A French Marriage

In the heart of 19th-century Parisian society, Irene, a young woman of marriageable age, finds herself caught in the whirlwind of an arranged marriage. Through her witty and insightful journal entries, we are invited into her private world as she navigates the complexities of societal expectations, family pressures, and her own desires for love and independence. Will she succumb to the conventions of her time or forge her own path to happiness?

Paris, November 25, 1882, 4 P.M.: This morning, at ten, I was about attacking Sonata №25 by Beethoven when the door opened. It was mamma. Mamma awake, mamma up at ten o’clock! And not only awake, not only up, but dressed, with a cloak on her shoulders and a hat on her head.

I don’t remember ever having seen mamma up at such an hour. She can never manage to get to Saint Clothilde on Sundays before the one o’clock mass is half over, and the other evening she said to that worthy Abbe Pontal, laughingly, “Our dear religion, Monsieur l’Abbe, would be perfection itself if you could appoint a mass for two o’clock. They could postpone the concerts at the Conservatoire an hour. That would make our winter Sundays simply delicious.”

At mamma’s entrance, I cried out in amazement, “Going out, mamma?”

“No, I just came in.”

“Just came in?”

“Yes, I had an errand to do this morning — some wools to match for my embroidery. That blue, you know, I can’t find anywhere.”

“But you did find it?”

“No-no-but they promised to look for it — I am in hopes — to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, at the latest — they are to send it.”

Thus mamma gets all twisted up in her discourse, and after several laborious and complicated circumlocutions, she concludes by informing me that we are going this evening to the Mercereys; that they are to have a little music; that she had known about it three days ago, but had forgotten to mention it.

I made no sign of surprise, but listened calmly to mamma, watching her attentively while I said to myself, “What is it all about? This early promenade, this wool-matching, this musical soirée at the Mercereys. Mamma is evidently taking leave of her senses.”

However, I allowed her to take leave of them without a word. Her allocution ended, mamma made a make-believe exit, such as they practice on the stage, then returned and said with affected indifference, “What dress shall you wear this evening?”

“This evening, mamma? Why, I don’t know — my gray one — or my blue one — or my pink one — or — “

“No, no, not your pink one. Wear your blue one. You were charming the day before yesterday at your Aunt Clarissa’s in your blue one. And, besides, your papa doesn’t like the pink one, and he is going with us to the Mercereys.”

“Papa going to the Mercereys?”

“Why, yes!”

“And he knows that there is to be music?”

“He knows it.”

“He knows it; and still he is going?”

“Yes; what is there wonderful in that?”

“Oh, nothing at all, mamma; nothing at all.”

Thereupon mamma went away; this time for good. I am left alone. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, I say to myself, “It’s about marriage. I am to be shown to someone, and it is on that account that papa is obliged to go.”

Papa, poor papa, allowing himself to be dragged by mamma to a soirée where there’s to be music. It’s equivalent to turning the world upside down. Papa can only tolerate three things in the evening — the club, the opera while the ballet is going on, and the minor theaters; the theaters where people laugh and amuse themselves; the theaters where we young girls cannot go; the theaters where I shall pass my life after I’m married.

Yes, there’s to be an interview, I’m sure of it. It must be something extraordinary, very extraordinary, for since this morning mamma has been in such a state! She hasn’t had any breakfast; she can’t be contented in any one place, and she has written to Mme. Loisel to beg her to come herself to dress my hair this evening. She has carefully inspected my blue dress, and she looks at me and examines me with the most minute attention. She was plunged into the deepest despair on discovering that there was something wrong in my incomparable person:

“What is that?” she exclaimed.

“What, mamma?”

“On the end of your nose?”

“Is there anything on the end of my nose?”

“Yes, a horrid gash.”

“Oh! Mon Dieu!”

Dreadfully frightened, I ran to the glass; it was nothing at all. A slight scratch from Bob’s paw, a tiny pink mark, already nearly effaced. It won’t be seen tonight.

This little pink mark assumes, in mamma’s eyes, the proportions of a hideous wound. Never has the end of my nose been the object of such touching solicitude. Mamma has made me pass half the day motionless in an easy chair, with water compresses placed, like a pair of spectacles, on said end of said nose.

Poor mamma, she is so anxious to see me married; and no wonder! She has been very beautiful, has mamma, and still looks remarkably well in the evening by artificial light. Under the circumstances, she doesn’t care to have a great scrawny girl, old enough to be married, trailing about after her in society.

I am quite annoyed myself, as I feel I am growing old; so as soon as we arrive anywhere in the evening, I immediately slip away and manage to meet her as seldom as possible. We carry out our little schemes without interfering with each other, and each in her own way.

She is a good mamma. There are bad mothers who drive their daughters about and order them to marry blindfolded, at five minutes’ notice. Mamma is not that kind.

She knows that I am resolved not to decide hastily. Marriage is no laughing matter. If one makes a mistake, it is made for life. Thus it is worth the trouble of thinking about. I wish to make a sensible match. It is not necessary to fall desperately in love with a dark or light gentleman at first sight, and to say to one’s mother on coming home in the evening: “Mamma, that’s the one I love.” “Mamma, that’s the one I want.”

No, it’s not necessary to deceive oneself like this. I shall not deceive myself.

Last spring I refused no less than five eligible suitors, eligible, but who did not combine all the advantages of birth, fortune, and position that I consider I have a right to expect.

During this winter’s campaign, I shall exhibit the same calmness, the same prudence. I am not yet twenty. I can wait.

Besides, I am satisfied, very well satisfied, with my conduct this morning. I have not been won over by mamma’s agitation, and today as usual I am tranquilly, coolly writing up my journal.

The day I was eighteen I wrote on the first page of this book — kept under strict lock and key — these simple words: “My MARRIAGE.”

And already five have bitten the dust. This evening, I am sure of it, the sixth candidate will have his turn. Is it his destiny to become my humble and very obedient lord and master? Let him prepare, in any event, to pass a most severe and minute examination. I’m not like mamma. I don’t lose my head.

November 26, 4 P.M.: I was not mistaken; it was the sixth.

But let me proceed in order and note regularly the great and little events of yesterday’s soirée.

After dinner, we went upstairs to dress, mamma and I. I devoted considerable time and care to the task. I must confess that I took unusual pains. At any rate, I didn’t go down for an hour and a half. On reaching the foot of the stairs, I found all the doors open, and while I was noiselessly making my way toward the small salon, I heard papa saying to mamma:

“Then you believe that it’s necessary?”

“Absolutely necessary. Reflect on it; your presence is indispensable.”

The temptation was too great. I stopped; I listened. Did I not have a right to do so? Was ever indiscretion more pardonable?

“Why indispensable?” answered papa. “I know the young man. I have frequently met him at the club; I have even played whist with him. He doesn’t play badly. He saw Irene on horseback yesterday, and he thought her charming. It’s quite satisfactory; but what have I to do with it? It’s your affair — yours and Irene’s.”

“Mon ami. I assure you that it is strictly en règle — “

“Well! well! I’ll go. I’ll go!”

Then silence; nothing more. I waited to hear the name; no name. My heart throbbed a little; and as I was rather tightly laced — quite so, in fact — I could hear it go “tic-tac, tic-tac” against my corsage. I remain there a few moments. As the conversation was not intended for my ear, I ought not to seem to have overheard it.

I knew one thing, however, and that was very important. He belonged to the Jockey Club, and it was precisely this that I had insisted on. It’s papa’s fault that I attach so much importance to it. So far as he is concerned, if anyone doesn’t belong to the Jockey there is no such person. Papa’s world begins with those who belong to the Jockey, and ends with those who do not. I have been educated in these ideas, so my husband shall belong to the Jockey.

We all three start in the landau, papa gloomy, depressed, and silent; mamma still excited; I apparently impassive, but really anxious.

Why this mystery? The gentleman had seen me the day before on horseback. It was very good of him to admit that I was charming. Was it he who asked to see me by gaslight and decollectee?

All this seemed to me not in good form. He should have been submitted to me for examination, this young man, before being allowed to criticize so freely my person on foot and on horseback.

We reached the Mercereys at half-past ten. Alas! poor papa, it was indeed a soirée musicale, as classic and difficult as possible for those to sit through who are unaccustomed to that form of amusement. A quartet, with all that the name implies!

Very few people — not more than twenty. A droll kind of soirée that betrayed the haste in which it had been gotten up — a little bric-à-brac fête with neither esprit de corps nor ensemble. The guests were unacquainted, nay, they were absolutely indifferent to one another — the Mercereys’ physician, their architect, their notary, all evidently invited to help furnish the rooms, to fill up.

It is anything but an easy matter to arrange just the right sort of thing in the month of November. There are so few in Paris, one is obliged to be satisfied for small parties with people one would scarcely meet at grand entertainments in the height of the season, say, in the month of May.

We arrived in the middle of the andante of a sonata, and managed to creep in cautiously without exciting general remark. I took possession of a corner and rapidly surveyed the field of battle. Here and there old and middle-aged people, stale, used-up, plumeless heroes. Nothing for me.

But stay; in the opposite corner I note a group of four young men, all four unknown to me. It does not admit of a doubt; the enemy is there!

Yes, but which is he? I go through the following process of reasoning, which strikes me as admirable in its simplicity: “It’s the one who watches me the most closely.”

I modestly look down and assume the attitude of a very good little young lady entirely absorbed in the austere pleasure of listening to one of Haydn’s sonatas.

Then I suddenly look up, and my glance falls directly on the youthful group. But I am obliged to look down again more rapidly than I looked up. All four are looking at me with evident curiosity and pleasure. I allow a little of the sonata to intervene and then repeat the experiment. The same result. The four pairs of eyes are still fixed on me, and the same thing happens several times.

In my opinion, I was not unworthy of this attention. I looked well, very well. The country has been a great success this year. It has fleshed me up a little, not too much, just enough. Virginie, my maid, said to me last evening as she was dressing me:

“Ah! Mademoiselle doesn’t know how much she has gained this summer!”

But Virginie was mistaken. “Mademoiselle” was quite well aware of it. One always is the first to notice these things.

End of the quartet, followed by some confusion. I lead mamma a little aside and say to her, “Mamma, I beg of you, point him out to me.”

“So you’ve guessed, you little humbug.”

“Yes, yes; I’ve guessed; but point him out quick, quick; the music is going to begin again.”

“Well! it’s the tall, dark one on the left, under the Meissonier; don’t look, he’s looking at you.”

“And he’s not the only one; they’re all doing that — all — all.”

“He isn’t looking now, see; he’s going up to your father; he’s speaking to him.”

“He’s not bad-looking.”

“Not at all.”

“The mouth is a little too large.”

“I don’t — “

“Oh, yes, it is, mamma; but the ensemble may be tolerated.”

“Ah! if you knew. Birth, fortune, everything one can wish. Such an extraordinary opportunity.”

“And his name?”

“The Comte de Martelle-Simieuse. Don’t look anymore. He’s watching you again. Yes, he’s a Martelle-Simieuse, and the Martelle-Simieuses are cousins of the Landry-Simieuses and of the Martelle-Jonzacs. Now, you see the Martelle-Simieuses — “

One of the musicians here knocked “toc-toc” on his little stand, which cut short mamma’s torrent of eloquence. We sit down. It is Mozart now. I retire to my corner again and plunge into deep reflection.

Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse! Two names. It has always been a dream of mine to have two names. I should have preferred to be a duchess, naturally; but there are so few dukes — that is, real dukes, incontestable dukes, only twenty-two, I believe — that it is like hoping against hope. A countess, then, be it! Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse! There is style about the name. I repeat it over to myself. I don’t hear a note of the Mozart quartet. Is it really Mozart that the two violins, the alto, and the bass are playing? The four instruments are singing me a song the refrain of which is: “Madame the Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse.”

The name — a matter of such importance — the name sounds well with the title. For it is with the title as with the Jockey. I must have a title. To become a simple bourgeoise — never! Not for a fortune like those in the “Thousand and One Nights.” Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse. Yes, the name is decidedly acceptable.

The hum of conversation again after the quartet. Papa goes toward mamma, and I follow his example. Scarcely have we reached her when mamma, still more excited, exclaims:

“Things are progressing with lightning-like rapidity. He has asked to be presented to me, and your father noticed that his voice trembled. Didn’t it, mon ami?”

“Yes,” replies papa, “his voice trembled.”

“Your father is going to bring him here. If he is displeasing to you, you need not remain by me. If he is not displeasing, stay.”

“I will stay, mamma, but it is understood that you are to allow me time for consideration. You’ve promised not to hurry me.”

“You shall always be entirely free, but let me assure you that it is no common match. If you knew his relatives, the relationship with different families! His mother was a Precigny-Laroche. Do you understand? a Precigny-Laroche.”

“Yes, mamma, I understand.”

“And there is nothing higher than the Precigny-Laroches — nothing!”

“Be calm, mamma, be calm; they are looking at us.”

Papa has gone to find him. He brings him up, and then, between two morceaux, we four have a bit of conversation.

He was, indeed, evidently disconcerted. He who at a distance had courage enough to look at me boldly, had none at all when standing near me. It was I who directed the interview, and with rare skill, since amid the usual commonplaces of a fashionable conversation, I managed in ten minutes to learn what it was important for me to know before I permitted the affair to go any farther.

He loves Paris above everything; just like me! He is bored in the country; just like me! He finds Trouville amusing; again like me. He has no taste for gunning — gunning, which makes martyrs of us women; gunning, which robs us of our husbands and their friends the entire day and returns them to us at night worn out, used up, and brutalized.

On the other hand, he adores horses and hunting; still like me! Ah! hunting is a quite different affair. We can share it. How many times I have said to myself: “My husband shall have a hunting establishment.”

And he has one — for boar-hunting. He is the lessee of a State forest ten leagues from Paris. One can leave at half-past eight in the morning by that most convenient of stations, the Gare du Nord, be on horseback at ten-thirty, and, except in the case of very difficult and very long hunts, be back in Paris in time for the theater or a ball.

Nor is this all. He is perfectly free as to his time, his person, and his fortune. No father and no mother; nothing but a brother younger than himself, a one-year volunteer in an artillery regiment, and an aunt, very rich, very old, and childless. He is therefore the head of the family.

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