Friends in the stalls.
CHAPTER XVI
FRIENDS IN THE STALLS
"What a crowd!—What a crowd!"
"If I were De Gercourt, at this moment, what an awful fright I should be in!—What say you?"
"I should most decidedly."
"What fancy is this that has taken hold of him?"
"Oh! he can do nothing like any one else."
"Ah!—bah! Is his comedy really something so extraordinarily good?"
"No, no, I meant to say that the stylish people of the present day do riot write plays. He had nothing to do but follow their example, and keep himself quiet."
"I thought you had been present at a full rehearsal."
"So I have."
"Well, I came in at the third act, and, ma foi, I found myself beside Mademoiselle ***, whom I had never seen off the stage: I talked with her for a long while, and heard nothing at all of De Gercourt's piece. She is a very nice person is Mademoiselle ***."
"Then you know nothing of the play?"
"Saint-Clair has seen two rehearsals, and says it is very weak. As for me I hope the thing may succeed most decidedly; but as to applauding like a claqueur, why, you see——"
"Heaven defend us from that!"
"Nothing can be in worse taste than to applaud."
"All the club will be here."
"Then they will come in after dinner. That will be droll."
"Ah! there is the Turkish ambassador."
"Ah! and there is that nice Marquise de Luceval, who is displaying her neck to catch a glimpse of the ambassador, or be seen by him."
"Pardieu! and she who aims at every thing eccentric must have a great desire to coquet with this Turk."
"I hate that woman: she turns every thing into ridicule."
"And such a tongue!"
"Do you really think her so very pretty?"
"Why, why, she is nice and piquant, and her features are really good, but that's all."
"Very different from Madame de Longpré, who is just entering her box! There is a really lovely woman."
"She's with that silly little doll Madame Dinville."
"Oh! that simpleton always hooks in with some fashionable woman."
"Talking of Madame de Longpré, where can Maubray be?"
"Just entering their box.—Can Monsieur de Longpré do without him?"
"Unfortunate Longpré!"
"And there is Mademoiselle Dumoulin with her baron. How handsome she is! You must confess that there are very few women like her in society."
"True."
"It is much less wearying, much more convenient. One need not be at any trouble, and is not compelled to make any display of attention."
"No doubt; but men are so weak—vanity will predominate."
"Most decidedly the Princess de Hansfeld is in high beauty to-night. How charmingly that garnet-coloured gown becomes her! What splendid shoulders! I never had so good a view of her before. Who is that with her?"
"Madame de Lormoy, De Morville's aunt."
"But I should say there was some one else at the back of the box?"
"No."
"Yes, I assure you."
"The boxes are so dark."
"Perhaps it is the prince."
"What! have they released him then?"
"So it appears; but we can't see his face—De Morville's aunt hides him."
"Talking of De Morville, how is it he is not here,—he, the bosom friend of Gercourt?"
"He will be here: I met him. His mother is better."
"And how is he?"
"How is he?"
"Not yet cured of his English complaint?"
"No; really his is an incurable fidelity."
"Madame de Luceval tried very hard to have herself adored out of a spirit of contradiction, but she failed, and De Morville's fidelity was unshaken."
"How vexed she must have been! for she is such a coquette—so fond of tormenting other women."
"Oh! I should like to see her fall into the hands of some one who could tease her heart out."
"She has really driven poor Saint Renant half mad."
"Does their liaison still continue?"
"So the world says, and it is more talked of than ever."
"Silence!—Here he is. Ah! how d'ye do, Saint Renant?"
"Ah! my dear fellows, how'do? Have you seen the woman in the Polish cap, the sobieska?"
"No. Who, and where is she?"
"Then look up in the dress circle beside a very charming fair creature."
"Ça?—Why it is a man!"
"One of the horse-riders from the Cirque."
"A colonel's wife of the hussars."
"Say rather the Polish lancers."
"I should like to know the name of that delicious fair girl!—She's really lovely."
"It is Madame de Brévannes."
"The wife of the tall dark man who is leaning forward?"
"Yes."
"Ah! here is Morville."
"I say, Morville, the famous invisible prince is here; but he does not come forward, but remains entrenched in his box with your aunt and the Princess de Hansfeld, so that we cannot catch a glimpse of him."
"Is Madame de Hansfeld here?"
"Yes, there. Look this way, Morville."
"I see."
"Go and pay your respects to your aunt, and come back and tell us how the said prince looks when one is close to him, for here we see nothing. I say, do this for us, Morville."
"Impossible. I dare not go near my aunt, for I have been smoking a cigar, and she would faint, or something of that sort. I will try, on the contrary, not to be seen by her, as I cannot go into her box. By the way I hope we all mean to support Gercourt. I am much interested for him."
"Do you mean to applaud much in your own proper person, Morville?"
"Most decidedly. In the first place the play deserves it, and then we must encourage Gercourt. If it succeed, we shall no longer be styled an idle, useless set; and it must succeed, for it is full of wit."
"Yes, but if it should fail, we shall be responsible for its failure."
"No more than you will be responsible for its success."
"Hark! there's the signal."
"The solemn moment!"
"Poor Gercourt!"
"Silence, gentlemen, and listen."
"Be quiet, Morville."
"We are all ears."
"Ah! this passes at the time of Louis XV."
"I detest pieces of the time of the regency."
"How frightfully the noble father is attired!"
"But Mademoiselle *** is deliciously dressed."
"Too much rouge."
"They wore a great deal at this period."
"Yes, and very high up close to the eyes."
"How much powder becomes her!"
"Do you know her affair with Octave? It is very amusing. Only fancy——"
"My dear fellow, do think of poor Gercourt, and listen to his play."
"It is very pretty!—Very pretty!"
"The decorations are charming."
"The fact is, that for a first piece—"
"For a man who knows nothing of the profession—"
"Oh! a soliloquy. I never listen to soliloquies, they are such bores."
"So I think."
"Well, then, to return to Octave. Well, you must know that he had seen Mademoiselle *** several times in her new character. You know the one I mean, in Scribe's play, and he fell in love with her—desperately in love."
"Parbleu!"
"He knew in the house of——"
"My dear Auguste, pray do listen a little: Gercourt is a friend."
"Why we are talking of one of the actresses in his play."
"Besides soliloquies are always full of repetition."
"Bravo! bravo!"
"The devil!—This is rather strong, I should say: they do not risk these things in good society.
"Yes, but under the regency."
"Ah! there is Madame d'Hauterive and her sister in the minister's box. When free admissions fly about, they are sure to make a part of the audience."
"'Pon my soul it's too bad with 8000 l. a-year."
"Some people are so mean."
"Well, now let us listen then; I will tell you poor Octave's history another time, for it evidently annoys Morville."
"Yes, let us listen."
"Ah! really now—that was very witty."
"What a pity Mademoiselle *** has such a long neck!"
"And how the lover talks through his nose!"
"Ah! see the two club boxes are crammed."
"They have evidently dined."
"They'll all be turned out as surely as possible."
"Look at D'Orville, pray do; his face is as red as a peony."
"Capital!—he is really talking to the performers."
"Yes, that's so like him; he is such a droll devil. I'll bet money that he's saying all sorts of odd things to them."
"They are trying to make him quiet."
"What a pity!—we were once together at the Gaité,—there was a sheep in the piece—we were in one of the stage-boxes, and D'Orville drew the mutton along by his hind legs."
"How very funny it must have been!"
"It really was—but come—let us attend a little—hum! I say the plot seems rather intricate—eh?"
"Why, to tell the truth, I do not comprehend one syllable of it."
"Which is the father?—that one?"
"In the mulberry suit?"
"No, on the left side—the thin fellow, the distinguished individual who indulged in the soliloquy."
"I don't know."
"Don't you find the thing amusing?"
"Decidedly otherwise."
"What the devil could put it into Gercourt's noddle to write a play?"
"Still that was a neatly turned idea."
"Yes, but what an idea!"
"True; but you hear how they are applauding. It may succeed, but it is decidedly weak."
"First act is over—now for the second."
"Well, gentlemen, what did I tell you?"
"Between ourselves, my dear Morville, it is a pity that it begins so well."
"How so?"
"The remainder of the piece cannot certainly sustain this high tone."
"That remains to be seen; I know the play, and now I have not the slightest doubt of its success."
"Oh, you, Morville, are always an optimist; but, in fact, the progress of the plot is very much involved."
"You did not listen to it."
"Oh, parbleu! if it requires constrained attention in order to comprehend it, that is really a labour."
"And, you know, one does not come to the theatre to have oneself bored to find out all the developments of a plot."
"If it be intricate, that is the author's affair, and I really cannot for his pleasure and gratification refrain from a little quiet chat with a neighbour."
"True; the triumph of art is to make oneself understood without being listened to."
"Devil take you, Morville, you are quite fanatic about Gercourt."
CHAPTER XVII
BETWEEN THE ACTS.—BOX NUMBER VII
This box, as we have said already, was occupied by M. de Brévannes and his wife.
He had recognised Paula Monti in the Princess de Hansfeld.
Fortunately Bertha's attention was occupied, else the marked alteration in her husband's features could not have escaped her. In spite of the iron temper of his disposition, M. de Brévannes was, in spite of himself, much agitated, and compelled to lean against the side of the box for support, as he felt the mad passion with which Paula Monti had inspired him again awaken in his bosom with increased violence.
He saw once again this woman more lovely than ever, admired by all the men, envied by all the women, and in a most elevated social position. And she could now exact from him a terrible account of the blood which he had shed, of the infamous means which he had employed to give a colourable appearance to his cowardly calumnies.
Fearing the pursuit of justice, which might be directed against him after his duel with Raphael (in which the latter fell), De Brévannes had quitted Florence precipitately. Since then he had sought to amuse himself by guilty intrigues, in order to forget his unworthy conduct and invincible passion, which, in spite of himself, still held such dominion over him.
His ill humour, his coarseness, his severity towards Bertha, had no other source than his feeling of the past which he could not drive from his memory.
What would then become of him when he found himself face to face with Madame de Hansfeld, and should be recognised by her, for the looks of the princess, at first attracted by the sobieska of Madame Girard, were thence removed to M. de Brévannes at the very instant when, having discovered in her Paula Monti, he was looking at her with amazement.
He saw her shudder, lift her hands suddenly to her eyes, and then become again perfectly impassive.
* * * * *
Bertha had been deeply interested, going rarely to the theatre, she preserved all her feelings youthful and fresh. Entirely absorbed in the plot of the comedy, nay indifferent to what was going on in the various boxes and stalls, the commencement of the second act of The Seducer completely fascinated her attention.
The second act was, perhaps, even more successful than the first. De Gercourt's friends began to get impatient at this lucky chance, and one of the most intimate said:—
"Now I am quite easy; if the piece should fail in spite of the talent displayed in those two acts, poor Gercourt will be quite innocent of the failure. I say this now without knowing what may occur—so much the better or the worse for him. Gercourt is not the author of this play — it is not in his vein at all."
During this pause between the acts we will conduct our reader into Madame de Hansfeld's box.
Madame de Lormoy, who accompanied her, was a woman of nearly fifty, and a high-bred lady in every sense of the word.
And now a few words of the Prince de Hansfeld, to whom the reader has already been introduced in the gallery of the Hôtel Lambert.
M. de Hansfeld, who was seated so far back in his box that none of the audience could see him, was of middle height, thin and slender, about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. His features were extremely delicate, his hair chestnut, very little moustache and beard, but fine and silky of a light brown hue, which harmonised admirably with the transparent paleness of his complexion. His eyes were very large and soft, and of a blue so bright that, in spite of the half obscurity of his box, the clear glance of Arnold was distinguishable, the light seeming not to be reflected upon, but to dart through them, giving them the blue brightness of a sapphire.
His smile was full of benignity, intelligence, and grace; there was only lacking to this interesting countenance the warm colouring of life and health, just as flowers which vegetate in the shade, and are denied the salutary beams of the sun, lose the brilliancy of their hues, and assume the pale tints of extreme delicacy; so had Arnold's features something languishing and pining in their expression.
During some minutes he remained in the deepest reflection.
When Madame de Lormoy had pointed out to the princess the ridiculous coiffure of Madame Girard, M. de Hansfeld, whilst turning his eyes mechanically in that direction, had remained for some time contemplating Bertha.
Madame de Brévannes' beauty was not dazzling, but her sweet and lovely countenance had such a touching expression of melancholy, that Arnold felt quite interested. At the moment of the entr'acte, Bertha, by an involuntary return to her own and her father's position—too proud to accept henceforth the least assistance from M. de Brévannes, and too poor to live without aid,—Bertha, being no longer attracted by the interest of the performance, gave way to the melancholy of her reflections, and, with her figure slightly bent, her head inclined towards her bosom, was mechanically moving a bouquet of red camelia, which she held in her hand, as she seemed bowed beneath the weight of some silent sorrow.
M. de Hansfeld felt himself attracted towards this young female by the mysterious and powerful sympathy of suffering. He was almost grateful to her for being, like himself, a stranger to the noise, stir, and joyous bustle of this brilliant audience, and, wishing to judge if Bertha's features corresponded with the favourable impression she created, he raised his lorgnette.
At this moment Madame de Lormoy turned towards him:—
"Well, prince, how do you find yourself?"
"I thank you, madame!" replied the prince in French, and without any foreign accent, but in a low, faint voice, "I feel very well."
"Perhaps the light hurts you a little, dear?" said the princess to her husband.
"Rather, but I must get accustomed to it,—I am about to become such a gay fellow!" he added, with a smile.
"Well, then, prince," continued Madame de Lormoy, "there is nothing like stirring about as a remedy for nervous complaints. I only advise you to try the most agreeable recreation, and Madame de Hansfeld is with you."
"It is she, on the contrary, who requires recreation," said the prince, kindly; "but I have much trouble in inducing her to go into society now and then."
"Alas! prince, my nephew, De Morville, is just the same, and I am always scolding him; my poor sister, his mother, has been an invalid so long, and he has nursed her so affectionately, that he really quite keeps away from the world. Dieu merci! She is getting better now, but my nephew still insists on his absurd retirement. He has become whimsical and capricious, and I have been obliged to make his excuses to you, my dear princess, for, after having asked me the favour of being presented to you, his savage taste has resumed its ascendancy, and he has made the excuse of his retirement from the world to renounce a favour at first so eagerly requested."
Madame de Hansfeld remained quite unmoved by this allusion to De Morville, whom she had for some time seen in the orchestra stalls, and replied with a smile,—
"I have heard this singularity of M. de Morville accounted for in a very romantic manner—allusions to an affair of the heart very deeply seated—a fidelity which does not belong to our times."
"And I believe with truth. Aunts ought always to feign ignorance of these lovers' weaknesses, and but for that I should boast of the heroic constancy of my nephew. Ah! there he is!—in the stalls!" said Madame de Lormoy who had discovered De Morville.
"Monsieur de Fierval, since Léon will not see me, have the kindness to go to him, and say I am here—this time he shall not escape us."
M. de Fierval, who had been paying his respects to Madame de Lormoy and the princess, instantly quitted the box in obedience to the request of De Morville's aunt.
"But really, madame," said Madame de Hansfeld, with a laugh, when De Fierval had left the box, "I should be quite vexed to catch M. de Morville in a net of this sort, and thus surprise him into an introduction which he may desire to avoid."
"My dear princess, if he has his whims, I have mine; and amongst others, that of being proud of my nephew, and his greatest success would be to acquire your good opinion."
"I have no right to repeat it to any person so nearly connected with you as M. de Morville, only I regret that good opinion should not have the value which you are so kind as to attribute to it."
"Allow me to say that on this point you completely deceive yourself.—But," added Madame de Lormoy, "I most decidedly denounce M. de Hansfeld to you. He appears to me entirely absorbed with Madame Girard's sobieska, and cannot take his eyes off her, unless, indeed, it is that pretty Madame de Brévannes whom M. de Fierval has just named to us."
"And who is really very charming," said the princess, directing her lorgnette with the utmost intrepidity into the box of Brévannes.
M. de Hansfeld did not hear, or pretended not to bear, his wife, and kept his glass fixed on Bertha.
"But," continued Madame de Lormoy, "do you know, princess, that I very much admire M. de Brévannes? From what M. de Fierval told us, he must have evinced great delicacy and generosity in his marriage with a poor girl; and this is so seldom witnessed in our days. After such conduct, it seems to me that people are hardly able to form their opinion of a man's worth. Don't you think so?"
"With your elevated opinions, you must think highly of M. de Brévannes, or rather of his noble disinterestedness, his admirable behaviour, since he has not the honour of an acquaintance with you. Madame de Brévannes is so lovely," said the princess, without betraying any emotion; "she appears so well bred, that the sacrifice of M. de Brévannes appears to me simply very great good fortune."
"In this you are quite right; but when I look at the marked and almost harsh features of M. de Brévannes I should never have thought him capable of such a feeling of the tender passion. What is your opinion, princess:
"Countenances are sometimes so deceitful," replied Paula, whose composure did not forsake her.
At this moment M. de Fierval came into the box.
"What! alone?" said Madame de Lormoy; "and Léon?"
"He has desired me, madame, to express to you his extreme regret; but after having dined at the club, he smoked a cigar, and——"
"I understand. He knows my abhorrence of the abominable odour of tobacco. I only hope that what he has lost by his filthy habit, just like a soldier in a barrack, may be profitable to him when he remembers how he lost it. Again, my dear princess, I hope for his pardon, and express my regret to you."
"We are all losers, madame," was the princess's reply.
It was plain that De Morville's excuse for not going to his aunt was the result of his resolution to avoid a meeting with the princess.
"What do they say of the piece?" asked Madame de Lormoy of M. de Fierval.
"They did not expect such signal success; and Gercourt's friends are really in consternation!
"Shameful! but so much the better; it is right that envious people should feel the pain of their hateful desires. I wish M. de Gercourt's success was twice as disagreeable to them as it is already."
"Is M. de Gercourt one of your friends, madame?" inquired Madame de Hansfeld.
"Is he?—indeed he is, and one of my best. When he returned from his travels before the revolution of July, he entered the world under my patronage and that of the Duchesse de Bellecourt; and I can assure you we were very proud of introducing M. de Gercourt into society. He was a charming young man; and although quite young, soon became very much the fashion:—with a large fortune, a good name, a handsome person, and most gentlemanly manners, he had only to desire to please, and he did please; and because, after he had enjoyed, as a young man, all the pleasures of his age and position, he now seeks more elevated enjoyments, more serious occupations, every body says malicious things of him. It is really a shame and a pity. Why are not fools as indulgent to the merit of another as they are for their own nonentity? It is all that is required of them."
"It is well to be one of your friends, madame," said Paula, smiling at the excitement with which Madame de Lormoy had said these words.
"Assuredly," said M. de Fierval; "and I regret that I think with Madame de Lormoy of Gercourt, as else I might have had the pleasure of being converted by her."
"Oh! I do not pretend to convert anybody, but to say unreservedly my opinion of malicious and jealous persons. That is an old woman's privilege, and I avail myself of it, as I have a right to do. Have I not, prince?—But, heavens! what's the matter?—How pale you are!"
And, indeed, M. de Hansfeld was leaning his head against the panel of the box, and seemed at the moment extremely ill.
"Princess, your smelling bottle!" exclaimed Madame de Lormoy.
Madame de Hansfeld rose half up from her seat. Her husband repulsed her with terror, saying in an alarmed voice, "No,—no; not that smelling bottle!" and the prince fainted.
Despite her husband's habitual impassiveness, Madame de Hansfeld could not help a shudder and a frown of her black eyebrows at the frightened gesture of the prince when she presented her flacon to him; but neither Madame de Lormoy nor M. de Fierval, who were occupied with the prince, observed her emotion.
The indisposition of the prince occurred between the acts, and several persons came to help to convey the prince to his carriage; and amongst the inquisitives was M. Girard, whom his wife had despatched to ascertain what effect her sobieska had occasioned in the public mind.
M. Girard took very good care not to make a single inquiry on this subject, resolving to tell his spouse that her dashing casquette had excited the utmost admiration. He returned hastily to the box to inform her of the prince's fainting fit. He had scarcely opened the door, and said to Madame Girard, "My love——," than she, without allowing him to add another word, exclaimed,—
"Run as fast as you can to see what is the matter with the Prince de Hansfeld: they have carried him out, I understand, into the lobby in front of us."
"But, my dearest——"
"Go quick, I tell you——"
"But, my life, I have come to——"
"Go, I say, Timoléon."
"I beg of you to hear me——."
"Oh!—how tiresome you are! Pray, go as quickly as you can."
"Why, I came in fact to tell you——"
"That is not what I want to hear, it is about the prince. So once more go."
"But, my dearest love, I have come to tell you the very thing you desire to know," exclaimed M. Girard, with intense volubility.
"Oh! that's quite another thing. Come in and shut the door, and tell us all about it as quick as you can."
"My love, you really will not give me time; and I——"
"Pray speak—do speak."
"Did the prince quite lose his consciousness?" inquired Bertha, with interest.
"Of course the princess has gone away with him?" said De Brévannes.
"Did they give him immediate assistance?" continued Madame Girard. "Timoléon, why don't you speak, and not stand there like a great clod, not opening your mouth?"
"Why, I really cannot answer so many questions at once. From what I could gather in the crowd, some said the prince was just recovering from a very long illness, and the heat of the house had quite overcome him; others declared that it was another attack of lunacy which had come over him, although they had thought him completely cured; and there were others besides, who asserted that it was violent and sudden emotion which had caused his fainting."
"Poor prince!—So young, and such a sufferer!" said Bertha to De Brévannes, with sympathy of tone. "All, even to his maladies, is a mystery!"
"Ah! my dear Madame de Brévannes, how very interesting, isn't it?" cried Madame de Girard, with excitement. "What a pity we could not see him, for he was so completely concealed at the back of the box that we could not distinguish his features!"
"I confess," said Bertha, "that I should have liked to have seen his face."
M. de Brévannes frowned as he looked scrutinisingly in Bertha's face at the moment when she had manifested her interest for M. de Hansfeld, and awaited with some uneasiness the reply of Madame Girard, who added in a sentimental tone, "Admitting that the prince is as young, as handsome and interesting as he is, it is thus one would choose the fancied one, if we were young girls and mistress of his heart. Don't you think so, Madame de Brévannes?"
"But, my love, I do not think I ever cross your inclination, and I——"
"Really, Timoléon, I hope you have never had the pretension to be a 'fancied one,' an ideal being?"
"I have no pretension to be an ideal being, my dear; but——"
"Silence! the curtain is going up."
M. Girard was silent.
Bertha and Madame Girard again lent all their attention to the last act of the comedy; and De Brévannes, whose features grew darker and darker, cast, from time to time, strange looks on his wife; his absurd jealousy was alarmed at the interest which Bertha had shewn when speaking of the sufferings of the prince, whose features she had not even seen.
CHAPTER XVIII
AFTER THE PLAY
"Well?"
"Decided success."
"Yes, great and unquestionable."
"How devilish lucky Gercourt is!"
"It is a capital beginning."
"Bah! he never wrote the thing."
"Why, that idea came into my head the moment I saw it must succeed."
"If it had only had moderate success, one might have believed that Gercourt really wrote the play."
"If it had failed, there would not have been a moment's doubt on the subject."
"Why, success is all very well; but you know, in such cases, the acting of the performers is every thing."
"Quite true. Just now I was standing beside a newspaper man, and he said that it was clever, but not written close, not dovetailed."
"Yes, that is the word I meant; the plot was not dovetailed."
"Decidedly not; and if persons will meddle with theatrical writing, they ought at least to have a good knowledge of dovetailing."
"Yes, the whole piece depends on that."
"But there are some people who imagine they possess every thing by instinct.
"Why, I think Gercourt a most excellent fellow, and very amiable and nice before he was seized with the mania for writing, but now he has such a mysterious, preoccupied air——"
"That is in the last degree ridiculous."
"Only look at Morville. In spite of his melancholy he has as self-satisfied an air as if he were the author himself."
"Yes, without any possible reason."
"Well, gentlemen, I told you what the result would be. What an effective dénouement!—It is hardly a success,—it ought to be called a triumph."
"It proves that our friendship has done every thing;—we were all here, and filled the house. It was quite a family affair."
"The thing must be tried before an impartial audience."
"To speak frankly, it is in spite of your friendship that Gercourt has succeeded."
"Oh! you are always talking paradoxes, Morville. As soon as any one is your friend, even if he had killed father and mother, he would be excusable in your eyes."
"And the best reason would be, my dear sir, when that friend had written a delightful comedy: at least you must allow some extenuating circumstances to his crime. In the first place, he could not believe that the success he desired would be so disagreeable to you; and I can assure you, that in that particular there was no premeditation on his part."
"You are joking now, Morville.
"I only say the truth."
"Well, if you were the friend of that woman who wears that very odd head-dress, you would maintain that it was in the best possible taste."
"What woman are you speaking of?—Where is she?"
"There by Voltaire's statue, beside Madame de Brévannes, who really seems quite ashamed of being seen in her society."
"Is M. de Brévannes, then, in Paris?"
"Certainly; but what makes you look so strangely when you ask the question, my dear Morville?"
"Has he been here long?"
"I think not. I saw him for the first time since his return at the Opera-ball. But what ails you, Morville? You seem quite preoccupied with Brévannes. Are you in love with his wife?—She is worth winning."
"Her only fault is in having friends who wear such head-dresses?"
"You who take so deep an interest in De Gercourt's success, my dear Morville, forget its most striking effects. His comedy had such an effect on the Prince de Hansfeld, that it has made him more imbecile than ever. He was conveyed to his carriage without consciousness. On his first going out, as they say; he has been lucky!"
"How pleasant for Madame de Hansfeld!"
"Oh! of her we may say as many ill-natured things as possible. Morville detests her, and his excuse of smelling of his cigar, which he gave for not going to his aunt and this handsome princess, was a pure invention. Oh! you are an original, Morville!"
"And you say that M. de Brévannes has only been in Paris for a short time?"
"What! still harping on De Brévannes? I'm off—D. I. O. Good night! Morville.—My cab is at the door."
"Morville is decidedly cracked."
"Yes, such fools do we become when we allow ourselves to be brutalised by the 'tender passion.'"
"Lady Melford has made nice work with him."
"Poor fellow! Ah! there is Gercourt, and he looks as if he wished to make his escape—to abscond from his triumph. What weakness!"
"Let us call him. Gercourt! Gercourt!"
"He will be overjoyed."
"Bravo! my dear friend."
"It is a decided hit."
"Enormous success!"
"You cannot imagine how delighted we are."
"Ah! my friends."
"We were just saying that for a man whose profession it was, it would have been decided success; but for a man of the world, it is a double merit."
"Well, but I assure you what you told me now—these proofs of kind friendship are even more delightful to me than my success itself."
"That is easily accounted for: your success is as much for your friends as yourself."
"What can make Morville look so pensive? Isn't he satisfied with my play?"
"Why, my dear fellow, you know how strange he is in all points. He seems as if he did not see you."
"And I want to get out of the way, for every one seems staring at me, and I have no ambition to 'play the lion's part.'—Adieu!"
"Adieu, my dear fellow!—and, once and again—bravo!"
"That is to say, that he is charmed with having Created such a sensation."
"What ridiculous and insupportable vanity!"
CHAPTER XIX
THE "POSTE RESTANTE."
A week had passed since the interview of Madame de Hansfeld and M. de Morville at the Opera.
M. de Morville, overcome by fresh melancholy, had not quitted his mother, who had again relapsed, and was suffering very acutely. He recollected, with a mixture of joy and bitterness, his conversation with Madame de Hansfeld: the cry that had escaped the princess had given him a faint hope of being loved by her, but this rendered the struggle which he had to maintain against duty still more painful.
By a fatality which all men obey, his love increased in proportion to the insurmountable obstacles which separated him from Paula.
For the very reason that he accomplished a painful sacrifice in flying her presence, he consoled himself by nursing this fatal passion deep in his heart's core: sometimes, he sought to revive his ancient love for Lady Melford, and attempted to rekindle the cold ashes of his former affection,—but in vain.
In vain, too, did he ask himself, by what insensible operation he had so suddenly obliterated the deep sentiment which so lately occupied his whole heart—in vain did he ask himself the cause of his love for Madame de Hansfeld. "No doubt she was remarkably beautiful—but as to her heart, her mind, he knew nothing of them. In his sole conversation with the princess, she had been disdainful—ironical—cold."
In this scrutiny into the causes of his passion, M. de Morville forgot the most essential—his letters to Madame de Hansfeld, when he had detected, by a singular intuition of love, nearly all those emotions which had so strongly agitated her. If it be true that we often love from the sacrifices we have made for the object beloved, certain gifted souls love in consequence of the elevation of the feelings with which they are inspired. Thus De Morville owed to his love for Madame de Hansfeld inspirations of the noblest kind.
If it be objected that young, handsome, sensible, sensitive, and surrounded by temptations, M. de Morville must have been another Scipio, to devote himself to an impossible love, after having remained so long faithful to the memory of a beloved woman, we reply that if these instances of phenomenal constancy are sometimes met with, it is particularly amongst young, handsome, sensible, sensitive men, surrounded by temptations. They have had success enough not to be faithless from false shame or to add from vanity one unit more to the amount of their successes in affairs of the heart.
Then the very facility of the triumphs to which they might pretend keeps them from seeking them. In truth, without being absolutely satiated with pleasures, their first excitement having long abated, they become chary of the more sensitive enjoyments, and feel happy in consecrating to them the greater portion of their existence.
They do not require a prosperous love in order thus to exercise their more delicate faculties, but find a soft and saddened charm in the incessant regrets, which arise from a beloved remembrance,—in the tender anguish of a hapless love. In fact they comprehend the ineffable pleasure of melancholy, the refinements of pure and elevated passions.
Men less finely endued, less accustomed to success, are faithful or disinterested in love, from sheer necessity.
Persons like De Morville are so, if we may be allowed the expression, from luxury.
It is because it depends on themselves alone to have, that they find a kind of noble abstinence in not having. And then, indeed (we desire at all risks to excuse the constancy and resignation of our hero), certain dainty tastes know how from time to time to refresh, revivify the sensitiveness of their taste by a discreet abstinence. Having said thus much, and having (at least we hope so) exculpated De Morville from the ridicule inherent in the position of a faithful or unhappy lover, we will give our readers some additional information.
About eight days after his interview with Madame de Hansfeld, De Morville received by post the following letter in an unknown hand:—
"The step now taken with you is strange and foolish; you may perceive in it a reproach, a jest, or a caprice; you may reply to it by silence, by satire, or by disdain; you will not be reproached: there are a thousand reasons, why this step, notwithstanding it is as serious, as solemn as any thing can be in this world, may seem to you ridiculous or unworthy of your attention, still a whole existence is staked, in the hope (almost insane) that the instinct of your heart will reveal to you all that is sincere and serious in the question now asked,—Is your heart free?
"It is known that a cherished remembrance filled it for nearly two years; but we are not now referring to the past, we are addressing your well-known honour and frankness. Can you respond to a deep-felt love long cherished in silence and in mystery; a passionate love that you alone can inspire and justify?
"Reply—will you have this love?
"Many men would be proud to share it—this is not said from pride—for this love is cast at your feet with as much humility as fear. If you are free, if you can consecrate, or rather you will allow a whole life to be consecrated to you, say one word, and to-morrow you shall know who wrote this letter.
"Such is the confidence reposed in you, that you will be blindly believed. Nothing could be more easy for you than to deceive a heart entirely occupied with you; you might scorn this love with impunity and treat it as a plaything with the premeditation to break it speedily; you might lightly, carelessly give a mortal blow to a heart too deeply enamoured. This is said because you are known to be good and generous—because it is not too much to rely on your heart and candour for a frank reply. Be that reply what it may, it will be received with gratitude. Your sincerity will at least assuage the bitterness of rejection. This unpropitious love will return to the mystery and obscurity whence it should never have emerged. Although it be not shared, it will be none the less fervent and eternal: you may be insensible to it, but you cannot prevent its existence.
"P.S. Reply 'poste-restante,' to Paris to Madame Derval."
Whether he was in a train of romantic and melancholy ideas, whether he believed in the sincerity of this letter, or whether, in fact, resolved on refusing the offer of this heart, he thus avoided the ridicule of being the dupe of some "fool-born jest," M. de Morville, replied seriously to this proposition, and wrote this, poste-restante, to the address of Madame Derval.
"I would a thousand times prefer being the victim of a jest to risking a frivolous reply to the expression of a sentiment for which a right-minded man should always shew himself grateful. If there is one thing I pretend to it is frankness, and I have never committed a base or mean action, I have never considered as vain and trifling the engagements of two hearts which are exchanged—engagements in which a woman almost always places her whole happiness in the honour, her future at the mercy, of a man,—engagements in which the woman risks all, the man nothing. I will therefore reply, No, my heart is not free; I love, and love without hope.
"Shall I be understood, when I say that in thus replying, I believe I fully appreciate the sentiment which is expressed towards me, and by which I am as much touched as honoured?
"Admitting the reality of the sentiment which is expressed, I am absolved from any presumption by this well-known truth, To be loved does not prove that we deserve to be loved. But as for myself I have always thought that those who loved deserved always as much respect as admiration.
"LEON DE MORVILLE."
The next day De Morville received this reply by post:—
"Your noble and generous heart has been justly appreciated—your letter has caused tears to flow, but they fell without bitterness. Your excessive delicacy would, had it been possible, have increased the blind passion with which you have inspired me. Blind passion!—ah!—no—no, never was a love more deeply reflected, more meditated, more rational—for you are capable and worthy of responding to all the exactions of a love the most pure, the most elevated.
"No, the passion you inspire is not blind; but it honours and becomes one like a virtue. Now there is a last favour to ask of you; you will not grant it if it be inopportunely asked, but if, on the other hand, you do concede it, you will easily comprehend how great a consolation it will be to the heart that is filled with your image. To be allowed to write to you from time to time would be much desired, not to speak to you of a love which will never again raise its voice, but to make you hear sometimes the accents of a friendly voice, 'your heart is not free, and you love without hope.'
"This confidence may have cost you something, it may impose duties because it may presage griefs. Those who have suffered ought to repair to those who suffer; and if your love continues unhappy, perhaps in the midst of your sorrows you would hail with gratitude the consolation of a tender and devoted heart, which, better than any other, may compassionate your sorrow.
"Should you be happy, you will be generous, and you will find some kind and gentle words for the unknown friend, whose own griefs will be forgotten in the knowledge of your sufferings or happiness. You are so frank that you do not suspect the frankness of others. The end of this correspondence is not to lay a snare for your affection, or to profit by a moment's anger to offer again to you a heart you have rejected: you will believe this because you know that there are souls worthy of your own: you will believe this because whatever may happen, you will never learn who has written to you.
"Finally, you will see in this resolution neither offended pride nor bitterness. The elevation of feeling which dictates this letter places it out of the pale of such wretched passions. Destiny has willed that this offer of a devoted heart should be made to you too soon or too late. Still that heart is no less yours, that is to say, is still worthy of you.
"Reply 'poste-restante' to the same address."
The calm and dignity of this fresh letter struck De Morville, and he was touched by it in spite of the preoccupation of his mind for the love of Madame de Hansfeld. He replied with his usual sincerity:—
"I accept with gratitude the offer you make me—my heart is indeed sad: I have never had a confidant, but I should greatly like to give utterance to my feelings, not to recount agreeable or painful facts, and confidants disturb persons, but not sentiments. I may, therefore, find a great charm, a vast comfort in breathing forth my sorrows or my hopes, or in having myself pitied if I suffer, or congratulated if I am happy, by the mysterious and generous friend I have acquired.
"LEON DE MORVILLE."
This last billet written and despatched to its address, De Morville, absorbed by his increasing passion for Madame de Hansfeld, thought but seldom of his mysterious correspondent:—the unknown person (whose name the reader has doubtless guessed) being unwilling by any indiscreet haste to abuse the permission that M. de Morville had given.
CHAPTER XX
THE EMISSARY
Eight days had elapsed since the eventful meeting at the Comédie Française had revealed to M. de Brévannes that Paula Monti and the Princess de Hansfeld were one and the same person.
About ten o'clock in the morning, a fiacre, in which was M. de Brévannes, stopped at the door of a modest-looking dwelling, situate at the Rue des Martyrs—a street proverbially lonely and unfrequented.
The house at which M. de Brévannes alighted did not boast a concierge, that gentleman was therefore enabled to ascend the stairs unquestioned and uninterrupted. When arriving at the entrance to the apartments on the first floor, he rang the bell with an air and loudness that announced the approach of a master, his summons was immediately answered by a female, somewhat in years, plainly but neatly dressed. She had a red, pimpled face—a large pair of spectacles ornamented her nose, and in her hand she carried a capacious snuff-box.
We shall merely announce this female as Madame Grassot, the person employed by M. de Brévannes to look after the apartments occupied by him for the purpose of receiving poor Bertha's numerous rivals without fear of discovery.
"Well, Madame Grassot," said M. de Brévannes, as he entered into a pretty drawing-room, in which a cheerful fire was burning, "what kind of news have you got for me?"
"The very best of news, M. Charles," replied the old woman, taking off her glasses, and inspiring a powerful pinch of snuff.
"Good, are they?" rejoined M. de Brévannes, turning round quickly.
"They aire, M. Charles, excellent as can he. Does that any way surprise you?"
"By no means, after my experience of your cleverness in getting at any thing required of you. But what you had now to manage presented such real difficulties——"
"That you fancied I should not succeed,—ah! go along; I know what you mean!"
"There were really such serious obstacles in the way of your success that, in fact, I—but, never mind that—tell me all you have done and learned."
"You gave me a week to do the job in; and I finished it off in five days."
"Well! Now, then, let's hear all about it."
"All about it! Ah, but then we must begin, as the children say, from the beginning. Just listen attentively, and I'll tell you every thing that passed."
"I am all impatience—pray begin."
"Last Wednesday morning, says you to me, 'Madame Grassot, you must positively find some means of getting acquainted with one of the male or female servants belonging to the Princess de Hansfeld—the lady who lives in the Hôtel Lambert, Rue Saint Louis.'"
"My good woman! for mercy's sake, get on with your story."
"Oh, but, M. Charles—if you interrupt me in this manner——"
"You are keeping me upon the rack; you can have no idea how deeply I am interested in your proceedings."
"Well, then, let me go on my own way, and you'll soon learn what I call 'good news.' No sooner said than done, as the folks say; and directly you had left me, away I went to the Boulevard Montmartre, where I took the omnibus to the Bastille; and from the Porte Saint Antoine I reached the Isle Saint Louis, where, of course, I began to take a close survey of the Hôtel Lambert from the great gate, situated in the Rue Saint Louis, to the end of the garden-wall which runs along the Quai d'Anjou."
"I told you to be very particular in observing a small side door which opens out upon this unfrequented quay."
"Oh, bless you! I forgot nothing. Make yourself quite easy upon that score; but, for the better furtherance of my first movement, it was necessary for me to keep a sharp look-out at the principal entrance. As there was neither coffee-house nor public-house in the immediate neighbourhood, from whence I could have observed all that passed, and as my loitering about would soon have excited suspicion in so lonely a street, I went as far as the hackney-coach stand on the Quai Saint Paul; there I engaged a fiacre by the hour, and, drawing down the blinds, I took up my station at the corner of the Rue Poultier, where your father-in-law lives."
"Capital! capital! and then——"
"Well, from there I could distinctly watch the gates of the Hôtel without being perceived by any one. Up to three o'clock, I saw nobody go in or out; and the days being so very short, I was just beginning to make up my mind to return home, when, all at once, a female, dressed in a puce-coloured gown and a brown bonnet, came out of the Hôtel, and proceeded directly to where I was waiting. I found it was a young person, black as old Nick himself—a kind of mulatto girl, as people call them,—only she had quite light blue eyes. I declare I never saw such a singular countenance in my life. However, as soon as my blackamoor had gone by, I slipped out of the coach, paid the driver as quickly as I could, and away I went after her."
"Well?"
"She went on to the Rue Poultier—then to the Quai d'Orleans—crossed the bridge; and, after having gone all round the Isle Saint Louis, returned back to the Hôtel Lambert by the little side door you mentioned to me. She was, evidently, merely taking a walk."
"Did you speak to her?"
"Speak to her! why, Lord! M. Charles, what a man you are! You know very well that I rather pride myself upon my prudence and good management in all difficult cases; and don't you see, that, up to the moment of her entering the grounds of the Hôtel Lambert by the private door, nothing had transpired to satisfy me she really formed one of the princess's household? And that was my first day's work; I confess it does not seem like doing much; but, at least, I had learned who to inquire for when I presented myself at the Hôtel."
"So far, so well. Now, go on."
"The next day I started off, with my box of patterns of lace and blond. What a capital idea it was, my making a pretence to carry a box, and call myself a lace-dealer come to exhibit the last new fashions in such articles, wasn't it, M. Charles? and Lord knows how many times you and I have found it serviceable in our plans to gain admittance to a house, or steal five minutes' conversation with some sweet lady. Ah, I remember——"
"Never mind what you remember, go on."
"Well; this time I went quite boldly up to the principal entrance and knocked at the great gates; a door was instantly opened, and, you may believe me or not, M. Charles, just as you like, when I say, that, although I am no coward, I felt a kind of fearful pit-a-patting of my heart, that sounded almost like the ticking of a clock. As I heard it shut again behind me, I found myself standing within the court-yard."
"But, why should you have felt afraid?"
"The court was small, flagged, and surrounded with high, gloomy-looking buildings. I am quite sure the sun never yet contrived to make it look bright with one of his beams,—no, not for an instant; it had just the dull air of a cloister. At the bottom of the court was an immense portico, so deep as to be quite dark within; still I could distinctly make out, by reason of the whiteness of the stone itself, the balustrades of a vast horse-shoe staircase, which ascended outside up to the first story of the Hôtel;—the portico went all round the house."
"It must be a perfect palace!"
"A palace if you like; but such a dreary, gloomy one, that I should much rather dwell in a church-yard than take up my abode there. An old one-eyed porter, who had admitted me, kept me from going any farther, staring at me all the while as though he meant to eat me. 'What do you want?' said he at last. 'This is the Hôtel Lambert, is it not?' answered I. 'Yes,' says he, 'it is.' 'And I believe the Princess de Hansfeld lives here?' 'Well,' says Old Grumps, 'suppose she does.' 'Why, then,' replied I, 'I have come to shew her the laces selected yesterday by a very dark young lady who came to my shop about four o'clock in the day.' As the mulatto had been known to go out about that time, my tale appeared very probable, and the Cerberus let me pass on; but, scarcely had I taken half-a-dozen steps, than I heard some one whistling behind me, for all the world like a set of banditti, or cavern full of robbers, such as we see in a play. It was the porter himself, whistling to let the other folks know I was coming."
"I remember now having heard, that there are still some houses in France where that sort of custom prevails."
"It's a very odd one, however; and, naturally enough, surprised and rather frightened me, who had never dreamed of such ways. Well, up-stairs I went, till I reached the first floor, where I found a tall, conceited-looking jackanapes, dressed like a chasseur; his face half smothered with his huge moustache, while he tried to utter some sort of gibberish, I dare say he thought was French, to inquire again where I came from, and whom I wanted. I told him, very smilingly, that I had some lace for the princess; he then, very civilly, begged me to wait in an anteroom, as high as a house and supported with stone pillars; it sounded almost like going into a vast cathedral, and one's very footsteps echoed so hollow. I can tell you it gave me quite a chill; I felt, for all the world, as though something dreadful was going to happen to me. Well, after keeping me waiting for about five minutes, the same stuck-up, dandyfied fellow came back, and informed me his lady had not ordered any lace to be sent to her; after which he very significantly pointed to the door. I quickly replied, that it must have been the young mulatto girl who required them, since she it was who came to my magazine. 'You mean Mademoiselle Iris, I suppose,' said the laced dandy, 'she who is a sort of companion to the princess.' 'The very name,' said I, 'of the young person who bade me call. I had forgotten it; but now I hear it again, I have no hesitation in saying it was Mademoiselle Iris who ordered me to be here with my laces.' Away went the chasseur, grumbling at the fresh trouble, to repeat what I had said to Mademoiselle Iris. You perceive, I had already picked up two very useful pieces of intelligence,—one, that the tawny Moor was the princess's companion; and, secondly, that her name was Iris."
"What a singular name!"