In a large gothic house in the Rue du Perche, au Marais, there lived, in 1804, an old lady, well known and beloved by all in the neighborhood. She was called Madame Doradour. She was a woman of the olden times, belonging, not to the court, but to the good middle class, rich, devout, cheerful and charitable. She led a very retired life: her only occupation being to give alms and play "Boston" with her neighbors. She dined at two o'clock and supped at nine. She rarely went out and then only to church, sometimes taking a turn in the Place Royale on her way back. In short, she had preserved the manners and the dress, of her times, entirely ignoring the present, reading her prayer-book, rather than the newspapers, leaving the world to go its own way and thinking only of dying in peace.
As she was a great talker, and even somewhat loquacious, she had always, during the twenty years since the death of her husband, a lady companion. This woman, who never left her, had now become a friend. They were continually seen together, at mass, out for a walk or by the fireside. Mademoiselle Ursule kept the keys of the cellar, of the cupboards and even of the writing-desk. She was a tall, dried-up woman, of masculine appearance, speaking with the tip of her tongue, extremely imperious and quite ill-tempered. Madame Doradour, who was not very large, would take the arm of this ugly creature, babbling the while: she called her "my good one," and allowed herself to be tied to her apron-strings. She had unlimited confidence in her favorite and had in advance willed her a large part of her property. Mademoiselle Ursule did not forget it and professed to love her mistress more than herself, and never spoke of her without raising her eyes to heaven with sighs of gratitude.
Needless to relate, Mademoiselle Ursule was the true mistress of the house. While Madame Doradour, buried in her armchair, was knitting in the corner, Mademoiselle Ursule, laden with her keys, majestically paraded the corridors, banged the doors, paid the tradespeople and caused the servants to swear. But as soon as the dinner hour arrived, and the guests were assembled, she timidly appeared, clad in a dark and modest dress. She bowed with compunction, knew how to keep at a distance and how to apparently abdicate her real position, of mistress of the house. At church, no one was more devout than she, nor cast their eyes down lower. If it happened that Madame Doradour, whose piety was sincere, fell asleep in the middle of the sermon, Mademoiselle Ursule nudged her and the preacher was thankful to her. Madame Doradour had farmers, tenants and business men to deal with: Mademoiselle Ursule verified their accounts and in the matter of any arguments regarding them, she was incomparable. Thanks to her, there was not a speck of dust in the house; everything was clean, neat, rubbed, brushed, the furniture in order, the linen spotless, the china shining and the clocks regulated. All this was necessary to the housekeeper to enable her to grumble at her ease and reign in all her glory.
Madame Doradour, speaking truthfully, was by no means blind to the defects of her good friend, but during all her life she had been able to distinguish only the good in the world. Evil never seemed clear to her: she endured without understanding it. Habit, moreover, was everything to her, and for twenty years Mademoiselle Ursule had given her her arm and they had taken their coffee together. When her protégée made too loud a noise, Madame Doradour would drop her knitting, raise her head and in her small, piping voice remark: "What is the matter, my good one?" But the "good one" did not always deign to answer, or, if she entered into particulars, she so managed it that Madame Doradour returned to her knitting, softly humming, so as to hear no more.
It was suddenly discovered, after such a long period of confidence, that Mademoiselle Ursule had been deceiving every one; her mistress to begin with. Not only did she make an income from the expenses which she regulated, but, in anticipation of the will, she appropriated clothes, linen and even jewelry. Impunity emboldening her, she went so far as to remove a casket of diamonds, which, it is true, Madame Doradour never made use of, but which she had zealously preserved in a drawer, from time immemorial, in memory of her lost charms. Madame Doradour had no wish to take proceedings against a woman she had been fond of. She was satisfied with dismissing her, and refused to see her a last time. But she suddenly found herself in such a cruel solitude, that she shed the most bitter tears. In spite of her piety, she could not help cursing the instability of things here below and the pitiless whims of fate, which will not even respect an old and demure illusion.
One of her good neighbors, M. Desires, having come to console her, she asked his advice.
"What will now become of me?" she said to him. "I can not live alone, and where shall I find a new friend? She whom I have just lost was so dear to me and I was so accustomed to her, that, in spite of the sad way in which she has rewarded me, I almost regret not having seen her once more. Who will answer for another? What confidence shall I now be able to repose in a stranger?"
"The misfortune that has overtaken you," answered M. Desires, "would he doubly to be deplored if it caused a soul like yours to doubt virtue. There are in this world wretches and many hypocrites, but there are also honest folk. Take another companion, not hurriedly, but also not with too many scruples. Your confidence has been misplaced this time; that is one reason that it should not be deceived a second."
"I believe you are right," answered Madame Doradour, "but I am very sad and in a most awkward position. I do not know a soul in Paris. Could you not oblige me by making inquiries and finding an honest girl for me, who would be well treated here, and could at least give me her arm to go to Saint Francois d'Assise? "
M. Desires, being also an inhabitant of the Marais, was neither very quick nor very well acquainted. He nevertheless began his quest, and a few days later Madame Doradour had a new companion, with whom, at the expiration of two months, she had become extremely friendly, for she was as easy-going as she was good. But at the end of three months more it became necessary to eject the latest arrival, not as being dishonest, but untrustworthy.
This was a second blow for Madame Doradour. She wished to make another choice, searched through the whole neighborhood, wrote to the "Petites Affiches" and yet had no success.
She became discouraged and this good old lady was now seen going to church alone, leaning on a stick. She had resolved, she said, to finish her days without help from any one, and she attempted, in public, to cheerfully bear her sadness and her years. But her limbs trembled as she mounted the stairs, for she was seventy years old. She was to be found in the evening near the fire, her hands folded and with bent head. She could not endure solitude; her health, already weak, soon declined; little by little she fell into a state of melancholy.
She had an only son named Gaston, who had early embraced the career of a soldier, and who was at that time doing garrison duty. She wrote to inform him of her troubles and implored him to come and assist her in her very unfortunate position. Gaston loved his mother tenderly. He asked and obtained leave of absence; but his regiment was unfortunately in garrison at Strasbourg, where, it is well known, are to be found in great numbers the prettiest grisettes in France. There are to be seen those German brunettes, combining Saxon languor with French vivacity. Gaston was on good terms with two pretty tobacconists, who did not want him to go. He vainly attempted to persuade them and even went so far as to show them his mother's letter. They gave him so many reasons, that he allowed himself to be convinced, and delayed his departure from day to day.
Meanwhile, Madame Doradour became seriously ill. She was born so cheerful and grief was so unnatural to her, that for her it could he but a disease. The doctors did not know what to do, "Leave me alone," she would say. "I wish to die alone. Since all whom I loved have forsaken me, why should I cling to the remainder of a life in which no one is interested? "
The deepest sadness reigned in the house, and at the same time the greatest disorder. The servants, seeing their mistress at the point of death and knowing that her will was made, began to neglect her. The rooms formerly so well kept, and the furniture so neatly arranged, were now covered with dust. "Oh, my dear Ursule," cried Madame Doradour, "my good one, where are you? You would have driven away these rascals!"
One day when she was at her worst, they were astonished to see her suddenly sit up in bed, draw aside the curtains and put on her spectacles. She held in her hand a letter which had just been delivered to her and which she was unfolding with great care. At the top of the page was a fine vignette representing the Temple of Friendship, with an altar in the middle and two hearts in flames on the altar. The letter was written in a very regular manner, the words perfectly in line, and with large flourishes to the capital letters. It was a New Year's compliment, couched somewhat as follows:
"Madame and Dear Godmother— It is to wish you a good and happy year that I take up my pen on behalf of the whole family, being the only one among us who is able to write. Papa, mamma and my brothers wish you the same. We have learned that you are ill, and pray God to preserve you, as He surely will. I take the liberty of sending you with this, a small present, and I am, with much respect and attachment,
"Your goddaughter and servant,
"Marguerite Piédeleu."
After having read this letter, Madame Doradour placed it under her pillow: she sent for M. Desires at once and dictated to him her answer. No one in the house had any knowledge of this, but as soon as the reply was gone, the patient appeared more at ease, and a few days later found her as merry and as well as ever.