THE ABBE CONSTANTIN BY LUDOVIC HALEVY

THE ABBE CONSTANTIN BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 1834-1908




LUDOVIC HALEVY

Ludovic Halevy was born in Paris, January 1, 1834. His father was Leon
Halevy, the celebrated author; his grandfather, Fromenthal, the eminent
composer. Ludovic was destined for the civil service, and, after
finishing his studies, entered successively the Department of State
(1852); the Algerian Department (1858), and later on became editorial
secretary of the Corps Legislatif (1860). When his patron, the Duc de
Morny, died in 1865, Halevy resigned, giving up a lucrative position
for the uncertain profession of a playwright: At this period he devoted
himself exclusively to the theatre.

He had already written plays as early as 1856, and had also tried his
hand at fiction, but did not meet with very great success. Toward 1860,
however, he became acquainted with Henri Meilhac, and with him formed
a kind of literary union, lasting for almost twenty years, when Halevy
rather abruptly abandoned the theatre and became a writer of fiction.

We have seen such kinds of co-partnerships, for instance, in
Beaumont and Fletcher; more recently in the beautiful French tales of
Erckmann-Chatrian, and still later in the English novels of Besant and
Rice.

Some say it was a fortunate event for Meilhac; others assert that Halevy
reaped a great profit by the union. Be this as it may, a great number
of plays-drama, comedy, farce, opera, operetta and ballet--were jointly
produced, as is shown by the title-pages of two score or more of their
pieces. When Ludovic Halevy was a candidate for L'Academie--he entered
that glorious body in 1884--the question was ventilated by Pailleron:
"What was the author's literary relation in his union with Meilhac?" It
was answered by M. Sarcey, who criticised the character and quality of
the work achieved. Public opinion has a long time since brought in quite
another verdict in the case.

Halevy's cooperation endowed the plays of Meilhac with a fuller ethical
richness--tempered them, so to speak, and made them real, for it can not
be denied that Meilhac was inclined to extravagance.

Halevy's novels are remarkable for the elegance of literary style,
tenderness of spirit and keenness of observation. He excels in ironical
sketches. He has often been compared to Eugene Sue, but his touch is
lighter than Sue's, and his humor less unctuous. Most of his little
sketches, originally written for La Vie Parisienne, were collected in
his 'Monsieur et Madame Cardinal' (1873); and 'Les Petites Cardinal',
(1880). They are not intended 'virginibus puerisque', and the author's
attitude is that of a half-pitying, half-contemptuous moralist, yet the
virility of his criticism has brought him immortality.

Personal recollections of the great war are to be found in 'L'Invasion'
(1872); and 'Notes et Souvenirs', 1871-1872 (1889). Most extraordinary,
however, was the success of 'L'Abbe Constantin' (1882), crowned by
the Academy, which has gone through no less than one hundred and fifty
editions up to 1904, and ranks as one of the greatest successes of
contemporaneous literature. It is, indeed, his 'chef-d'oeuvre', very
delicate, earnest, and at the same time ironical, a most entrancing
family story. It was then that the doors of the French Academy opened
wide before Halevy. 'L'Abbe Constantin' was adapted for the stage by
Cremieux and Decourcelle (Le Gymnase, 1882). Further notable novels are:
'Criquette, Deux Mariages, Un Grand Mariage, Un Mariage d'Amour', all in
1883; 'Princesse, Les Trois Coups de Foudre, Mon Camarade Moussard', all
in 1884; and the romances, 'Karikari (1892), and Mariette (1893)'. Since
that time, I think, Halevy has not published anything of importance.

E. LEGOUVE
de l'Academie Francaise.




THE ABBE CONSTANTIN




BOOK 1.




CHAPTER I. THE SALE OF LONGUEVAL

With a step still valiant and firm, an old priest walked along the dusty
road in the full rays of a brilliant sun. For more than thirty years the
Abbe Constantin had been Cure of the little village which slept there in
the plain, on the banks of a slender stream called La Lizotte. The Abbe
Constantin was walking by the wall which surrounded the park of the
castle of Longueval; at last he reached the entrance-gate, which rested
high and massive on two ancient pillars of stone, embrowned and gnawed
by time. The Cure stopped, and mournfully regarded two immense blue
posters fixed on the pillars.

The posters announced that on Wednesday, May 18, 1881, at one o'clock
P.M., would take place, before the Civil Tribunal of Souvigny, the sale
of the domain of Longueval, divided into four lots:

1. The castle of Longueval, its dependencies, fine pieces of water,
extensive offices, park of 150 hectares in extent, completely surrounded
by a wall, and traversed by the little river Lizotte. Valued at 600,000
francs.

2. The farm of Blanche-Couronne, 300 hectares, valued at 500,000 francs.

3. The farm of La Rozeraie, 250 hectares, valued at 400,000 francs.

4. The woods and forests of La Mionne, containing 450 hectares, valued
at 550,000 francs.

And these four amounts, added together at the foot of the bill, gave the
respectable sum of 2,050,000 francs.

Then they were really going to dismember this magnificent domain, which,
escaping all mutilation, had for more than two centuries always been
transmitted intact from father to son in the family of Longueval. The
placards also announced that after the temporary division into four
lots, it would be possible to unite them again, and offer for sale the
entire domain; but it was a very large morsel, and, to all appearance,
no purchaser would present himself.

The Marquise de Longueval had died six months before; in 1873 she
had lost her only son, Robert de Longueval; the three heirs were the
grandchildren of the Marquise: Pierre, Helene, and Camille. It had been
found necessary to offer the domain for sale, as Helene and Camille were
minors. Pierre, a young man of three-and-twenty, had lived rather fast,
was already half-ruined, and could not hope to redeem Longueval.

It was mid-day. In an hour it would have a new master, this old castle
of Longueval; and this master, who would he be? What woman would take
the place of the old Marquise in the chimney-corner of the grand salon,
all adorned with ancient tapestry?--the old Marquise, the friend of the
old priest. It was she who had restored the church; it was she who had
established and furnished a complete dispensary at the vicarage under
the care of Pauline, the Cure's servant; it was she who, twice a week,
in her great barouche, all crowded with little children's clothes and
thick woolen petticoats, came to fetch the Abbe Constantin to make with
him what she called 'la chasse aux pauvres'.

The old priest continued his walk, musing over all this; then he
thought, too--the greatest saints have their little weaknesses--he
thought, too, of the beloved habits of thirty years thus rudely
interrupted. Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at the castle.
How he had been petted, coaxed, indulged! Little Camille--she was eight
years old--would come and sit on his knee and say to him:

"You know, Monsieur le Cure, it is in your church that I mean to be
married, and grandmamma will send such heaps of flowers to fill, quite
fill the church--more than for the month of Mary. It will be like a
large garden--all white, all white, all white!"

The month of Mary! It was then the month of Mary. Formerly, at this
season, the altar disappeared under the flowers brought from the
conservatories of Longueval. None this year were on the altar, except
a few bouquets of lily-of-the-valley and white lilac in gilded china
vases. Formerly, every Sunday at high mass, and every evening during the
month of Mary, Mademoiselle Hebert, the reader to Madame de Longueval,
played the little harmonium given by the Marquise. Now the poor
harmonium, reduced to silence, no longer accompanied the voices of the
choir or the children's hymns. Mademoiselle Marbeau, the postmistress,
would, with all her heart, have taken the place of Mademoiselle Hebert,
but she dared not, though she was a little musical! She was afraid of
being remarked as of the clerical party, and denounced by the Mayor, who
was a Freethinker. That might have been injurious to her interests, and
prevented her promotion.

He had nearly reached the end of the wall of the park--that park of
which every corner was known to the old priest. The road now followed
the banks of the Lizotte, and on the other side of the little stream
stretched the fields belonging to the two farms; then, still farther
off, rose the dark woods of La Mionne.

Divided! The domain was going to be divided! The heart of the poor
priest was rent by this bitter thought. All that for thirty years had
been inseparable, indivisible to him. It was a little his own, his very
own, his estate, this great property. He felt at home on the lands
of Longueval. It had happened more than once that he had stopped
complacently before an immense cornfield, plucked an ear, removed the
husk, and said to himself:

"Come! the grain is fine, firm, and sound. This year we shall have a
good harvest!"

And with a joyous heart he would continue his way through his fields,
his meadows, his pastures; in short, by every chord of his heart, by
every tie of his life, by all his habits, his memories, he clung to this
domain whose last hour had come.

The Abbe perceived in the distance the farm of Blanche-Couronne; its
red-tiled roofs showed distinctly against the verdure of the forest.
There, again, the Cure was at home. Bernard, the farmer of the Marquise,
was his friend; and when the old priest was delayed in his visits to the
poor and sick, when the sun was sinking below the horizon, and the
Abbe began to feel a little fatigued in his limbs, and a sensation of
exhaustion in his stomach, he stopped and supped with Bernard, regaled
himself with a savory stew and potatoes, and emptied his pitcher of
cider; then, after supper, the farmer harnessed his old black mare to
his cart, and took the vicar back to Longueval. The whole distance they
chatted and quarrelled. The Abbe reproached the farmer with not going to
mass, and the latter replied:

"The wife and the girls go for me. You know very well, Monsieur le Cure,
that is how it is with us. The women have enough religion for the men.
They will open the gates of paradise for us."

And he added maliciously, while giving a touch of the whip to his old
black mare:

"If there is one!"

The Cure sprang from his seat.

"What! if there is one! Of a certainty there is one."

"Then you will be there, Monsieur le Cure. You say that is not certain,
and I say it is. You will be there, you will be there, at the gate,
on the watch for your parishioners, and still busy with their little
affairs; and you will say to St. Peter--for it is St. Peter, isn't it,
who keeps the keys of paradise?"

This ebook is in PDF format and is viewable on most computers. All you need is Adobe Reader which is available for free and already on most computers.
www.adobe.com.