The Matchmaker

Hailing from an illustrious circle of authors - childhood friends with Marcel Proust, son of the novelist Alphonse Daudet, and grandson-in-law of Victor Hugo - Leon Daudet was a key member of the French literary establishment, known for his sharp wit and controversial opinions.

A compelling tale of manipulation and moral ambiguity filled with dark humor, The Matchmaker centers on a cunning matchmaker who wields her influence to orchestrate relationships and events for her own gain. As her meddling entangles the lives of others, the novel unravels the intricate web of power, deceit, and the consequences of her actions. Through its richly drawn characters and gripping narrative, The Matchmaker explores the blurred lines between control and chaos, and the complex interplay of morality in human relationships.

That Sunday in early June was unbearably hot. Martial Sauveterre, the gatekeeper at Devil's Bridge near Artenay, not far from Orleans, was home alone with his fifteen-year-old daughter Mariette. His wife and their other daughter, Jeanne, who was two years older than Mariette, were at the village festival. Distant sounds of music could be heard.

Martial had claimed he was tired and preferred to rest, but that was merely an excuse. A dreamy Breton in love with his neighbor Blanche Portrieu, the beautiful shopkeeper, he preferred to quietly contemplate her in the intoxicating summer light. Mariette, having slightly sprained her ankle the day before, had asked to stay with her father.

She was a delicate blonde girl with pure, refined features and disconcertingly shrewd grey eyes. Already resembling a woman, she was supple, fair, and silent, appearing and disappearing like a cat without anyone noticing. Other children obeyed her in games, and all the boys were in love with her, fighting in her honor.

Mariette worked hard, winning all the prizes at the parish school, including the catechism prize. She showed little interest in rural matters like chickens, the little donkey, or the family dog. Instead, she was a diligent housekeeper, helping her mother maintain their humble home while leaving the rest to her sister Jeanne, a born farmer.

The old gentry from nearby châteaux would turn to admire her as she passed, offering compliments. She would respond with a little laugh, revealing her white, sharp teeth beneath her bright pink lips. Her long, beautifully shaped hands were tanned by the sun, and she regretted not being able to care for them like Madame de Fenice from the Blue Castle, a benefactor of Artenay and its surroundings.

"How's your foot?" Martial asked his daughter, never mistreating her and openly admiring her.

"A bit better, Papa. I can walk to the shop. Mum told me to ask Mrs. Portrieu for peas and salad for dinner since it's Sunday."

The gatekeeper's small house consisted of four rooms—two downstairs and two upstairs—plus a small attic. Downstairs was a narrow kitchen and dining room, while upstairs housed the parents' bedroom and the girls' bedroom. Everything was modest but perfectly kept, without a speck of dust, each piece of furniture shining as if varnished from constant polishing.

For five leagues around, people praised the "very proper" cleanliness of the Sauveterre home, which husbands held up as an example to their negligent wives.

The young girl put on a faded straw hat that made her look like a Fragonard shepherdess and crossed the two hundred meters of scorching road that separated her from the shop. Upon entering, she saw the slender, dark-haired Portrieu reading a serial, seated by the window in an aroma of cinnamon and smoked fish.

"Good day, Madame."

"Good day, Mariette."

"Oh, Mr. Portrieu isn't here?"

"No, he's at the Artenay festival. I had a bit of a headache, so I didn't go with him."

"It's the same with Papa. He stayed home while Mum and Jeanne are at the festival."

Blanche Portrieu's black eyes made an imperceptible movement that did not escape Mariette's notice. After discussing the peas and salad, which the neighbor handed over in two separate yellow papers, the little girl added innocently:

"I think Papa would be happy to see you and has something to ask you. He's alone right now and can't leave the house." The word "right now" had a musical, persuasive intonation.

The shopkeeper stood up and followed the young temptress, moving with the precise gestures and impassive face of a rustic Juno, like one notices in sleepwalkers. The two women entered the gatekeeper's house, and Martial paled when he saw them.

"Ah, it's you, Madame Portrieu."

"I hear you have something to tell me."

"Go upstairs to the bedroom," Mariette said quickly, her tone extraordinarily decisive. "Down here, people outside can see and hear everything. You know, Papa, that you had something very important to tell Mrs. Blanche. Yes, yes, this is your chance. Go up, Mrs. Blanche; go up, Papa."

Intimidated, astonished, attracted, confused, and almost trembling, the man and woman, seized by desire, did not resist the strange power of this girl. She took the woman's small, soft hand and the man's large, hairy one, joining them with a serious expression.

"Since I'm telling you that you're alone and have nothing to fear. I'll sing loudly enough as soon as I see Mum, Jeanne, or Mr. Portrieu. But it's three o'clock, and they surely won't be back before five. You have at least two hours ahead of you."

"Now then... what business is this of yours..." the gatekeeper began, embarrassed.

His daughter put her hand over his mouth. "Be quiet, Papa, please. You'd hurt Mrs. Blanche's feelings. Go ahead, Madame; Papa, follow her. Explain yourselves freely. One always regrets not having explained oneself."

The childish voice had become soft and grave, mixed with command. The two who, though not yet lovers, were panting to be so, obeyed her. They entered the warm room, where closed shutters let in a blade of light, and which was dominated by the bed with its rough sheets. The door was bolted.

Mariette sat on a step of the staircase and heard a whisper of confused words, then silence, followed by the sound of kisses. She rested her chin in her hands, reflecting as she listened, bathed in extraordinary bliss, as if celebrating the success of something difficult and joyful.

She had great affection for her mother, who was also beautiful, kind, pious, and faithful. She knew her mother would be saddened if she knew her husband and the neighbor were locked away, devouring each other with caresses. However, the intense pleasure she derived from others' passion outweighed these family considerations.

She thought pleasantly that she had caused this encounter, which the timid illicit couple would likely have indefinitely delayed otherwise. A moral thrill mingled with her sensual one. Now sighs reached her, accompanied by a sort of moan and panting. It was the music of love, matched to summer's kiss and the fire running prematurely through Mariette's veins.

"Soon I will surely know these transports that poets sing of, which my father would have been deprived of today without my intervention. But will I succeed, for my own joy, in what I've achieved for others? Will I know how to attract and attach my darling to me?"

She had her pick of all the young men in Artenay, among the sons of the bourgeois and the bourgeois themselves, who watched her tenderly as she came and went or received her prizes from the hands of the Curé. She hadn't yet decided on one of them, having seen at the cinema in Orléans the marvelous story of a little shepherdess who was loved by a king's son. She needed a prince, or failing that, someone powerful and rich who would fulfill all her whims and whom she could wrap around her finger. Someone who would hold her tight, binding her with passionate words, just as her father was now binding Madame Portrieu.

"We can't hear anything anymore; what's happening?" She left her observation post and silently crept down the stairs to the door. It closed poorly at the bottom, leaving a triangular gap between its panel and the floor. Lying flat on her stomach, the girl saw a bit of the old worn carpet she knew well, the supports of the mahogany bed—the cottage's only luxury, inherited from a once-wealthy grandmother—and two bare female feet, slim and arched, resting one on top of the other, as if belonging to a seated person whose extremities were all she could make out.

The grocer's wife's voice, transformed by recent pleasure, was low and golden, both pleading and thanking at once. The crossing guard responded in monosyllables and seemed not free from worry or scruples.

"What if your husband came back without the girl hearing?"

"She'll hear him. Mariette's a clever one. Oh, Martial! Did you see how she locked us in here? But is there any danger she might ever gossip about this with her mother?"

"That's the last thing we need. She's fond of me, the little one. She won't want to cause me trouble."

"You know, she has a certain aptitude. A little more and she'd have held the candle for us. It's funny, all the same, such a precocious child."

"She's above our station. She understands many things her mother and I don't."

"Kiss me hard, Martial, before we part... Harder... Even harder... You'd think you were afraid of breaking me."

"It's just that in ten minutes, without fail, it's the big 4:15 express. Work comes first, my beauty; we'll meet again."

The two little feet, disappointed, uncrossed and settled flat on the carpet. Blanche was getting up. She asked where there was some water. Mariette quickly went back downstairs, opened the gate, and examined the deserted road. No one. No passersby. In the distance, train whistles mingled with the far-off murmurs of the fair. The blue sparkle of the sky hadn't ceased.

Five minutes later, the beautiful grocer's wife reappeared, dressed and coiffed as if emerging from one of her boxes. She kissed her little accomplice, then entered the burning zone with that sway of the hips and lightness that follows satisfied pleasure in lovers. Soon Martial, emerging in turn, felt the need to lie: "She told me quite a long story, Madame Portrieu! It's terrible how those neighbors play tricks on her! Poor woman, I really pity her!" He went to unhook the little red flag from the wall, the faithful insignia of his profession.

Mariette then, in her most natural tone, said, "Papa, it would be useless and dangerous to hide Madame Portrieu's visit from Mama. We'll say, if you like, that she came herself to bring the peas and salad."

"That's it, little one. We'll say that, and besides, it's the honest truth."

"But incomplete..." thought Mariette, her heart still beating with emotion and contentment.