The Comtesse Irma

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Title:     The Comtesse Irma
Author: Alphonse Daudet [More Titles by Daudet]

"_M. Charles d'Athis, literary man, has the honour to inform you of the birth of his son Robert._

"_The child is doing well._"

Some dozen years ago, all literary and artistic Paris received this little note on the glossiest of paper, embossed with the arms of the Counts of d'Athis-Mons, of whom the last Charles d'Athis had--while still young--succeeded in making for himself a genuine reputation as a poet.

"The child is doing well." And the mother? Of her there was no mention in the note. Every one knew her but too well. She was the daughter of an old poacher of Seine et Oise; a quondam model, named Irma Salle, whose portrait had figured in every exhibition, as the original had in every studio. Her low forehead, lip curled like an antique, this chance return of the peasant's face to primitive lines--a turkey herd with Greek features--the slightly tanned skin common to all whose childhood is spent in the open air, giving to fair hair reflections of pale silkiness, adorned this minx with a kind of wild originality, completed by a pair of magnificently green eyes, burning beneath heavy eyebrows.

One night, on leaving a _bal de l'Opera_, d'Athis had taken her to sup with him, and though this was two years ago, the supper still continued. But, whereas Irma had become completely a part of the poet's life, this intimation of the child's birth, curt and haughty as it was, sufficiently indicated how little she was considered by him. And in truth, in this temporary household, the woman was scarcely more than a housekeeper, showing in the management of the gentleman-poet's house the hard shrewdness of her dual nature of peasant and courtesan; and endeavouring, at no matter what price, to render herself indispensable.

Too rustic, and too stupid to understand anything of d'Athis' genius, of those fine verses, fashionable and refined, which made of him a sort of Parisian Tennyson, she nevertheless understood how to bend to all his whims, and be silent under his contempt; as if in the depths of that peasant nature lurked something of the boor's humble admiration for his lord. The birth of the child only served to accentuate her unimportance in the house.

When the dowager Comtesse d'Athis-Mons, the mother of the poet, a distinguished and very great lady, learned that a grandson was born to her, a sweet little Vicomte, duly recognized and authenticated by the author of his being,* she was seized with a wish to see and kiss the child. It was, to be sure, a rather bitter reflection for the former reader to Queen Marie-Amelie to think that the heir of such a great name should have such a mother; but, keeping strictly to the terms of the _billets de faire pari_ the venerable lady could forget that the creature existed.

* According to French law, an unmarried man recognizing his illegitimate child, thereby confers on him all the rights of a legitimate one, including both title and fortune.

When she went to see the child out at nurse, she chose the days on which she would be sure not to meet any one; she admired him, spoilt him, took him to her heart, worshipped him with that grandmotherly adoration which is the last love of a woman's life, giving her an excuse for living a few years longer in order to see the little ones springing up and growing around her. Then when the baby Vicomte was a little bigger and returned to live with his father and mother, a treaty was made, for the Comtesse could not give up her beloved visits; at the sound of the grandmother's ring, Irma humbly and silently disappeared, or else the child was taken to his grandmother's house, and thus spoilt by his two mothers. He loved them equally, somewhat astonished to feel in the warmth of their caresses, a kind of exclusive-ness, a wish to monopolize. D'Athis, careless of everything but his verses, absorbed by his growing fame, was content to adore his little Robert, to talk of him to everyone and to imagine that the child belonged to him, and him only. This illusion did not last.

"I should like to see you married," his mother said to him one day.

"Yes, but how about the child?" "Don't worry yourself about that. I have picked out for you a young girl of good family but poor, who adores you. I have introduced Robert to her, and they are already great friends. Besides, the first year I will keep the darling with me. Afterwards, we shall see."

"And--the mother?" hesitated the poet, reddening a little, for it was the first time that he had spoken of Irma to his mother.

"Pooh!" replied the old dowager, laughing, "we will settle something handsome on her, and I am quite sure she will soon be married also. The _bourgeois_ of Paris is not particular."

That very evening, d'Athis, who had never been desperately in love with his mistress, spoke to her of these arrangements and found her as usual--submissive and apparently docile to his will. But the next day, when he returned home, he found that mother and child had flown. Finally, they were discovered in a wretched hut on the borders of the Forest of Rambouillet, with Irma's father; and when the poet arrived he found his son, his young prince, in his velvet and lace, jumping on the old poacher's knee, playing with his pipe, running after the hens, delighted to shake his fair curls in the fresh air. D'Athis, though much upset by emotion, pretended to laugh the affair off, and wished at once to take his fugitives home with him. But Irma did not see the matter in the same light. She had been dismissed; she took her child with her. What more natural? Nothing short of the poet's promise that he would give up all thoughts of marriage decided her to return. Moreover, she made her own conditions. It had been too long forgotten that she was Robert's mother. Always to disappear and hide whenever Madame d'Athis appeared, was no longer possible for her. The child was growing too old for her to be exposed to such humiliations before him. It was therefore agreed that as Madame d'Athis had refused to be brought into contact with her son's mistress, she should no longer go to his house, but that the child should be brought to her every day.

Then began for the old grandmother a regular torture. Every day fresh pretexts were made to keep the child away; he had coughed, it was too cold, it was raining. Then came his walks, rides, gymnastic exercises. The poor old lady never saw her grandson. At first she tried complaining to d'Athis; but women alone have the secret of carrying on these little warfares. Their ruses remain invisible, like the hidden stitches which catch back the folds and laces of their dress. The poet could see nothing of it; and the saddened grandmother spent her life in waiting for her darling's visit, in watching for him in the street, when he walked out with a servant; and these furtive kisses and hasty glances only augmented her maternal passion without satisfying it.

During this time, Irma Salle--always by means of the child--succeeded in gaining ground in the father's heart. She was the recognized head of the house now, received visitors, gave parties, settled herself as a woman who means to remain where she is. Still she took care to say from time to time to the little Vicomte, before his father: "Do you remember the chickens at Grandpapa Salle's? Shall we go back and see them?"

And by this everlasting threat of departure, she paved the way to the end she had in view--marriage.

It took her five years to become a Comtesse, but at length she gained her point. One day, the poet came in fear and trembling to announce to his mother that he had decided to marry his mistress, and the old lady, instead of being indignant hailed the calamity as a deliverance, seeing but one thing in the marriage; the possibility of once more entering her son's door, and of freely indulging her affection for her little Robert.

In truth, the real honeymoon was for the grandmother. D'Athis, after this rash act, wished to be away from Paris for a time. He felt uneasy there. And as the child, clinging to his mother's skirts ruled the house, they all established themselves in Irma's native country, within hail of old father Salle's chickens. It was indeed the most curious, the most ill-assorted household that could be imagined. Grandmama d'Athis and Grandpapa Salle met each night at the evening toilet of their grandson. The old poacher, his short black pipe wedged into the corner of his mouth; and the former reader at the Tuileries, with her silvery hair, and her imposing manner, together watched the lovely child rolling before them on the carpet, and admired him equally. The one brought him from Paris the newest, most expensive, most showy toys; the other manufactured for him the most splendid whistles from bits of elder; and, by Jove! the Dauphin hesitated between them!

Upon the whole, among all these beings grouped as it were by force around a cradle, the only really unhappy one was Charles d'Athis. His elegant and patrician inspiration suffered from this life in the depths of a forest, like a delicate Parisian woman for whom the country air is too strong. He could no longer work, and far from that terrible Paris who shuts her gates so quickly against the absent, he felt himself already nearly forgotten. Fortunately the child was there, and when the child smiled, the father thought no more of his successes as a poet, nor of the past of Irma Salle.

And now, would you know the finale of this singular drama? Read the brief note bordered with black, that I received only a few days ago, and which is the last page of this truly Parisian adventure:

"_M. le Comte and Mme. la Comtesse d'Athis grieve to inform you of the death of their son Robert!_"

Unhappy creatures! Imagine them all four gazing at each other before that empty cradle!

[The end]
Alphonse Daudet's short story: The Comtesse Irma

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