This typical figure of the genus Old Maid was well framed by the
grotesque designs, representing Turkish landscapes, on a varnished
paper which decorated the walls of the dining-room. Mademoiselle
Gamard usually sat in this room, which boasted of two pier tables and
a barometer. Before the chair of each abbe was a little cushion covered
with worsted work, the colors of which were faded. The salon in which
she received company was worthy of its mistress. It will be visible to
the eye at once when we state that it went by the name of the “yellow
salon.” The curtains were yellow, the furniture and walls yellow; on the
mantelpiece, surmounted by a mirror in a gilt frame, the candlesticks
and a clock all of crystal struck the eye with sharp brilliancy. As
to the private apartment of Mademoiselle Gamard, no one had ever been
permitted to look into it. Conjecture alone suggested that it was full
of odds and ends, worn-out furniture, and bits of stuff and pieces dear
to the hearts of all old maids.
Such was the woman destined to exert a vast influence on the last years
of the Abbe Birotteau.
For want of exercising in nature’s own way the activity bestowed upon
women, and yet impelled to spend it in some way or other, Mademoiselle
Gamard had acquired the habit of using it in petty intrigues, provincial
cabals, and those self-seeking schemes which occupy, sooner or later,
the lives of all old maids. Birotteau, unhappily, had developed in
Sophie Gamard the only sentiments which it was possible for that poor
creature to feel,--those of hatred; a passion hitherto latent under the
calmness and monotony of provincial life, but which was now to become
the more intense because it was spent on petty things and in the
midst of a narrow sphere. Birotteau was one of those beings who are
predestined to suffer because, being unable to see things, they cannot
avoid them; to them the worst happens.
“Yes, it will be a fine day,” replied the canon, after a pause,
apparently issuing from a revery and wishing to conform to the rules of
politeness.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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