

Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman & Hall “Tales of All Countries” edition
by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                             LA MÈRE BAUCHE.


THE Pyreneean valley in which the baths of Vernet are situated is not
much known to English, or indeed to any travellers.  Tourists in search
of good hotels and picturesque beauty combined, do not generally extend
their journeys to the Eastern Pyrenees.  They rarely get beyond Luchon;
and in this they are right, as they thus end their peregrinations at the
most lovely spot among these mountains, and are as a rule so deceived,
imposed on, and bewildered by guides, innkeepers, and horse-owners, at
this otherwise delightful place, as to become undesirous of further
travel.  Nor do invalids from distant parts frequent Vernet.  People of
fashion go to the Eaux Bonnes and to Luchon, and people who are really
ill to Baréges and Cauterets.  It is at these places that one meets
crowds of Parisians, and the daughters and wives of rich merchants from
Bordeaux, with an admixture, now by no means inconsiderable, of
Englishmen and Englishwomen.  But the Eastern Pyrenees are still
unfrequented.  And probably they will remain so; for though there are
among them lovely valleys—and of all such the valley of Vernet is perhaps
the most lovely—they cannot compete with the mountain scenery of other
tourists-loved regions in Europe.  At the Port de Venasquez and the
Brèche de Roland in the Western Pyrenees, or rather, to speak more truly,
at spots in the close vicinity of these famous mountain entrances from
France into Spain, one can make comparisons with Switzerland, Northern
Italy, the Tyrol, and Ireland, which will not be injurious to the scenes
then under view.  But among the eastern mountains this can rarely be
done.  The hills do not stand thickly together so as to group themselves;
the passes from one valley to another, though not wanting in altitude,
are not close pressed together with overhanging rocks, and are deficient
in grandeur as well as loveliness.  And then, as a natural consequence of
all this, the hotels—are not quite as good as they should be.

But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the Píc
du Midi or the Maledetta.  No one can pooh-pooh the stern old Canigou,
standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the two roads which
run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and the other by Le
Boulon.  Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the hot baths of
Vernet, in a close secluded valley, which, as I have said before, is, as
far as I know, the sweetest spot in these Eastern Pyrenees.

The frequenters of these baths were a few years back gathered almost
entirely from towns not very far distant, from Perpignan, Narbonne,
Carcassonne, and Bézières, and the baths were not therefore famous,
expensive, or luxurious; but those who believed in them believed with
great faith; and it was certainly the fact that men and women who went
thither worn with toil, sick with excesses, and nervous through
over-care, came back fresh and strong, fit once more to attack the world
with all its woes.  Their character in latter days does not seem to have
changed, though their circle of admirers may perhaps be somewhat
extended.

In those days, by far the most noted and illustrious person in the
village of Vernet was La Mère Bauche.  That there had once been a Père
Bauche was known to the world, for there was a Fils Bauche who lived with
his mother; but no one seemed to remember more of him than that he had
once existed.  At Vernet he had never been known.  La Mère Bauche was a
native of the village, but her married life had been passed away from it,
and she had returned in her early widowhood to become proprietress and
manager, or, as one may say, the heart and soul of the Hôtel Bauche at
Vernet.

This hotel was a large and somewhat rough establishment, intended for the
accommodation of invalids who came to Vernet for their health.  It was
built immediately over one of the thermal springs, so that the water
flowed from the bowels of the earth directly into the baths.  There was
accommodation for seventy people, and during the summer and autumn months
the place was always full.  Not a few also were to be found there during
the winter and spring, for the charges of Madame Bauche were low, and the
accommodation reasonably good.

And in this respect, as indeed in all others, Madame Bauche had the
reputation of being an honest woman.  She had a certain price, from which
no earthly consideration would induce her to depart; and there were
certain returns for this price in the shape of déjeuners and dinners,
baths and beds, which she never failed to give in accordance with the
dictates of a strict conscience.  These were traits in the character of
an hotel-keeper which cannot be praised too highly, and which had met
their due reward in the custom of the public.  But nevertheless there
were those who thought that there was occasionally ground for complaint
in the conduct even of Madame Bauche.

In the first place she was deficient in that pleasant smiling softness
which should belong to any keeper of a house of public entertainment.  In
her general mode of life she was stern and silent with her guests,
autocratic, authoritative and sometimes contradictory in her house, and
altogether irrational and unconciliatory when any change even for a day
was proposed to her, or when any shadow of a complaint reached her ears.

Indeed of complaint, as made against the establishment, she was
altogether intolerant.  To such she had but one answer.  He or she who
complained might leave the place at a moment’s notice if it so pleased
them.  There were always others ready to take their places.  The power of
making this answer came to her from the lowness of her prices; and it was
a power which was very dear to her.

The baths were taken at different hours according to medical advice, but
the usual time was from five to seven in the morning.  The déjeuner or
early meal was at nine o’clock, the dinner was at four.  After that, no
eating or drinking was allowed in the Hôtel Bauche.  There was a café in
the village, at which ladies and gentlemen could get a cup of coffee or a
glass of eau sucré; but no such accommodation was to be had in the
establishment.  Not by any possible bribery or persuasion could any meal
be procured at any other than the authorised hours.  A visitor who should
enter the salle à manger more than ten minutes after the last bell would
be looked at very sourly by Madame Bauche, who on all occasions sat at
the top of her own table.  Should any one appear as much as half an hour
late, he would receive only his share of what had not been handed round.
But after the last dish had been so handed, it was utterly useless for
any one to enter the room at all.

Her appearance at the period of our tale was perhaps not altogether in
her favour.  She was about sixty years of age and was very stout and
short in the neck.  She wore her own gray hair, which at dinner was
always tidy enough; but during the whole day previous to that hour she
might be seen with it escaping from under her cap in extreme disorder.
Her eyebrows were large and bushy, but those alone would not have given
to her face that look of indomitable sternness which it possessed.  Her
eyebrows were serious in their effect, but not so serious as the pair of
green spectacles which she always wore under them.  It was thought by
those who had analysed the subject that the great secret of Madame
Bauche’s power lay in her green spectacles.

Her custom was to move about and through the whole establishment every
day from breakfast till the period came for her to dress for dinner.  She
would visit every chamber and every bath, walk once or twice round the
salle à manger, and very repeatedly round the kitchen; she would go into
every hole and corner, and peer into everything through her green
spectacles: and in these walks it was not always thought pleasant to meet
her.  Her custom was to move very slowly, with her hands generally
clasped behind her back: she rarely spoke to the guests unless she was
spoken to, and on such occasions she would not often diverge into general
conversation.  If any one had aught to say connected with the business of
the establishment, she would listen, and then she would make her
answers,—often not pleasant in the hearing.

And thus she walked her path through the world, a stern, hard, solemn old
woman, not without gusts of passionate explosion; but honest withal, and
not without some inward benevolence and true tenderness of heart.
Children she had had many, some seven or eight.  One or two had died,
others had been married; she had sons settled far away from home, and at
the time of which we are now speaking but one was left in any way subject
to maternal authority.

Adolphe Bauche was the only one of her children of whom much was
remembered by the present denizens and hangers-on of the hotel, he was
the youngest of the number, and having been born only very shortly before
the return of Madame Bauche to Vernet, had been altogether reared there.
It was thought by the world of those parts, and rightly thought, that he
was his mother’s darling—more so than had been any of his brothers and
sisters,—the very apple of her eye and gem of her life.  At this time he
was about twenty-five years of age, and for the last two years had been
absent from Vernet—for reasons which will shortly be made to appear.  He
had been sent to Paris to see something of the world, and learn to talk
French instead of the patois of his valley; and having left Paris had
come down south into Languedoc, and remained there picking up some
agricultural lore which it was thought might prove useful in the valley
farms of Vernet.  He was now expected home again very speedily, much to
his mother’s delight.

That she was kind and gracious to her favourite child does not perhaps
give much proof of her benevolence; but she had also been kind and
gracious to the orphan child of a neighbour; nay, to the orphan child of
a rival innkeeper.  At Vernet there had been more than one water
establishment, but the proprietor of the second had died some few years
after Madame Bauche had settled herself at the place.  His house had not
thrived, and his only child, a little girl, was left altogether without
provision.

This little girl, Marie Clavert, La Mère Bauche had taken into her own
house immediately after the father’s death, although she had most
cordially hated that father.  Marie was then an infant, and Madame Bauche
had accepted the charge without much thought, perhaps, as to what might
be the child’s ultimate destiny.  But since then she had thoroughly done
the duty of a mother by the little girl, who had become the pet of the
whole establishment, the favourite plaything of Adolphe Bauche, and at
last of course his early sweetheart.

And then and therefore there had come troubles at Vernet.  Of course all
the world of the valley had seen what was taking place and what was
likely to take place, long before Madame Bauche knew anything about it.
But at last it broke upon her senses that her son, Adolphe Bauche, the
heir to all her virtues and all her riches, the first young man in that
or any neighbouring valley, was absolutely contemplating the idea of
marrying that poor little orphan, Marie Clavert!

That any one should ever fall in love with Marie Clavert had never
occurred to Madame Bauche.  She had always regarded the child as a child,
as the object of her charity, and as a little thing to be looked on as
poor Marie by all the world.  She, looking through her green spectacles,
had never seen that Marie Clavert was a beautiful creature, full of
ripening charms, such as young men love to look on.  Marie was of
infinite daily use to Madame Bauche in a hundred little things about the
house, and the old lady thoroughly recognised and appreciated her
ability.  But for this very reason she had never taught herself to regard
Marie otherwise than as a useful drudge.  She was very fond of her
protégée—so much so that she would listen to her in affairs about the
house when she would listen to no one else;—but Marie’s prettiness and
grace and sweetness as a girl had all been thrown away upon Maman Bauche,
as Marie used to call her.

But unluckily it had not been thrown away upon Adolphe.  He had
appreciated, as it was natural that he should do, all that had been so
utterly indifferent to his mother; and consequently had fallen in love.
Consequently also he had told his love; and consequently also Marie had
returned his love.

Adolphe had been hitherto contradicted but in few things, and thought
that all difficulty would be prevented by his informing his mother that
he wished to marry Marie Clavert.  But Marie, with a woman’s instinct,
had known better.  She had trembled and almost crouched with fear when
she confessed her love; and had absolutely hid herself from sight when
Adolphe went forth, prepared to ask his mother’s consent to his marriage.

The indignation and passionate wrath of Madame Bauche were past and gone
two years before the date of this story, and I need not therefore much
enlarge upon that subject.  She was at first abusive and bitter, which
was bad for Marie; and afterwards bitter and silent, which was worse.  It
was of course determined that poor Marie should be sent away to some
asylum for orphans or penniless paupers—in short anywhere out of the way.
What mattered her outlook into the world, her happiness, or indeed her
very existence?  The outlook and happiness of Adolphe Bauche,—was not
that to be considered as everything at Vernet?

But this terrible sharp aspect of affairs did not last very long.  In the
first place La Mère Bauche had under those green spectacles a heart that
in truth was tender and affectionate, and after the first two days of
anger she admitted that something must be done for Marie Clavert; and
after the fourth day she acknowledged that the world of the hotel, her
world, would not go as well without Marie Clavert as it would with her.
And in the next place Madame Bauche had a friend whose advice in grave
matters she would sometimes take.  This friend had told her that it would
be much better to send away Adolphe, since it was so necessary that there
should be a sending away of some one; that he would be much benefited by
passing some months of his life away from his native valley; and that an
absence of a year or two would teach him to forget Marie, even if it did
not teach Marie to forget him.

And we must say a word or two about this friend.  At Vernet he was
usually called M. le Capitaine, though in fact he had never reached that
rank.  He had been in the army, and having been wounded in the leg while
still a sous-lieutenant, had been pensioned, and had thus been
interdicted from treading any further the thorny path that leads to
glory.  For the last fifteen years he had resided under the roof of
Madame Bauche, at first as a casual visitor, going and coming, but now
for many years as constant there as she was herself.

He was so constantly called Le Capitaine that his real name was seldom
heard.  It may however as well be known to us that this was Theodore
Campan.  He was a tall, well-looking man; always dressed in black
garments, of a coarse description certainly, but scrupulously clean and
well brushed; of perhaps fifty years of age, and conspicuous for the
rigid uprightness of his back—and for a black wooden leg.

This wooden leg was perhaps the most remarkable trait in his character.
It was always jet black, being painted, or polished, or japanned, as
occasion might require, by the hands of the capitaine himself.  It was
longer than ordinary wooden legs, as indeed the capitaine was longer than
ordinary men; but nevertheless it never seemed in any way to impede the
rigid punctilious propriety of his movements.  It was never in his way as
wooden legs usually are in the way of their wearers.  And then to render
it more illustrious it had round its middle, round the calf of the leg we
may so say, a band of bright brass which shone like burnished gold.

It had been the capitaine’s custom, now for some years past, to retire
every evening at about seven o’clock into the sanctum sanctorum of Madame
Bauche’s habitation, the dark little private sitting-room in which she
made out her bills and calculated her profits, and there regale himself
in her presence—and indeed at her expense, for the items never appeared
in the bill—with coffee and cognac.  I have said that there was never
eating or drinking at the establishment after the regular dinner-hours;
but in so saying I spoke of the world at large.  Nothing further was
allowed in the way of trade; but in the way of friendship so much was
now-a-days always allowed to the capitaine.

It was at these moments that Madame Bauche discussed her private affairs,
and asked for and received advice.  For even Madame Bauche was mortal;
nor could her green spectacles without other aid carry her through all
the troubles of life.  It was now five years since the world of Vernet
discovered that La Mère Bauche was going to marry the capitaine; and for
eighteen months the world of Vernet had been full of this matter: but any
amount of patience is at last exhausted, and as no further steps in that
direction were ever taken beyond the daily cup of coffee, that subject
died away—very much unheeded by La Mère Bauche.

But she, though she thought of no matrimony for herself, thought much of
matrimony for other people; and over most of those cups of evening coffee
and cognac a matrimonial project was discussed in these latter days.  It
has been seen that the capitaine pleaded in Marie’s favour when the fury
of Madame Bauche’s indignation broke forth; and that ultimately Marie was
kept at home, and Adolphe sent away by his advice.

“But Adolphe cannot always stay away,” Madame Bauche had pleaded in her
difficulty.  The truth of this the capitaine had admitted; but Marie, he
said, might be married to some one else before two years were over.  And
so the matter had commenced.

But to whom should she be married?  To this question the capitaine had
answered in perfect innocence of heart, that La Mère Bauche would be much
better able to make such a choice than himself.  He did not know how
Marie might stand with regard to money.  If madame would give some little
“dot,” the affair, the capitaine thought, would be more easily arranged.

All these things took months to say, during which period Marie went on
with her work in melancholy listlessness.  One comfort she had.  Adolphe,
before he went, had promised to her, holding in his hand as he did so a
little cross which she had given him, that no earthly consideration
should sever them;—that sooner or later he would certainly be her
husband.  Marie felt that her limbs could not work nor her tongue speak
were it not for this one drop of water in her cup.

And then, deeply meditating, La Mère Bauche hit upon a plan, and herself
communicated it to the capitaine over a second cup of coffee into which
she poured a full teaspoonful more than the usual allowance of cognac.
Why should not he, the capitaine himself, be the man to marry Marie
Clavert?

It was a very startling proposal, the idea of matrimony for himself never
having as yet entered into the capitaine’s head at any period of his
life; but La Mère Bauche did contrive to make it not altogether
unacceptable.  As to that matter of dowry she was prepared to be more
than generous.  She did love Marie well, and could find it in her heart
to give her anything—any thing except her son, her own Adolphe.  What she
proposed was this.  Adolphe, himself, would never keep the baths.  If the
capitaine would take Marie for his wife, Marie, Madame Bauche declared,
should be the mistress after her death; subject of course to certain
settlements as to Adolphe’s pecuniary interests.

The plan was discussed a thousand times, and at last so far brought to
bear that Marie was made acquainted with it—having been called in to sit
in presence with La Mère Bauche and her future proposed husband.  The
poor girl manifested no disgust to the stiff ungainly lover whom they
assigned to her,—who through his whole frame was in appearance almost as
wooden as his own leg.  On the whole, indeed, Marie liked the capitaine,
and felt that he was her friend; and in her country such marriages were
not uncommon.  The capitaine was perhaps a little beyond the age at which
a man might usually be thought justified in demanding the services of a
young girl as his nurse and wife, but then Marie of herself had so little
to give—except her youth, and beauty, and goodness.

But yet she could not absolutely consent; for was she not absolutely
pledged to her own Adolphe?  And therefore, when the great pecuniary
advantages were, one by one, displayed before her, and when La Mère
Bauche, as a last argument, informed her that as wife of the capitaine
she would be regarded as second mistress in the establishment and not as
a servant, she could only burst out into tears, and say that she did not
know.

“I will be very kind to you,” said the capitaine; “as kind as a man can
be.”

Marie took his hard withered hand and kissed it; and then looked up into
his face with beseeching eyes which were not without avail upon his
heart.

“We will not press her now,” said the capitaine.  “There is time enough.”

But let his heart be touched ever so much, one thing was certain.  It
could not be permitted that she should marry Adolphe.  To that view of
the matter he had given in his unrestricted adhesion; nor could he by any
means withdraw it without losing altogether his position in the
establishment of Madame Bauche.  Nor indeed did his conscience tell him
that such a marriage should be permitted.  That would be too much.  If
every pretty girl were allowed to marry the first young man that might
fall in love with her, what would the world come to?

And it soon appeared that