I was glad not to be in my brother’s shoes. My mother’s blue eyes turned as frozen as a northern lake.
“Then I shall myself write to the comte de la Châtre,” she said, “and if I do not obtain satisfaction from him I had better address myself to Monsieur, the King’s brother. Surely one or the other of them will have the courtesy to reply and honor the debt.”
I could tell by Robert’s face that this extreme measure would not do at all.
“You can spare yourself the pains,” he said. “To be brief—the money has already been spent.”
Here was trouble indeed. I began to tremble for my brother. How in the world could he have disposed of fifteen hundred livres? My mother remained calm. She glanced about her at the plain furnishings of the master’s house, which she and my father had supplied.
“As far as I am aware,” she said, “there has been no expenditure here or in any of the buildings on these premises.”
“You are perfectly right,” replied Robert. “The money was not spent at le Chesne-Bidault.”
“Then where?”
“I refuse to answer.”
My mother closed the ledger, and rising to her feet walked towards the door. “You will account for every sou within three weeks,” she said. “If I have not an explanation by that time I shall tell your father that we are closing down the glass-house here at le Chesne-Bidault because of fraud, and I shall have your name erased from the list of master glass-makers within the trade.”
She left the room. My brother forced a laugh, and, seating himself in the chair she had just relinquished, lounged back with his feet upon the table.
“She would never dare do such a thing,” he said. “It would be my ruin.”
“Don’t be too sure,” I warned him. “The money will have to be found, that’s certain. How did you spend it?”
He shook his head. “I shan’t tell you,” he said, beginning to smile despite his serious situation. “The point is that the money has gone, beyond recovery.”
The truth came out in an unlikely way. About a week later my uncle and aunt Déméré paid us a visit at la Pierre from la Brûlonnerie, and as usual there was much talk of local affairs, besides gossip from Paris, Chartres, Vendôme, and other big cities.
“I am told there was great excitement in Chartres with the masked ball,” began my aunt Déméré. “All the young good-for-nothings in the town were present, with or without their husbands.”
I became all attention at the mention of Chartres, and glanced at my brother Robert, who was also present.
“Is that so?” asked my father. “We heard nothing of any ball. But we are a long way from such frivolities out here in the country.”
My aunt, who disapproved of gaiety on principle, made a moue of disdain.
“All Chartres was discussing it when we were there two weeks ago,” she continued. “It appears there was some sort of wager between the officers of the Dragons de Monsieur and the young blades in the corps d’Arquebusiers as to which regiment could best entertain the ladies of the district.”
My uncle Déméré winked at my father. “The ladies of Chartres are known for their enjoyment of hospitality,” he said. My father bowed in mock understanding.
“It appears they kept it up to all hours in the morning,” went on my aunt, “drinking, dancing, and chasing each other round about the cathedral in a disgraceful manner. They say the officers of the Arquebusiers squandered a fortune providing for the affair.”
“I am not surprised,” said my father, “but as these gentlemen have the fashion set for them by a young Court at Versailles it is only to be expected. Let us hope they can afford it.”
Robert had his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, suggesting he was either plunged in thought or had noticed a patch of worn plaster.
“And the Dragons de Monsieur,” enquired my mother, “what part did they play in the business?”
“We were told they had lost their wager,” replied my uncle. “The dinner they gave was no match for the masked ball. In any event, the Dragons are now quartered elsewhere and the Arquebusiers, who have a short term of service, are presumably resting on their laurels.”
It was to my mother’s credit that not a word of this escapade ever reached my father’s ears, but she left me, young as I was, in charge of the château at la Pierre, while she returned with my brother Robert to the glass-house at le Chesne-Bidault, and remained with him there until he had himself replaced, by his own craftsmanship, the table-glass he had dispatched to the Dragons de Monsieur.
It was now the spring of the year 1777. The long lease of the château and glass-house of la Pierre, which had been our home for so long, had come to an end. The son of Madame le Gras de Luart, who had succeeded to the property, wished to make other arrangements, and with sad hearts we bade goodbye to the beautiful home where both Edmé and I had been born, and where our three brothers had grown from small boys to young men.
It was impossible for Edmé and myself, and certainly for Pierre and Michel, not to look upon le Gras de Luart as an interloper who, just because he was the seigneur and owner of la Pierre, had the right to turn over his property to a new tenant, or live in it himself for a few months in the year. As to the glass-house itself, which my father had developed from a small family affair to one of the foremost houses in the country, this must now be given up into other hands, and perhaps allowed once more to fall into decay or be exploited by outsiders. Our parents were more philosophical than we were. A master glass-maker must accustom himself to moving on. In old days they had always been wanderers, going from one forest to another, settling for a few years only. We had to consider ourselves fortunate to have been brought up at la Pierre, and to have had such happiness there through our childhood years. Luckily the lease of le Chesne-Bidault had many years to run, la Brûlonnerie too, and the family could divide itself up between the two.
My father, mother, Edmé, and I removed ourselves to le Chesne-Bidault, and Robert and Pierre went to la Brûlonnerie. Michel, who was twenty-one this year, had elected to go out of the family altogether for a time to gain experience, and was working as master glass-maker near Bourges, in le Berry. My three brothers, to distinguish themselves in the trade one from the other, had added suffixes to their names: Robert signed himself Busson l’Aîné, Pierre Busson du Charme, and Michel Busson-Challoir. These marks of distinction were, needless to say, Robert’s idea. Le Charme and le Challoir were small farm properties owned by our parents, forming part of their original marriage portion.
The use of these names struck my mother as extravagant. “Your father and his brother,” she said to me, “never thought it necessary to distinguish themselves. They were the Busson brothers, and that was good enough for them. However, now that it pleases Robert to call himself Busson l’Aîné perhaps he will realize his responsibilities at last and settle down. If he can’t pick a wife to keep him in order, I must find one for him.”
I thought she was joking, for Robert at twenty-seven was surely old enough to choose for himself. Nor did I at first see the connection between my mother’s more frequent visits to Paris with my father on business, and her sudden expressed wish to meet the families of some of his trade acquaintances, with the decision on her part that my brother must marry.
It was only when the three of them began to put up at the Cheval Rouge, ostensibly to discuss matters relating to both glass-houses, and my mother mentioned casually on her return that Monsieur Fiat, a well-to-do merchant, had an only daughter, that I began to suspect the motive for her visit.
“What is the daughter like?” I asked.
“Very pretty,” replied my mother, which was strong praise for her, “and seemed very much taken with Robert and he with her. At least, they had plenty to say to each other. I heard him ask permission to call next time he is in Paris, which will be next week.”
This was matchmaking with a vengeance. I felt jealous, for up to the present I had been Robert’s sole confidante.
“He will soon become tired of her,” I ventured.
“Perhaps,” shrugged my mother. “She is the very opposite of Robert, apart from her good humor. Dark, petite, large brown eyes, and a quantity of ringlets. Your father was much impressed.”
“Robert will never marry a tradesman’s daughter,” I pursued, “not even if she is the prettiest girl in the whole of Paris. He would lose face among his fine friends.”
My mother smiled. “What if she brought him a dot of ten thousand livres,” she returned, “and we guaranteed a similar sum, and your father made over to them the lease of la Brûlonnerie?”
This time I had no answer. I went off to my own room to sulk. But such promises, with the addition of pretty, twenty-year-old Catherine Adèle into the bargain, proved too much for my brother Robert to resist.
The agreements were drawn up between the parents of bride and groom, and on the 21st day of July, 1777, the marriage took place at the church of St. Sauveur, Paris, between Robert-Mathurin Busson and Catherine Adèle Fiat.
4
The first shock came about three months after the wedding. My uncle Déméré rode over to le Chesne-Bidault to tell my father that Robert had leased la Brûlonnerie to a master glass-maker by the name of Caumont, and had himself rented the magnificent glass-house of Rougemont, which, with its superb château alongside, belonged to the marquis de la Touche, in the parish of St.-Jean-Froidmentel.
My father was at first stunned by the news, and refused to believe it.
“It is true,” insisted my uncle. “I have seen the documents, signed and sealed. The marquis, like so many others of his kind, is an absentee landlord, caring nothing about his property as long as it brings him rent. You know what the place is like. They’ve been losing money there for years.”
“It must be stopped,” my father said. “Robert will ruin himself. He will lose everything he possesses, and his reputation into the bargain.”
We set forth the very next day, my father, my mother, my uncle Déméré, and myself—I was determined to be of the company, and my parents were too concerned with what had happened to consider that I made quite an unnecessary fourth. We stayed an hour or two at la Brûlonnerie for my father to speak to the new lessee, Monsieur Caumont, and see the signed documents for himself, and then we drove on through the forest to Rougemont, which stood in the valley across the high road between Châteaudun and Vendôme.
“He is mad,” my father kept repeating, “mad… mad…”
“We are to blame,” said my mother. “He cannot forget la Pierre. He imagines he can do at twenty-seven what you only achieved after years of hard work. We are to blame. We have spoiled him.”
Rougemont was truly a stupendous place. The glass-house itself consisted of four separate buildings fronting an enormous courtyard. The right-hand building was the lodging of the master glass-makers, and beside it stood the great furnace house with two chimneys, and beyond this the depots and storehouses, the workrooms for the engravers, and opposite again the workmen’s dwellings. Through the courtyard were massive iron gates, and the château itself, splendid, imposing, set amidst formal gardens. My father had hoped to surprise my brother, but as always in our glass world someone had whispered news of our approach and Robert came forward to meet us as soon as we drove into the courtyard, gay and smiling, brimming with self-confidence as usual.
“Welcome to Rougemont,” he called. “You could not have come at a better moment. We started a melt this morning and both furnaces are in use, as you can see from the chimneys, with every workman on the place employed. Come and see for yourselves.”
He was not himself wearing a working blouse as my father always did during a shift, but sported a blue velvet coat of extravagant cut, more suited to a young nobleman parading the terraces of Versailles than to a master glass-maker about to enter his furnace house. I thought myself that he looked remarkably well in it, but was abashed for him because of my father’s expression.
“Cathie will receive my mother and Sophie in the château,” Robert continued. “We keep some of the rooms there for our personal use.” He clapped his hands and shouted, like an Eastern potentate summoning a blackamoor, and a servant appeared from nowhere, bowed deeply, and flung open the iron gates leading to the château.
My mother’s face was a study as we followed the servant to the entrance door of the château, through anterooms to a great salon with stiff-backed chairs ranged against the wall, long mirrors reflecting us as we walked. There awaiting us—she must have perceived our arrival from the window—was Robert’s bride, Cathie, Mademoiselle Fiat the merchant’s daughter, dressed in a flimsy muslin gown with pink and white bows upon it, as delicious as a piece of confectionery from her own wedding cake.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she fluttered, running to embrace us, and then, remembering the presence of the servant, stood stiffly, and requested him to bring us some refreshment, after which she relaxed and asked us to sit down, and the three of us sat staring at each other.
“You look very pretty,” said my mother at last, opening the conversation. “And how do you like being the wife of a master glass-maker here at Rougemont?”
“Well enough,” replied Cathie, “but I find it rather fatiguing.”
“No doubt,” said my mother, “and a great responsibility. How many workmen are employed here, and how many of them are married with families?”
Cathie opened large eyes. “I have no idea,” she said. “I have never spoken to any of them.”
I thought this would silence my mother, but she quickly recovered.
“In that case,” she continued, “what do you do with your time?”
Cathie hesitated. “I give orders to the servants,” she said, “and I watch them polish the floors. The rooms are very spacious, as you can see.”
“I can indeed,” replied my mother. “No wonder you are fatigued.”
“Then there is the entertaining,” pursued Cathie. “Sometimes ten or twelve to dinner, and all at a moment’s notice. It means stocking the larders with food that may be wasted. It is a very different matter from living in the rue des Petits-Carreaux in Paris, and going to the market if we had unexpected company.”
Poor Cathie. It was true. She was fatigued. It was not so easy after all for a merchant’s daughter to adopt the ways of a châtelaine.
“Whom do you entertain?” asked my mother. “It has never been the custom of masters and their wives to eat in each other’s lodgings.”
Once again Cathie opened large eyes. “Oh, we don’t entertain among the people here,” she explained, “but those friends and acquaintances of Robert’s from Paris, who either come to visit us for that purpose, or are traveling between the capital and Blois. It was the same at la Brûlonnerie. One of Robert’s chief reasons for moving to Rougemont was so that we could use the rooms in the château for entertaining.”
“I see,” said my mother.
I felt sorry for Cathie. Although I did not doubt her love for my brother, I sensed that she would be more at her ease back in the rue des Petits-Carreaux. Presently she asked us if we would care to see the rooms that had been put at their disposal, and we wandered through them, each one larger than any we had had at la Pierre. Cathie, trotting ahead of us, pointed out the two great chandeliers in the dining hall, which, she told us, held thirty candles each, and must be replenished every time they dined there.
“It is a very fine sight when they are lighted,” said Cathie proudly. “Robert sits at one end of the table and I at the other, English-fashion, with the guests on either side of us, and he gives me the signal when it is time to withdraw to the salon.”
She closed the shutter so that the sunlight should not harm the long strip of carpet that ran down one side of the room.
“She is like a child playing at houses,” whispered my mother. “What I ask myself is this—where will it all end?”
It ended precisely eleven months afterwards. The upkeep of the glass-house and the château
of Rougemont mounted to a figure far in excess of my brother’s reckoning, and the situation was made worse by certain miscalculations in the amount of goods sold to the Paris trading houses. The greater part of Cathie’s dot had thus been swallowed up in less than a year, with Robert’s portion likewise, and the one merciful thing about the whole affair was that the lease of Rougemont had been for a twelvemonth only.
My father, despite his bitter disappointment at Robert’s folly, and the throwing away of so much money, implored my brother to return to le Chesne-Bidault and work beside him as manager. There, with my father on the spot, he could come to no harm.
Robert refused. “It is not that I am ungrateful for the suggestion,” he explained to my parents when he came home to discuss the matter, bringing with him a subdued and rather wistful Cathie, who had had a hard time of it explaining matters to an irate Monsieur and Madame Fiat in the rue des Petits-Carreaux, “but I already have prospects in Paris—I can’t say more than that at the moment—which promise to turn out well. A certain Monsieur Cannette, one of the bankers to the Court of Versailles, is thinking of setting up a glass-house in the quartier St. Antoine, in the rue des Boulets, at my recommendation, and of course if all works out well he will appoint me as director.”
My father and mother looked at one another and then back to my brother’s eager, smiling face, which showed no trace of anxiety or any other mark after his late disaster.
“You have just lost a small fortune,” said my father. “How can you guarantee that it won’t happen again?”
“Easily,” Robert replied. “This will be Monsieur Cannette’s venture, not mine. I shall be paid for my services.”
“And if the venture fails?”
“Monsieur Cannette, not I, will be the poorer.”
I was not more than fifteen at the time, but even a child of that age could see that there was some sense lacking in my brother—call it moral, call it what you will, but whatever it was it betrayed itself in his very manner of speaking, his carelessness where the property or the feelings of others were concerned, and an inability to understand any viewpoint but his own.