chorus. To the Duchess, who asked him for another cocktail, he gently remarked:

“Don’t bother me.”

Then he sat down beside Joseph Lacrisse who was meditating apart, and spoke to him for some time in a low voice. His manner was serious and resolute. “It’s true enough,” he said to the secretary of the Committee of Young Royalists. “We must overthrow the Republic and save France. And to do that we need money. My mother is of the same opinion. She is prepared to pay fifty thousand francs to the King’s account for expenses of propaganda.”

Joseph Lacrisse thanked him in the King’s name.

“Monseigneur,” he said, “will be happy to learn that your mother adds her patriotic offering to that of the three French ladies who displayed such chivalrous generosity. You may be sure that he will express his gratitude in a letter written by his own hand.”

“It’s not worth speaking of,” said young Bonmont.

And after a short silence he added:

“When you see the BrÉcÉs and the Courtrais, my dear Lacrisse, you might tell them to come to our little fÊte.”