Then she came back and sat down before the fire, and
pondered over many things we never think of when we
are young.
She had been brought up in one of those families who
live entirely to themselves, apart from all the rest
of the world. Such families know nothing of political
events, although they are discussed at table; for
changes in the Government take place at such a distance
from them that they are spoken of as one speaks of
a historical event, such as the death of Louis XVI
or the landing of Napoleon.
Customs are modified in course of time, fashions succeed
one another, but such variations are taken no account
of in the placid family circle where traditional usages
prevail year after year. And if some scandalous
episode or other occurs in the neighborhood, the disreputable
story dies a natural death when it reaches the threshold
of the house. The father and mother may, perhaps,
exchange a few words on the subject when alone together
some evening, but they speak in hushed tones—for
even walls have ears. The father says, with bated
breath:
“You’ve heard of that terrible affair
in the Rivoil family?”
And the mother answers:
“Who would have dreamed of such a thing?
It’s dreadful.”
The children suspected nothing, and arrive in their
turn at years of discretion with eyes and mind blindfolded,
ignorant of the real side of life, not knowing that
people do not think as they speak, and do not speak
as they act; or aware that they should live at war,
or at all events, in a state of armed peace, with
the rest of mankind; not suspecting the fact that
the simple are always deceived, the sincere made sport
of, the good maltreated.
Some go on till the day of their death in this blind
probity and loyalty and honor, so pure-minded that
nothing can open their eyes.
Others, undeceived, but without fully understanding,
make mistakes, are dismayed, and become desperate,
believing themselves the playthings of a cruel fate,
the wretched victims of adverse circumstances, and
exceptionally wicked men.
The Savignols married their daughter Bertha at the
age of eighteen. She wedded a young Parisian,
George Baron by name, who had dealings on the Stock
Exchange. He was handsome, well-mannered, and
apparently all that could be desired. But in
the depths of his heart he somewhat despised his old-fashioned
parents-in-law, whom he spoke of among his intimates
as “my dear old fossils.”
He belonged to a good family, and the girl was rich.
They settled down in Paris.
She became one of those provincial Parisians whose
name is legion. She remained in complete ignorance
of the great city, of its social side, its pleasures
and its customs—just as she remained ignorant
also of life, its perfidy and its mysteries.
Devoted to her house, she knew scarcely anything beyond
her own street; and when she ventured into another
part of Paris it seemed to her that she had accomplished
a long and arduous journey into some unknown, unexplored
city. She would then say to her husband in the
evening:
