We also pay visits at the two neighbouring châteaux of the Montanbecs
and the Camboulions; but confine ourselves strictly to the customary
conventionalities between neighbours, the female element which we
encounter at these places belonging, as my uncle puts it, to the very
lowest zoological order of beings.
Once a week we dine at Doctor Morand's. He is a man of great ability,
who has only missed making his mark through want of a wider field. He is
the one mortal capable of exercising an influence over Captain
Barbassou, if the character of the latter did not place him out of reach
of all external control. In this home family life reigns in its happiest
and most charming simplicity, represented by a goodly quiver-full of
children. I have already told you about young Morand, the spahi, and his
cousin Geneviève.
Geneviève, with her nineteen summers, is the eldest, by several years,
of a prolific brood, the offspring of her mother's second marriage. The
doctor, who is a rich man for his district, took them all to live with
him after his sister's death. A more delightful and refreshing place
cannot be found than this heaven-blest home, the very atmosphere of
which breathes the odour of peaceful happiness and honest purity. You
should see Geneviève, la grande, surrounded by her four petits, her
brothers and sisters, with their chubby faces, all neat and clean,
obedient and cheeky at the same time, and kept in order by her with a
youthful discipline, flavoured now and then with a spice of playfulness.
Is she really pretty? I confess I cannot decide. The question of beauty
in her case is so completely put out of mind by a certain charm of
manner, that one forgets to analyse it. She has certainly fine eyes, for
they hold you spell-bound by the soul shining through them. George
Morand, her fiancé, adores her, and, headstrong Africain though he
is, even he feels an influence within her which subjugates his fiery
spirit. They could not be a better match for each other, and will live
happily together. She will chasten the exuberant ardour of the Provençal
warrior.
My uncle professes to detest "the brats;" it is needless, perhaps, to
add that, directly he arrives, the whole of them rush to him, climb on
his knees, and stay there for the rest of his visit. He is their horse;
he makes boats for them, and all the rest of it. The other day you might
have seen him grumbling as he sewed a button on Toto's drawers (which he
had torn off by turning him head over heels), fearing lest Geneviève
should scold him.