The Comtesse Irma
by
“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.