EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to the
PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Saint Dominique street, Paris.
RICHEPORT, May 31st, 18—.
Now that you are a sort of Amadis de Gaul, striking attitudes upon a barren rock, as a sign of your lovelorn condition, you have probably forgotten, my dear Roger, my encounter upon the cars with an ideal grisette, who saved me from the horrors of starvation by generously dividing with me a bag of sugar-plums. But for this unlooked-for aid, I should have been reduced, like a famous handful of shipwrecked mariners, to feed upon my watch-chain and vest-buttons. To a man so absorbed in his grief, as you are, the news of the death from starvation of a friend upon the desert island of a railway station, would make very little impression; but I not being in love with any Irene de Chateaudun, have preserved a pleasant recollection of this touching scene, translated from the Æneid in modern and familiar prose.
I wrote immediately,—for my beauty, of an infinitely less exalted rank than yours, lodges with the post-mistress,—several fabulous letters to problematic people, in countries which do not exist, and are only designated upon the map by a dash.
Madame Taverneau has conceived a profound respect for a young man who has correspondents in unknown lands, barely sighted in 1821 at the Antarctic pole, and in 1819 at the Arctic pole, so she invited me to a little soirée musicale et dansante, of which I was to be the bright particular star. An invitation to an exclusive ball, given at an inaccessible house, never gave a woman with a doubtful past or an uncertain position, half the pleasure that I felt from the entangled sentences of Madame Taverneau in which she did not dare to hope, but would be happy if—.
Apart from the happiness of seeing Madame Louise Guérin (my charmer's name), I looked forward to an entirely new recreation, that of studying the manners of the middle class in their intimate relations with each other. I have lived with the aristocracy and with the canaille; in the highest and lowest conditions of life are found entire absence of pretension; in the highest, because their position is assured; in the lowest, because it is simply impossible to alter it. None but poets are really unhappy because they cannot climb to the stars. A half-way position is the most false.
I thought I would go early to have some talk with Louise, but the circle was already completed when I arrived; everybody had come first.
The guests were assembled in a large, gloomy room, gloriously called a drawing-room, where the servant never enters without first taking off her shoes at the door, like a Turk in a mosque, and which is only opened on the most solemn occasions. As it is doubtful whether you have ever set foot in a like establishment, I will give you, in imitation of the most profound of our novel-writers (which one? you will say; they are all profound now-a-days), a detailed description of Madame Taverneau's salon.
Two windows, hung in red calico, held up by some black ornaments, a complication of sticks, pegs and all sorts of implements on stamped copper, gave light to this sanctuary, which commanded through them an animated look-out—in the language of the commonalty—upon the scorching, noisy highway, bordered by sickly elms sprinkled with dust, from the constant passage of vehicles which shake the house to its centre; wagons loaded with noisy iron, and droves of hogs, squeaking under the drover's whip.
The floor was painted red and polished painfully bright, reminding one of a wine-merchant's sign freshly varnished; the walls were concealed under frightful velvet paper which so religiously catches the fluff and dust. The mahogany furniture stood round the room, a reproach against the discovery of America, covered with sanguinary cloth stamped in black with subjects taken from Fontaine's fables. When I say subjects I basely flatter the sumptuous taste of Madame Taverneau; it was the same subject indefinitely repeated—the Fox and the Stork. How luxurious it was to sit upon a stork's beak! In front of each chair was spread a piece of carpet, to protect the splendor of the floor, so that the guests when seated bore a vague resemblance to the bottles and decanters set round the plated centrepiece of a banquet given to a deputy by his grateful constituents.
An atrocious troubadour clock ornamented the mantel-piece representing the templar Bois-Guilbert bearing off a gilded Rebecca upon a silver horse. On either side of this frightful time-piece were placed two plated lamps under globes.
This magnificence filled with secret envy more than one housekeeper of Pont de l'Arche, and even the maid trembled as she dusted. We will not speak of the spun-glass poodles, little sugar St. Johns, chocolate Napoleons, a cabinet filled with common china, occupying a conspicuous place, engravings representing the Adieux to Fontainebleau, Souvenirs and Regrets, The Fisherman's Family, The Little Poachers, and other hackneyed subjects. Can you imagine anything like it? For my part, I never could understand this love for the common-place and the hideous. I know that every one does not dwell in Alhambras, Louvres, or Parthenons, but it is so easy to do without a clock to leave the walls bare, to exist without Manrin's lithographs or Jazet's aquatints!
The people filling the room, seemed to me, in point of vulgarity, the queerest in the world; their manner of speaking was marvellous, imitating the florid style of the defunct Prudhomme, the pupil of Brard and St. Omer. Their heads spread out over their white cravats and immense shirt collars recalled to mind certain specimens of the gourd tribe. Some even resemble animals, the lion, the horse, the ass; these, all things considered, had a vegetable rather than an animal look. Of the women I will say nothing, having resolved never to ridicule that charming sex.
Among these human vegetables, Louise appeared like a rose in a cabbage patch. She wore a simple white dress fastened at the waist by a blue ribbon; her hair arranged in bandeaux encircled her pure brow and wound in massive coils about her head. A Quakeress could have found no fault with this costume, which placed in grotesque and ridiculous contrast the hearselike trappings of the other women. It was impossible to be dressed in better taste. I was afraid lest my Infanta should seize this opportunity to display some marvellous toilette purchased expressly for the occasion. That plain muslin gown which never saw India, and was probably made by herself, touched and fascinated me. Dress has very little weight with me. I once admired a Granada gypsy whose sole costume consisted of blue slippers and a necklace of amber beads; but nothing annoys me more than a badly made dress of an unbecoming shade.
The provincial dandies much preferring the rubicund gossips, with their short necks covered with gold chains, to Madame Taverneau's young and slender guest, I was free to talk with her under cover of Louisa Pugett's ballads and sonatas executed by infant phenomena upon a cracked piano hired from Rouen for the occasion.
Louisa's wit was charming. How mistaken it is to educate instinct out of women! To replace nature by a school-mistress! She committed none of those terrible mistakes which shock one; it was evident that she formed her sentences herself instead of repeating formulae committed to memory. She had either never read a novel or had forgotten it, and unless she is a wonderful actress she remains as the great fashioner, Nature, made her—a perfect woman. We remained a greater part of the evening seated together in a corner like beings of another race. Profiting by the great interest betrayed by the company in one of thosesoi-disantinnocent games where a great deal of kissing is done, the fair girl, doubtless fearing a rude salute on her delicate cheek, led me into her room, which adjoins the parlor and opens into the garden by a glass door.
On a table in the room, feebly lighted by a lamp which Louisa modestly turned up, were scattered pell-mell, screens, boxes from Spa, alabaster paper-weights and other details of the art of illuminating, which profession my beauty practises; and which explains her occasional aristocratic airs, unbecoming an humble seamstress. A bouquet just commenced showed talent; with some lessons from St. Jean or Diaz she would easily make a good flower painter. I told her so. She received my encomiums as a matter of course, evincing none of that mock-modesty which I particularly detest.
She showed me a bizarre little chest that she was making, which at first-sight seemed to be carved out of coral; it was constructed out of the wax-seals cut from old letters pasted together. This new mosaic was very simple, and yet remarkably pretty. She asked me to give her, in order to finish her box, all the striking seals I possessed, emblazoned in figures and devices. I gave her five or six letters that I had in my pocket, from which she dexterously cut the seals with her little scissors. While she was thus engaged I strolled about the garden—a Machiavellian manoeuvre, for, in order to return me my letters, she must come in search of me.
The gardens of Madame Taverneau are not the gardens of Armida; but it is not in the power of the commonalty to spoil entirely the work of God's hands; trees, by the moonbeams of a summer-night, although only a few steps from red-cotton curtains and a sanhedrim of merry tradespeople, are still trees. In a corner of the garden stood a large acacia tree, in full bloom, waving its yellow hair in the soft night-breeze, and mingling its perfume with that of the flowers of the marsh iris, poised like azure butterflies upon their long green stems.
The porch was flooded with silver light, and when Louise, having secured her seals, appeared upon the threshold, her pure and elegant form stood out against the dark background of the room like an alabaster statuette.
Her step, as she advanced towards me, was undulating and rhythmical like a Greek strophe. I took my letters, and we strolled along the path towards an arbor.
So glad was I to get away from the templar Bois-Guilbert carrying off Rebecca, and the plated lamps, that I developed an eloquence at once persuasive and surprising. Louise seemed much agitated; I could almost see the beatings of her heart—the accents of her pure voice were troubled—she spoke as one just awakened from a dream. Tell me, are not these the symptoms, wherever you have travelled, of a budding love?
I took her hand; it was moist and cool, soft as the pulp of a magnolia flower,—and I thought I felt her fingers faintly return my pressure.
I am delighted that this scene occurred by moonlight and under the acacia's perfumed branches, for I affect poetical surroundings for my love scenes. It would be disagreeable to recall a lovely face relieved against wall-paper covered with yellow scrolls; or a declaration of love accompanied, in the distance, by the Grace de Dieu; my first significant interview with Louise will be associated in my thoughts with moonbeams, the odor of the iris and the song of the cricket in the summer grass.
You, no doubt, pronounce me, dear Roger, a pitiable Don Juan, a common-place Amilcar, for not profiting by the occasion. A young man strolling at night in a garden with a screen painter ought at least to have stolen a kiss! At the risk of appearing ridiculous, I did nothing of the kind. I love Louise, and besides she has at times such an air of hauteur, of majestic disdain that the boldest commercial traveller steeped to the lips in Pigault-Lebrun, a sub-lieutenant wild with absinthe would not venture such a caress—she would almost make one believe in virtue, if such a thing were possible. Frankly, I am afraid that I am in earnest this time. Order me a dove-colored vest, apple-green trowsers, a pouch, a crook, in short the entire outfit of a Lignon shepherd. I shall have a lamb washed to complete the pastoral.
How I reached the château, whether walking or flying, I cannot tell. Happy as a king, proud as a god, for a new love was born in my heart.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN.
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN
to
MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel de la Préfecture, GRENOBLE (Isère).
PARIS, June 2d 18—.
It is five o'clock, I have just come from Pont de l'Arche, and I am going to the Odeon, which is three miles from here; it seems to me that the Odeon is three miles from every spot in Paris, for no matter where you live, you are never near the Odeon!
Madame Taverneau is delighted at the prospect of treating a poor, obscure, unsophisticated widow like myself to an evening at the theatre! She has a box that she obtained, by some stratagem, the hour we got here. She seemed so hurt and disappointed when I refused to accompany her, that I was finally compelled to yield to her entreaties. The good woman has for me a restless, troublesome affection that touches me deeply. A vague instinct tells her that fate will lead us through different paths in life, and in spite of herself, without being able to explain why, she watches me as if she knew I might escape from her at any moment.
She insisted upon escorting me to Paris, although she had nothing to call her there, and her father, who is still my garret neighbor, did not expect her. She relies upon taking me back to Pont de l'Arche, and I have not the courage to undeceive her; I also dread the moment when I will have to tell her my real name, for she will weep as if she were hearing my requiem. Tell me, what can I do to benefit her and her husband; if they had a child I would present it with a handsome dowry, because parents gratefully receive money for their children, when they would proudly refuse it for themselves.
To confer a favor without letting it appear as one, requires more consideration, caution and diplomacy than I am prepared to devote to the subject, so you must come to my relief and decide upon some plan.
I first thought of making M. Taverneau manager of one of my estates—now that I have estates to be managed; but he is stupid ... and alas, what a manager he would make! He would eat the hay instead of selling it; so I had to relinquish that idea, and as he is unfit for anything else, I will get him an office; the government alone possesses the art of utilizing fools. Tell me what office I can ask for that will be very remunerative to him—consult M. de Braimes; a Prefect ought to know how to manage such a case; ask him what is the best way of assisting a protégé who is a great fool? Let me know at once what he says.
I don't wish to speak of the subject to Roger, because it would be revealing the past. Poor Roger, how unhappy he must be! I long so to see him, and by great kindness make amends for my cruelty.
I told you of all the stratagems I had to resort to in order to find out what Roger had written to M. de Meilhan about his sorrows; well, thanks to my little sealing-wax boxes, I have seen Roger's letter! Yesterday evening, M. de Meilhan brought me some new seals, and among the letters he handed me was one from Roger! Imagine my feelings! I was so frightened when I had the letter in my hand that I dared not read it; not because I was too honorable, but too prudish; I dreaded being embarrassed by reading facts stated in that free and easy style peculiar to young men when writing to each other. The only concession I could obtain from my delicacy was to glance at the three last lines: "I am not angry with her, I am only vexed with myself," wrote the poor forsaken man. "I never told her how much I loved her; if she had known it, never would she have had the courage to desert me."
This simple honest sorrow affected me deeply; not wishing to read any more, I went into the garden to return M. de Meilhan his letters, and was glad it was too dark for him to perceive my paleness and agitation. I at once decided to return to Paris, for I find that in spite of all my fine programmes of cruelty, I am naturally tender-hearted and distressed to death at the idea of making any one unhappy. I armed myself with insensibility, and here I am already conquered by the first groans of my victim. I would make but an indifferent tyrant, and if all the suspicious queens and jealous empresses like Elizabeth, Catharine and Christina had no more cruelty in their dispositions than I have, the world would have been deprived of some of its finest tragedies.
You may congratulate yourself upon having mitigated the severity of my decrees, for it is my anxiety to please you that has made me so suddenly change all my plans of tests and trials. You say it is undignified to act as a spy upon Roger, to conceal myself in Paris where he is anxiously seeking and waiting for me; that this ridiculous play has an air of intrigue, and had better be stopped at once or it may result dangerously ... I am resigned—I renounce the sensible idea of testing my future husband ... but be warned! If in the future I am tortured by discovering any glaring defects and odious peculiarities, that what you call my indiscretion might have revealed before it was too late, you will permit me to come and complain to you every day, and you must promise to listen to my endless lamentations as I repeat over and over again. O Valentine, I have learned too late what I might have known in time to save me! Valentine, I am miserable and disappointed—console me! console me!
Doubtless to a young girl reared like yourself in affluence under your mother's eye, this strange conduct appears culpable and indelicate; but remember, that with me it is the natural result of the sad life I have led for the last three years; this disguise, that I reassume from fancy, was then worn from necessity, and I have earned the right of borrowing it a little while longer from misfortune to assist me in guarding against new sorrows. Am I not justified in wishing to profit by experience too dearly bought? Is it not just that I should demand from the sad past some guarantees for a brighter future, and make my bitter sorrows the stepping-stones to a happy life? But, as I intend to follow your advice, I'll do it gracefully without again alluding to my frustrated plans.
To-morrow I return to Fontainebleau. I stayed there five days when I went back with Madame Langeac; I only intended to remain a few minutes, but my cousin was so uneasy at finding her daughter worse, that I did not like to leave before the doctor pronounced her better. This illness will assist me greatly in the fictions I am going to write Roger from Fontainebleau to-morrow. I will tell him we were obliged to leave suddenly, without having time to bid him adieu, to go and nurse a sick relative; that she is better now, and Madame de Langeac and I will return to Paris next week. In three days I shall return, and no one will ever know I have been to Pont de l'Arche, except M. de Meilhan, who will doubtless soon forget all about it; besides, he intends remaining in Normandy till the end of the year, so there is no risk of our meeting.
Oh! I must tell you about the amusing evening M. de Meilhan and I spent together at Madame Taverneau's. How we did laugh over it! He was king of the feast, although he would not acknowledge it. Madame Taverneau was so proud of entertaining the young lord of the village, that she had rushed into the most reckless extravagance to do him honor. She had thrown the whole town in a state of excitement by sending to Rouen for a piano. But the grand event of the evening was a clock. Yet I must confess that the effect was quite different from what she expected—it was a complete failure. We usually sit in the dining-room, but for this grand occasion the parlor was opened. On the mantel-piece in this splendid room there is a clock adorned by a dreadful bronze horse running away with a fierce warrior and some unheard-of Turkish female. I never saw anything so hideous; it is even worse than your frightful clock with Columbus discovering America! Madame Taverneau thought that M. de Meilhan, being a poet and an artist, would compliment her upon possessing so rare and valuable a work of art. Fortunately he said nothing—he even refrained from smiling; this showed his great generosity and delicacy, for it is only a man of refinement and delicacy that respects one's illusions—especially when they are illusions in imitation bronze!
Upon my arrival here this morning, I was pained to hear that the trees in front of my window are to be cut down; this news ought not to disturb me in the least, as I never expect to return to this house again, yet it makes me very sad; these old trees are so beautiful, and I have thought so many things as I would sit and watch their long branches waving in the summer breeze!...and the little light that shone like a star through their thick foliage! shall I never see it again? It disappeared a year ago, and I used to hope it would suddenly shine again. I thought: It is absent, but will soon return to cheer my solitude. Sometimes I would say: "Perhaps my ideal dwells in that little garret!" O foolish idea! Vain hope! I must renounce all this poetry of youth; serious age creeps on with his imposing escort of austere duties; he dispels the charming fancies that console us in our sorrows; he extinguishes the bright lights that guide us through darkness—drives away the beloved ideal—spreads a cloud over the cherished star, and harshly cries out: "Be reasonable!" which means: No longer hope to be happy.
Ah! Madame Taverneau calls me; she is in a hurry to start for the Odeon; it is very early, and I don't wish to go until the last moment. I have sent to the Hotel de Langeac for my letters, and must wait to glance over them—they might contain news about Roger.
I have just caught a glimpse of the two ladies Madame Taverneau invited to accompany us to the theatre.... I see a wine-colored bonnet trimmed with green ribbons—it is horrible to look upon! Heavens—there comes another! more intolerable than the first one! bright yellow adorned with blue feathers!... Mercy! what a face within the bonnet! and what a figure beneath the face! She has something glistening in her hand ... it is ... a ... would you believe it? a travelling-bag covered with steel beads!... she intends taking it to the theatre!... do my eyes deceive me?canshe be filling it with oranges to carry with her?... she dare not disgrace us by eating oranges.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to the
PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Saint Dominique Street, Paris.
RICHEPORT, June 3d, 18—
It seems, my dear Roger, that we are engaged in a game of interrupted addresses. For my Louise Guérin, like your Irene de Chateaudun, has gone I know not where, leaving me to struggle, in this land of apple trees, with an incipient passion which she has planted in my breast. Flight has this year become an epidemic among women.
The day after that famous soirée, I went to the post-office ostensibly to carry the letter containing those triumphant details, but in reality to see Louise, for any servant possessed sufficient intelligence to acquit himself of such a commission. Imagine my surprise and disappointment at finding instead of Madame Taverneau a strange face, who gruffly announced that the post-mistress had gone away for a few days with Madame Louise Guérin. The dove had flown, leaving to mark its passage a few white feathers in its mossy nest, a faint perfume of grace in this common-place mansion!
I could have questioned Madame Taverneau's fat substitute, but I am principled against asking questions; things are explained soon enough. Disenchantment is the key to all things. When I like a woman I carefully avoid all her acquaintance, any one who can tell me aught about her. The sound of her name pronounced by careless lips, puts me to flight; the letters that she receives might be given me open and I should throw them, unread, into the fire. If in speaking she makes any allusion to the past events of her life, I change the conversation; I tremble when she begins a recital, lest some disillusionizing incident should escape her which would destroy the impression I had formed of her. As studiously as others hunt after secrets I avoid them; if I have ever learned anything of a woman I loved, it has always been in spite of my earnest efforts, and what I have known I have carefully endeavored to forget.
Such is my system. I said nothing to the fat woman, but entered Louise's deserted chamber.
Everything was as she had left it.
A bunch of wild flowers, used as a model, had not had time to fade; an unfinished bouquet rested on the easel, as if awaiting the last touches of the pencil. Nothing betokened a final departure. One would have said that Louise might enter at any moment. A little black mitten lay upon a chair; I picked it up—and would have pressed it to my lips, if such an action had not been deplorably rococo.
Then I threw myself into an old arm-chair, by the side of the bed—like Faust in Marguerite's room—lifting the curtains with as much precaution as if Louise reposed beneath. You are going to laugh at me, I know, dear Roger, but I assure you, I have never been able to gaze upon a young girl's bed without emotion.
That little pillow, the sole confidant of timid dreams, that narrow couch, fitted like a tomb for but one alabaster form, inspired me with tender melancholy. No anacreontic thoughts came to me, I assure you, nor any disposition to rhyme inette,herbette, filette, coudrette. The love I bear to noble poesy saved me from such an exhibition of bad taste.
A crucifix, over which hung a piece of blessed box, spread its ivory arms above Louise's untroubled slumber. Such simple piety touched me. I dislike bigots, but I detest atheists.
Musing there alone it flashed upon me that Louise Guérin had never been married, in spite of her assertion. I am disposed to doubt the existence of the late Albert Guérin. A sedate and austere atmosphere surrounds Louise, suggesting the convent or the boarding-school.
I went into the garden; the sunbeams checkered the steps of the porch; the wilted iris drooped on its stem, and the acacia flowers strewed the pathway. Apropos of acacia flowers, do you know, that fried in batter, they make excellent fritters? Finding myself alone in the walks where I had strolled with her, I do not know how it happened, but I felt my heart swell, and I sighed like a young abbé of the 17th century.
I returned to the château, having no excuse for remaining longer, vexed, disappointed, wearied, idle—the habit of seeing Louise every day had grown upon me.
And habit is everything to poor humanity, as that graceful poet Alfred de Musset says. My feet only know the way to the post-office; what shall I do with myself while this visit lasts? I tried to read, but my attention wandered; I skipped the lines, and read the same paragraph over twice; my book having fallen down I picked it up and read it for one whole hour upside down, without knowing it—I wished to make a monosyllabic sonnet—extremely interesting occupation—and failed. My quatrains were tedious, and my tercets entirely too diffuse.
My mother begins to be uneasy at my dullness; she has asked twice if I were sick—I have fallen off already a quarter of a pound; for nothing is more enraging than to be deserted at the most critical period of one's infatuation! Ixion of Normandy, my Juno is a screen-painter, I open my arms and clasp only a cloud! My position, similar to yours, cannot, however, be compared with it—mine only relates to a trifling flirtation, a thwarted fancy, while yours is a serious passion for a woman of your own rank who has accepted your hand, and therefore has no right to trifle with you,—she must be found, if only for vengeance!
Remorse consumes me because of my sentimental stupidity by moonlight. Had I profited by the night, the solitude and the occasion, Louise had not left me; she saw clearly that I loved her, and was not displeased at the discovery. Women are strange mixtures of timidity and rashness.
Perhaps she has gone to join her lover, some saw-bones, some counting-house Lovelace, while I languish here in vain, like Celadon or Lygdamis of cooing memory.
This is not at all probable, however, for Madame Taverneau would not compromise her respectability so far as to act as chaperon to the loves of Louise Guérin. After all, what is it to me? I am very good to trouble myself about the freaks of a prudish screen-painter! She will return, because the hired piano has not been sent back to Rouen, and not a soul in the house knows a note of music but Louise, who plays quadrilles and waltzes with considerable taste, an accomplishment she owes to her mistress of painting, who had seen better days and possessed some skill.
Do not be too much flattered by this letter of grievances, for I only wanted an excuse to go to the post-office to see if Louise has returned—suppose she has not! the thought drives the blood back to my heart.
Isn't it singular that I should fall desperately in love with this simple shepherdess—I who have resisted the sea-green glances and smiles of the sirens that dwell in the Parisian ocean? Have I escaped from the Marquise's Israelite turbans only to become a slave to a straw bonnet? I have passed safe and sound through the most dangerous defiles to be worsted in open country; I could swim in the whirlpool, and now drown in a fish-pond; every celebrated beauty, every renowned coquette finds me on my guard. I am as circumspect as a cat walking over a table covered with glass and china. It is hard to make me pose, as they say in a certain set; but when the adversary is not to be feared, I allow him so many advantages that in the end he subdues me.
I was not sufficiently on my guard with Louise at first.
I said to myself: "She is only a grisette"—and left the door of my heart open—love entered in, and I fear I shall have some trouble in driving him out.
Excuse, dear Roger, this nonsense, but I must write you something. After all, my passion is worth as much as yours. Love is the same whether inspired by an empress or a rope-dancer, and I am just as unhappy at Louise's disappearance as you are at Irene's.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN
ROGER DE MONBERT
to
MONSIEUR DE MEILHAN,
Pont de l'Arche (Eure).
PARIS, June 3d 18—.
She is in Paris!
Before knowing it I felt it. The atmosphere was filled with a voice, a melody, a brightness, a perfume that murmured: Irene is here!
Paris appears to me once more populated; the crowd is no longer a desert in my eyes; this great dead city has recovered its spirit of life; the sun once more smiles upon me; the earth bounds under my feet; the soft summer air fans my burning brow, and whispers into my ear that one adored name—Irene!
Chance has a treasure-house of atrocious combinations. Chance! The cunning demon! He calls himself Chance so as to better deceive us. With an infernal skilfulness he feigns not to watch us in the decisive moments of our lives, and at the same time leads us like blind fools into the very path he has marked out for us.
You know the two brothers Ernest and George de S. were planted by their family in the field of diplomacy: they study Eastern languages and affect Eastern manners. Well, yesterday we met in the Bois de Boulogne, they in a calash, and I on horseback—I am trying riding as a moral hygiene—as the carriage dashed by they called out to me an invitation to dinner; I replied, "Yes," without stopping my horse. Idleness and indolence made me say "Yes," when I should have said, "No;" butYesis so much easier to pronounce thanNo, especially on horseback.Nonecessitates a discussion;Yesends the matter, and economizes words and time.
I was rather glad I had met these young sprigs of diplomacy. They are good antidotes for low spirits, for they are always in a hilarious state and enjoy their youth in idle pleasure, knowing they are destined to grow old in the soporific dulness of an Eastern court.
I thought we three would be alone at dinner; alas! there were five of us.
Two female artistes who revelled in their precocious emancipation; two divinities worshipped in the temple of the grand sculptors of modern Athens; the Scylla and Charybdis of Paris.
I am in the habit of bowing with the same apparent respect to every woman in the universe. I have bowed to the ebony women of Senegal; to the moon-colored women of the Southern Archipelago; to the snow-white women of Behring's Strait, and to the bronze women of Lahore and Ceylon. Now it was impossible for me to withdraw from the presence of two fair women whose portraits are the admiration of all connoisseurs who visit the Louvre. Besides, I have a theory: the less respectable a woman is, the more respect we should show her, and thus endeavor to bring her back to virtue.
I remained and tried to add my fifth share of antique gayety to the feast. We were Praxiteles, Phidias and Scopas; we had inaugurated the modest Venus and her sister in their temples, and we drank to our model goddesses in wines from the Ionian Archipelago.
That evening, you may remember, Antigone was played at the Odeon in the Faubourg Saint-Germain.
I have another theory: in any action, foolish or wise, either carry it through bravely when once undertaken, or refrain from undertaking it. I had not the wisdom to refrain, therefore I was compelled to imitate the folly of my friends; at dessert I even abused the invitation, and too often sought to drown sorrow in the ruby cup.
We started for the Odeon. Our entrance at the theatre caused quite an excitement. The ladies, cavalierly suspended on the arms of the two future Eastern ambassadors, sailed in with a conscious air of epicurean grace and dazzling beauty. The classic ushers obsequiously threw open the doors, and led us to our box. I brought up the procession, looking as insolent and proud as I did the day I entered the ruined pagoda of Bangalore to carry off the statue of Sita.
The first act was being played, and the Athenian school preserved a religious silence in front of the proscenium. The noise we made by drawing back the curtain of our box, slamming the door and loudly laughing, drowned for an instant the touching strains of the tragic choir, and centred upon us the angry looks of the audience.
With what cool impertinence did our divinities lean over the seats and display their round white arms, that have so often been copied in Parian marble by our most celebrated sculptors! Our three intellectual faces, wreathed in the silly smiles of intoxication, hovered over the silken curls of our goddesses, thus giving the whole theatre a full view of our happiness!
Occasionally a glimmer of reason would cross my confused brain, and I would soliloquize: Why am I disgracing myself in this way before all these people? What possesses me to act in concert with these drunken fools and bold women? I must rush out and apologize to the first person I meet!
It was impossible for me to follow my good impulse—some unseen hand held me back—some mysterious influence kept me chained to the spot. We are influenced by magic, although magicians no longer exist!
Between the acts, our two Greek statues criticised the audience in loud tones, and their remarks, seasoned with attic salt, afforded a peculiar supplement to the choir of Antigone.
"Those four women on our right must be sensible people," said our blonde statue; "they have put their show-piece in front. I suppose she is the beauty of the party; did you ever behold such dreadful bonnets and dresses? They must have come from the Olympic Circus. If I were disfigured in that way, I would be a box-opener, but never would be seen in one!"
"I think I have seen them before," said the bronze statue; they hire their bonnets from the fish-market—disgusting creatures that they are!"
"What do the two in the corner look like, my angel?"
"I see nothing but a shower of curls; I supposeshefound it more economical to curl her hair than to buy a bonnet. Every time I stretch my neck to get a look at her, she hides behind those superb bonnets."
"Which proves," said Ernest, "that she is paradoxically ugly."
"I pity them, if they are seeking four husbands," said George; "and if they are married—I pity their four husbands."
Whilst my noisy companions were trying to discover their ideal fright in the corner of the box on our right, I felt an inexplicable contraction of my heart—a chill pass through my whole body; my silly gayety was by some unseen influence suddenly changed into sadness—I felt my eyes fill with tears. The only way I could account for this revulsion in my feelings was the growing conviction that I was disgracing myself in a den of malefactors of both sexes. My fit of melancholy was interrupted very opportunely by the choir chanting the hymn of Bacchus, that antique wonder, found by Mendelssohn in the ruins of the Temple of Victory.
When the play was over, I timidly proposed that we should remain in our box till the crowd had passed out; but our Greek statues would not hear to it, as they had determined upon a triumphal exit. I was obliged to yield.
The bronze statue despotically seized my arm, and dragged me toward the stair. I felt as if I had a cold lizard clinging to me. I was seized with that chilly sensation always felt by nervous people when they come in contact with reptiles.
I recalled the disastrous day that I was shipwrecked on the island of Eaei-Namove, and compelled to marry Dai-Natha, the king's daughter, in order to escape the unpleasant alternative of being eaten alive by her father. On the staircase of the Odeon I regretted Dai-Natha.
In the midst of the dense crowd that blockaded the stairway, I heard a frightened cry that made the blood freeze in my veins. There was but one woman in the world blest with so sweet a voice—musical even when raised in terror.
If I were surrounded by crashing peals of thunder, rushing waters and yells of wild beasts, I still could recognise, through the din of all this, the cry of a beloved woman. I am gifted with that marvellous perception of hearing, derived from the sixth sense, the sense of love.
Irene de Chateaudun had uttered that cry of alarm—Take care, my dear!she had exclaimed with that accent of fright that it is impossible to disguise—in that tone that will be natural in spite of all the reserve that circumstances would impose,Take care, my dear!
Some one near me said that a door-keeper had struck a lady on the shoulder with a panel of a portable door which he was carrying across the passage-way. By standing on my toes I could just catch a glimpse of the board being balanced in the air over every one's head. My eyes could not see the woman who had uttered this cry, but my ears told me it was Irene de Chateaudun.
The crowd was so dense that some minutes passed before I could move a step towards the direction of the cry, but when I had finally succeeded in reaching the door, I flung from me the hateful arm that clung to mine, and rushing into the street, I searched through the crowd and looked in every carriage and under every lady's hood to catch a glimpse of Irene, without being disconcerted by the criticisms that the people around indulged in at my expense.
Useless trouble! I discovered nothing. The theatre kept its secret; but that cry still rings in my ears and echoes around my heart.
This morning at daybreak I flew to the Hotel de Langeac. The porter stared at me in amazement, and answered all my eager inquiries with a stolid, shortno. The windows of Irene's room were closed and had that deserted appearance that proved the absence of its lovely occupant—windows that used to look so bright and beautiful when I would catch glimpses of a snowy little hand arranging the curtains, or of a golden head gracefully bent over her work, totally unconscious of the loving eyes feasting upon her beauty—oh! many of my happiest moments have been spent gazing at those windows, and now how coldly and silently they frowned upon my grief!
The porter lies! The windows lie! I exclaimed, and once more I began to search Paris.
This time I had a more important object in view than trying to fatigue my body and divert my mind. My eyes are multiplied to infinity; they questioned at once every window, door, alley, street, carriage and store in the city. I was like the miser who accused all Paris of having stolen his treasure.
At three o'clock, when all the beauty and fashion of Paris was promenading on Paix aux Panoramas street, I was stopped on the corner and button-holed by one of those gossiping friends whom fiendish chance always sends at the most trying moments in life in order to disgust us with friendship ... A dazzling form passed before me ... Irene alone possesses that graceful ease, that fairy-like step, that queenly dignity—I could recognise her among a thousand—it was useless for her to attempt disguising her exquisite elegance beneath a peasant dress—besides I caught her eye, so all doubts were swept away; several precious minutes were lost in trying to shake off my vexatious friend. I abruptly bade him good-day and darted after Irene, but she has the foot of a gazelle, and the crowd was so compact that in spite of my elbowing and foot-crushing, I made but little headway.
Finally, through an opening in the crowd, I saw Mlle., de Chateaudun turn the corner and enter that narrow street near the Cafe Vernon. This time she cannot possibly escape me—she is in a long, narrow street, with deserted galleries on either side—circumstances are propitious to a meeting and explanation—in a minute I am in the narrow street a few yards behind Irene. I prepare my mind for this momentous conversation which is to decide my fate. I firmly clasp my arms to still the violent throbbings of my heart. I am about to be translated to heaven or engulfed by hell.
She rapidly glanced at a Chinese store in front of her and, without showing any agitation, quietly opened the door and went in. Very good, thought I, she will purchase some trifle and be out in a few minutes. I will wait for her.
Five feet from the store I assumed the attitude of the god Terminus; by the way, this store is very handsomely ornamented, and far surpasses in its elegant collection of Chinese curiosities the largest store of the sort in Hog Lane in the European quarter of Canton.
Another of those kind friends whom chance holds in reserve for our annoyance, came out of a bank adjoining the store, and inferring from my statue-like attitude that I was dying of ennui and would welcome any diversion, rushed up to me and said:
"Ah! my dear cosmopolitan, how are you to-day? Don't you want to accompany me to Brussels? I have just bought gold for the journey; gold is very high, fifteen per cent."
I answered by one of those listless smiles and unintelligible monosyllables which signifies in every language under the sun, don't bore me.
In the meantime I remained immovable, with my eyes fastened on the Chinese store. I could have detected the flight of an atom.
My friend struck the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, and supporting his chin upon the gold head of his cane which he held in the air clenched by both hands, thus continued: "I did a very foolish thing this morning. I bought my wife a horse, a Devonshire horse, from the Crémieux stables.... That reminds me, my dear Roger, you are the very man to decide a knotty question for me. I bet D'Allinville thirty louis that ... what wouldyoucall a lady's horse?"
For some moments I preserved that silence which shows that we are not in a humor for talking; but friends sent by ingenious Chance understand nothing but the plainest language, so my friend continued his queries:
"What would you call a lady's horse?"
"I would call it a horse," said I, with indifference.
"Now, Roger, I believe you are right; D'Allinville insists that a lady's horse is a palfrey."
"In the language of chivalry he is right."
"Then I have lost my bet?"
"Yes."
"My dear Roger, this question has been worrying me for two days."
"You are very fortunate to have nothing worse than a term of chivalry to annoy you. I would give all the gold in that broker's office if my troubles were as light as yours."
"I am afraid youareunhappy, ... you have been looking sad for some time, Roger, ... come with me to Brussels.... We can make some splendid speculations there. Now-a-days if the aristocracy don't turn their attention to business once in a while, they will be completely swept out by the moneyed scum of the period. Let us make a venture: I hear of twenty acres of land for sale, bordering on the Northern Railroad—there is a clear gain of a hundred thousand francs as soon as the road is finished; I offer you half—it is not a very risky game, nothing more than playing lansquenet on a railroad!"
No signs of Irene. My impatience was so evident that this time, my obtuse friend saw it, and, shaking me by the hand, said:
"Good bye, my dear Roger, why in the world did you not tell me I wasde trop?Now that I see there is a fair lady in the case I will relieve you of my presence. Adieu! adieu!"
He was gone, and I breathed again.
By this time my situation had become critical. This Chinese door, like that of Acheron, refused to surrender its prey. Time was passing. I had successively adopted every attitude of feverish expectation; I had exhausted every pose of a museum of statues, and saw that my suspicious blockade of the pavement alarmed the store-keepers. The broker adjoining the Chinese store seemed to be putting himself on the defensive, and meditating an article for theGazette des Tribunaux.
I now regretted the departure of my speculating friend; his presence would at least have given my conduct an air of respectability,—would have legalized, so to speak, my odd behavior. This time chance left me to my own devices.
I had held my position for two hours, and now, as a regard for public opinion compelled me to retire, and I had no idea of doing so until I had achieved a victory, I determined to make an attack upon the citadel containing my queen of love and beauty. Irene had not left the store, for she certainly had no way of escaping except by the door which was right in front of my eyes—she must be all this time selecting some trifle that a man could purchase in five minutes,—it takes a woman an eternity to buy anything, no matter how small it may be! My situation had become intolerable—I could stand it no longer; so arming myself with superhuman courage, I bravely opened the shop-door and entered as if it were the breach of a besieged city.
I looked around and could see nothing but a confused mingling of objects living and dead; I could only distinguish clearly a woman bowing over the counter, asking me a question that I did not hear. My agitation made me deaf and blind.
"Madame," I said, "have you any ... Chinese curiosities?"
"We have, monsieur, black tea, green tea, and some very fine Pekin."
"Well, madame, ... give me some of all."
"Do you want it in boxes, monsieur?"
"In boxes, madame, if you choose."
I looked all around the room and saw nobody but two old women standing behind another counter—no signs of Irene.
I paid for my tea, and while writing down my address, I questioned the saleswoman:
"I promised my wife to meet her here at three o'clock to select this tea—not that my presence was necessary, as her taste is always mine—but she requested me to come, and I fear I have made a mistake in the hour, my watch has run down and I had no idea it was so late—I hope she did not wait for me? has she been here?" Thereupon I gave a minute description of Irene de Chateaudun, from the color of her hair to the shade of her boot.
"Yes, monsieur, she was here about three o'clock, it is now five; she was only here a few minutes—long enough to make a little purchase."
"Yes, ... I gasped out, ... I know, but I thought I saw her ... did she not come in ... that door?"
"Yes, sir, she entered by that door and went out by the opposite one, that one over there," said she, pointing to a door opening on New Vivienne street.
I suppressed an oath, and rushed out of the door opening on this new street, as if I expected to find Mlle. de Chateaudun patiently waiting for me to join her on the pavement. My head was in such a whirl that I had not the remotest idea of where I was going, and I wandered recklessly through little streets that I had never heard of before—it made no difference to me whether I ran into Scylla or Charybdis—I cared not what became of me.
Like the fool that repeats over and over again the same words without understanding their meaning, I kept saying: "The fiend of a woman! the fiend of a woman!" At this moment all my love seemed turned to hate! but when this hate had calmed down to chill despair, I began to reflect with agonizing fear that perhaps Irene had seen me at the Odeon with those dreadful women. I felt that I was ruined in her eyes for ever! She would never listen to my attempt at vindication or apologies—women are so unforgiving when a man strays for a moment from the path of propriety, and they regard little weaknesses in the light of premeditated crimes, too heinous for pardon—Irene would cry out with the poet: