‘Et l’on revient toujours,A ses premiers amours.’”
‘Et l’on revient toujours,A ses premiers amours.’”
‘Et l’on revient toujours,A ses premiers amours.’”
‘Et l’on revient toujours,
A ses premiers amours.’”
It was with the greatest eagerness that I had turned to look at this artificial blonde, who had been so greatly beloved by the youngBaron Calyste du Guénic. (Vide Béatrix.)A lace scarf was twisted about her neck in such a way as to diminish its length. She appeared worn and fatigued; but her figure was a masterpiece of composition, and she offered that compound of light and brilliant drapery, of gauze and crimped hair, of vivacity and calm, which is termed theje ne sais quoi.
Contiwas also an object of great interest to me. He looked vexed, out of sorts, and bored, and seemed to be meditating on the eternal truth of that aphorism, profound and sombre as an abyss, which teaches that a cigar onceout should never be relighted, and an affection once buried should never be exhumed.
“Is theBaron de Nucingenhere?” I asked.
“Nucingenis confined to his bed with the gout; he has not two good months out of the twelve.”
“And his wife?”
“The baroness no longer goes to the theatre. Religion, charity, and sermons occupy every instant of her time. Her father,Père Goriot,has now a white marble tomb and a perpetual resting-place in the cemetery ofPère La Chaise.”
“Where is her sister,Madame de Restaud?”
“She died a few years ago, legally separated from her husband.”
“Pardon my insatiable curiosity,” I said, “but ever since I was old enough to read and think I have not ceased to live with the personages of the ‘Comédie Humaine.’”
“I am glad indeed,” he courteously replied, “to be able to answer your questions. Is there anything that you still care to know?”
“What has become of the ex-minister of agriculture and commerce, theComte Popinot,whom we called the littleAnselme Popinot,in the days of the greatness and decadence ofCésar Birotteau?”
“He followed the exiled princes to England.”
“AndDu Tillet?”
“Du Tilletis no longer in France.”
“Did he leave for political reasons?”
“Is it possible that you did not hear of his failure! He absconded one day, with the till, ruined by JennyCadineandSuzanne du Val-Noble.”
“Where are the children ofMadame de Montsauf,that celestial creature, so justly calledle Lys dans la Vallée?”
“Jacques died of consumption, leaving Madeleine sole mistress of an enormous fortune. In spite of whatM. de Balzacsaid, I always supposed that she was secretly in love withFélix de Vandernesse.She is in that firstavant-scène.She is an old maid now, but is none the less an adorable woman, and the true daughter of her mother.”
“Do you know the name of that individual who has just entered her box?”
“That isCanalis.”
“Canalis,the great poet, who played such an important part in the life ofModeste Mignon?”
“Precisely.”
“I had thought that he was younger.”
“He has grown quite old during these last few years. He has turned his attention to politics, and you may notice how politics hollows the cheeks and silvers the hair of poetry. Hewould bankruptGolconda,however, and he is now attempting to winMlle. de Montsaufand her millions. But look to the left, in that first box from the door of the gallery, and see whether you do not recognize one of the most curious physiognomies of the ‘Comédie Humaine.’”
“Do you mean that stout woman?”
“Yes; it isMadame Nourrisau.”
“Vautrin’saunt?”
“In flesh and blood, especially in flesh. There is the formidable hag who went one day to the son of theBaron Hulotand proposed, for fifty thousand francs, to rid him ofMadame Marneffe.You must have read about it in ‘La Cousine Bette.’”
“She is not alone, I see.”
“She is with her husband.”
“Her husband? Is it possible that she found one?”
“You forget that she is five or six times millionaire, and also the general rule that where it rains millions husbands sprout. Her name is nowMadame Gaudessart, née Vautrin.”
“Is it the illustriousGaudessartwho is the husband of that horrible creature?”
“Legally so, I beg you to believe.”
“Speaking of the ‘Cousine Bette,’ can you tell me anything of Wencelas Steinbock and his wife?”
“They are perfectly happy. It is youngHulotwho misbehaves; his wife is in that box over there, with the Steinbocks.Hulothas told them that he will join them later, and has probably stated that he had some urgent law business to attend to; but the truth is that he is behind the scenes at the opera.Hulotis not his father’s son for nothing.”
At this pointM. de Rastignacsmiled affectionately at a white-haired musician, who was tuning his violin.
“Is that the Cousin Pons?” I asked.
“You forget two things: first, that the Cousin Pons is dead; and secondly, that in his lifetime he always wore a green velvet coat. But though Orestes is no more,Pyladesstill lives. Damon has survivedPythias.It is Schmucke who sits before you. He is very poor; he has nothing but the fifty francs a month which he earns here, and the payment of a few piano lessons at seventy-five centimes each; but he will not accept any assistance, and, for my part, I have never seen tatters more proudly worn.”
“Can you not,” I asked, “show meM. Maxime de Trailles?”
“De Traillesno longer lives in Paris. When the devil grows stout he turns hermit. This retired condottiere is now a married man, the father of a family, and resides in the country.He makes speeches at the agricultural fairs, takes great interest in cattle, and represents his county at the general assembly of his department,—the lateMaxime de Trailles,as he is now pleased to call himself.”
“AndDes Lupeaulx?”
“Des Lupeaulxis a prefect of the first class. But in place of these gentlemen, you have before you, in that box, the CountFélix de Vandernesseand the CountessNathalie de Manerville;a little beyond, theGrandvillesand theGrandlieux;then, the Dukede Rhétoré, Laginski, D’Esgrignon Montreveau, Rochefide,andD’Ajuda-Ponto.Moreover, there are theCheffrevilles;but then what a pity it is that our poorCamille Maupinis not present at this solemnity!”
“Is it ofMlle. des Touchesthat you speak?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still religiously inclined?”
“She died like a saint, two years ago, in a convent near Nantes. She retired from the world, you remember, after accomplishing the marriage ofCalyste du GuénicandSabine de Grandlieu.What a woman she was! There are none like her now.”
These last words ofM. de Rastignacwere covered by the three traditional knocks which precede the rise of the curtain.
“‘Mercadet’ is about to commence,” he said.
“After the first act I will continue my gossip; provided, of course, that I do not weary you with it.”
“Oh, my dear sir!” I cried. “My”—
I had not time to complete my phrase; a friendly but vigorous hand grasped my arm.
“So you come to ‘Mercadet’ to sleep, do you?” said a well-known voice.
“I? Am I asleep?”
“You are not asleep now, but you were.”
I turned quickly around.
My neighbor was a fat-faced gentleman, with blue spectacles, who was peeling an orange with the most ridiculous gravity.
In the boxes and orchestra stalls, wherever I had thought to see the personages of the “Comédie Humaine,” I found only insignificant faces, of the ordinary and graceless type,—a collection of obliterated medals.
At this moment the curtain rose, the actors appeared, and the great comedy of “Mercadet” was revealed, amid the applause and delight of the crowd.
I had been dreaming, therefore, and if I had been dreaming I must have been asleep. But what had provoked my somnolence? Was it the approach of a storm, the heat of the theatre, or the vaudeville with which the performance commenced?
Perhaps all three.
[18]
Balzac Chez Lui.Léon Gozlan.
Balzac Chez Lui.Léon Gozlan.
[19]
Le Figaro, 20 October, 1876.
Le Figaro, 20 October, 1876.