The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mysteries of Paris, by Eugene Sue. (In Six Volumes, Volume III.)

The mental torture of M. d'Harville was intense, for, after all, what he desired was only what was just, and actually legal,—the society, if not the love, of his wife.

But, when placed beside the inexorable refusal of Clémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest derision in these words of the law: The wife belongs to her husband.

To what influence, to what means could he have recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which turned his whole existence into one long punishment, since he could not—ought not—would not love any woman but his wife?

He could not but see in this, as in many other positions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law.

To the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a melancholy depression. The future weighed him down, heavy, dull, and chill. He only saw before him the grief that would doubtless render more frequent the attacks of his fearful malady.

"Oh," he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, "it is my fault,—it is my fault! Poor, unhappy girl! I deceived her,—shamefully deceived her! She must,—she ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and I became tender. I spoke of my love, and scarcely had my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and bounded with fright. If I could for a moment have doubted the invincible repugnance with which I inspire her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy that illusion. Ah, it is frightful,—frightful! By what right has she confided to him this hideous secret? It is an unworthy betrayal! By what right?—alas, by the right the victim has to complain of its executioner! Poor girl! So young,—so loving! All she could find most cruel to say against the horrid existence I have entailed upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all hopes of love! I know Clémence, and the word she gave me,—the word she gave to the prince,—she will abide by for ever. She will be to me the tenderest of sisters! Well, is not my position still most enviable? To the cold and constrained demeanour which existed between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse, whilst she might have treated me always with icy disdain of which it was impossible that I could complain. So, then, I will console myself by the enjoyment of what she offers to me. Shall I not be too happy then?—too happy? Ah, how weak I am! How cowardly! Is she not my wife, after all? Is she not mine and mine only? Does not the law recognise my right over her? My wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?" he interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter.

"Oh, yes,—be violent, eh? What, another infamy? But what can I do? For I love her yet,—love her to madness! I love her and her only! I want but her,—her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. Ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy I am! But no, no! Never! Mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. Disgust,—yes, disgust,—I cannot but see it,—disgust! I must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must,—always must!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, in his fearful excitement.

"This anonymous attack, which accused the prince and my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet, but an hour ago, before I saw through it, I suspected him. Him!—to believe him capable of such base treachery! And my wife, too, I included in the same suspicion! Ah, jealousy is incurable! And yet I must not abuse myself. If the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, has made Clémence promise to occupy her mind and heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support. And, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, which are so atrocious, must she not fall? Another torturing thought! What I have suffered when I thought her guilty,—fallen,—Heaven knows what agony! But, no; the fear is vain! Clémence has sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her promise,—strictly keep it! But at what a price! At what a price! But now, when she turned towards me with affectionate language, what agony did I feel at the sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! How much this return to me must have cost! Poor love! how lovely and affecting she seemed at that moment! For the first time I felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. Oh, wretch!—wretch that I am!"

After a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections, the agitation of M. d'Harville ceased, as if by enchantment. He had come to an unalterable resolution. He awaited daybreak with excessive impatience.

When old Joseph entered his master's room, to his great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song,—a sign, as rare as certain, that M. d'Harville was in good humour.

"Ah, M. le Marquis," said the faithful old servant, quite affected, "what a charming voice you have! What a pity that you do not sing more frequently!"

"If M. le Marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night raven or as harsh as a rattle, I should still think he had a charming voice."

"Why, when you sing, M. le Marquis, it is a sign you are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most beautiful music in the world."

"You may enjoy every day the music which you call charming, and of which you seem so fond."

"What! You will be happy every day, M. le Marquis?" exclaimed Joseph, clasping his hands with extreme delight.

"Every day, my old Joseph, happy every day. Yes, no more sorrow,—no more sadness. I can tell you, the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that I am at the height of happiness. My wife is an angel of goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to jealousy."

"You understand? Women have so much self-love,—a little more and we should have been separated; but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly to me, and I disabused her mind. To tell you her extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me,—oh, yes, she loves me! The coldness she evinced towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. Only conceive my delight!"

"Can it be true?" cried Joseph, with tears in his eyes. "Can it really be true, M. le Marquis? And now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me."

"And to whom but you should I have told it, my worthy old Joseph? Do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? But do not let us say anything more of sorrows now,—it is too bright a time. You see, perhaps, that I have been weeping? It is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when I so little anticipated it! How weak I am!—am I not?"

"Well, well, M. le Marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not I do as you do? They are right sort of tears, and I would not give them for ten years more of life. I have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of Madame la Marquise the first time I see her."

"Silly old fellow! Why you are as weak as your master. And now I have but one fear."

"I understand you. Well, I believe your fears are vain. The change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that I am almost sure of being nearly cured."

"My doctor has told me a hundred times that a violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on or to cure this terrible malady."

"You are right, monsieur,—you are cured, and what a blessing that is! Ah, as you say, M. le Marquis, the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven; and I begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness is too great; but now I think of it, if you only want a small matter just to annoy you, thank God, I have just the very thing!"

"One of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound, very slight, to be sure; but that's all the same, it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small black spot in your too happy day."

"A scratch in the arm. M. the Duke came yesterday to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea."

"You are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy jealous Fate. But an idea has come across me; I should like to get up a bachelors' breakfast this morning of all the friends of M. de Lucenay, to celebrate the fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a meeting, he will be delighted."

"A capital idea, M. le Marquis. Vive la joie! Let us make up for lost time. For how many shall I desire the maître d'hôtel to lay covers?"

"I will write them. Let a groom get his horse ready, and take them instantly. It is very early, and he will find everybody at home. Ring."

M. d'Harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the following letter, with no other alteration than the name of each invited guest.

"My dear ——: This is a circular, and is also an impromptu. Lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting only a tête-à-tête. Will you join me and several friends, whom I also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise?

"Twelve punctually.

"M. d'Harville."

"Desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver these notes directly," said M. d'Harville; and then, addressing Joseph, "Write the addresses: M. le Vicomte de Saint-Remy,—Lucenay cannot get on without him," said M. d'Harville to himself; "M. de Monville, one of the duke's travelling companions; Lord Douglas, his beloved partner at whist; the Baron de Sézannes, one of the friends of his childhood. Have you done?"

"Well, what is the matter with you?" inquired M. d'Harville of Joseph, who looked at him with astonishment.

"I cannot get over it, sir; I never saw you in such spirits,—so lively; and then you, who are usually so pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle."

"Happiness, my old friend,—happiness, and nothing else; and you must assist me in my little plot. You must go and learn of Mlle. Juliette, Madame d'Harville's waiting-woman, who has the care of her diamonds."

"Yes, M. le Marquis, it is Mlle. Juliette who has the charge of them, for it is not eight days since I helped her to clean them."

"Ask her to tell you the name of her lady's jeweller, but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress."

"My dear M. Doublet, I am going to alarm you," said M. d'Harville, smiling; "I shall compel you to utter fearful cries of distress."

"I have been planning a considerable extent of building. I propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the right wing of the hôtel. After having hesitated at this folly, of which I have not before spoken to you, I have made up my mind on the point, and I wish you to send to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk over the plans with me. Well, M. Doublet, you do not seem to object to the outlay."

"This gallery is destined for fêtes, and I wish to have it erected as though by enchantment; and, as enchantments are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of income in order to meet the expenditure, for I wish the work to be begun as speedily as possible."

"I have always said there is nothing which M. le Marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. That for building has the advantage of having the buildings always left; as to money, M. le Marquis need not alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the gallery."

"Here, M. le Marquis, is the address of the jeweller, whose name is M. Baudoin," said he to M. d'Harville.

"My dear M. Doublet, will you go to this jeweller's, and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of diamonds, worth, say, two thousand louis? Women never have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated with them. You can arrange with the jeweller as to the payment."

"Yes, M. le Marquis; and I do not even yet begin to groan. Diamonds are like buildings,—they remain. And then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please Madame la Marquise, without counting the pleasure that you yourself will experience. It is as I had the honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world any person whose existence can be more delightful than that of M. le Marquis."

"My dear M. Doublet," said M. d'Harville, with a smile, "your congratulations are always so peculiarly apropos."

"That is their only merit, M. le Marquis; and they possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from the heart. I will run to the jeweller."

As soon as he was alone, M. d'Harville began to pace up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his eye fixed and meditative. His features suddenly changed, and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment of which the steward and his old servant had been the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution. Afterwards, having paced up and down for a short time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid his face in his hands. After a moment he rose suddenly, wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said with effort:

He then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters, and postponed various meetings for some days. The marquis had concluded this correspondence when Joseph again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to hum a tune in his turn.

"Ma foi! so much the worse, M. le Marquis, for I don't care about it. I am singing so merrily within, that my music must be heard without."

"Yes, M. le Marquis; but where will you receive the gentlemen who are expected this morning?"

"Here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach Madame d'Harville."

At this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard of the hôtel.

"It is Madame la Marquise going out; she ordered her carriage very early this morning," said Joseph.

The domestic had scarcely left the room when M. d'Harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself attentively.

"Well, well," said he, in a hoarse voice, "it is there,—the flushed cheeks—the bright look—joy or fever, it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived; now, then, for the smile on the lips,—there are so many sorts of smiles! But who can distinguish the false from the true? Who can peep beneath the false mask, and say, 'That laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety conceals a thought of death?' Who could guess that? No one,—fortunately, no one,—no one! Ah, yes, love would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten him. But I hear my wife,—my wife! Now, then, sinister actor, play thy part."

"Good morrow, dear brother Albert," she said, in a tone full of sweetness. Then, observing the smiling expression of her husband's countenance, "But what is it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?"

"It was because, when you entered, my dear sister, I was thinking of you, and, moreover, I was under the influence of an excellent resolution."

"What took place yesterday,—your extreme generosity, the prince's noble conduct,—has given me much food for reflection, and I am converted,—entirely converted to your ideas."

"Indeed! That is a happy change!" exclaimed Madame d'Harville. "Ah! I was sure that, when I appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would understand me; and now I have no doubt about the future."

"Nor I either, Clémence, I assure you. Yes, since my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simplified."

"Nothing can be more natural, my dear. Now we both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister, mutually dependent on each other; at the end of our career we shall find each other what we are to-day. The feeling will be unalterable. In a word, I wish you to be happy; and you shall be, for I have resolved it there," said Clémence, placing her finger on her forehead. Then she added, with charming emphasis, lowering her hand to her heart, "No, I mistake, it is here. That is the good thought that will watch over you incessantly, and myself also; and you shall see, my brother, in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists."

"Dear Clémence!" said M. d'Harville with repressed emotion; then, after a moment's silence, he continued, in a gay tone:

"I sent to beg you to come here before you went out, to tell you that I could not take tea with you this morning. I have some friends to breakfast,—a sort of impromptu,—to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel of poor Lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly wounded by his adversary."

Madame d'Harville blushed when she reflected on the origin of this duel,—an absurd remark addressed in her presence by the Duke de Lucenay to M. Charles Robert. It reminded her of an erreur of which she was ashamed, and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her husband:

"What a singular chance! M. de Lucenay is coming to breakfast with you, and I am going, perhaps rather indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to Madame de Lucenay's; for I have a great deal to say to her about my two unknowns. From her, it is my intention to go to the prison of St. Lazare with Madame de Blinval, for you do not know all my projects; at this time I am intriguing to get admittance into the workroom of the young prisoner-girls."

"You are really insatiable," said M. d'Harville, with a smile; and then he added, with a painful emotion, which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, "Then I shall see you no more to-day."

"Does it annoy you that I should go out so early?" asked Clémence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. "If you wish it, I can put off my visit to Madame de Lucenay."

The Marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but continued, in an affectionate tone:

"Yes, my dear little sister, I am as annoyed to see you go out, as I shall be impatient to see you return, and these are faults of which I shall never be corrected."

"Here is one of your guests, no doubt," said Madame d'Harville. "I leave you; but, by the way, what are you going to do in the evening? If you have no better engagement, I require you to accompany me to the Italian Opera; perhaps now you will like the music better."

"Well, then, on my return, I shall come and inquire if your bachelors' breakfast has been amusing."

"Adieu, dear! We shall soon meet again. I leave you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as possible. Be very gay and lively, mind."

Having cordially shaken her husband's hand, Clémence went out of one door as M. de Lucenay entered by another.

"She wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade me be gay! In the word adieu, in that last cry of my soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal separation, she has understood that we should meet again soon,—this evening,—and leaves me tranquilly, and with a smile! It does honour to my dissimulation. By heaven, I did not think that I was so good an actor! But here is Lucenay."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BACHELORS' BREAKFAST.

The duke's wound had been so slight, that he did not even carry his arm in a sling. His countenance was, as usual, mirthful, yet proud; his motion perpetual; and his restlessness, as usual, unconquerable. In spite of his awkwardness, his ill-timed pleasantries, and in spite of his immense nose, which gave his face a grotesque and odd character, M. de Lucenay was not, as we have already said, a vulgar person, thanks to a kind of natural dignity and bold impertinence, which never forsook him.

"How indifferent you must think me to what concerns you, my dear Henry!" said M. d'Harville, extending his hand to M. de Lucenay; "but it was only this morning that I heard of your unfortunate adventure."

"Unfortunate! Pooh—pooh, marquis! I had my money's worth, as they say. I really never laughed so in my life. The worthy M. Robert was so religiously determined to maintain that he never had a phlegmy cough, in all his life,—but you do not know! This was the cause of the duel. The other evening at the —— embassy, I asked him, before your wife and the Countess Macgregor, how his phlegmy cough was? Inde iræ! for, between ourselves, he had nothing of the kind; but it was all the same, and, you may suppose, to have such a thing alluded to before pretty women was very provoking."

"Ma foi! I have not the slightest idea in the world. He is a person whom I met at the Spas; he passed by us in the winter garden at the embassy, and I called to him to play off this foolish jest, to which he gallantly replied the next day by giving me a touch with his sword-point. This is the history of our acquaintance. But let us speak no more of such follies. I have come to ask you for a cup of tea."

So saying, M. de Lucenay flung himself down full length on the sofa; after which, poking the point of his cane between the wall and the frame of a picture hanging over his head, he began to move it about, and try and balance the frame.

"I expected you, my dear Henry; and I have got up a surprise for you," said M. d'Harville.

"Ah, bah! and in what way?" exclaimed M. de Lucenay, giving to the picture a very doubtful kind of balance.

"Pardieu! I believe you are right. What an eagle's eye you have! But, tell me, what is this surprise of yours?"

"Really! Well, that is capital! Bravo, marquis,—bravissimo! ultra-bravissimo!" exclaimed M. de Lucenay, in a lusty voice, and beating the sofa cushions with his cane with all his might. "And who shall we have,—Saint-Remy? No, I recollect; he has been in the country for some days. What the devil can he be pattering about in the country in the mid-winter for?"

"Quite sure; for I wrote to him to go out with me, and learned he was absent; and so I fell back upon Lord Douglas, and Sézannes."

"Bravo! bravo! bravo!" exclaimed M. de Lucenay again, with lusty lungs; and then, wriggling and twisting himself on the sofa, he accompanied his cries with a series of fishlike bounds and springs, which would have made a boatman envious. The acrobatic exercises of the Duke de Lucenay were interrupted by the arrival of M. de Saint-Remy.

"There was no occasion to ask if Lucenay was here," said the viscount, gaily; "one could hear him below stairs."

"What! Is it you, graceful sylvan, country swain,—wolf of the woods?" exclaimed the duke, in his surprise, and sitting up suddenly. "I thought you were in the country!"

"I came back yesterday; and, having this instant received D'Harville's invitation, I have hastened hither, quite delighted to make one in so pleasant a surprise." And M. de Saint-Remy extended his hand to M. de Lucenay, and then to the marquis.

"Let me thank you for your speed, my dear Saint-Remy. Is it not natural? The friends of Lucenay ought to rejoice in the fortunate result of this duel, which, after all, might have had very serious results."

"But," resumed the duke, doggedly, "what on earth have you been doing in the country in the middle of winter, Saint-Remy? It mystifies me."

"How inquisitive he is!" said the viscount, addressing M. d'Harville; and then, turning to the duke, "I am anxious to wean myself gradually from Paris, as I am soon to quit it."

"Ah, yes, the beautiful idea of attaching you to the legation from France to Gerolstein! Pray leave off those silly ideas of diplomacy! You will never go. My wife says so, everybody says the same."

"I assure you that Madame de Lucenay is mistaken, as well as all the rest of the world."

"Yes, elegant, charming follies, true;—such as people said would ruin you in your Sardanapalian magnificences,—that I admit. But to go and bury yourself alive in such a court,—at Gerolstein! What an idea! Psha! It is a folly, an absurdity; and you have too much good sense to commit absurdities."

"Take care, my dear Lucenay. When you abuse this German court, you will get up a quarrel with D'Harville, the intimate friend of the grand duke regnant, who, moreover, received me with the best possible grace at the embassy, where I was presented to him."

"Really, my dear Henry," said M. d'Harville, "if you knew the grand duke as I know him, you would understand that Saint-Remy could have no repugnance to passing some time at Gerolstein."

"I believe you, marquis, although they do say that he is very haughty and very peculiar, your grand duke; but that will not hinder a don like Saint-Remy, the finest sifting of the finest flour, from being unable to live anywhere but in Paris. It is in Paris only that he is duly appreciated."

The other guests of M. d'Harville now arrived, when Joseph entered, and said a few words in a low voice to his master.

"Gentlemen," said the marquis, "will you allow me?—it is my wife's jeweller, who has brought some diamonds to select for her,—a surprise. You understand that, Lucenay? We are husbands of the old sort, you and I."

"Ah, pardieu! If it is a surprise you mean," shouted the duke, "my wife gave me one yesterday, and a famous one too!"

"Lent them to her; they are advanced as mortgage on her Arnouville estate. Right reckonings make good friends,—but that's by the by. To lend in two hours a hundred thousand francs to a friend who requires that sum is what I call pretty, but rare. Is it not prodigal, you who are a connoisseur in loans?" said the duke, laughingly, to Saint-Remy, little thinking of the cutting purport of his words.

In spite of his effrontery, the viscount blushed slightly, and then replied, with composure:

"A hundred thousand francs?—that is immense! What could a woman ever want with such a sum as a hundred thousand francs? As for us men, that is quite a different matter."

"Ma foi! I really do not know what she could want with such a sum as that. But that's not my affair. Some arrears for the toilet, probably? The tradespeople hungry and annoying,—that's her affair. And, as you know very well, my dear Saint-Remy, that, as it was I who lent my wife the money, it would have been in the worst possible taste in me to have inquired the purpose for which she required it."

"Yet," said the viscount, with a laugh, "there is usually a singular curiosity on the part of those who lend money to know what is done with it."

"Parbleu! Saint-Remy," said M. d'Harville, "you have such exquisite taste, that you must help me to choose the ornament I intend for my wife. Your approbation will consecrate my choice; your decisions are sovereign in all that concerns the fashion."

The jeweller entered, bringing with him several caskets of gems in a large leather bag.

"I am sure that it is you who ruined my wife with your dazzling and infernal temptations," said M. de Lucenay.

"Madame la Duchesse has only had her diamonds reset this winter," said the jeweller, slightly embarrassed; "and now, as I came to M. le Marquis, I left them with her grace."

M. de Saint-Remy knew that Madame de Lucenay, to aid him, had changed her jewels for false stones. He was disagreeably embarrassed at this rencontre, but said, boldly:

"How curious these husbands are!—don't answer any inquisitive interrogatories, M. Baudoin."

"Curious; ma foi! no," said the duke; "it is my wife who pays. She can afford all her whims, for she is much richer than I am."

During this conversation, M. Baudoin had displayed on a table several superb necklaces of rubies and diamonds.

"What a fine water, and how exquisitely those stones are cut!" said Lord Douglas.

"Alas, sir!" said the jeweller, "I employed in this work one of the most skilful lapidaries in Paris, named Morel; but, unfortunately, he has become insane, and I shall never find such another workman. My matcher of stones says that, in all probability, it was his wretched condition that deprived the man of his senses, poor fellow!"

"Certainly, sir; and there is no instance of a lapidary having ever pilfered anything, however miserable and destitute his condition."

"M. le Marquis will observe that the stones are of a splendid water and cut, and nearly all of a size."

"These oratorical prefaces threaten your purse," said M. de Saint-Remy, with a laugh. "Now, my dear D'Harville, look out for a high price."

"Come, M. Baudoin, have a conscience, and ask the price you mean to take!" said M. d'Harville.

"I will not haggle with your lordship. The lowest price is forty-two thousand francs (11,680l.)."

"Gentlemen," exclaimed M. de Lucenay, "let us who are married admire D'Harville in silence. A man who contrives a surprise for his wife to the amount of forty-two thousand francs! Diable! we must not noise that abroad, or it would be a detestable precedent."

"Laugh on, gentlemen, as much as you please," said the marquis, gaily. "I love my wife, and am not ashamed to confess it; on the contrary, I boast of it."

"It is plain enough to be seen," said M. de Saint-Remy; "such a present speaks more eloquently than all the protestation in the world."

"I will take this necklace, then," said M. d'Harville, "if the setting of black enamel seems to you in good taste, Saint-Remy."

"Then this it shall be," said M. d'Harville. "You will settle, M. Baudoin, with M. Doublet, my man of business."

"M. Doublet told me as much, my lord marquis," said the jeweller, who quitted the apartment, after having packed up his bag without counting the jewels which he had brought (such was his confidence), and notwithstanding M. de Saint-Remy had for a long time and curiously handled and examined them during the interview.

M. d'Harville gave the necklace to Joseph, who was waiting, and said to him, in a low tone:

"Mlle. Juliette must put these diamonds cleverly away with those of her mistress, so that la marquise may not suspect; and then her surprise will be the greater."

At this moment the maître d'hôtel announced that the breakfast was ready; and the guests, passing into the dining-room, seated themselves.

"Do you know, my dear D'Harville," said M. de Lucenay, "that this house is one of the most elegant and best arranged in Paris?"

"It is very convenient, certainly, but we want room; I have a plan to add a gallery on the garden. Madame d'Harville wishes to give some grand balls, and our salons are not large enough. Then, I think, nothing is more inconvenient than the encroachments of fêtes on the apartments one usually occupies, and from which, on such occasions, you are necessarily driven."

"I am quite of D'Harville's opinion," said M. de Saint-Remy; "nothing is more wretched, more tradesmanlike, than these movings, compelled by the coming of balls and concerts. To give fêtes, really of the first class, without inconveniencing oneself, there must be devoted to their uses peculiar and special suites of apartments; and then vast and splendid rooms, devoted to a magnificent ball, ought to assume an appearance wholly distinct from that of ordinary salons. There is the same difference between these two sets of apartments as between a monumental fresco-painting and a sketch on a painter's easel."

"He is right," said M. d'Harville. "What a pity, gentlemen, that Saint-Remy has not twelve or fifteen hundred thousand livres a year! What wonders he would create for our admiration!"

"Since we have the happiness to possess a representative government," said the Duke de Lucenay, "the country ought to vote a million or two a year to Saint-Remy, and authorise him to represent in Paris the French taste and elegance, which should decide the taste and elegance of all Europe,—all the world."

"And we would raise these annual millions as compulsory taxes on those abominable misers, who, being possessors of colossal fortunes, should be marked down, accused, and convicted of living like gripe-farthings," added M. de Lucenay.

"And as such," added M. d'Harville, "condemned to defray those splendours which they ought to display."

"Not including that these functions of high priest, or, rather, grand master of elegance, which would devolve on Saint-Remy," continued M. de Lucenay, "would have, by imitation, an enormous influence on the general taste."

"At the time of the Renaissance taste became universally excellent, because it was modelled on that of the aristocracy, which was exquisite."

"By the serious turn which the question has taken," said M. d'Harville, gaily, "I see that we have only to address a petition to the Chambers for the establishment of the office of grand master of French elegance."

"And as the Deputies have credit for possessing very elevated, very artistic, and very magnificent ideas, of course it will be voted by acclamation."

"Whilst we are waiting the decision which shall establish as a right the supremacy which Saint-Remy exercises in fact," said M. d'Harville, "I will ask him his opinion as to the gallery which I propose to erect; for I have been struck with his ideas as to the right splendour of fêtes."

"Ma foi! I have others also; I contemplate an entire alteration of Val-Richer."

"Have you not recently bought a farm near Val-Richer to complete your ring-fence?"

"And who is this rare and precious notary who advises such admirable purchases?"

At this name a slight shudder came over M. de Saint-Remy, and he frowned imperceptibly.

"Is he really the honest man they call him?" he inquired, carelessly, of M. d'Harville, who then remembered what Rodolph had related to Clémence about the notary.

"Jacques Ferrand? What a question! Why, his honesty is a proverb," said M. de Lucenay.

"In fact, he is one of the notaries of the 'old rock,' who ask you whom you take them for when you ask them for a receipt for the money which you place in their hands."

"But where the deuce did Saint-Remy imbibe his doubts with respect to this honest man, whose integrity is proverbial?"

"I am but the echo of certain vague reports; besides, I have no reason for running down this phœnix of notaries. But to return to your plans, D'Harville, what is it you wish to build at Val-Richer? I have heard that the château is excessively beautiful."

"Make yourself easy, my dear Saint-Remy, for you shall be consulted, and sooner than you expect, perhaps, for I take much pleasure in such works. I think that there is nothing more interesting than to have those affairs in hand, which expand as you examine them, and they advance, giving you occupation for years to come. To-day one project, next year another, after that something else springs up. Add to this a charming woman whom one adores, and who shares your every taste and pleasure, then, ma foi! life passes sweetly enough."

"Now, gentlemen," said D'Harville, when the breakfast was finished, "if you will smoke a cigar in my cabinet, you will find some excellent Havannahs there."

They rose from the table, and returned to the cabinet of the marquis. The door of his bedchamber, which communicated with it, was open. We have said the only decoration of the room consisted of two small racks of very beautiful arms.

"Yes, and I see you have here some splendid English and French guns. Ma foi! I hardly know which to admire most. Douglas," exclaimed M. de Lucenay, "come and see if these fowling-pieces are not equal to your crack Mantons."

Lord Douglas, Saint-Remy, and the two other guests went into the marquis's room to examine the arms.

"Here, gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all the ills,—spleen, disgust, weariness."

"Ma foi! I prefer another specific," said Saint-Remy; "that is only good in the most desperate cases."

"Pray be cautious, D'Harville; these jokes are always so rash and dangerous; and accident happens in an instant," said M. de Lucenay.

"See, gentlemen, how it is done. You introduce the muzzle delicately between the teeth, and then—"