Vendémiaire · The Paris Disease
The old butler approached silently from the foyer, placing a basket on the dining table where the master and guest sat opposite each other. Inside were pieces of dry bread, the kind any ordinary provincial family would eat. As the butler set the basket in place, the Count said to him, "Léo, bring candles."
The old butler withdrew without a word. Louis watched his figure vanish into the foyer, then turned to the Count, looking deeply confused.
"Even now, I still don't fully understand. You investigated me? For Arlette's sake? Your Honor, my doubts grow. In your letter, you said my friend was ill. Worried for his health, I came as you bid, but he's not here. How is he now?"
"I'm glad you care for him. In truth, I didn't lie—Arlette is in good health, but he has contracted a strange disease, one he can't shake without help. That's why I wrote to your parish bishop to inquire about your character. I need someone both he and I can trust, of good virtue, to assist him."
"This sounds less like a physical illness than a moral failing that displeases you," Louis said.
"You are indeed a clever young man." The Count took a piece of bread from the basket, gazing at the slightly dark dry bread—under-seasoned with alum—without rushing to cut it. "Have you heard of an ailment called the 'Paris Disease'?"
"Never. I'm eager to hear your explanation."
"It's a malady more terrifying than physical illness, capable of turning a kind, thrifty, honest young man into someone who stops at nothing for money and pleasure, dragging them into the abyss of depravity while destroying their wealth and family."
As the Count spoke, he moved the bread so the butler could place a small brass candlestick on the other side of the table. The candlelight supplemented the fireplace's glow, illuminating the entire table.
Just then, another figure appeared by the foyer.
"Ah, master! Tonight's dishes are cauliflower gratin with cheese, beef soup with thyme, scrambled eggs, and boiled veal."
The cook, carrying plates, wore a triumphant cheer as she placed the cauliflower gratin near Louis. The stuffy atmosphere was instantly lifted by her boldness, and the Count smiled.
"Seems Madame Cibot likes you," he told Louis. "These are her specialties—even Arlette can't enjoy them often."
Madame Cibot ignored the Count entirely, serving them soup in blue-rimmed white porcelain bowls, beautifully presented scrambled eggs on fine white china, and boiled veal on an old-fashioned plate. Deciding three dishes and a soup weren't enough, she added a splendid fruit platter of apples, citrus, pears, and fresh grapes, plus a bottle of champagne.
"Madame Cibot, are you emptying my kitchen and cellar to entertain this handsome guest?" the Count half-joked.
"Oh, master, how can we left out a guest who's traveled so far? Besides, I've spent no more effort on him than you did writing that letter."
The master, rebuffed by his own cook, shrugged and said to the young guest, "Well then, let's discuss Arlette later. Don't disappoint Madame Cibot's kindness—enjoy dinner. Ah, my boy, don't worry too much; it'll upset your stomach."
He picked up a knife, cut a piece of bread, and passed it to Louis.
"Madame Cibot's beef soup is superb. Soak the bread in it. And that cauliflower gratin—usually just baked in soup, but for you, I'll wager she marinated it in spices."
Under Madame Cibot's eager gaze, Louis hesitated, placed the bread on his plate, then took a silver spoon engraved with G and H, spooning a piece of cauliflower onto his plate. The moment the unassuming vegetable touched his tongue, his eyes lit up.
"Delicious! I never knew cauliflower could taste like this."
Madame Cibot preened, victorious in this silent battle.
Louis ate more cauliflower, then sipped the soup slowly, his movements elegant. Even breaking the dry bread looked gentle.
"Try the scrambled eggs," the Count pointed to the dish. "I remember Madame Cibot saying they must be made by whipping egg whites into foam first, then adding yolks gradually, cooking over precise heat—not in a frying pan. Right, Madame Cibot?"
"You could make them yourself, master," she replied.
Louis expressed just right gratitude: "I hear whipping egg whites is no easy task. Thank you for your trouble, Madame Cibot."
"See, master? You've never asked if whipping eggs is tiring! Can't blame me for favoring this charming lad."
Dinner was perfectly portioned—neither gluttonous nor stingy. After dessert, Madame Cibot cleared the table while the butler brought a dog-eared account book.
By the fireplace stood a card table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, its chessboard pattern fading. Now used as a desk, Count Fernand sat down, put on silver-rimmed agate glasses, and opened the book.
"Let's return to Arlette's 'Paris Disease.' Have you read Admonitions to the People by Santa Clara?"
"I studied it in boarding school, but much has faded. I need your guidance, Your Honor."
The Count coughed, his face heavy with worry in the candlelight.
"I remember a passage from Admonitions—though criticizing ignorant women, it describes Arlette's state perfectly. Santa Clara said a peasant girl in the city will soon swap her clogs for pointed shoes and red stockings, don fashionable blouses and lacy headdresses, wear the priciest gowns. All for luxury and show; soon she's unrecognizable. Her old bucket, fork, spade, and broom wouldn't know this stylish stranger. The same logic applies to Arlette—that's his 'Paris Disease'."
"I sent Arlette to Paris for a law degree, hoping he'd serve the king and restore our family's glory. You've seen, my boy, the Granvilles are crumbling. When Arlette's grandfather coughed, all Chablis trembled. Now, a nouveau riche cooper dared ride ahead of my carriage today, shouting, 'Though it's a gaunt nag, not bad!'"
Recalling the family's decline, the Count grew agitated.
"I could ignore such rudeness, but I never expected my hopeful son, since graduating last year, to be so quickly corrupted by Paris's vices. Napoleon's Civil Code destroyed the order of noble inheritance. Wealth shifted from the virtuous, breeding a beastly lust for pleasure. Newly rich Parisians are like pigeons—all greed and hedonism, petty demands. Arlette is becoming one, and I see no hope."
Perhaps unused to equals, the Count spoke at length. Louis took a moment to digest his words.
"Do you mean Arlette overspends in Paris, displeasing you?"
"If he spent on his future, I'd drain the Granville vaults gladly. Don't think me a miser; I know Paris requires money. A young man needs decent clothes, lodgings, even a carriage to enter noble circles. In fact, I transferred nearly half the Granville estate to him after graduation, including our most important manor, to ensure he had funds."
"For him, I even risk my daughter Madeleine's happiness. She's alone in the Samuel convent in Rouen, likely never to marry. The Granvilles have sacrificed so much, but what回報? He's obsessed with a common courtesan, squandering money on her. To fund his vices, he wants to sell his manor, threatening our family's foundation."
Perhaps in Paris, people deposit money for 3-4% interest, but provincials prefer buying land. Selling ancestral land marks one as a black sheep. Louis was shocked by Arlette's plan—for a courtesan, no less.
"Your Honor, there must be a misunderstanding. I lived with Arlette for eleven years; he'd never do this."
"Parisians love luxury, but I can't believe he's corrupted. At university, on 1,000 francs a year, he wrote that he lived like friends on 30 francs monthly to save. It's only been a year since graduation—how could he fall for a woman and do this?"
The Count sighed deeply.
"I wish more than anyone this weren't true." He opened the account book. "Let me tell you how I learned of this, starting last year. Mind an old man's rambling?"
"My parents are gone, no siblings. Arlette is more than a classmate. Forgive my boldness, but I care for him as deeply as you do; I need to know everything."
"That's why I chose you. After Napoleon's Civil Code, I transferred 70,000 francs and a 150,000-franc manor to Arlette. The 70,000 yields 2,100 francs annually; the manor brings 4,500–5,000 francs quarterly, more as vines mature. This income—6,500 francs—equals my annual Chablis expenses, and he doesn't pay for the manor's upkeep."
"Before the Revolution, this was pocket change. Now it's our pillar. I have 250,000 francs in deposits for expenses, plus 70,000 for Madeleine's dowry—pitiful for a count's daughter, but her mother brought 600,000 francs! Even a cloth merchant's daughter has 200,000–300,000 now."
Louis was stunned to learn the Count's disposable funds matched Arlette's.
"Your love for Arlette is moving. I thought all fathers gave children a fifth of annual income, like my father did."
"I did it for the Granvilles. Now I see it was rash—too much money too fast for a lad who once had 1,000 francs a year. If I'd increased his allowance gradually, like Monsieur Lucien did for you..."
"I'd hoped Arlette would find a good post in Paris, so Madeleine could marry well—maybe without a dowry. His own marriage to a wealthy lady or a judge's daughter could restore us. He was our hope, but... My friend Viscount Barbé de Portenduère—my eyes in Paris—sent a dreadful letter."
"The viscount wrote: 'In early July, Arlette asked his banker to withdraw the 70,000-franc principal. The banker refused, so he left. In early August, I heard he intends to sell his manor, consulting brokers. This began after he met Mademoiselle Marguerite, a singer from Paris's 12th arrondissement. He's infatuated, spending recklessly.'"
The Count's voice trembled at the mention of selling the manor. Love and betrayal caused him profound pain, impossible to hide.
Paris's 12th arrondissement—home to poverty, crime, and outcasts. Mademoiselle Marguerite's background made her unfit for Arlette. Her past as an opera singer—well-known to be disreputable—was intolerable to the old guard.
Louis pondered before speaking:
"I don't doubt the viscount, but might he have exaggerated? Arlette isn't a black sheep. In Paris and London, wealthy young men have mistresses—it's common."
"Before graduating, he sought a marquise's favor to showcase his talent. She rejected him, but he understood his duties. Perhaps the manor sale is a rumor. Words can turn villains into saints and saints into devils."
"I've thought that, too. I wish it were true. But I saw firsthand that he's lost his mind over this actress. He's so obsessed, I wouldn't be surprised if the manor changes hands tomorrow."
"Have you spoken to him?"
"I went to Paris. I rented a room across from his, witnessed horrors—even worse than the viscount described. He never knew I was there."
"After returning, I knew I needed someone to help. Given your friendship and his rebelliousness, I chose you. Hence my letter."