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HOW ABBÉ DONADÉI ELOPED WITH THE SISTER SOUL TO HIS OWN

ABBÉ DONADÉI had allowed himself to be overcome by one of those violent desires which sometimes burst out in cunning, sneaking natures. He so clever, so prudent, had been guilty of a clumsy mistake. He was conscious of it when the beadle had left with the prayer-book and love-letter. From that moment he must be prepared to meet all the consequences of his audacious act. Claire had excited a yearning in him which he meant to satisfy in spite of all. He was beyond the sacred scruples of his calling. He looked on things human from too lofty a height, he had mixed in too many jobs of a more or less honourable nature, to hesitate at a seduction. That was the least thing that troubled him. It was the sequel to the seduction, at which he felt alarmed.

For two long months he had tried to attract the young girl to his house. Then, as she was about to accede to his wish in all simplicity, he had renounced that plan, convinced that an intrigue of this nature could not be carried on in the midst of Marseille. It was thus that he had little by little reached the point of wishing to play all for all, like a daring gambler; his passion was increasing and torturing him and he was ready to exchange his influential position for a woman’s free and entire love: he preferred to elope with Claire openly, and fly with her to Italy.

Donadéi was too sharp and intelligent not to have thought of a retreat. If the young girl in the long run had been in his way, he would have shut her up in a convent and obtained the forgiveness of his uncle the Cardinal. When he had examined and calculated everything, an elopement seemed to him the most easy and prompt of all plans and the one which presented the least danger.

He only feared one thing: that Claire would not keep the appointment and would refuse to run away with him. Then, the love-letter would become a terrible arm. He would be without the girl and might lose his position. But he was blinded by desire, he did not notice the calm candour of his penitent, but took the acts of adoration addressed to the Almighty for so many mute avowals made to himself.

However, he had still fears, and regretted having advanced too far to be able to retreat. All his prudence and cowardice returned to him, and he impatiently awaited the beadle’s return. As soon as he caught sight of him he exclaimed:

“Well?”

“I gave the book,” answered the beadle.

“To the young lady herself?”

“Yes, to the young lady.”

The beadle made this answer with superb self-possession. On his way back he regretted having given Marius the prayer-book, and, as he saw that he had performed his errand very badly, he determined to lie in order to deserve the abbé’s good will.

Donadéi felt somewhat reassured. He judged that if the young girl felt offended at the note, she would burn it. Hazard, forgetting a prayer-book, had hastened a solution that he had been seeking so long. He had now only to wait.

The next morning, he received the visit of a veiled lady whose features he was unable to distinguish. This person handed him a letter and promptly withdrew. The missive only contained these words: “Yes, tonight!” Donadéi was beside himself with delight, and set about making his preparations for departure.

If anyone had followed the veiled lady, they would have seen her join the gallant Sauvaire who was awaiting her in the Rue du Petit Chantier. She raised her veil: it was Clairon.

“He’s a very nice fellow that abbé,” she said, on reaching the master-stevedore.

“Does he please you? So much the better!” answered Sauvaire. And they went off bursting with laughter.

At about half-past nine in the evening, Clairon and Sauvaire were again in the Rue du Petit Chantier. They walked slowly, stopping at each step as if waiting for someone. Clairon, who was dressed simply in a black woollen gown, had her face hidden beneath a thick veil. Sauvaire was disguised as a commissionaire.

“Here’s Marius,” the latter suddenly exclaimed.

“Are you ready?” inquired the young man in an undertone, as soon as he was close to them. “Do you know your parts well?”

“Of course!” answered the master-stevedore. “You’ll see how we can act. Ah! the good joke! I shall be laughing over it for the next six months.”

“Go on to the abbé’s, we will wait for you here. Be prudent.”

Sauvaire went and knocked at Donadéi’s door. It was opened by the abbé himself who was attired in a travelling suit and seemed very excited.

“What do you want?” he inquired roughly, disappointed at seeing a man before him.

“I have come with a young lady,” answered the sham commissionaire.

“Good, let her come in quickly.”

“She would not come up to the door.”

“Ah!”

“She said like this: ‘Tell the gentleman that I prefer going straight to the carriage.’”

“Wait a minute. I have something to take with me.”

“Yes, but you see the young lady is afraid, standing in the middle of the Boulevard.”

“Then run quick and tell her that the post-chaise is at the corner of the Rue des Tyrans. Let her get in. I shall be there in five minutes.”

Donadéi banged the door to, and Sauvaire held his sides and almost split with silent laughter. This adventure beat everything he had ever heard of.

He returned to the Rue du Petit Chantier, where Clairon and Marius were awaiting him.

“Everything is proceeding marvellously well,” he said to them in an undertone, “the abbé falls into the trap with angelic innocence. I know where the post-chaise is.”

“I noticed it coming along,” said Marius, “it is at the corner of the Rue des Tyrans.”

“That’s it, there is not a moment to spare, the abbé has promised to be there in five minutes.”

All three set off along the Boulevard de la Corderie, as far as the Rue des Tyrans, skirting the houses. There they perceived the post-chaise standing in the shade, all loaded and ready to start at the first crack of the whip. Marius and Sauvaire hid themselves under the archway of a great door. Clairon stood before them in the road.

Sauvaire and Clairon joked in a low voice while awaiting the abbé.

“Pooh! He will not care for me,” said Clairon. “He will cast me off at the first change of horses.”

“Who knows?”

“He’s very nice. I was afraid he would be old.”

“But, I say, you seem in love with the abbé. Oh! I’m not jealous. Only if you’re going off so willingly with him, you might return me the thousand francs I gave you to persuade you to assist us.”

“The thousand francs! Oh! indeed, and if he suddenly leaves me, must not I pay for my journey back?”

“I was joking, my dear, I don’t take back what I have given. Besides, I’m having my money’s worth of laughter.”

Marius intervened, repeating his instructions to Clairon.

“Do exactly as I told you,” he said. “Try to arrange so that he does not discover the trick until he is some leagues from Marseille. Do not speak, play your part with art. When he has discovered everything, act firmly, tell him I have his note and am determined to take it to the bishop, if you suffer the least harm, or if he shows himself again here. Advise him to go and seek fortune elsewhere.”

“Can I return at once to Marseille?” inquired Clairon.

“Certainly. I only want to drive him from the city by making him ridiculous for ever. I could have had him expelled from the church by his superiors, but I prefer annihilating him by mockery.”

Sauvaire was splitting with laughter at the thought of the scene between Abbé Donadéi and Clairon.

“Eh! my dear,” he continued, “tell him you are married and that your husband will no doubt be seeking you everywhere to prosecute you for your misconduct. Shall I run after you, and put your ravisher in a horrible fright?”

The idea of this joke so amused Sauvaire that he very nearly choked with hilarity. In the meanwhile Marius had noticed a dark form advancing rapidly towards them.

“Silence!” he exclaimed. “Here, I think, is our man. Attend to your part, Clairon. Place yourself in front of the carriage door.”

Sauvaire and Marius secreted themselves more closely in their hiding-place, and Clairon, with her face thickly veiled and dressed all in black, stood in the shadow thrown by the post-chaise. It was Donadéi, quite out of breath. He had thrown off the cowl and looked very smart in ordinary mufti.

“Dear, dear Claire,” he murmured with emotion, kissing Clairon’s hand, “how good of you to have come!”

“Claire, Clairon,” muttered Sauvaire, “it’s all the same.”

“Ah! Providence must have advised you,” continued the priest, pushing the girl gently into the carriage and then following her. “We are off to Paradise,” he added.

The postillion cracked his whip and the post-chaise started away with a frightful rumbling noise. Sauvaire and Marius then showed themselves, laughing until they almost cried.

“Eh! the abbé is eloping with the sister soul to his own,” said Marius.

“A pleasant journey, abbé,” cried Sauvaire.

When the chaise had disappeared in the night, bearing away Donadéi and Clairon, the master-stevedore and young clerk sauntered down the Boulevard de la Corderie, chatting about the adventure and giving way to sudden displays of gaiety, at the thought of the priest travelling alone with this creature.

“Can you fancy the face he’ll make presently,” said Sauvaire, “when he raises Clairon’s veil? Between you and me and the lamppost, you know, Clairon is ugly. She is at least forty.”

The master-stevedore willingly acknowledged Clairon’s age and ugliness, since the girl’s forty summers and faded countenance made the joke he was playing the more amusing.

He was splitting with laughter and anxious to reach the Cannebière to tell his friends the story. Marius, who was more serious, was thinking he had given the priest the company he deserved. He left the master-stevedore at about eleven o’clock at night and went home.

At midnight everyone at Marseille who had not then retired to rest, knew that Abbé Donadéi had just eloped in a post-chaise, with a girl who had been wallowing in all the debauchery of the city for the previous fifteen years. Sauvaire had been shouting out the news in the cafés, and had related the adventure with a wonderful profusion of detail. That precious phrase of the graceful abbé as he got into the chaise: “We’re off to Paradise!” was repeated from mouth to mouth. They knew he had kissed her hand; and they speculated as to the reason why the amorous couple had lied.

The best part of the business was that Sauvaire, not knowing why Marius had had Clairon carried off, displayed absolute naïvete. He understood that if Donadéi’s passion for her could be made to appear serious, the joke would be all the more funny, and he therefore lied with all the assurance of an inhabitant of the south of France; he made believe that the priest was really dying of love for this wrinkled, sallow-faced creature, wornout with shame, who was known to everyone.

There was general astonishment, universal mockery; people could not believe that the gallant abbé, with whom the penitent ladies of Marseille were so charmed, had run away with such a woman, and they jeered to their heart’s content at the monstrous alliance.

Next day the scandal was known to the whole city. Sauvaire triumphed and became a personage. They knew he had been Clairon’s last protector, and that the abbé had stolen the girl away from him. All day he sauntered up and down the Cannebière in slippers, comically receiving the condolences of his intimate acquaintances. He shouted out very loud, answering some, calling to others, using and abusing of his popularity. He certainly did not regret his thousand francs: he had never put out money for his amusement at so high a rate of interest.

The scandal became awful when Clairon returned two days later. Sauvaire bought her a silk gown and drove about Marseille with her for a week, in an open carriage. People pointed them out, and ran to their doors as they passed by. The master-stevedore almost burst with delight.

Clairon had gone as far as Toulon. Abbé Donadéi had not been long in discovering the kind of person he was eloping with: he had then flown into a frightful rage, and wanted to throw her out on the highway at one o’clock in the morning, far from any dwelling. But Clairon was not to be so easily got rid of. She had talked big and threatened the abbé, making use of the arms Marius held in his hands. Donadéi trembling and compelled to give way, had been obliged to conduct his companion as far as Toulon, where they separated, Clairon returning to Marseille, and the priest hurrying across the frontier.

Sauvaire drove the young person so much about and raised such an outcry, that the authorities took the matter in hand, and at the Bishop’s request sent Clairon to exercise the power of her charms elsewhere. Since then the master-stevedore in his effusive moments, which occurred ten or twelve times a day, was in the habit of saying to all who liked to listen to him: “Ah! if you only knew what a pretty person I had under my protection! It was the priests who took her away from me!”