"Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly."
The prince regarded these eatables, worthy of an anchorite, with a species of mistrust, as though his suspicions struggled with his appetite. However, he broke the loaf in half, and after closely examining it, and even smelling it, he lifted it to his lips, but suddenly changing his intention, he threw it from him with terror, then, concealing his face in his hands, Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly.
Bertha de Brévannes usually passed every Sunday and Thursday morning with her father, Pierre Raimond, who still dwelt in the Isle Saint Louis, Rue Poultier, near to the Hôtel Lambert, the residence of the Prince de Hansfeld.
Since his daughter's return to Paris, the old engraver had not once seen her, but, informed of her arrival, he awaited her coming on the Sunday morning, for the different scenes we have related took place during the night of Saturday.
Full of joy at the prospect of embracing his beloved child, Pierre Raimond, according to usual custom, bestowed all possible care to give an air of festivity to his humble abode, which consisted of a small sitting-room and two chambers, up four pairs of stairs. From the windows of these small apartments a view might be obtained of the quay and river Seine, while, in the horizon, the tops of the tall trees in the Jardin des Plantes were discernible, and, farther still, appeared the lofty dome of the Panthéon.
The chamber formerly occupied by Bertha was almost worshipped by the engraver, who had not permitted the least change to be made in any of its arrangements. The little painted bedstead, with its white cotton curtains, the old walnut-tree chest of drawers, which had formerly belonged to Madame Raimond, the small, rickety pianoforte, on which Bertha had acquired her musical proficiency, were all there as she left them; and there, too, safe under a glass frame, were the wreaths of victory gained by the youthful aspirant during the course of her studies at the Conservatoire de la Musique.
Pierre Raimond could not be less than seventy years of age. His tall figure, bent beneath the pressure of his years, his bald head, white beard, which he had ceased for many years to touch with a razor, added considerably to the stern severity of his features; his eyelids were nearly always half closed, and proved but too painfully how much his sight had suffered from his incessant labour. This infirmity, added to a slight nervous tremor which had settled upon him after a long and severe illness, had compelled him to relinquish his occupation of engraving music, and, sorely against his will, to accept a pension from M. de Brévannes of twelve hundred francs.
The chamber of Pierre Raimond, which had formerly been his studio, was scrupulously neat and clean; beneath the window stood his work-table, with the implements of his now abandoned profession laid in exact order, as though for immediate use, upon some metal plates, prepared for the engraving of music. A small iron bedstead, a table, four chairs of walnut-tree wood, composed the almost anchorite-like simplicity of the fittings up of the apartment.
Over the recess, where stood his bed, hung an ancient sword of honour, obtained by Pierre Raimond during that period of his youth when he had served as a volunteer in the Republican army.
Above the sword was a framed copy of the celebrated appeal made by the Convention to the people upon the occasion of the assassination of the French envoys.
The 9th Floréal of the 7th year,
at 9 o'clock in the Evening,
The Austrian Government caused the Assassination of
the Ministers of the French Republic,
BONNIER, ROBERJOT, and JEAN DEBRY,
Charged by the Directory to negotiate the Peace of Rastadt,
THEIR SMOKING BLOOD DEMANDS AND WILL
OBTAIN JUST VENGEANCE."
Pierre Raimond religiously preserved this curious specimen of the savage eloquence of that terrible period, which, however blood-stained, was still not wholly without glory. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the engraver remained firm to the Republican Utopia only as far as its views were generous and patriotic.
Honest though unpolished—just and conscientious—the only fault to be found with Pierre Raimond was his somewhat overstrained notions as to the moral distinctions which, in his opinion, existed between the rich and the poor. And, if he carried the pride of poverty too far, he might fairly be excused on the score of his noble and unaffected disinterestedness.
Acting upon these principles, he had refused the proffered hand of the daughter of a rich engraver, because he loved the mother of Bertha, who was poor as himself.
After thirty years of incessant application, hard labour, and economy, Pierre Raimond had succeeded in amassing the sum of 25,000 francs, which he destined for the future provision of his daughter; the bankruptcy of the lawyer in whose hands he had placed the money deprived him of the dear gratification of seeing his child independent, and left him no help but to redouble his exertions, in order to bestow on his daughter, then quite young, some profession, by which she might honestly earn her bread.
From this slight sketch the reader may form some notion of the intense eagerness with which Pierre Raimond awaited his beloved Bertha.
At length his watchful ears were gladdened with the sound of a vehicle stopping on the quay, then a quick, light, and well-known step sounded up the staircase. A few seconds more, and Bertha, rushing into the room, threw herself into her father's arms, who, tenderly embracing her, cried, in tones of deep emotion,—
"At length, then, my child, I embrace you once again."
"Dear, dear father!" replied Bertha, weeping tears of joy.
The tender parent himself disencumbered his child of her bonnet and cloak, which he carefully placed on his bed; then, seating her in an arm-chair beside the fire, he took her chilled hands in his.
"Poor dear!" said he, "you are quite frozen,—there, try and warm yourself."
"Ah, dear father, you spoil me, as you ever did."
Without replying to her remark, the old man gazed with intense delight on the sweet face before him, then murmured, "Once more,—once more, after six long weary months of absence."
"Dearest father, the time, then, has seemed to you very long."
"But you have been quite happy, my child, have you not?"
"Oh, yes—quite—quite."
"Perfectly happy?"
"Yes, indeed, as much so as ever."
"And the thoughts of your felicity have armed me with courage to endure your absence. And your husband is still kind, good, and devoted to you?"
"Certainly, my dear father."
"And, during the six months you have passed in Lorraine, no doubt the constant enjoyment of each other's society has been far more congenial to your mutual tastes than your mode of life in Paris."
"Yes, father."
"And you still rejoice in being his wife?"
"I do, indeed. But, dearest father, why these questions?"
"Brévannes, in fact, is precisely what you thought him when you assured me that you would wed none other than he?"
"Assuredly he is," answered Bertha, more and more surprised at the close questioning pursued by her father, but which will sufficiently shew how scrupulously she had concealed her unhappiness from her father.
"You find him worthy of inspiring such a passion as that which you assured me would cause your death, unhappy child, if I still refused my assent to your union?"
"Indeed, father, Charles has not changed since then."
"Heaven be praised! then I confess, I am deceived."
"Deceived, dear father! and in what respect?"
"Can you guess wherefore this year I have awaited your return to Paris with so much more impatience than in previous years?"
"No, dear father, indeed I cannot."
"And you know not either, why my joy at welcoming you to-day exceeds that I have hitherto experienced?"
"Father, I beseech you, explain to me the purport of all these strange inquiries; you know not how they pain me—but, gracious Heaven, you weep—father, dearest father, what mean these tears?"
"Can you not guess? can you not perceive that they flow from joy—oh, yes, heartfelt, overwhelming joy."
"Oh, so much the better."
"My child, the trial has been a severe one."
"What trial do you speak of?"
"It cost me so much, old and infirm as I am, to pass my days alone; I, who from the hour of your birth had never passed a morning or evening without embracing you,—you who absorbed the love that was once shared between you and your mother, think what a painful thing it must be for me only to see you for a few hours each week, and to lose sight of you for months together."
"Dearest father, be assured that I suffered equally with yourself."
"That is not all; the time you passed here, while your husband was in Italy, rendered our separation still more painful; it was like losing you a second time."
"But, my dear father——"
"I know what you are going to say—when you were first married, Brévannes offered me a small suite of rooms in his house, and you yourself subsequently reiterated the proposition, which I, however, constantly refused to accept."
"Alas, yes!"
"Because, Bertha, I doubted this Brévannes, and the duration of his at first so violent love, I could not have remained a passive spectator of your unhappiness; my very anxiety might have disturbed your domestic comfort: for these reasons, then, I imposed a severe restraint on my inclinations. No, said I, I will wait, Bertha has never deceived me, and if, after four years of marriage, she still proclaims herself happy, I shall then feel satisfied as to the future, and be equally persuaded of the goodness of Brévannes' nature — that moment has arrived—I find your husband worthy of you, and this very day will I say to him, 'I have doubted you, I have proved myself wrong, and I am here to solicit your pardon. Now that my faith and confidence in you are well established, I accept the offer you once made me, and I will never again quit Bertha or yourself.'"
"What are you saying, father?" exclaimed Bertha.
"I say, my beloved child, that my years upon this earth are too few to be passed at a distance from you. No, no, henceforward I will enjoy the happiness permitted me by Providence, and henceforward your husband, yourself, and your old father, shall live in indissoluble union."
Bertha's only reply was to throw herself weeping on the neck of the old man, who, mistaking both the movement and the tears which accompanied it, tenderly pressed his daughter in his arms, saying, "Why, you little simpleton, if joy thus agitates and overcomes you, what effect would grief have? To tell you the truth," added Pierre Raimond, and smiling, "though I affect all this stoicism and resolution, I am as much delighted and moved as yourself at the thoughts of our never again being parted from each other;" and with these words he passed his trembling hand across his humid eyes.
The situation of Bertha was most cruel.
Not content with filling up the measure of her own injuries, M. de Brévannes had just taunted her with the trifling pittance granted by him to her father, and now, at this moment, was Pierre Raimond, deceived by the generous deception of his daughter, preparing to take up his abode with M. de Brévannes, promising himself uninterrupted harmony and domestic happiness.
Until then Bertha had contrived to conceal her bitter sorrows, and to attribute her dejection of spirits to her regret at living away from him; but the cruel contrast presented by the hopes and expectations of Pierre Raimond with the scene of violence and outrage which had occurred but the previous night between Bertha and M. de Brévannes, overthrew the fortitude of the miserable wife, and left her almost paralysed with fear and bewildered ideas. Instead, therefore, of receiving her father's announcement with all the delight it merited, she involuntarily threw herself into his arms, bedewing his venerable countenance with her tears.
To Pierre Raimond the heart of his child was like an open book, and at first he ascribed her tears to joy at so unexpected a surprise; but when these fast-falling tears became quick, convulsive sobs, and Bertha, resting her aching temples on her father's shoulders, wrung the old man's hands in piteous agony, then did Pierre Raimond begin to comprehend the truth:—his former suspicions returned, and, putting his daughter almost rudely from him, he exclaimed in a severe tone, "Bertha, you have deceived me—you are not happy!"
The poor girl, recalled to a sense of her duty by these words, shuddered at her own imprudence, and bitterly, though too late, regretted the emotion she had been unable to restrain or conceal. But, as she strove for words to reassure her parent, the door was suddenly opened: "Gracious heavens!" cried Bertha, in extreme terror, "my husband!"
And M. de Brévannes, without knocking, or any other announcement, abruptly entered the apartment of the engraver.
The unexpected appearance of M. de Brévannes was followed by an unbroken silence of several instants, neither of the three actors in the scene uttering a single word.
Poor Bertha's heart sunk within her, as at the first glance she read the hard-hearted mockery impressed on the features of her husband.
The stern countenance of Pierre Raimond, which, until then, had relaxed into an expression of gentleness and kindness, suddenly assumed a look of proud energy. Drawing up his tall figure, and placing his daughter behind him, as if for protection, he advanced a few steps towards M. de Brévannes, saying briefly, "What is your pleasure here, sir?"
"My pleasure is to know whether or not Madame de Brévannes has told me the truth in saying she was coming to pass her morning with you; and, having my own reasons for doubting the veracity of her statement, I have thought fit to come hither to substantiate the fact."
"Charles!" murmured Bertha, in a tone of gentle reproach.
"I desire, sir, that you will not presume to accuse a child of mine of falsehood," retorted old Raimond.
"Father!" cried Bertha.
"I do not consider myself responsible to you, M. Raimond, or any other person, for my actions. And, if I suspect my wife of uttering that which is not true, it is because——"
"If she has spoken untruly," cried Pierre Raimond, fiercely interrupting his son-in-law, "it has been to me, not you."
"In what manner?" inquired the latter, regarding Bertha with extreme astonishment.
"Charles, I beseech you!—and you too, dear father!"
"She spoke falsely but now," exclaimed the old man, in a loud, stern voice, "when she assured me she was happy."
"Ah, now I understand," replied M. de Brévannes, coldly: "Madame de Brévannes came hither amid hypocritical tears and sighs to dwell upon her domestic felicity,—a clever idea! I give her much credit for it."
"M. de Brévannes," cried Pierre Raimond, "four years ago, when my daughter was lying at the point of death in this very chamber, I told you I would rather lose her then than see her perish one day through the wretchedness you would occasion her. I spoke truly. You will be her death!"
"Father!" said Bertha, "I must not allow you to remain under so fatal an error; and, at whatever sacrifice, I will speak the truth, nor warrant by my silence those reproaches I pledge myself are undeserved by my husband. 'Tis true I concealed from you some of those trifling disagreements from which the happiest unions are not exempt; but you were so delighted to learn, that in all essential points I was perfectly, unqualifiedly happy, that I was unwilling to dispel the illusion which could do no person any harm, but which I trusted would be the means of still more attaching you to him. You judge too severely."
"My child! I can make allowances for your weakness, which renders it the more imperative in me to evince a necessary degree of severity."
"Severity!" cried M. de Brévannes, with a burst of sardonic laughter—"severity! Upon my word I like the word vastly. It seems then that I am here to be lectured by you into a right understanding of my duties. May I ask if you are aware to whom you are speaking?"
"Too, too well!—to the destroyer of my good, my innocent child."
"You use strong language, my good sir; your revolutionary reminiscences disturb your brain."
"Bertha!" said the engraver, with stern hauteur—"take this man from my sight!"
"Come—come, Charles, I pray—I beseech you! adieu, dearest father, till Thursday next,—pardon me for quitting you so abruptly now—possibly I may come and see you again to-morrow," added poor Bertha, anxious at all risks to terminate so painful a discussion as the present.
"Since, sir, you have taken upon you to dispense advice," interrupted M. de Brévannes, "perhaps you might judiciously recommend your daughter not to adopt the unwise plan of treating her husband with coldness and contempt, after having justly awakened his jealousy."
"Bertha!" said old Raimond, "what am I to understand by these words?"
"Ah, Charles, is it well of you to recall the scene of——"
"Be assured, madam, whomever else you may impose on, I am not the dupe of your affected delicacy—your over-strained scruples—you are carrying on some base, some disgraceful intrigue, but rely upon it, I will detect it."
"For mercy's sake, Charles, talk not thus in my father's presence! Adieu, dear father, adieu."
After a momentary silence, Pierre Raimond approached his daughter, and, gazing steadfastly on her, said, in a deep solemn voice,—
"Bertha, do you merit this charge?"
"No, father," answered Bertha, with all the dignified simplicity of truth.
"I believe you, my child. And now, sir, listen to me, for four years have I been deceived by the belief that my daughter was happy. I now know the truth, Bertha has no other support than myself, a poor, old and infirm man; but still there is strength enough left me to bid you beware."
"Oh, then to advice and lectures succeed threats and menaces? What next, sir?"
"At least, henceforward, we plainly understand our relative situations; and, first, from this hour I reject the pecuniary aid I accepted at your hands, solely at the solicitations of my daughter."
"You find it more convenient to be ungrateful?"
"Ungrateful! for having sacrificed my own notions to spare your pride?"
"Father, I conjure you——"
"Thus, then, sir," continued Pierre Raimond, "we meet upon equal grounds, as man and man; as such you shall account to me for the misery heaped on my gentle my unoffending child; I give you a fortnight to repair the wrongs you have done her."
"Really, a fortnight; can you not make it more?"
"And if, at the end of that period, you do not conduct yourself as honour and justice require, towards Bertha——"
"Well, sir, and what then?"
"You shall see."
"Come, madam," said M. de Brévannes, taking his wife by the arm.
"Farewell, dearest father; I pray you calm yourself; I will soon come again."
"That is, if I think proper to permit you," said M. de Brévannes, with bitter irony.
"Make yourself easy, my child; your father will watch over and protect you," cried Pierre Raimond, weeping bitterly. Bertha followed her husband out, and the old man was left alone.
The Comédie Française had announced for the present evening the first performance of "The Seducer," a five-act comedy in verse. This piece was the first literary effort of the Vicomte de Gercourt. Still extremely young and quite the fashion, possessed of a highly prepossessing and agreeable person, he justly passed in the world for a man of talent, an agreeable and entertaining companion, and a person of unquestioned honour in every transaction in which he was concerned. Consequently the first representation of his comedy had attracted all the higher circles of Paris, to which he belonged.
Thanks to his natural amiability and known benevolence of disposition, added to some severe reverses of fortune he had sustained, envy and malice were content to let him alone; and for some time M. de Gercourt possessed not a single enemy, but unhappily his literary ambition (the only really noble, great, and praiseworthy ambition a man can indulge in) created for him, after a time, a host of petty and hostile jealousies. Some friends still remained firm and unaltered; but only a fall, at once striking and humiliating, from the high position he then occupied, could have restored him to universal good-will. The majority of the literati of the time viewed with angry mistrust the introduction of this fresh pretender within the arena of their own triumphs. For ourselves, we have never been able to comprehend the bitter feeling let loose upon a man, by all the public writers of the day, against whom nothing more injurious could be adduced, than that he sought to improve and employ his leisure hours by the ennobling study of literature in general.
The reader will now find himself introduced into several boxes of the Comédie Française, where he will meet many of the personages of our history, attracted, by universal curiosity, to witness the first representation of this dramatic effort.
Bertha de Brévannes occupied one of the places in this box; her husband was behind her. The two other seats were vacant.
Bertha had her hair plainly, but most becomingly arranged, and wore a gown of black crape. Her beautiful chestnut locks, her delicate and transparent skin, her ivory neck and shoulders, were all admirable, and even brilliant. Her features were impressed with melancholy, for, three days before, her husband had had that distressing interview with Pierre Raimond which we have narrated. She wished to have remained at home, but, fearing to irritate M. de Brévannes, had consented to accompany him.
He, by one of those contrasts very natural to men, was deeply galled at the coldness of his wife, and had resolved to overcome it, less by any repentance for the past, than in order to follow out the inherent obstinacy of his own disposition. In vain did he try, however, to make her forget the wrongs which ought to have made him blush. She had been too cruelly wounded to be so easily appeased.
M. de Brévannes had taken a box for this representation so much talked about, with the intention of being agreeable to his wife.
The Dress Circle Box No. 7
The curtain had not yet been drawn up, and the house was filling rapidly. Bertha went very seldom into society, but in spite of her sadness she looked awhile with childish curiosity at the persons as they entered their boxes, and then relapsed into her painful reverie.
M. de Brévannes, annoyed at the silence of his wife, said to her, whilst with difficulty he repressed his temper,—
"Bertha, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, Charles."
"Nothing,—nothing! and yet you are as dull and melancholy as death. Supposing I have been wrong, you are making me sensible of it in the most cruel manner."
"I am trying to forget it; and, perhaps, one day——"
"The perspective is agreeable."
"That is no fault of mine; but do not let us talk about it. You know that I have plenty of cause for sorrow."
"Are you referring now to your father? You must at least confess that he was excessively violent with me."
"He loves me so tenderly, that he even exaggerated what you had done. He has but me in the whole world; and so, Charles, I cannot believe that you really mean in future to refuse me permission to go and see him as usual."
"My dear little Bertha, you are so pretty, that I must lay some conditions on my promise."
"Ah, Charles, be generous without stipulations."
"What you say is very flattering," said M. de Brévannes abruptly; then, he continued, in a milder tone, "Well, well, we will see. You do with me just as you like, and I consent."
"Really, really, I may go to my father," said Bertha, turning towards him with her eyes sparkling, and her countenance almost restored to happiness.
M. de Brévannes glanced at the back of the box, placed his hands on his eyes, and said laughingly,—
"If I am to keep my promise, I must not look at you."
"Ah, thanks, a thousand thanks, Charles, and now I shall be so happy all the evening."
"That is to say, so handsome. So much the better, for my self-esteem as a husband will have nothing now to apprehend from the vicinity of Madame Girard."
"I do not pretend to rival with her; but how late she is. Are you sure she received the coupon you sent her two days ago?"
"Yes, for I gave it to Girard himself; but to keep up her character as the 'observed of all observers,' Madame Girard will not come until after every one else, in order to produce an effect."
"Charles, you are slanderous."
"Because Madame Girard is so ridiculous, and spoils a really pretty face by the most absurd pretensions. She has but one thought, that of imitating, or rather parodying with silly minuteness, the costume of Madame de Luceval, because she is the most fashionable woman in Paris."
"Yes, you have before spoken to me of this peculiarity of Madame Girard. I should very much like to see Madame de Luceval—the Marquise de Luceval, I think. They say she is a very charming woman."
"Very charming, very original; dressing as no other woman but herself could venture to dress; and yet that little fool Madame Girard copies her to her very shoe-tie, under the pretext of being very much like her."
"And is she?"
"Yes," replied De Brévannes, "as a goose resembles a swan."
At this moment the door of the box was opened, and Madame Girard came in, followed by M. Girard, a rich manufacturer, carrying her fan and smelling-bottle; he had, besides, as a cuirass between his coat and greatcoat, a small chancelière of morocco, lined with ermine, for Madame Girard always had cold feet, she said, which was not true; but she had seen one of the Patagonian and powdered footmen of the Marquise de Luceval follow her with such a foot-warmer in his hands; and in the absence of a Patagonian and powdered lacquey, poor Girard carried the affair for his wife.
Madame Girard was a little woman, brunette, high-coloured, very well made, and would have been pretty but for her intolerable affectation. Poor Bertha could not conceal her surprise at Madame Girard's singular head-dress.
Our readers may, perhaps, be equally astonished when we describe the thing.
Imagine a sort of Polish cap, of black velvet, with a small peak, ornamented with a bunch of white feathers fastened to the side by a large boss of poppy-coloured satin, and the whole jauntily placed a little on one side of Madame Girard's head; her hair, which was brown, being crepéd in great bunches.
With this thing Madame Girard wore a high velvet gown of bright orange colour, with tight body, like a riding-habit, and decorated with silken brandebourgs to match.
This attire had nothing absolutely ridiculous in itself, but completed by the cap and feathers, it looked so extremely odd, that it actually created quite a sensation in the theatre, and all the lorgnettes were directed towards Madame Girard, who did not feel herself entirely at ease, whilst Bertha blushed with confusion.
M. de Brévannes was so much annoyed, that he bit his lips, when he saw himself and his wife as it were stared at in consequence of Madame Girard's inconceivable head-gear, and he could not help saying to Girard, in a low voice, "What a devilish strange head-dress your wife has selected, Girard; she who is usually such a remarkably good dresser."
The poor spouse gave M. de Brévannes a nudge with his elbow, and said, in a whisper, and with a look of alarm, "Hush!"
During this time Madame Girard, leaning out of her box, looked all round the house with an expression of impatience.
"Alphonsine," cried M. Girard to her with an affectionate look, "are you looking for any one?"
"Of course, I am," replied the dear Alphonsine, with a simpering, self-sufficient air, in which a triumphant feeling joined. "I am looking for the Marquise de Luceval. Oh! how furious she will be!"
"Why, madame?" said Bertha, hardly knowing what to say or do.
"Oh! such a capital joke!" answered Madame Girard; "I have played the marquise such a trick. You know how anxious she always is to take the lead in the fashions, and how every body follows her. I went, two days since, to Barenne, who is dress-maker to the marquise and myself, and asked her, as I always do, if the marquise had given her any orders for this evening, when all the world was to be here at the Théâtre Français. After innumerable difficulties, I extracted the secret from her. The marquise had ordered a most original, delicious head-dress; such an one as suited her alone.—Her alone!" said Madame Girard, tossing her head proudly beneath her head-dress. "Well, at last, by dint of promises and coaxing, I obtained from dear Barenne a sight of this exquisite coiffure, and a promise to make me one like that of the marquise; and this is it. Look, it is called a sobieska. You may judge of Madame de Luceval's annoyance, when, expecting to have the first of this head-dress, she will see me wearing it."
"Allow me, madame, to differ from you," said Bertha, with a gentle smile; "I should rather think that she will be very glad not to be the only person whose head is thus attired."
"Oh! I assure you, my dear, that she will be furious," replied Madame Girard.
"I think with you, my love," said M. Girard.
"Monsieur Girard, I entreat you will not tutoyer (thee-and-thou) me," said Alphonsine, with a dignified gesture; "you are just like a porter."
"I meant to say, Alphonsine, that you will, perhaps, have to reproach yourself with having caused the milliner to lose the custom of the Marquise de Luceval; for, I must observe, my dearest love, that this is a breach of trust. Is it not, Brévannes,—is it not a breach of trust?"
"Timoléon," said Madame Girard to her husband, without any other reply, "there are but three empty boxes in this circle; go and ask if one of them is not let to the Marquise de Luceval?"
Timoléon arose as if he had been moved by a spring, and went out of the box in great haste.
"Do you know M. de Gercourt, the author of the new piece? I hear he is a most delightful person."
"I have often met him, and always found him very agreeable."
"But why does he trouble himself with writing?"
"If it were only," replied De Brévannes, "to have the pleasure of seeing you at the first representation of his piece, with so delicious a sobi—sobe——"
"Sobieska," added Madame Girard, quickly.
At this moment the box-door opened, and M. Girard entered.
"Well?" said his wife.
"Alphonsine, you are not mistaken. One of these boxes is let to the Marquise de Luceval."
"Bravo!" said Alphonsine.
"That is not all. You, who are always curious for news, I have a famous bit for you."
"What?"
"Whilst I was interrogating the box-keeper, there came up a servant, all over gold-lace, who asked for the box let to the Princess de Hansfeld. It turned out to be that next to Madame de Luceval's—there—just in front of us."
"How lucky! I have never met the princess, and they say she's such a splendid woman," said Madame Girard.
"Ma foi! I am as pleased as you are," said M. de Brévannes, "to see at last this mysterious beauty. The other day, at the Opera-ball, they were talking of nothing else but this princess, and the strange conduct of her invisible husband."
"At least he will not be invisible this evening," said M. Girard.
"What do you mean?" inquired his wife.
"Why, simply, my dearest love, that the servant asked if he could not have an arm-chair for his eminence, who is, they say, terribly out of health, and comes out to-night for the first time after a very tedious illness."
"What an idea to come to a theatre!" said Madame Girard.
"An invalid's whim, doubtless," replied Brévannes.
"The box-keeper replied to the servant that he must ask the controller," replied M. Girard; "whereupon the man went downstairs, and I came as quickly as I could, to tell you, my dear love, my little budget of news."
"Well, it is fortunate," said De Brévannes; "we shall now see this singular, strange, and fantastic couple."
"Who is this princess, then, Charles?" asked Bertha of De Brévannes.
"Why, they say, a very lovely and striking woman, quite the fashion this winter, and in whose presence all our dandies have displayed their gallantries in vain. As to the prince, one is lost in the most extraordinary and contradictory suppositions with respect to him; but——"
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Madame Girard, interrupting M. de Brévannes, "there, I declare, is the Marquise de Luceval in her box, and she has not got on her sobieska!"
We will conduct the reader to the Marquise de Luceval's box, where they will, perchance, learn why she did not wear her sobieska.
Truth to say, the Marquise de Luceval had not her sobieska.
She was dressed with equal taste and simplicity. The only innovation which she had allowed herself consisted in a very high tortoiseshell comb, à l'Espagnole, which confined a half-veil of black blonde to her splendid chestnut tresses. The marquise was in mourning.
This coiffure, worn by the women of Andalusia, was charming, and gave additional attraction to the piquant physiognomy of Madame de Luceval. She was accompanied by her brother-in-law and sister-in-law, M. and Madame de Beaulieu.
"Alfred! look, I have won my wager," exclaimed the marquise gaily; and, addressing her brother, "Madame Girard has on my sobieska. My dear Alix, your lorgnette, I beg of you," she said to her sister-in-law.
"What wager, then, had you with Alfred?" inquired Madame de Beaulieu; "and who is Madame Girard?"
"Alix, I beg of you not to laugh too loud, and look exactly at the box in front of us—a female in a high bright orange-coloured gown."
Naturally Madame de Beaulieu was a great laugher, and the contracted features and the angry frown of Madame Girard, whose brows looked very gloomy beneath her casquette à plumes, gave her so burlesque an appearance, that the sister-in-law of Madame de Luceval could hardly restrain her mirth.
"No doubt this Girard, when she leaves the theatre, will be ready to represent Poland in a patriotic, fantastic, and allegorical ball," said M. de Beaulieu.
"But, my dear Emilie," remarked Madame de Beaulieu, repressing her desire to laugh, "what has your wager to do with that adorable head-dress?"
"Nothing sooner explained;" said Madame de Luceval; "I cannot have a coiffure without being instantly imitated, or rather parodied, by this Madame Girard. This annoyed me so, that I betted with Alfred, that I would devise a head-dress the most ridiculous possible, which Mademoiselle Barenne should shew secretly to Madame Girard, as intended for me, and that Madame Girard should beg and pray of her to make her the fellow to it. I invented the sobieska, and Mademoiselle Barenne joined in the conspiracy. Now you see Madame Girard decorated with the sobieska. I have gained my wager, and my dear brother owes me an ornament of real flowers."
"Capitally managed, really; and as the piece has not begun," said M. de Beaulieu, "I will go and spread about this little malicious manoeuvre, in order to double the effect of Madame Girard's sobieska."
"But do you know," replied Madame de Luceval, "that there is a very lovely person in the box of that absurd Girard? Alfred, try and discover who she may be."
"Really," said Madame de Beaulieu, looking attentively at Bertha, "she is remarkably pretty, and dressed in such simple but good taste. What a contrast with the sobieska! I cannot understand why every body does not like simplicity, and consequently good taste. It is so convenient, and people are obliged to give themselves unending trouble to be ridiculous."
"Do you say that à propos of M. de Gercourt and his comedy, my dear Alix?"
"Wicked woman!—One of your friends—one of your old adorers."
"It would have been so easy for him not to have written this play."
"But at least better wait and see in order to decide."
"By no means; for then I should speak with prejudice, whilst now my judgment is much more independent."
"Giddy pate that you are; and you encouraged M. de Gercourt in his attempt."
"It is such a pleasing office to have to console one's friends in their misfortune."
"You are something like those persons who, at the risk of drowning you, throw you in the water to have the pleasure of saving you."
"Your comparison is not just, my dear Alix; for I could not save the comedy of poor M. de Gercourt."
"Emilie, Emilie, take care," said Madame de Beaulieu, with a smile; "M. de Gercourt has long admired you. You will have us believe that you are a little spiteful, and——"
"Well, the truth to say, I am not quite pleased with him for giving up his attempts to please me so suddenly. His attention really amused me. A'n't I candid, my dear?"
"Oh! you incurable coquette! never to forgive the man whom even she rejects. What! must the poor victim remain and suffer?"
"Alas! M. de Gercourt will have his revenge this evening. I have not ordered my carriage until eleven o'clock."
This charitable conversation was interrupted by M. de Beaulieu and M. de Fierval.
"My dear Emilie," said M. de Beaulieu to his sister, "I bring you living information as to the lovely creature beside the sobieska."
"Do you know that charming creature, M. de Fierval?" inquired Madame de Luceval.
"I do not know her, madame; but I know her husband, M. de Brévannes."
"Brévannes?—Is he not the son of a man of business."
"Something of the kind; the father was a contractor—a dealer."
"And that young lady?"
"A poor girl without fortune; she lived by teaching the piano."
"Yet it is impossible to have a more distingué air," said Madame de Luceval.
"She is so delightfully dressed!—It was then a love-match?"
"Decidedly; but they say Brévannes is very unfaithful."
"What! that fat man in spectacles?"
"No, my dear, that must be, I should say, the sobieski of the sobieska," said De Beaulieu to his sister.
"M. de Brévannes," added Fierval, "is a dark man, with a very expressive countenance. Madame de Girard's casquette hides him. Now——."
"What an unprepossessing physiognomy! I don't like the looks of the man."
"You are wrong, I assure you. De Brévannes is what is called a very good fellow, only his temper is of iron, inflexible. What he will he will."
At the noise of some chairs which were being moved in the next box, Madame de Luceval put her head forward, and recognised Madame de Lormoy, aunt of M. de Morville.
"Ah, madame, how fortunate to be so near you!" said Madame de Luceval. "Are you alone in your box? I shall pay you a visit."
"I am expecting Madame de Hansfeld; and, strange to say, her husband accompanies her," said Madame de Lormoy.
"Really?—How unlucky!—From here I cannot see this mysterious personage. Try and make him stay until it is over."
"If he had seen you, my dear Emilie, there would have been no occasion to ask him; but, unfortunately——"
Madame de Lormoy, hearing a noise, paused, turned her head, and said to Madame de Luceval, "Here he is!" The Prince and Princess de Hansfeld entered the box at that instant.