The Deputy of Arcis

XV

MARIE-GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE

Arcis-sur-Aube, May 13, 1839.

Madame,—­I see that the electoral fever is upon you, as you are good enough to send me from Monsieur de l’Estorade so many discouragements which certainly deserve consideration.

We knew already of the mission given to Comte Maxime de Trailles,—­a mission he endeavored at first to conceal under some irrigating project.  We even know what you, madame, seem not to know,—­that this able ministerial agent has found means to combine with the cares of electoral politics those of his own private policy.  Monsieur Maxime de Trailles, if we are rightly informed, was on the point of succumbing to the chronic malady with which he has been so long afflicted; I mean debt.  Not debts, for we say “the debt of Monsieur de Trailles,” as we say “the debt of England.”  In this extremity the patient, resolved on heroic remedies, adopted that of marriage, which might perhaps be called marriage in extremis.

To cut a long story short, Monsieur de Trailles was sent to Arcis to put an end to the candidacy of an upstart of the Left centre, a certain Simon Giguet; and having brought forward the mayor of the town as the ministerial candidate, he finds the said mayor, named Beauvisage, possessed of an only daughter, rather pretty, and able to bring her husband five hundred thousand francs amassed in the honorable manufacture of cotton night-caps.  Now you see, I am sure, the mechanism of the affair.

As for our own claims, we certainly do not make cotton night-caps, but we make statues,—­statues for which we are decorated with the Legion of honor; religious statues, inaugurated with great pomp by Monseigneur the bishop of the diocese and all the constituted authorities; statues, or rather a statue, which the whole population of the town has flocked to the Ursuline convent to behold, where Mesdames the nuns, not a little puffed up with this magnificent addition to their bijou of a chapel, have kept their house and their oratory open to all comers for this whole day.  Is not that likely to popularize our candidacy?

This evening, to crown the ceremony of inaugurating our Saint-Ursula, we give in our chateau of Arcis a banquet to fifty guests, among whom we have had the malice to invite (with the chief inhabitants of the place) all the ministerial functionaries and, above all, the ministerial candidate.  But, in view of our own declared candidacy, we feel pretty well assured that the latter will not respond to the invitation.  So much the better! more room for others; and the missing guests, whose names will be made known on the morrow, will be convicted of a servilism which will, we think, injure their influence with the population.

Yesterday we paid a visit at the chateau de Cinq-Cygne, where d’Arthez presented us, in the first place, to the Princesse de Cadignan, who is wonderfully well preserved.  Both she and the old Marquise de Cinq-Cygne received Dorlange—­I should say, Sallenauve—­in the warmest manner.  It was from them that we learned the history of Monsieur Maxime de Trailles’ mission and its present results.  It seems that on his arrival the ministerial agent received some attentions at Cinq-Cygne,—­mere floating sticks, to discover the set of his current.  He evidently flattered himself that he should find support at Cinq-Cygne for his electioneering intrigue; which is so far from being the case that Duc Georges de Maufrigneuse, to whom, as a Jockey Club comrade, he told all his projects, gave us the information about them which I have now given to you, and which, if you will be so kind, I should like you to make over to Monsieur de l’Estorade.

May 12th.

The dinner has taken place, madame; it was magnificently served, and Arcis will talk about it for some time to come.  Sallenauve has in that great organist (who, by the bye, showed his talent on the organ admirably during the ceremony of inauguration) a sort of steward and factotum who leaves all the Vatels of the world far behind him; he would never have fallen on his sword for lack of a fish!  Colored lamps, garlands, draperies, decorated the dining-room; even fireworks were provided; nothing was wanting to the fete, which lasted to a late hour in the gardens of the chateau, where the populace danced and drank to its heart’s content.

Nearly all the invited guests came except those we desired to compromise.  The invitations having been sent at short notice, it was amusing to read the notes and letters of excuse, which Sallenauve ordered to be brought to him in the salon as they arrived.  As he opened each he took care to say:  “This is from Monsieur the sub-prefect; this from the procureur-du-roi; this from Monsieur Vinet the substitute, expressing regret that they cannot accept the invitation.”  All these concerted refusals were received with smiles and whispers by the company; but when a letter arrived from Beauvisage, and Sallenauve read aloud the “impossibility in which he found himself to correspond to his politeness,” the hilarity grew noisy and general, and was only stopped by the entrance of Monsieur Martener, examining judge, who performed an act of courage in coming to the dinner which his colleagues declined.  We must remark, however, than an examining-judge has two sides to him.  On that of the judge he is irremovable; he can only be deprived of the slight increase of salary he receives as an examiner and of the privilege of signing warrants and questioning thieves,—­splendid rights of which the chancellor can mulct him by a stroke of his pen.  But allowing that Monsieur Martener was only semi-brave, he was greeted on this occasion as a full moon.

The Duc de Maufrigneuse, d’Arthez, and Monseigneur the bishop, who was staying at Cinq-Cygne for a few days, were all present, and this made more noticeable the absence of one man, namely, Grevin, whose excuse, sent earlier in the day, was not read to the company.  The non-appearance of the Comte de Gondreville was explained by the recent death of his grandson, Charles Keller; and in sending the invitation Sallenauve had been careful to let him know he should understand a refusal.  But that Grevin, the count’s right arm, should absent himself, seemed to show that he and his patron were convinced of the probable election of Beauvisage, and would have no intercourse with the new candidate.

The dinner being given in honor of Saint-Ursula’s installation, which could not be celebrated by a banquet in the convent, Sallenauve had a fine opportunity for the following toast:—­

“To the Mother of the poor; the noble and saintly spirit which, for fifty years, has shone on Champagne, and to which we owe the vast number of distinguished and accomplished women who adorn this beautiful region of our country.”

If you know, as I do, madame, what a forlorn, beggarly region Champagne is, you would say, or something like it, that Sallenauve is a rascally fellow, and that the passion to enter the legislature makes a man capable of shocking deceit.  Was it worth while, in fact, for a man who usually respects himself to boldly tell a lie of criminal dimensions, when a moment later a little unforeseen circumstance occurred which did more than all the speeches ever uttered to commend him to the sympathy of the electors?

You told me, madame, that your son Armand found a strong likeness to the portraits of Danton in our friend Sallenauve; and it seems that the boy’s remark was true, for several persons present who had known the great revolutionist during his lifetime made the same observation.  Laurent Goussard, who, as I told you in a former letter, was Danton’s friend, was also, in a way, his brother-in-law; for Danton, who was something of a gallant, had been on close terms for several years with the miller’s sister.  Well, the likeness must be striking, for after dinner, while we were taking our coffee, the worthy Goussard, whose head was a little warmed by the fumes of wine, came up to Sallenauve and asked him whether he was certain he had made no mistake about his father, and could honestly declare that Danton had nothing to do with his making.

Sallenauve took the matter gaily, and answered arithmetically,—­

“Danton died April 5, 1794.  To be his son, I must have been born no later than January, 1795, which would make me forty-four years old to-day.  But the register of my birth, and I somewhat hope my face, make me out exactly thirty.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Laurent Goussard; “figures demolish my idea; but no matter,—­we’ll vote for you all the same.”

I think the man is right; this chance resemblance is likely to have great weight in the election.  You must remember, madame, that, in spite of the fatal facts which cling about his memory, Danton is not an object of horror and execration in Arcis, where he was born and brought up.  In the first place time has purged him; his grand character and powerful intellect remain, and the people are proud of their compatriot.  In Arcis they talk of Danton as in Marseilles they talk of Cannebiere.  Fortunate, therefore, is our candidate’s likeness to this demigod, the worship of whom is not confined to the town, but extends to the surrounding country.

These voters extra muros are sometimes curiously simple-minded, and obvious contradictions trouble them not at all.  Some agents sent into the adjacent districts have used this fancied resemblance; and as in a rural propaganda the object is less to strike fair than to strike hard, Laurent Goussard’s version, apocryphal as it is, is hawked about the country villages with a coolness that admits of no contradiction.

While this pretended revolutionary origin is advancing our friend’s prospects in one direction, in another the tale put forth to the worthy voters whom it is desirable to entice is different, but truer and not less striking to the minds of the country-people.  This is the gentlemen, they are told, who has bought the chateau of Arcis; and as the chateau of Arcis stands high above the town and is known to all the country round, it is to these simple folk a species of symbol.  They are always ready to return to memories of the past, which is much less dead and buried than people suppose; “Ah! he’s the seigneur of the chateau,” they say.

This, madame, is how the electoral kitchen is carried on and the way in which a deputy is cooked.