I pursued my homeward way, congratulating myself on my little game, and laughing at the thought of Raymond’s fright and of the figure he must cut waiting for me to rescue him. But soon my mind reverted to a more agreeable subject. I thought of the charming Caroline. I had no doubt that she had read my note, and on the morrow I would go to her shop and find out how far I might hope. A not very moral scheme, I agree! I proposed to try to seduce a girl, in order to gratify a caprice that would last only a moment. But what would you have? I have some grievous faults; I believe that unmarried men were put into the world to make love to girls. Those girls who desire to remain virtuous should do as Nicette did—refuse to allow themselves to be seduced.
Musing thus, I reached my abode. It had seemed a short walk to me. To be sure, the weather was magnificent; the moon was quite as fine as on the preceding night; but my thoughts were not upon the firmament. I was on the point of knocking, when a person who was sitting on the bench near the porte cochère rose quickly and came toward me.
“Ah! here you are, Monsieur Dorsan; I was waiting for you.”
I recognized my little flower girl, whom the sight of Mademoiselle Caroline had banished from my memory.She had not forgotten me; she was waiting for me in the street! and it was nearly twelve o’clock!
“How long have you been here, Nicette?”
“Since nine o’clock, monsieur.”
“Why did you wait so long for me?”
“Oh! monsieur, please forgive me, but I couldn’t stand it; I wanted to thank you again, and tell you what I have done with my money.”
“My dear girl, that wasn’t necessary; I am sure that you are behaving as you ought.”
“Don’t you like it because I waited for you, monsieur? If you don’t, I’ll go away——”
I knew by the sound of her voice that she was ready to weep. Had I spoken harshly to her? She was going away with a heavy heart, but I took her hand and detained her. She heaved a deep sigh. Poor Nicette! could it be for me? If so, I pitied her. In truth, I did not deserve to be loved by a sensitive, faithful heart; and yet, I wanted women to adore me and to be faithful to me: reconcile the two, if you can.
“Come, my dear Nicette, tell me all you have done since last night?”
“Won’t it bore you, monsieur?”
“No, of course not; don’t you know that I am interested in everything that concerns you?”
“Oh, monsieur! if you—but here goes: in the first place, I went home to my mother’s, because, after all, she is my mother, and, although she turned me out of doors, I still owe her respect.”
“That is true; you did very well. How did Madame Jérôme receive you?”
“Very badly, monsieur! oh! very badly! She didn’t so much as ask me where I’d passed the night. But sheproposed to me again to marry Beauvisage, and said that then she’d forgive what she called mycaravanes.[A]Has there been anycaravanesbetween you and me, monsieur?”
[A]In French slang, “love adventures.”
[A]In French slang, “love adventures.”
“Certainly not; and then?”
“Oh! I refused; because, when it comes to marriage, I’m obstinate, too. Then she beat me again, and that time you wasn’t there to stop her.”
I could not restrain a smile at the artless way in which Nicette reminded me of the blow I had received in her behalf; but I was distressed by Madame Jérôme’s hard-heartedness: to think of turning her daughter out of doors, beating her, and abandoning her, utterly without resource, at the age when the simplest and often the only means of support are to be found in prostitution! Ah! there are mothers unworthy of the name!
“Well, Nicette?”
“Well, monsieur, I packed up my clothes and left the house, without seeing my sister, who didn’t dare to show her face before me. I says to myself: ‘I mustn’t whine about it; I haven’t done anything to be sorry for. I refused the pork man, that’s true; but when it’s a matter of a girl’s whole life, surely she has a right to do as she pleases.’—So I went off with my little bundle. I don’t know how it happened, but after walking a while I found myself in your street. I looked round for a booth, and found one over yonder, close by, on Rue Saint-Honoré, near the boulevard. I bought a bed and a chair; that’s all I need. To-morrow, I’ll get a table for my bouquets; as to the flowers, I know where to get them. I’ll set up a stand on the corner of the street, on the boulevard; and when you want a bouquet, monsieur, I shallbe there, close by your house; and it will be easy enough for you to let me know. Have I done well, monsieur?”
Nicette had finished speaking, but I still listened. I was touched by her attachment. She had wanted to be near me, I could see that; and there was something so simple and ingenuous in the way she told me about it, that it seemed that in acting thus she had simply done her duty.
“You don’t say anything, monsieur; is it because you’re angry at my leaving my old quarter to come—to this one? If that’s it, why, I’ll look for another room to-morrow; I’ll go far away, ever so far, and you’ll never find me in your path again!”
“What do you say? I, angry because you are near me? It’s very wrong of you to say that, Nicette! I thought that I had shown you how deep an interest I take in you.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, Monsieur Dorsan, I beg your pardon; perhaps I ought to have asked your permission—for you are my patron.”
“Hush! what a child you are! I am very glad that you live in this quarter. I shall see you often, and always with pleasure.”
“Oh! monsieur, and so shall I. But I won’t take the liberty again to wait for you at your door. I only did it to-day because I wanted to tell you what I’d done, and to let you know where I am now.”
“Don’t apologize, my dear girl; I am so glad to see you! Ah! Nicette, what a cruel, yet delicious, night I passed so near you! I shall never forget it as long as I live. I know that I shouldn’t have so much courage another time.”
“Let’s not say anything more about that, Monsieur Dorsan. I must go home, for it’s very late, andI’m keeping you from your sleep again. To be sure, this is the last time it will happen.”
“Dear Nicette, your alluring charms, your graces, and your delightful frankness, will always be with me in that room, where I should be glad to see you again.”
“Oh! don’t say that, I beg of you, Monsieur Dorsan. I’m too far away from you—a poor flower girl!”
“Ah! Nicette; if you chose——”
“Adieu, Monsieur Dorsan! adieu!”
She saidadieu, but she did not go. I held one of her hands; she repelled me and drew me toward her at the same time. My eyes were fixed upon hers; we said nothing; but if my porte cochère had been open, I believe that Nicette would have gone with me again. A sudden outcry aroused us from that pleasant situation. A man ran along the street, shoutingthief! Nicette withdrew her hand, bade me a very affectionate good-night, and fled. I tried to detain her, but she was already far away.
I knocked at my door and was just about to enter, when the man whom I had seen running toward us, all alone, and whom I had taken for a drunken man, rushed through the porte cochère and fell headlong in the courtyard, crying:
“Safe at last!”
I recognized Raymond’s voice; I was curious to learn the end of his adventures. The concierge, hearing the uproar, arrived on the scene with a light, and we saw Raymond, his trousers torn from waistband to knee, lying at full length in the courtyard, gasping with fatigue, and trying to recover his breath.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Madame Dupont; “what has happened to you, Monsieur Raymond? a pretty mess you’re in!”
“What! is it you?” said I, in my turn; “why did you leave Tivoli without waiting for my signal?”
“Oh, yes! I fancy I should have had to wait a long while for your signal!”
“You’re too impatient.”
“I had been crouching in that corner for an hour, when I saw some men making the rounds of the garden. Faith! that gave me a fright, and I determined to scale the wall. But I was in such a hurry that I got caught on some broken glass; I tore my trousers and cut the base of my spine. On Rue du Mont-Blanc, I was insulted by some drunken men; indeed, I think they meant to rob me; but I ran off, shouting for help, and here I am in port, God be praised! But I shall remember Tivoli!”
“You must bathe your back in warm water, monsieur,” said Madame Dupont.
“Yes, I’ll do that in the morning.”
“You saved your silhouettes, I hope?” said I.
“I believe I lost some of them when I dropped from the wall.”
“The devil! that’s a pity! they’ll testify against you, and it will be easy to recognize that profile of yours. I advise you to wear a false nose and spectacles for a fortnight or so.”
My neighbor, who knew very well that I was making sport of him, took his candle and tramped upstairs without a word to me. When we were on our landing, I nodded to him, with a smile, and entered my lodgings alone, where I slept soundly. Nights follow but do not resemble one another: that is what all women say a fortnight after marriage.
My first thought when I woke was of my two young women. I cannot say whether Nicette or Caroline first presented herself to my imagination; I know that I was attracted by both of them. But Nicette was an honest girl and desired to remain so; thus far I had acted honorably with her; I determined not to try to ruin what I had done. I would be her friend, were it only for the sake of experimenting upon a novel sentiment toward a woman.
As to Mademoiselle Caroline, I had formed a different estimate of her: I did not believe her to be a novice; her little innocent air with Monsieur Jules did not impose on me; she was on the lookout for a husband, but she did not love that poor fellow; if she did love him, would she listen with a smile to all the insipid nonsense that I whispered to her? if she loved him, would she dance with other men? Mademoiselle Caroline was a great coquette, and, in my judgment, decidedly shrewd. And yet, she had treated me cavalierly enough when I followed her on the street; to be sure, she was cross because I had rumpled the finery she had prepared for the following day, which was at that moment much more interesting than a new conquest, since it might be worth a great many to her. But I should soon know what to expect.
At noon I betook myself to the shop that my sorcerer had indicated. He had not deceived me: among a number of saucy faces, I recognized my charming dancer. The young women all lowered their eyes at sight of ayoung man; but they all scrutinized me furtively. Caroline recognized me; I could tell that by a certain embarrassment, by her evident longing to look at me, and by the assiduity with which she attacked her work, the better to conceal her confusion. It was necessary that I should pretend to have visited the shop for some purpose: I asked for flowers, wreaths, trimmings; they were all shown to me, but it was a man who was obliging enough to spread before my eyes all the treasures of the establishment, and the young women did not stir.
That did not meet my desires, but I realized that I could not remain there all day. I bought fifty francs’ worth of artificial flowers, for which I paid cash; and I left my address, asking that they might be sent to me during the day, as I was to leave for the country in the morning. The man promised, and I left the shop. Caroline must have understood me; but would she come? that remained to be seen.
I returned home, informed my concierge that I expected some parcels I had just bought, and that the messenger was to bring them up to my room. I went up myself, and fretted and fumed like all young men awaiting their first assignation, like all young women whose mammas keep them in the house when they are burning to go out. An hour passed, and no one came. Another hour had nearly elapsed, and I was on the point of going back to the shop, when my doorbell rang. I reached the door with one bound and threw it open; there stood Monsieur Raymond, laden with an enormous pasteboard box.
“What do you want, Monsieur Raymond?”
“My respects to you, neighbor!”
“But what brings you to my door, pray?”
“I will explain. Allow me to come in and put down this box.”
And, without awaiting my reply, he entered my reception room and seated himself on a chair. I remained standing in front of him, hoping that that would make him cut his visit short.
“Excuse me if I make myself at home; but my back is still painful. That wall was devilish high.”
“What do you want of me? I beg you to tell me, for I am in a great hurry.”
“Here goes: in the first place, I wanted to make my peace with you, because neighbors ought not to quarrel.”
“Bless my soul! I have no desire to quarrel.”
“I’m very glad of that; then that’s all at an end. I was on the watch for an opportunity to come here to speak to you; the opportunity came, and I grasped it. Somebody rang at my door just now and asked for you.”
“What’s that? just now? Who was it?”
“A girl—very pretty, too; but not so pretty as the one the other night.”
“A girl! what did she want? pray go on!”
“She brought this box for you, and said there was no message.”
“Well! where is she? what did you say?”
“I took charge of the box, telling her that you had gone out, so that I might have the pleasure of delivering it myself and making my peace with you.”
“Great God! is it possible? Must you always meddle in other people’s business, just to drive me mad? I’ll stake my head it was she!”
I opened the box, while Raymond stared at me in amazement; he did not know which way to turn, seeing the gleam of anger in my eyes when he expected thanks.I found all the flowers I had bought, and, in my rage, I kicked the box away. The bouquets and trimmings flew through the air, and a garlandà la jardinièrelighted on Raymond’s brow; he dared not remove it, because my outburst of wrath had stupefied him.
After storming about and crumpling and mutilating my flowers, I threw myself into a chair and my eyes fell upon my neighbor. At that sight my anger vanished; it was impossible for me to keep a serious face when I saw Raymond crowned with paper flowers and glancing about him in terror. I roared with laughter; that reassured him, and he followed my example, but his laughter was of that forced variety which resembles a grimace, and not that inextinguishable merriment in which the gods indulge when Vulcan fills their glasses.
“Vulcan to find involved in this debate,The gentle reader’d scarce anticipate.”
“Vulcan to find involved in this debate,The gentle reader’d scarce anticipate.”
“Well,” said Monsieur Raymond at last, still trying to smile, “your angry fit seems to have passed over?”
“I must make the best of it.”
“Aren’t you satisfied with the goods they sent you?”
“Much I care for the goods, Monsieur Raymond! you will compel me to move.”
“I, neighbor? Why so, pray?”
“Because you seem to be stationed beside me here to thwart all my plans, to drive me mad with rage!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why, in heaven’s name, when people ring at your door by mistake, don’t you send them to me? Why do you say that I’m not at home when I am? Why did you undertake to deliver this box, when I desired to speak to the person who brought it?”
“My dear neighbor, I am distressed—I was entirely ignorant——”
“I beg you, Monsieur Raymond, as a favor, not to meddle in my affairs any more, or we shall have a serious falling-out! You have quite enough other occupation in the house, listening to the gossip of the cooks, keeping an eye on the women, playing the spy on the girls, and mixing yourself up in family rows, without disturbing yourself concerning my conduct.”
“I assure you, neighbor, that someone has been slandering me to you. I am incapable—I love a jest, that’s the whole of it; but I never gossip. In the first place, I am not talkative. If I were, I might tell you that the lady on the first floor has two lovers; that her husband keeps a mistress; that Monsieur Gérard, on the second, is in a bad way in business, and that I’ve seen summonses for him in the concierge’s hands; that Madame Bertin gives evening parties in order to get husbands for her daughters; that her cook makes a handsome commission on her provisions; that the cook at the rear of the courtyard has a lover she carries soup to; that Gerville the government clerk is running into debt and doesn’t answer the bell when his creditors ring; and a thousand other things. But it’s none of my business; I have quite enough to do to attend to my own affairs, without bothering my head about other people’s. I took this box, thinking that I was doing you a favor, and because I wanted an opportunity to make myself useful to you. It made you angry, and I won’t do it again. After this, I’ll send away people who want to speak to you, even when you’re not in. I salute you, neighbor!”
“By the way, one other word, if you please. What sort of looking girl was it who brought the box?”
“Why, very good-looking—that is to say, attractive.”
“How tall?”
“Medium.”
“Dark hair?”
“Yes; dark or chestnut-colored.”
“Black eyes?”
“Yes; that is to say, dark gray.”
“Ah! it was she!”
“Who is she?”
“That doesn’t concern you, Monsieur Raymond.”
“True; I asked the question inadvertently. Adieu!—By the way, are you going to Madame Vauvert’s to-night? There’s to be a grand party, a concert, and perhaps dancing. I fancy there’ll be lots of people there. I am going to sing the aria fromJoconde. Monsieur Vauvert sent me word that he should have a young woman who plays finely on the guitar, and a gentleman who sings in Italian like a Bouffon.”
“A most alluring prospect.”
“I believe Madame Bertin is going, with her young ladies. The younger one is studying a piece that she’s to play on the piano. But time flies, and I have a lot of errands to do.—Au revoir, neighbor! I promised Vauvert to bring him a ‘cello and a second violin to complete his quartette. I must go and drum up my performers.”
He went away at last. The infernal fellow was responsible for my failure to see Caroline; for I had no doubt that it was she who had brought my box. What was I to do next? If I went again to the shop, what should I say? I had no idea; but I did not propose to have my rooms filled with artificial flowers to no purpose. I returned to Rue Sainte-Apolline.
The proprietor was out; so much the better. I complained and stormed because my flowers had not been sent. A girl rose and declared that she had left them at my rooms. It was not Caroline; therefore, it was not she who had come. I became calmer and shifted the blame onto my neighbor’s shoulders. The forewoman scolded the girl. I bought some more wreaths, pretending that I had forgotten to buy them on my first visit; and I asked to have them sent with me. This time Caroline was selected to be the messenger. At last I was to have an opportunity to speak to her freely, to be alone with her!
“One moment!” I said to myself; “I haven’t reached that point yet; I must not be too sure beforehand; one is so often disappointed!”
Mademoiselle Caroline walked with her eyes bent on the ground, and I remained at a respectful distance; but when we were a few steps from the shop, I put her into a cab, which took us to my domicile. She hesitated at first about entering the cab, but I urged her; she consented at last, and then she had no choice but to listen to all that love impelled me to say, if I may give the name ofloveto the caprice that had occupied my thoughts since the preceding night.
But obstacles give added value to the most trifling fancy, and sometimes transform a simple caprice into a deep-rooted sentiment. The difficulty which I had encountered in obtaining an interview with Caroline caused me to find a greater charm in her company; my words had more fire, more eloquence; and so little is required to convince a girl whose heart is already half vanquished.
Everything, therefore, led me to hope for the most perfect success. In time the cab stopped, we alighted, and Mademoiselle Caroline handed me my box, refusing to goup to my rooms. In vain did I promise, aye, swear to be good; I was powerless to overcome the flowermaker’s obstinacy; all that I could obtain was an appointment on the boulevard for the following evening.
She left me, and I entered the house alone. I could not help thinking of the difference between Mademoiselle Caroline’s conduct and Nicette’s. The little flower girl, who had known me but a few minutes, herself proposed to come to my apartment at midnight; while the grisette, having an excuse for going there, was afraid to venture in broad daylight. What was I to conclude? That one realized the danger more fully than the other? No. Nicette realized it; but she simply did not think of it; she trusted me. That Caroline was more virtuous than Nicette was impossible; indeed, I feared the contrary, and that there might be the same difference in their respective morals as in the flowers they dealt in.
I must, in any event, wait until the time appointed for our meeting. I determined to go that evening to Madame Vauvert’s; not to hear Raymond sing theJocondearia, but because there was generally a collection of original creatures there that amused me, to say nothing of the master and mistress of the house, who are well worth a chapter to themselves.
In Paris there are parties for all tastes, all social ranks, all professions, all shades of opinion; in a word, for all classes.
A young man with tact and breeding may go everywhere; nothing is so easy as to obtain admission to the enormous parties, the gorgeous fêtes and balls, which are so popular that people go thither in crowds and do not see one another. The master and mistress of the house do not know the names of half the men who crowd their salons. In the best society it is customary for an invited guest to introduce whomsoever he may choose, without asking permission. The newcomer salutes the host and his wife; they exchange the conventional phrases, smiling at each other most amicably; that is all that is necessary; and one may then proceed to play cards, dance, and regale one’s self, without paying any further attention to the master of the house.
It is not so easy to obtain admission to what are calledbourgeoisparties. There the host, being a little more particular than the banker or marquis of the Chaussée d’Antin, likes to know the people who come to his house. When one young man introduces another to him, he inquires his name, his profession, and his character; indeed, there are some who carry their absurd prejudices so far as to turn a cold shoulder to young men whose too free and easy manners do not please them. But this extremeseverity of morals is found only in the Marais or in the heart of Faubourg Saint-Germain.
Between the first society and the bourgeoisie, between etiquette and license, there are the delightful circles, distinguished by amiable freedom of manner, artless gayety, and a pleasant intimacy; these are generally to be found among artists. The arts go hand in hand; genuine talents are not jealous of one another; they esteem, seek out, and appreciate one another; that is why we find among them wit without malice, jesting without bitterness, rivalry without envy, merit without arrogance, and wealth without display.
Next come the strange, abnormal parties, which are made up from all the others. The people who give them do not know how to receive company; but they insist upon having company all the time, because it is good form to give soirées, and in these days no one is willing to lag behind his neighbor. For my part, I am in the habit of going only where I am invited by the host himself; I do not like to be introduced by another guest, unless it be at one of those crushes to which one goes as one would go to the theatre; and one may stay away from a second one without being taxed with discourtesy, because there is no danger of having been noticed at the first.
The function of Monsieur and Madame Vauvert may be placed in the last category. The master of the house fancied that he was a musician, but he had never in his life been able to beat a measure in three time, or to observe a minim rest or a crotchet rest, although he used his feet, his head, and his hands. He thrummed a little on the guitar; and when he had succeeded in accompanying some little ballad, without falling in with a minim rest ora crotchet one on the way, he was the happiest of men. Add to this an enduring passion for the fair sex, to which he paid assiduous court, despite his wife, a nose always smeared with snuff, soiled clothes and frills, strong breath and shifty eyes, a figure of medium height and a body that was always trembling, and you will have an idea of Monsieur Vauvert, who was a very good fellow in spite of his trifling faults, and whose greatest crime was not to be virtuous and orderly at forty-five. Gayety is of all ages, but libertinage is a different matter.
“If there’s a time for folly,So there’s a time for sense.”
“If there’s a time for folly,So there’s a time for sense.”
And I trust that at forty I shall be as virtuous as I now am the opposite. But let us come to Madame Vauvert.
She must once have been good-looking; the trouble was that she insisted upon continuing to be so. Her complexion was still fresh and ruddy, even when she was ill; which tempted unkind tongues to say that she made it herself. She was not familiar with the manners of good society, but by way of compensation she had a vast deal of curiosity and an extraordinary talent for setting people by the ears, while seeming never to speak ill of anyone; she also had a very pronounced penchant for good-looking youths and for chocolate.
Still, Madame Vauvert’s parties were very entertaining, because there was not the slightest restraint, everyone did what he chose, and one was certain of meeting a lot of original people and of seeing some new faces at every party. Most of those who appeared there simply passed on and off, as in a magic lantern; those whose only aim was to be amused went again and again. I was one of the latter; so Vauvert had come to call me his dearfriend, while his charming spouse always greeted me with a most gracious little smile.
As Monsieur Vauvert was only a government clerk, he did not live on the first floor; but on his reception evenings he caused candle ends to be placed along the staircase, so that the artists and amateurs might not break their noses before reaching the third floor above the entresol. He had no servant, but he had a nephew some fourteen or fifteen years old, who was junior clerk to a notary; a sly, mischievous youngster, whom his dear uncle tried to make useful on his festal days, which displeased the young man, who on those occasions always returned home later than usual from the notary’s, in order not to be at the service of his uncle and aunt. It was nearly ten o’clock when I arrived at Monsieur Vauvert’s; the company rarely assembled before that hour, for the petty bourgeois try to mimic the nobility, and think it good form to arrive very late at a party. Musicians, whether amateurs or professionals, love to keep people waiting; and I believe that, in due time, evening parties will not begin until the next morning.
I rang. The door was opened by Madame Vauvert; whence I concluded that the young nephew had not yet returned.
“Ah! here you are, my little Dorsan; it’s very good of you to come; we shall have a lot of people to-night.”
“Youwillhave? Do you mean to say that your guests haven’t arrived yet?”
“Some of them are late; but it’s early yet.”
“Not very.”
“We have a tall young lady from the Conservatoire, who has a magnificent voice.”
“The deuce!”
“And a lady who plays the ‘cello.”
“Great heaven! why, here it’s as it is at Nicolet’s: always worse and worse!”
“Ha! ha! what a funny fellow!”
“What music have you had already?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What! nothing? and it’s ten o’clock! For whom are you waiting to begin your concert?”
“Little Martin hasn’t come yet, to play the piano accompaniments.”
“Isn’t his sister here?”
“Yes, but she won’t play to-night; she’s sick; she’s having one of her nervous attacks.”
“Ah, yes! that’s quite natural. But where’s your husband?”
“He’s gone out to get a ‘cello part and to borrow a second violin, so that we can have a quartette.”
“It seems to me that it would have been well to set about it a little sooner.”
“Why, the poor man’s been running his legs off ever since dinner. He had to fetch Madame Rosemonde and her daughter, then go to the musical instrument maker’s for a double bass, then send for Mademoiselle Luquet’s harp, then go to make sure that Monsieur Crachini could come; in fact, there’s no end to what he’s had to do!”
“I can see that he has had his hands full.”
“And that little rascal of a Friquet doesn’t come home! I hope his uncle will give him a good trouncing to-night. But come in, my dear fellow.”
Our conversation was held in a narrow passage leading on one side to the dining room, which did duty as bedroom and dressing room, and on the other to the salon. I entered this last-named apartment, where the regularhabitués and the newcomers were assembled. Everyone was wondering what the host and hostess could be doing, that no one had seen them; everyone was calling for them, and asking why the music could not begin; but not one of the singers was willing to sing first, and the instrumentalists seemed no better disposed.
“It seems to me that things aren’t likely to go very well to-night,” said a short, pockmarked man, who waddled up to me, smiling maliciously, whose nose was hidden by his bulging cheeks, and whose eyes one sought in vain behind his spectacles. “Almost ten o’clock, and nothing doing; you must agree that it’s disrespectful to the company! Poor Vauvert! passing his evening scouring the neighborhood for instruments and scores! It’s amusing enough! There are not two houses like this in Paris.”
“That is just why it’s so priceless. But aren’t you going to sing to-night?”
“Yes; I’ve brought my song fromJean de Paris; it’s called thePrincesse de Navarre.”
“I seem to remember that you sang that to us at the last reception.”
“So I did; but I haven’t had time to learn anything else; and then, you know, it’s such a fine thing!—
“‘’Tis the Princesse de Navarre whom I annou—ou—ounce!’
“‘’Tis the Princesse de Navarre whom I annou—ou—ounce!’
Gad! how pretty it is!”
“Yes, when Martin sings it, it’s delightful. Shall we have much singing to-night?”
“Oh! we shall have some sport. Raymond is to sing the aria fromJoconde; that tall girl yonder is to sing the inevitable song fromMontano et Stéphanie; the pupil from the Conservatoire has brought a song, too; andMonsieur Crachini will obligingly deafen us with a romanza or two. Then Chamonin and his friend are to make an attempt at a duo from the Bouffes. That’s enough, I hope! God grant that Gripaille doesn’t take his guitar to accompany us! if he does, we are lost.”
As the chubby-faced little man finished speaking, Gripaille accosted him, and was greeted with:
“Well, my dear Gripaille, aren’t we to have the pleasure of hearing you? Come, bring out your guitar; these ladies are dying for some of your chords.”
Gripaille, who considered himself the first guitarist in Paris, replied, casting a seductive leer upon the ladies who surrounded us:
“What the devil do you expect me to sing you? I don’t know anything! I’ve got a cold, too; and then, Vauvert’s guitar is such a wretched instrument! a regular chestnut stove! it’s impossible to play on it.”
“With such talent as yours, one can play on anything,” observed a little old woman, throwing herself back in her chair and clasping her hands ecstatically, while tears of pleasure started from her eyes. “Mon Dieu! what blissful moments I owe to you! Music produces such an effect on me—such an effect! you can’t form any idea of it; my nerves are so sensitive, I abandon myself so utterly to the melody! Take your guitar, enchanter! take it and make me dream! You remind me of a handsome traveller who played the guitar under my windows when I was young!”
The chubby-faced gentleman and I turned away, to avoid laughing in the face of the old woman, from whom Gripaille had great difficulty in extricating himself. Old age is certainly most worthy of respect; but it is hard to keep a serious face before such old idiots, who fall into a trance during a ballad or anadagio.
I saw the old man who usually played the ‘cello part look at his watch, and heard him mutter between his teeth:
“This is very disagreeable! I must be at home at eleven o’clock, and we are wasting all this time doing nothing; and I’ve been here since seven! They were laughing at me when they told me that they were going to begin early, and that there would be a full quartette here; but they won’t catch me again.”
At last Monsieur Vauvert appeared, panting, almost breathless, drenched with perspiration, and bending beneath the burden of a tenor violin and several portfolios of music.
“Here I am! here I am!” he exclaimed, bustling into the room with an air of great bewilderment; “I’ve had hard work collecting all the parts, but I’ve succeeded at last.”
“You must have been diverting yourself between whiles,” said Madame Vauvert, pursing her lips.
“Oh, yes! parbleu! that’s very likely; diverting myself, indeed! I’m bathed in perspiration!—You can begin the quartette, messieurs.”
“Let’s begin, let’s begin!” said Monsieur Pattier, the ‘cello player; “we have very little time.—But have you brought my score?”
“Yes, yes! there it is on the stand.”
“Come, messieurs, let’s tune up.”
The amateurs who formed the quartette tried to bring their instruments in tune with one another. Meanwhile, the guests took their places to listen; sat down when they could find chairs. The ladies were already yawning; the bare announcement of a quartette gave them the vapors; to distract their thoughts, they chatted with the men who stood behind their chairs. They whispered and laughedand made fun of everybody, especially of the performers; the moment when music is being performed is always selected by the listeners to make the most noise.
At last the intrepid amateurs were in tune and took their places at their desks. The old ‘cello player had put his little shade of green paper round his candle, so that the light should not hurt his eyes; the tenor violinist had put on his spectacles; the second violin put an ounce of rosin on his bow; and the first violin adjusted his cravat so that his instrument should not rumple his collar.
All these preliminaries being completed,—during which Vauvert tried to bring the assemblage to order by many a prolongedhush!—the first violin raised his bow and stamped on the floor, glancing from one to another of his colleagues.
“Are we ready?” he said at last, with a determined air.
“Oh! I’ve been ready two hours!” retorted Monsieur Pattier, with an angry shrug.
“One moment, messieurs,” said the second violin; “my first string is loose; it’s a new string; I must tighten it.”
The tenor seized the opportunity to play over a passage that seemed rather difficult, and the ‘cellist consoled himself with a pinch of snuff.
“Now I’m ready,” said the second violin.
“That’s very fortunate.—Attention, messieurs, if you please; we will play theallegrorather slowly, and theadagiosomewhat quickly; that produces a better effect.”
“As you please; it’s your place to beat time.”
The signal was given; the first violin started, and the others straggled after, as usual. Although I paid little attention to the quartette, it seemed to me to be even worse than ordinarily.
“The villains have sworn to flay us alive!” said one of my neighbors.
“That isn’t right! that isn’t right!” cried the first violin, stopping short.
“I don’t see why it didn’t go well enough,” observed the tenor.
“No, no! there was something that was all wrong.”
“Where was it?”
“Where? I can’t say exactly.”
“Well,Ididn’t miss a note,” said the second violin.
“Nor I.”
“Nor I.”
“Come, messieurs, let us begin again.”
“All right, but see that you beat time properly.”
“I should say that I beat time loud enough.”
“To be sure you do,” said Madame Vauvert; “and the person who lives underneath said she would complain to the landlord.”
They began to play again; but it went no better, although the first violin writhed and gesticulated like one possessed; the company began to laugh, and the performers stopped.
“It certainly doesn’t go right,” said Monsieur Longuet, the first violin and conductor. “There must be mistakes somewhere; let me see the ‘cello score. What does this mean? you’re playing inBflat and we inD! Parbleu! I’m not surprised.”
“I’m playing just what you told me to,” rejoined old Pattier, scarlet with anger; “the first quartette in the first portfolio.”
“True; how the devil does it happen? Let’s look at the title. What do I see? Mozart’s quartette! and we are playing one of Pleyel’s! Ha! ha! that’s a good one!”
Everybody laughed at the episode; Monsieur Pattier alone was furious over the mistake, for which Vauvert was responsible, and which resulted in preventing the performance of the quartette. He rushed up to the master of the house, who had just seated himself in a corner of the salon beside a young brunette on whom he was bestowing meaning glances.
“How’s this, Monsieur Vauvert? You tell me that you have brought the score that was missing, and you give me the bass of a Mozart quartette when we are to play one of Pleyel’s!”
“I thought I heard you mention Mozart.”
“You thought! a man doesn’t make such mistakes as that!”
“Well! I’ll go and change it.”
“No, no, it’s no use; almost eleven o’clock; a pretty time to go out after music! I shan’t forget this trick.”
Père Pattier went away, muttering savagely; nobody paid any attention to him. Madame Vauvert scolded her husband for his blunder, and the company congratulated themselves on their escape from the quartette; while the tenor, who was determined not to be squelched, persisted in trying the brilliant passages of his part. Neighbor Raymond had just arrived, with his favorite piece under his arm. I noticed several new faces, and I was looking about for Madame Bertin and her daughters, who seldom came to Monsieur Vauvert’s, whose decidedly mixed society was ill suited to well-bred young ladies, when I heard the confused murmur that announces the arrival of a new personage.
I looked toward the door of the salon. A very stylishly dressed lady was being escorted into the room by Vauvert, on whose arm she leaned, and whose soiled linen,snuffy nose, and awkward manner were in striking contrast to the grace, the refinement, and the elegant manners of the lady, for whom he tried to find a seat in his salon, where vacant chairs were as scarce as at Tivoli. I spied one by the fireplace, upon which a huge cat lay asleep; I threw the cat to the floor, and presented the chair to the newcomer, who thanked me as she accepted it. Thereupon I examined her more closely, and recognized the lady whom I had seen at the theatre two nights before, and whose carriage I had made a vain attempt to follow. I was fully convinced that it was she when I saw in the doorway the man who accompanied her on that occasion.
Decidedly that Saturday evening was destined to mark an epoch in my life; for chance had thrown in my way all the persons who had then attracted my attention. I was Nicette’s friend, I hoped to be Caroline’s lover, and as for this other lady, whose name I did not know as yet, I was ready to bet that we should become better acquainted.
Neighbor Raymond, who lost no time when he hoped to win applause, had already approached the piano and was looking about for someone to accompany him. But Monsieur Gripaille, seeing that no one asked him to sing, or paid any attention to him, ran and seized the guitar, seated himself in the centre of the salon, and prepared to begin. Singing is always the most popular part of a concert, especially a concert of amateurs, where those who play upon any instrument are rarely good enough players or good enough musicians to give pleasure to their audience. A quartette entertains none but those who take part in it; a sonata on the piano makes people yawn; airs with variations for the harp are always twice too long, and pieces for the guitar always fall flat after otherinstruments. Only for singing, therefore, does the audience at such affairs care to cease its conversation; a pleasant voice never wearies the attention or the ears.
But Monsieur Gripaille had not a pleasant voice—far from it; it was a continual medley of falsetto, shrill notes, and transitions of an octave, the whole accompanied by the thrumming of his thumb on the bass chord of the guitar, while he shook his head from side to side to add to his personal charms. However, the airs he sang were sometimes tuneful, the words amusing, and his performance diverted the company for a moment. But as he always sang the same things, we knew them by heart; and when he once had the guitar in his hands, it was impossible to make him put it down; after the ballad came a rondeau, after the rondeau a comic song, after the comic song another ballad, and so on. I was not bored, because I was talking with the new arrival, who seemed vastly astonished at all that she saw, and very glad to find me there; for she recognized me, and I saw that my presence was not disagreeable to her.
But soon I heard neighbor Raymond and the man with spectacles objurgating Gripaille because he did not stop singing.
“It’s horrible! it’s murderous! it’s enough to put you to sleep!” said Raymond; “he’ll never stop!”
“Oh! when he once has his guitar, we are lost! there’s nothing to do but let him sing.”
“And he doesn’t want anyone to make a sound, either; not even to speak. See! he’s glancing angrily in this direction now, because we’re talking.”
“I don’t care if he is; it’s altogether too much; tunes that he’s sung to us twenty times!”
“He says that he wrote them.”
“He lies; I’ve seen them printed under another name.”
“Great God! I believe he’s beginning another one. That fellow ought to be forbidden to enter a salon.”
“Faith, yes! let’s call Vauvert, and tell him to make him shut up.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ll tell you; we must have some young lady escorted to the piano; perhaps that will compel Gripaille to give up his place.”
The two men ran after Vauvert, who was in the utmost perplexity, for he did not know how to request his friend Gripaille to cease to entertain the company. At last, a tall, stout young woman consented to sing; young Martin arrived to play the accompaniments, and they were escorted to the piano. Gripaille pretended not to see what was going on, and played the prelude to his sixth comic song; but the noise in the dressing room, where a party of young men had assembled who could not find room in the salon, forced the guitarist to abandon the contest; he rose very ill-humoredly, despite the faint forced applause, and for lack of something better to do sat down in front of the little old woman, who had been partly in a trance and partly in heaven throughout his singing.
“Come,” she said to Gripaille, as he approached, “come, let me embrace you! You have enchanted me—exalted me to the skies—that is the word! Come, I entreat you!”
The wretched guitarist was compelled to submit; he embraced the old lady with a good grace; admirers are rare, and one has to pay dear for them.
My neighbor spied me and came to me with outstretched hand; but he halted in front of my fair unknown, to whom he made a sweeping bow. The devilof a fellow seemed to know everybody. I listened to their conversation.
“Whom do I see? Madame de Marsan! by what chance? Really, this is a happiness I did not expect! To what are we indebted for this pleasant surprise?”
“Monsieur de Marsan meets Monsieur Vauvert sometimes at the department, and Monsieur Vauvert has been urging him for a long time to come to his concerts; so to-day we decided to come;—but I confess,” she said, turning to me, “that I did not expect all that I see.”
“We will try, madame, to give you so much pleasure that you will not regret your evening.”
Thereupon my neighbor ran to the piano, doubtless to preëmpt the place next to the tall young lady. But the little chubby-faced man had anticipated him, and I foresaw that we could not escape thePrincesse de Navarre.
While the young woman was singing her air fromMontano et Stéphanie, being forced to give up my chair to a damsel who was looking about in vain for a seat, I went for a breath of air to the dressing room, where a number of young men had taken refuge, driven from the salon by the shrill cries of the singer. At that moment the doorbell rang; Vauvert opened the door, and little Friquet appeared. I expected a scene between the uncle and the nephew, and I waited to hear.
“Where have you been, you rascal?” demanded Vauvert, trying to assume an imposing air.
“Why, uncle, I have been—I have been at the office.”
“At your office, until eleven o’clock at night!”
“Yes, uncle.”
“You don’t expect to make us believe that, I hope?”
“Why not, uncle?”
“Because I know that you leave it every night at nine o’clock.”
“The head clerk gave me some errands to do, uncle; that is what made me so late.”
“Errands! I know how you do errands! I’ve been hearing about you, young scoundrel that you are!”
“In the first place, uncle, I am not a scoundrel.”
“Your head clerk told me that the day before yesterday morning, while they were waiting for a very urgent paper that they’d sent you to have signed, he found you sitting coolly under Pont des Arts, fishing.”
“Me, uncle, me! My word, what a lie!”
“He has the face to deny it, when I have proofs of the fact!”
“Proofs? what proofs?”
“Look, Monsieur Friquet, here’s a package of hooks that I found in your coat pocket. Well! what do you say to that?”
“That doesn’t prove anything, uncle; I didn’t buy those hooks for myself.”
“For whom did you buy them, then?”
“For my brother, who means to go fishing in the Canal de l’Ourcq on Sunday.”
“You’re the most shameless liar I know. I’ll bet that you bought a theatre check to-night, and that you’ve been to see the end of some play.”
“You know perfectly well that I haven’t got any money, uncle.”
“Oh! you always have money to go to the theatre and to stuff yourself. Come, monsieur, fill the glasses and pass them round to the ladies.”
“That’s it!” muttered the little nephew, turning angrily on his heel; “as soon as I get home, I have to beuncle’s servant, they’d better get a negro. And then, the first thing in the morning, aunt sends me to get her milk and her fuel, and lights for her cat.”
“You seem to be arguing the matter!” said Madame Vauvert, pinching Friquet’s arm; “there! that’s to teach you to grumble.”
“Ow! how mean to pinch me like that, aunt! I shall be black and blue for a week.”
“So much the better!”
“Mon Dieu! how ugly she is!” muttered Friquet; and I saw him, for consolation, take a slice of cake out of his pocket and swallow it in three mouthfuls.
But the shrill sounds had ceased; the tall young lady was no longer singing. The little chubby-faced man took her place; he was determined to sing his air fromJean de Paris, and we had to resign ourselves. While he struggled to hold out his notes, coughing at every ritornelle to make us believe that he had a cold, I saw the other singers look at each other, make signs, yawn, and compress their lips. In truth, amateurs are more unkind than professionals, and they who are in great need of indulgence for themselves are always ready to tear others to tatters. They think to conceal their own mediocrity by calling attention to their neighbor’s lack of talent; self-esteem, which blinds us to our own defects, impels us to seek out with avidity the faults of others, as if we were the gainers thereby! What folly! Because Monsieur So-and-So sings false, does that give you a fine voice? because he plays the violin badly, are you the better performer on the piano? because another is ugly, awkward, and ridiculous, are you any handsomer, more graceful, and more agreeable? Of course not; but it is always pleasant to see people at whom one can pokefun, and whom we believe to be less abundantly endowed by Nature than we. Remember that Roquelaure joyously threw himself on the neck of a man who seemed to him even uglier than himself. But, monsieur, what a difference! Roquelaure sacrificed his self-esteem; but you, had you been in his place, would have made sport of the man he embraced, and, turning to look in a mirror, would have deemed yourself handsome, I vow.
ThePrincesse de Navarrebeing duly executed, the little man made the circuit of the salon, trying to pick up a word of praise, even from those whom he had so recently declared to be ignorant of music; for praise is always pleasant. Everybody told him that he had sung very well; that was inevitable; we were well bred, which means that we had ceased to be frank. I alone ventured to observe that he seemed to have a cold; he turned as red as a turkey cock, and his nose vanished completely.
“That is so,” he said at last; “I have a very bad cold; it embarrassed me a great deal.”
“Why did you sing, then?”
“Oh! people urged me so hard!”
And I had seen him dispute with Raymond for the opportunity! What strange creatures men are! But, hush! my neighbor was going to sing; that deserved attention. But, no; two other men anticipated him; they sang an Italian duet, I believe; but it was difficult to understand the veritable hotchpotch they made at the piano: one shook his head to mark time, as a bear dances behind the bars of his cage; the other, who was evidently very short-sighted, kept his nose glued to the music. The young man who acted as accompanist tried in vain to make them sing together: it was impossible.
“You’re behind,” said one.
“That’s because I skipped a line.”
“Well, go on!”
“You go too fast; you hurry me. I never saw the music before, and to sing Italian at sight is devilish hard.”
I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung.
“We will sing it the next time,” said Monsieur Chamonin; “we shall be surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied. Rossini is very chromatic.”
“That’s so,” said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which remained on his shirt front; “it’s a pity you didn’t finish it, for I thought it was very pretty.”
“We’ll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons.”
“They had better stay there,” said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted by their misadventure.
“For my part, I don’t care for Italian,” said Madame Vauvert. “I never can hear anything buttchi and tcha; and it doesn’t amuse me in the least.”
“Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!”
“Who’s Rossini, uncle?” inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into the salon. “Seems to me I’ve seen that name, inDon Quixote.”
“The idiot, to mistakeRosinante for Rossini! Go and wash the glasses, booby, and don’t mix in the conversation again.”
At last my neighbor was at the piano, and had opened his mouth to an enormous width to inform us that he had “long wandered o’er the world.” But at that moment we heard the notes of a ‘cello, and Vauvert appeared with a music stand, which he placed in the centre of the salon.
“What on earth are you doing there?” shouted Raymond; “don’t you see that I am singing?”
“Madame Witcheritche is going to play her solo on the ‘cello.”
“In a few minutes; I am singing now, I tell you. Madame Witcheritche can play afterward.”
“No, she wants to play now, because it’s getting late.”
And paying no heed to the mutterings of Raymond, who, in his wrath, overturned the candlestick on the piano, Vauvert arranged the music stand, then went to usher in the German virtuoso, whom I had not previously noticed. She was a very handsome woman, very fair and somewhat insipid, like most German women, but well built and graceful; she held the ‘cello between her legs with astonishing ease, and seemed not at all abashed. She played easily and with excellent taste; and I saw by the long faces of the members of the quartette that they had not expected to encounter in one of the other sex a musical talent in presence of which they could no longer hope to shine.
I heard a voice at my ear incessantly repeating:
“Gut, gut, sehr gut; tudge lidely, holt te pow firm; lidely on te shtrings!”
I turned and saw a hideous face looking first at the performer, then at the company, making grimaces for tokens of approval, and rolling about a pair of eyes that reminded me of Brunet’s in theDésespoir de Jocrisse. The owner of that extraordinary countenance was a tall man in a threadbare green coat, of vulgar aspect, and with pretentious airs which made him even more ridiculous.
“Who is that individual?” I asked one of my neighbors.
“That’s the husband of the lady playing the ‘cello.”
“What! such a disgusting face approach that charming head! What an outrage! It reminds me of a Satyr beside a Hebe.”
“Still, the lady seems to be fond of her husband.”
“It’s easy to see that she’s a foreigner. What does this husband of hers do?”
“Nothing; he’s a baron.”
“A baron! I should never have suspected it; he looks more like a cobbler. But in Germany everybody’s a baron, just as in Russia all the soldiers have decorations; it doesn’t mean anything.”
Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, who, as he rolled his eyes about, had doubtless observed that I was looking at him, came to me as soon as his wife had finished, and began to converse with a smiling face. I have observed that the Germans smile a great deal when they are talking. I regretted that it was not courteous to laugh in a person’s face, for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche was very amusing to look at, especially when he wished to make himself agreeable. I wondered what he wanted of me.
“I’ll pet tat monsir is ein egsberd on te ‘cello. Monsir is ein much gut blayer himself, hein?”
“I, monsieur? you are mistaken; I do not play at all.”
“Oh! you vish not to admit it; I can tivine all at once te innermost toughts of bersons py tare faces.”
“The deuce! you are very fortunate, Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche!”
“I haf shtudy te human heard; I am most egsberd in physsionomique.”
“What do you say, monsieur le baron?”
“I say I am ein egsberd in physsionomique.”
“I don’t understand at all.”
“In physsionomique.”
“Oh! you mean physiognomy.”
Monsieur le baron turned on his heel, without a smile. The best way to rid one’s self of a foreigner is to pretend not to understand him.
Meanwhile my little dialogue with Monsieur de Witcheritche had caused me to miss Monsieur Crachini’s romanza. I was sorry, for he always combined with his singing an expressive pantomime which made it doubly interesting. While various other amateurs entertained the company, I looked about for Raymond; for being unable to find a seat beside Madame de Marsan, I was anxious to obtain some information concerning her, and my neighbor was the very man to give me that.
He was not in the salon. I went into the smaller room, where my entrance brought to an abrupt close a whispered conversation between Vauvert and a fair-haired lady who had been in the dining room an hour, looking for her shawl amid a multitude of bonnets, mantles, and shawls which were tossed pell-mell on the bed of the host and hostess.
“Are you leaving us already?” said Vauvert, in a melting voice, glancing behind him to see if his wife was coming.
“Yes, it’s very late; I must go home.”
“My nephew will escort you.—Friquet! Friquet!”
Friquet appeared, and swore between his teeth at having to escort the blonde lady; he spent an interminable time looking for his hat and exclaiming in the lady’s ears that it was a nuisance to go out so late and go home with everybody. His uncle pulled his ears, and I joinedRaymond, who was exhaling his vexation at the dressing room window.
“Aren’t you going to sing, neighbor?”
“Is it possible to do anything here, I should like to know? Did you ever see such confusion? such disorder? I don’t know where I am! I’ve told Vauvert a hundred times to draw up a programme and paste it on a mirror; then everything would go off in an orderly way. But, no; he won’t listen to anything! he amuses himself pinching and squeezing such little girls as he can find in the corners, instead of attending to his concert.”
“It is certainly true that it might be managed better.”
“The idea of giving us a concerto for the ‘cello that there’s no end to; just to grate on our ears! And then, I don’t care what you may say, a woman who plays the ‘cello is always absurd! It reminds me of a man darning stockings; and madame la baronne would do much better to stay at home and darn hers than executestaccatosandarpeggios.”
“What do you say? a baroness darn stockings?”
“Oh! nonsense! a pretty baron he makes! I saw him the other day on Boulevard du Temple, buying apples at a sou a bag; and he was haggling too! He bought sausage by the yard for his dinner; and someone who’s been at his house told me that they gave him gooseberries for refreshment! But this Vauvert’s a star! he tries to make us believe that he entertains princes, ambassadors perhaps! whereas his house is a veritable Noah’s Ark.”
“By the way, you seem to know Madame de Marsan?”
“Madame de Marsan? yes, to be sure; I go to her parties. She’s a fine woman, rather a flirt, as you must have seen; but she has wit and good breeding and style; she’s a woman who calls herself twenty-eight, and is reallythirty-two. She is known to have had several passions; but as she doesn’t advertise them and is always regardful of decorum, there’s nothing to say: morals before everything. The husband is a good sort of fellow, very sharp, they say, when his own interests are concerned. He’s in business; but he’s not one of those poor devils who run about for a fortnight to discount a note which will be worth a commission of seven or eight francs to them; or one of those who offer you with an air of mystery houses that are advertised in thePetits-Affiches. This fellow knows what he’s about, and makes a lot of money. He has a fine country house, beyond Saint-Denis, in which madame has had a pretty little theatre arranged; in fact, I am to act there very soon. She’s a valuable acquaintance; for there’s lots of fun at her house. I myself have been there twice, and I know that they think a great deal of me. If you choose, my dear fellow, I’ll take you there; if introduced by me, you will be warmly welcomed.”
“Thanks; but, as you know, I don’t like to be presented in that way.”
Raymond left me, to return to the piano; he had not lost all hope of getting himself heard. I knew all that I wanted to know concerning Madame de Marsan. I returned to the salon. I had reason to believe that the lady was questioning my neighbor about me, and I knew that I need not be afraid of losing her good opinion through Raymond’s description of me, for he was one of those men who like to pretend that they have none but the most desirable acquaintances. I was in comfortable circumstances, and he had probably represented me as very wealthy; I was born of respectable parents, and he had probably placed me in one of theoldest families in France; and so on. To be sure, Madame de Marsan might have been told that I was fickle, inconstant, treacherous; but those failings never do a man any harm with the ladies.
A selection had just been performed on the harp; the performer had made but one mistake, had had to tune her instrument but twice, and had broken but four strings; we had no cause of complaint. Raymond had left Madame de Marsan, to find an accompanist, and threatened, if he failed in his quest, to accompany himself; by dint of hunting, urging, and entreating, he succeeded in bringing young Martin to the piano; he began to cough and expectorate, changed the position of the candles, ordered the windows to be closed, and struck an attitude supposed to represent Joconde. But a murmur arose on all sides; the young women ran to Monsieur Vauvert, the young men surrounded his wife; they had been promised a contradance; it was almost twelve o’clock, and if it was postponed any longer there would be no dancing. The hosts acceded to the prayers of their younger guests.
“We are going to dance!” shouted Vauvert, as the court bailiff cries: “Silence, please!”
Instantly everything was in a ferment in the salon; the young men hastened to engage partners, the chairs were moved away to make room, and the guests who did not dance were requested to retire to the corners.
Raymond stood at the piano with his mouth open; he thought that he must be mistaken; he could not believe his eyes; I believe that he was actually going to begin his aria; but instead of the prelude fromJoconde, young Martin struck up a figure of Pantalon. My neighbor could not digest this final blow; he seized his music in ahand which shook with wrath, and, thrusting it under his arm, rushed across the salon like a madman, colliding with the dancers, and receiving kicks from the young men who were in the act of balancing to partners; I am convinced, however, that he did not feel them.
“Monsieur Raymond is going away in a rage,” observed a lady to Madame Vauvert, with a laugh; a lady whose hair was dressedà laNinon, but had lost its curl and was floating in the air in long wisps, although she had taken the precaution not to remove her curl papers until she was on the staircase.
“Bah! I don’t care for that,” replied Madame Vauvert; “he bores us to death with his songs, and with the poetry he insists on reading to us; it’s always the same thing!”
At that moment, Raymond, whom I supposed to have left the house, appeared at the door of the salon and called out angrily:
“My hat, Madame Vauvert, I want my hat, where is it? It’s a lamentable fact that one can never find one’s things in your house.”
“Pardi! your hat isn’t lost.—Mon Dieu! I don’t see my cat! I put her on a chair by the fireplace. Why did anyone move her—poor Moumoute? The door of the landing is often open; she’s gone out, and she’ll be stolen!—Moumoute! Moumoute!”
The dancing continued, no heed being paid to Madame Vauvert’s lamentations and Raymond’s demands; the dancers were determined to compensate themselves, by a moment’s enjoyment, for several hours of ennui; and those who were afraid that their turn might not come took the precaution to move back the hands of the clock while Vauvert’s back was turned and his wife was looking for her cat.
I invited Madame de Marsan, and after much ceremony she consented to dance with me.
“What an extraordinary house!” she said to me.
“I find it delightful, since I have met you here.”
“But as it is probable that you will not meet me here again, and as I desire to see you again, I trust, monsieur, that you will do me the honor of coming to listen to a little music at my house.”
I accepted, as may be imagined; and after the dance was over, I prowled about the husband, with whom I entered into conversation. I talked of speculation, houses, châteaux, and the stock market with him; I took pains, without ostentation, to mention my name, to speak of my family and my means. In any other house, I should not have done so; but in such a mixed assemblage, I was not anxious that he should place me on a level with people, who, although very estimable no doubt, were nothing more than that; and in the opinion of many men that is not sufficient distinction. On the whole, I was satisfied that Monsieur de Marsan found me rather agreeable; it is so easy to catch people by the sensitive spot—that is to say, when they have one.
When young women begin to dance, it is much the same as when a poet begins to recite his verses: there is no reason why they should ever stop. But Madame Vauvert, thinking that they were making too much noise, and afraid of angering her landlord, had already said several times: