Pride: One of the Seven Cardinal Sins

But, alas! in spite of the excellence of the repast, the three guests did little honour to it. Joy had deprived them of their appetites, and the worthy housekeeper, in her disappointment, could not help comparing this disheartening indifference with the zest with which Gerald and Olivier had devoured two helpings of her hastily improvised vinaigrette several months before.

Madame Barbançon had just removed the fowl almost untouched, and as she placed the snow custard on the table, she muttered between her teeth:

"They'll clean this dish sure. One doesn't have to be hungry to eat this. It is the very food for lovers."

"The devil! Mother Barbançon," said the commander, gaily, "here's a dish that reminds me of the snow-banks of Newfoundland. What a pity it is that none of us are the least bit hungry!"

"It is, indeed, for Madame Barbançon has proved herself to be a veritable cordon bleu to-day," remarked Gerald.

"It is the finest snow custard that was ever concocted," added Olivier. "We can at least devour it with our eyes."

The housekeeper, who could not believe that she was to be subjected to this last cruel affront, said, in constrained tones:

"You gentlemen must be jesting."

"Jesting about such a sacred thing as your snow custard, Mother Barbançon? The devil take me if I should dare to be as sacrilegious as all that," said the commander. "But as we're not in the least hungry, it is impossible for us to taste your chef-d'œuvre."

"Yes, absolutely impossible," repeated the two young men.

The housekeeper did not utter a word, but a sudden contraction of her features betrayed the violence of her resentment plainly enough.

Seizing a soup plate, she emptied nearly half the contents of the dish into it; then, placing it in front of the astonished commander, said, in tones of authority:

"You – you will eat it, monsieur."

"But listen, Mother Barbançon – "

"It is no use to 'Mother Barbançon' me. This is only the second time in ten years that I have had occasion to make a snow custard. I made this in honour of M. Olivier's and M. Gerald's marriages. There are no 'ifs' and 'buts' about it; you are going to eat it."

The unfortunate veteran, seeing only hostile faces around him, – for Gerald and Olivier, the traitors, pretended to uphold the housekeeper, – attempted a compromise.

"All right. I will eat it to-morrow, Mother Barbançon," he said.

"As if a snow custard would keep until to-morrow!" retorted the housekeeper, shrugging her shoulders. "You're going to eat it now, this minute."

"I won't do anything of the kind," exclaimed the veteran, testily. "I'm not going to kill myself for anybody."

"Kill yourself with a snow custard made by me!" exclaimed the housekeeper, as sadly and reproachfully as if her employer had mortally insulted her. "Ah, me! I little expected – after ten years of faithful service – and on such – such a happy day – the day when M. Olivier is to take a wife – to find myself – treated – like – this."

And the worthy woman began to sob violently.

"What on earth is the woman crying about?" exclaimed the veteran, in despair. "You are crazy, my dear woman! Upon my word of honour, you must be crazy!"

"Kill you! Ah, I shall not forget those words for many a long year, I can tell you."

"Oh, come, come now! I'll eat the – Look, don't you see that I am eating it now?" said the unfortunate commander, hastily swallowing a few spoonfuls. "It is delicious, divine, this custard of yours. Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes, monsieur; yes, that satisfies me," said the housekeeper, drying her tears. "It was a nice custard. I said to myself while I was stirring it, 'I certainly must give my recipe to M. Olivier's little wife.' I must, mustn't I, M. Olivier?"

"Of course you must, Madame Barbançon, for Mlle. Ernestine is going to prove a model housekeeper, I'm sure."

"And the grand pickles I'll teach her to make, – green as grass and crisp as hazelnuts. Oh, you shall see what nice little dishes we will fix up for you, your little wife and I."

Gerald, to whom M. de Maillefort had been obliged to confide the secret of Mlle. de Beaumesnil's masquerade, could not help laughing heartily at the idea of Madame Barbançon giving her cooking recipes to the richest heiress in France.

"What are you laughing at, M. Gerald?" asked the housekeeper. "Have you no confidence in my recipes?"

"I believe in them as I believe in the gospels. I am laughing just because I am so happy, I suppose. That is only natural, I imagine, on one's marriage day."

"There have been monsters who were more ferocious than ever on their marriage day," responded Madame Barbançon, with a gloomy and profoundly mysterious air.

"Nonsense!"

"Think, M. Gerald. Don't you recollect how he conducted himself on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise? – the scoundrel!"

Madame Barbançon evidently thought it entirely superfluous to mention the object of her execration by name.

"Come, Mother Barbançon, you had better give us our coffee now," interposed the commander. "It is nearly six o'clock."

"Well, monsieur, that wretch whom you admire so much, on the day of his marriage with Marie Louise, behaved more cruelly than any tiger to that darling little King of Rome, who, clasping his tiny hands, pleaded in his fresh, sweet voice: 'Papa Emperor, do not desert poor Mamma Josephine.'"

"Oh, yes, yes; I remember it very well," replied Gerald, with wonderful sang-froid. "You are speaking of the King of Rome, Josephine's son."

"Certainly, M. Gerald; there were no other children. But, after all, that is nothing in comparison to what the wretch had the audacity to do to the Holy Father, on the very steps of the altar at Notre-Dame."

"What was it he did? I have forgotten."

"It seems," began Madame Barbançon, sententiously, "it seems that at coronations the Pope always takes the crown and places it on the head of the monarch he is crowning. You can imagine how much this must have angered your Bû-û-onaparte, who was already in a huff because he had had to kiss the Pope's toe in the middle of the Carrousel, before those swaggering guards of his. But he kissed it, the scoundrel! He had to. If he hadn't, the petit homme rouge, who was against Roustan, and for the pope, would have wrung his neck that very night."

"The Pope's?" asked Gerald.

"Roustan's?" inquired Olivier.

"No, no, gentlemen, not theirs, but Bû-û-onaparte's. Still, no matter about that. What I was going to say was that when the Holy Father was about to crown him, what did that Corsican ogre you are so fond of do – like the low common grocer that he was – but grab the crown from the hands of the poor Holy Father and put it on his head with one hand, while with the other he gave the Holy Father a sound rap on the skull, as if to say to the French people: 'Down with religion, the clergy, and all! It is only to me you must bow the knee.' It was such a blow that he gave the poor Holy Father that he reeled and fell headlong on the steps of the altar with his cap down over his eyes, and there he gave thanks in Latin, that angel of a man! This goes to prove, M. Olivier," added the housekeeper, as a sort of conclusion and moral, "that marriage only renders Corsican ogres still more ferocious, while I am sure your and M. Gerald's marriage to such dear girls as your sweethearts must be will only make you still more kind and amiable."

And the worthy woman hurried off to bring the coffee and serve it while Commander Bernard filled his big Kummer pipe.

The hilarity caused by Madame Barbançon's story soon gave place to graver and nobler thoughts.

"In spite of her peculiarities, this good woman is right in reminding us that our marriage ought to increase whatever good we have in us," remarked Gerald. "I hardly see how it can fail to do so, do you, Olivier?"

Then perceiving that his friend had fallen into a sort of reverie, Gerald laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder and asked:

"What are you thinking about, Olivier?"

"I was thinking, my dear Gerald, that it was while we were seated at this table, just six months ago, that I spoke to you for the first time about the charming girl everybody here called the duchess, and that you replied: 'Duchesses, don't talk to me of duchesses. I've had enough of them!' and now, thanks to you, she is a real duchess, the Duchesse de Senneterre. How strangely things come about in this world of ours!"

"You are right, my dear boys," said the old naval officer, "and when the present is all that one can desire, it is very pleasant to look back upon the past. Six months ago, for example, who would have guessed that my brave Olivier would now be on the eve of marrying a dear, sweet girl who had saved my life at the risk of her own?"