French fiction -- 20th century -- Translations into English
François, baron des Ygrées (a doubtful baronetcy belonging to whoever
claimed it) called himself the last offshoot of a noble house of
Provence and pursued a career in heraldry on the sixth floor of an
apartment in the rue Charles V.
"But," he said, "the revolutions and the demagogues have changed things
so that arms are no longer studied except by ill-born archaeologists,
and the nobility is no longer tutored in this art."
The baron des Ygrées, whose coat of arms was of _azur à trois pairies
d'argent posés en pal_, was able to inspire enough sympathy in Macarée
for her to want to take lessons in heraldry out of gratitude for that
night at the Théâtre Français.
Macarée showed herself, it is true, little given to learning the
terminology of heraldry, and one might even say that she did not
interest herself seriously in anything but the arms of the Pignatelli
who had furnished popes for the Church and whose coat-of-arms was
adorned with kettles.
However, these lessons were wasted time to neither Macarée nor
François des Ygrées, for they ended by marrying. Macarée brought as
her dot, her money, her beauty and her fatness. François des Ygrées
offered to Macarée a great name and his noble bearing.
Neither complained of the bargain and they found themselves very
happy.
"Macarée, my dear wife," said François des Ygrées a few days after
their marriage, "Why have you ordered so many robes? It seems to me that
hardly a day passes without some modiste brings new costumes. They do,
true enough, honor to your taste and to their skill."
Macarée hesitated for a moment and then replied:
"It is to our honeymoon that you refer, François!"
"Our honeymoon, yes, I have thought of it. But where do you want to
go?"
"To Rome," said Macarée.
"To Rome, like the bells of Easter?"
"I want to see the Pope," said Macarée.
"Very fine, but what for?"
"That he may bless the child who lies under my heart," said Macarée.
"Phew-ew-ew!"
"It will be your son," said Macarée.
"You are quite right, Macarée. We shall go to Rome like the bells of
Easter. You will order a new robe of black velvet; and the dressmaker
must not neglect to embroider our arms at the bottom of the skirt: of
_azur à trois pairies d'argent posés en pal._"
V. PAPACY
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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