Then, hearing that great crowd utter a single and formidable cry, I saw the horse and his rider turn a somersault, and roll on the track, at the moment when M. de Senneterre, either on a better horse, or a better rider, dashing up, made Beverley take an enormous leap, and cleared the bar, which he soon left far behind him, as it was impossible for him to stop the impetuous speed of his horse for some seconds.
Every one immediately surrounded the unfortunate M. de Merteuil. Not daring to go near him, so much did I dread such a sight, I turned to where I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel. Her carriage had disappeared.
Did she leave before or after this horrible accident?
Soon this dreadful murmur, "He is dead!" went through the throng.
M. de Cernay having invited me to fill a vacant seat in a box at the Opéra, which he and Lord Falmouth leased together, I was glad to accept, and went there the very night of this unfortunate race, which, by the way, happened on a Friday.
As I ascended the staircase, I was accosted by a certain M. de Pommerive, who was an amusing sort of parasite in good society. He was from fifty to sixty years old. He had more curiosity and malice than any man I ever knew, and, besides, was the greatest gossip and liar that you can imagine.
"Well," said he, as he joined me with an air of great consternation, "do you know what has happened? That unfortunate M. de Merteuil is dead! Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what a dreadful misfortune! I have just been dining with Count ——; I can't remember a single thing I have eaten, I was so overcome!"
"It was a frightful accident!"
"Frightful, frightful, frightful! But what is worse still, is the cause of the challenge. You know what people say?"
"I know what they say," I replied, "but I do not know the facts of the case."
"It amounts to the same thing," said M. de Pommerive; "but don't you think it was the height of insolence in Madame de Pënâfiel to go to that race? Because she has one of the most elegant houses in Paris, because she is witty enough to say the most clever and cutting things, this imperious marquise thinks she may be permitted to do anything she pleases. It is revolting! My word of honour,—she ought to be made to feel it! And since, after all, people will go to her house, because they are well received and dine well there, it would be a shame, it would be an indignity, it would be positively wicked, I say, to be quiet about such a scandal. We would all seem to be the slaves of her caprices; perfect slaves!" said he, with indignation.
"You are quite right," said I; "you show your independence, and your noble contempt for benefits that you have received; nothing could be more manly. But do they really say that De Merteuil and De Senneterre had any quarrel about Madame de Pënâfiel, and that their challenge was in consequence of it?"
"Certainly; people say so, every one repeats the same story, and every one believes it though they themselves, that is to say Senneterre, for he is the only one left, will never admit it. I met him awhile ago as I went to inquire for that poor De Merteuil, who only lived two hours after his fall. I met Senneterre at the door looking perfectly wretched,—such a face!
"I began to sound him about Madame de Pënâfiel, but he had sufficient control over himself to pretend not to understand a word I was saying. But after the way Madame de Pënâfiel treated them both on the race-course, Senneterre could not admit the real cause of the challenge without being thought a fool."
"How could that be?" said I.
"What, haven't you heard the good story about the marquise and the Turk?" exclaimed M. de Pommerive, suddenly elated with joy.
As I had scarcely taken my eyes off Ismaël during the whole period of the race, I was curious to know how much of his story could be true; so I told M. de Pommerive that I had heard nothing at all about such a story.
Then that infernal mountebank began the following tale, accompanying it with ridiculous gestures and malicious pantomime, so as to make it more mischievous by making it amusing.
"Imagine, then, my dear monsieur," said De Pommerive, "that at the very moment when these two unfortunate young men were about to risk their lives, from an exaggerated sense of what was due to her reputation, Madame de Pënâfiel was amusing herself by falling suddenly in love with a Turk. Yes, monsieur, for an infernal scoundrel of a Turk, who is as handsome as he can be, and whom De Cernay is infatuated with, nobody knows why. But to get up such a sudden passion for a Turk; can you conceive of such a thing? I can readily believe it, for every one knows how capricious and how blasé she is, that marquise! Nothing that she could do would astonish me. But women generally try to hide such exhibitions of their feelings,—not she, not at all."
"That is a very strange story," said I.
"There is not the slightest doubt about its truth," replied he. "Cernay, who was one of the judges, told me all about it, for it was of him that Madame de Pënâfiel had asked, with almost indecent haste, who was that Turk; for no sooner had she laid eyes on that remarkable specimen, then she had no eyes, no thoughts, for any one else. (Here M. de Pommerive spoke in a falsetto voice in supposed imitation of Madame de Pënâfiel). 'Ah, mon Dieu, how handsome he is! Where did he come from? Ah, what an adorable costume! Ah, how different from your hideous clothes! (She never thinks anything is handsome.) Mon Dieu, what an adorable face! What a noble figure! Oh, there is nothing of the common herd about him! What daring! How splendidly he holds his horse,' etc. I suppress the etcetera," added De Pommerive, as he returned to his natural voice, "because it would take me until to-morrow to repeat all of her impassioned exclamations. But, can you believe it? She ordered her driver to go up as close as possible, so that she might see him nearer, that lovely Turk, that adorable Turk!"
"You are quite right. It was a sudden and violent passion. It was almost African," said I to M. de Pommerive, hardly able to keep from laughing outright at this truthful recital.
"Ah, but wait," said he, "you have not yet heard the best of the story! Thanks to Madame Pënâfiel's cursed curiosity, one of her carriage horses ran against the crupper of the Grand Turk's horse, and the latter began to rear, to plunge, to paw the air with his fore feet; then, the marquise, almost fainting with alarm, terrified for the safety of her dear, delightful Turk, commenced to utter shrieks and lamentations.
"'Take care!'" exclaimed Pommerive, in his former falsetto, imitating Madame de Pënâfiel's cry of alarm. "'Take care! Hold his horse! Ah, heavens, the poor man! I have killed him! It was my fault! Save him, save him! Help, help! If he is killed I shall never forgive myself! Ismaël! Ismaël!' Till at last," said M. de Pommerive, "the marquise was so beside herself that she was half hanging out of the window of her carriage, waving her arms, and stretching them out towards her dear Turk, with such an accompaniment of sobs and stifled cries that people took her for a woman who had suddenly become insane. She was as pale as death, her features were all convulsed, and, with her eyes starting almost out of her head and streaming with tears, you can imagine what she looked like and what a sensation she created. All that might have passed for overexcitement or weak nerves, and thus have simply appeared ridiculous, if we who knew the whole story did not know it to be worse than ridiculous, it was abominable; for since Madame de Pënâfiel had braved public opinion so far as to come and look on at the race, of which she knew herself to be the cause, she might have behaved decently, and not made a spectacle of herself in such an indecorous way, and for whom, pray? Bon Dieu, for a devil of a Turk, that five minutes before she didn't know from Eve nor from Adam!"
Every word of De Pommerive's story was revoltingly stupid and false; there were twenty people, at least, who could deny it with as much certitude as I. But when it came to calumniating and belittling Madame de Pënâfiel, from whatever motive I knew not, these absurdities would probably find an echo among people of the best society, for calumny needs no foundation, and can feed upon itself.
"Well, what have you got to say to it? Is it not abominable?" said De Pommerive, snorting with indignation, and panting with fatigue from his efforts in mimicry and the strain on his voice.
"I have got to say this, my dear M. de Pommerive," said I, "that your information is entirely unreliable, and your story utterly false. I am simply astounded, that a man of your sense and experience could have put the least particle of faith in such a romance."
"How is that?"
"I was at the race; by accident I was standing very close to Madame de Pënâfiel's carriage and I saw her all the time."
"Very well, and what then?"
"Madame de Pënâfiel did what any other woman would have done in her place; she simply asked, in an indifferent sort of way, the name of the man whose striking costume had necessarily attracted the attention of every one, and when the Egyptian's horse reared, and he was in danger of being thrown off backwards and killed, by having the horse fall on him, Madame de Pënâfiel was naturally overcome with terror for a minute or so. She covered her eyes with her hand, and threw herself back in her carriage without saying a word; this is the exact and entire truth."
M. de Pommerive looked at me in a mysterious manner, which he tried to render as sly as possible, and said to me, as he half closed his deceitful eyes under his gold spectacles:
"Come, come, you are also under her spell, she has bewitched you too, you are in love with her already. The devil take me if that woman ever does anything else; she is a veritable siren."
All this was so silly, and I had spoken so seriously, that I became flushed with impatience and anger; but containing myself on account of M. de Pommerive's age, I said to him, very coldly:
"Monsieur, I do not understand you, neither do you understand me. What I have told you about Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel, whom I have not the honour of being acquainted with, is the exact truth. In the tale you have told me, she is made the victim of a malicious falsehood. You should be very much obliged to me for correcting your information, and enlightening you as to the truth of this ridiculous calumny."
Just then M. de Pommerive interrupted me, and made me many incomprehensible signals, then he bowed very low several times to some one that I did not see, for we were standing in the corridor, and I had my back turned to the staircase.
At the same instant, a man's voice said, very politely, and with a foreign accent:
"I beg pardon, gentlemen, but madame wishes to pass."
I turned quickly. It was Madame de Pënâfiel, accompanied by another lady; they were on their way to their opera box, and I was standing in the passage-way. I stepped to one side and bowed; M. de Pommerive disappeared, and I kept on to my box.
I was very much irritated, for I thought that perhaps Madame de Pënâfiel had heard what I was saying. Perhaps, after all, some of the other stories people told about her were partly true, and I was ashamed and angry with myself for having undertaken to defend a woman that I did not know; then giving credit to others for being distrustful and calculating like myself, I was enraged to think that Madame de Pënâfiel might fancy I only spoke thus because I knew she was near me, and wanted to make a favourable impression on her.
When I reached my box, I hid behind the curtain, and looked around the tiers of boxes for Madame de Pënâfiel. I saw her very soon in a box on the first tier, which was hung with blue damask. She was seated in a gilt armchair, and wore over her shoulders a long ermine-lined cloak. The other lady I had seen was near her, and an elderly gentleman sat in the back of the loge.
Very soon Madame de Pënâfiel took off her cloak, and handed it to the old gentleman. She wore a dress of straw-coloured crêpe, very simply made, and she had a great bouquet of Parma violets in her corsage, and another in her hair, which was caught in bandeaux just below the temples, and then fell in soft curls on her neck and shoulders. Her complexion, which was heightened by the slightest touch of rouge, was perfectly dazzling by lamplight, and her two great, half closed eyes shone under their long black lashes.
Hidden behind my curtain, I watched Madame de Pënâfiel through my opera-glasses. The expression of her face was as it had been that morning,—restless, nervous, and even somewhat anxious or weary. She held her head bent over a bouquet of violets, which she pulled to pieces in an absent-minded way.
Her companion was a striking contrast to her in every way. Imagine a young girl of not more than eighteen, in the very first bloom of youth. Her countenance was frank and sympathetic, and her features regular. She wore a white dress, and her black hair was parted smoothly over her forehead. Her eyebrows were dark and well defined, and her astonished blue eyes gleamed with the infantile wonder of a young girl who, for the first time, enjoys with pleased and eager curiosity the splendour of scenery and the rapture of music.
From time to time, Madame de Pënâfiel would speak to her, scarcely turning her head towards her; the young girl would reply with the greatest deference, though she seemed constrained.
As for Madame de Pënâfiel, after having glanced carelessly around the theatre two or three times, she seemed to become perfectly unconscious of the beautiful music of "William Tell," which was being performed that night. She appeared so disdainful, so tired of the sameness of pleasure, her pale face, in spite of its youth and harmonious outline, expressed such indifference and vexation, that I was seized with this conviction, "There is a woman to be pitied."
They were near the end of the second act of "William Tell," and were singing the magnificent trio of the Three Swiss. Never had this wondrously powerful morceau been sung with so much spirit and ensemble, never had it created more enthusiasm; the young girl at Madame de Pënâfiel's side bent forward eagerly towards the stage in rapt attention. All at once she raised up her head in a proud and resolute way, as though her gentle and timid soul had involuntarily felt the enthusiasm and bravery which this sublime trio is meant to inspire.
Perhaps Madame de Pënâfiel was jealous of the deep emotion of her companion, who had scarcely taken notice of the last few words which had been addressed to her, for when the marquise spoke to her again, it was to say something so unkind that I saw tears shining in the young girl's dark eyes, and a shadow pass over her face; then, shortly afterwards, she took up her silk mantle, and, wrapping it around her shoulders, she went out with the old gentleman who had accompanied Madame de Pënâfiel. He probably put the young girl in the carriage, for he very soon returned alone.
I was pondering on the meaning of this scene, of which I had doubtless been the only attentive spectator, when M. de Cernay came into our box, and said, quickly, "Well, is it true then? Is Madame de Pënâfiel here to-night? It seems she is perfectly wild about my assassin; it is quite delightful! People are talking of nothing else; the news spread with telegraphic rapidity. But where is she? I am sure she is looking as though she knew nothing whatever about it."
"It certainly would be quite impossible to appear more indifferent," I answered M. de Cernay. The count stepped forward, looked at her through his glass, and said:
"That is true. There is no one in the world can brave a thing out as she can! The very evening after poor Merteuil's death, after all the stories that are going around,—for it is the talk of all Paris,—to dare to come here to the opera, in her own box! It passes everything!"
I carefully noticed M. de Cernay's face, and believed I saw there an expression of spite, not to say hatred, which I had already seen when he spoke of Madame de Pënâfiel. I had a great mind to tell him that no one knew better than he that every word of the story about Ismaël was false and stupid, and that Madame de Pënâfiel could not behave in any other way than in following the course she was now pursuing; for, if the stories were true, she owed it to her self-respect to give them the lie by affecting an entire indifference; while if they were false, her indifference was perfectly natural.
But as I had no reason to take up her defence a second time, I contented myself with asking some questions about her, after the count's strange indignation had spent itself.
"Who is that very pretty brunette that was with Madame de Pënâfiel until just now?" I asked.
"That is Mlle. Cornelia, her companion. The Lord knows what a life she leads, that poor girl; her mistress treats her with the greatest cruelty, and with unequalled tyranny. She pays dearly for the bread she eats, so they say. She has been living with her three years, and is so afraid of her that she doesn't dare to leave her."
This strange reason made me smile, but I kept on.
"And who is the old gentleman with the white hair?"
"He is the Chevalier don Luiz de Cabrera, a relation of her husband's. During the lifetime of the marquis he lived at the residence of De Pënâfiel, and he continues to live there as a sort of chaperon for his cousin. He looks after the way the house and equipages are kept up, though she is ridiculous enough to keep an equerry, absolutely like in the days of the old régime, an old fellow that doesn't eat in the servants' hall, but has his meals served in his own room. I tell you she can't do like other people,—the foolish things she does are incredible. But," said the count, interrupting himself, "who is that lady entering her box? Ah, it is Madame la Duchesse de X——. She has gone to be polite to her, so as to be able to take some one with her to the concert to which all Paris would like to be invited, because Madame de Pënâfiel has so bewitched Rossini that he is going to play for her an unpublished morceau. Ah, who is going in her box now? Why, to be sure, it is old, fat Pommerive. The old beggar! He goes to pay his compliments in hopes of a dinner at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and after uttering his thousand platitudes he will go away and tell stories that he ought to be hung for."
"Is he one of her friends?" I asked M. de Cernay.
"He is one of her diners,—that is all; for he has the worst tongue that exists in the world, perfidious as a snake, never spares any one.
"But is it not a pity," continued the count, "that Madame de Pënâfiel, who has so many charming qualities, is beautiful, witty, too witty in fact, and has an enormous fortune, should manage to make herself so universally disliked? She does just what she pleases and cares for no one's opinion; so she only gets what she deserves."
"It seems to me," said I, "that a visit from such an important personage as Madame la Duchesse de X—— shows that if people detest her they take care to keep it to themselves."
"That can not be helped,—society is so indulgent," the count answered me.
"Yes, indulgent to its own pleasures," I said to him; "but there is one thing that surprises me: it is not that every one slanders Madame de Pënâfiel, who seems, though she may have her faults, to have everything else in the world to create envy; but why, for the sake of strengthening her position, she does not marry again!"
Whatever was the reason I know not, but when I had spoken in this way, M. de Cernay's face flushed up, and he looked confused as he answered me, "Why do you put such a question to me?"
"Simply because there are only two of us in this box, and so I have no one else to question."
The count perceived the foolishness of his question, but he continued:
"You must not fancy that I am as intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel as all that. But see, fat old Pommerive has left her box now, and there he is in the box of those two beautiful women who are such devoted friends,—Orestes and Pylades in petticoats. Ah, see, what can he be telling them with his ridiculous gesticulations, and his side-glances at Madame de Pënâfiel? How the ladies are laughing! Good Heavens! what a silly buffoon that man is, and at his time of life, too, it is disgusting."
By Pommerive's pantomime, I easily recognised the story about Ismaël, which he probably meant to tell every one in the house.
"By the way," said M. de Cernay to me, with a smile, "although I am not sufficiently intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel to know why she does not marry again, I know her quite well enough to present you to her if you wish for an introduction, and if she does; which is more than I can answer for, because she is fanciful and has her whims; but as I am going to pay her a visit, I can ask her, if you say so."
Thinking how ridiculous and in what bad taste this request would seem to Madame de Pënâfiel, should she have overheard my defence of her, and fearing lest M. de Cernay would really do as he threatened, I said to him, quickly and very seriously:
"For a reason which I do not wish to give, I beg you, indeed I really desire you, not to mention my name to Madame de Pënâfiel."
"Really!" said the count, as he looked at me attentively; "and why not? What an idea!"
"I must beg you most seriously not to do anything of the kind," I repeated slowly, as I wished to impress M. de Cernay with the fact that I did not wish to be mentioned at all.
"Very well," he said, "it shall be as you wish; but you are wrong, for you will miss an opportunity of seeing how fascinating she can be."
He went out, and I also went to pay my respects to several of my lady acquaintances. The scandal of the hour was that Madame de Pënâfiel was responsible for the death of M. de Merteuil, and that now she had fallen a victim to a sudden passion for Ismaël. Nobody could talk about anything else. To all the women who repeated this story to me, with numerous variations on the theme, and various exclamations on such hard-heartedness and levity, I replied (presuming that all these fair ladies were assiduous guests at all of Madame de Pënâfiel's entertainments)—I replied, I say, with a melancholy tone, that nothing could be more deplorable, more odious, more unfortunate, but that, thanks to the respect society owed to its own dignity, this shameless marquise, who had fallen so furiously in love with a Turk, would be surely made to suffer for her abominable behaviour; for surely no self-respecting woman would ever again set her foot inside the door of the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. Then I bowed and returned to my loge.
I found M. de Cernay there, and M. du Pluvier, who had finished his involuntary race of that morning by a fall, which, fortunately, was not a dangerous one.
"Ah," said the count, "this is worse than all."
"Is it another coat of black for Madame de Pënâfiel?"
"You do well to laugh; I was hardly in her box when who do you think she asked me to introduce to her,—guess?"
"How should I know?"
"Guess. It is the strangest thing, it is unheard of, inconceivable, prodigious!"
"It is unheard of, inconceivable!" repeated M. du Pluvier, imitating De Cernay.
"It was not you, Du Pluvier," said the count, "you need not be uneasy; guess again." Speaking to me then, he said, "Come, try and find out."
"I do not know."
"Ismaël."
"Ismaël!"
"The very same."
"Oh, what a good story!" cried out Du Pluvier, "what a good story to tell!"
I will admit that what the count said surprised me so much that I in my turn asked him if it was not a joke. He answered me quite seriously that it was true, and he appeared somewhat annoyed at such a request.
"Ah, mon Dieu, she asked it without the slightest hesitation: she said in the most careless and trifling way (to hide the importance of the request no doubt), 'M. de Cernay, your Turk is very interesting, you must bring him to see me.'"
"She said that to you, seriously?"
"Very seriously, I give you my word."
This affirmation was made in such a grave way that I believed it.
M. du Pluvier started off like an arrow to repeat this next proof of Madame de Pënâfiel's inconsequence, and by the end of the opera this final chapter was added to the rest of the entertaining recital.
I went to call at one of the embassies, and then returned home.
As soon as I was alone and left to reflection, I felt that I had been terribly saddened by the events of the day.
I had seen something of the world and society; but this heaping up of falsehoods, absurdities, deliberate assertions of what was known to be untrue; this furious slandering of a woman, who seemed to authorise it by certain frivolous actions which were unexplainable; these men who could repeat every malicious and odious thing that they heard about her, and then go the next instant and bow before her in servile homage,—all this, though it was as old as humanity, was none the less vile and disgusting to me. However, by a strange contradiction, I felt that I was becoming interested in Madame de Pënâfiel, for the very reason that she occupied so high a position that none of these hateful stories would ever reach her ears. What is the most frightful thing in these society slanders, which attack persons whose importance commands the respect, or rather the base flattery, of every one, is that those in high places live in an atmosphere of lies and hatred, the air they breathe is saturated with falsehood, and yet they are unconscious of it all.
Thus it was impossible, seeing the gracious smiles of the women, the obsequious bows of the men who greeted her as she left the Opéra, it was impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should ever dream of a thousandth part of the miserable scandal of which she was the subject. As I was saying, all this was miserable, and left me in a state of overwhelming sadness. I had just passed a whole day of that life of pleasure, as it is called, that luxurious existence which is only permitted to the few to enjoy, and now I found myself at the end of it with this frightful void at my heart. Then, following this train of thought, I compared this false, hollow, sterile, and glittering life with the vivifying, expansive, and generous existence that I had led at Serval! Poor old paternal château! Peaceful and smiling horizon, towards which my heart always turned when overburdened with grief or wounded by heartlessness!
Oh, what desperate remorse I felt as I thought of Hélène, whom I had lost by an infamous doubt; of that noble girl, so adorable in her halo of candour, and so chastely surrounded by her atmosphere of angelic purity that nothing had ever clouded, but which, for a moment only, on one memorable morning, had been obscured by her love for me! Hélène! Hélène! One of those divine natures which are born and die, like a swan on some solitary lake, pure and spotless.
And then descending from the high sphere of thoughts that shone with such pure lustre, I tried to find some means of dulling the sad memories they awakened in my breast. I tried to hope that, at some far-off day, my heart might find consolation, and I thought of the involuntary interest I already began to feel in Madame de Pënâfiel. But I felt that, for a woman who had been so blasted by calumny, so tarnished with abuse, however undeserved, it would never be possible for me to feel the ardent, deep, and holy love of which one is as proud as of a noble action.
When the world throws discredit on a woman's reputation, that modest and sacred veil which even a breath can destroy, that first flower of life, so delicate and ethereal, it smirches by its vile accusations her good name, and it destroys for ever her future chances of happiness; for she is henceforth deprived of the sad consolation of inspiring a devoted, sincere, and enduring love. It forces her into the degrading caprices of short-lived attachments, in which are to be found neither respect nor faith. For what man will ever see in a woman, who has been suspected of such shameful actions, anything but a charming fantasy, the desire of yesterday, the joy of to-day, and the forgetfulness of to-morrow? Who in her presence would dare to give way to those bursts of passionate confession, during which one longs to tell the one woman he believes worthy of his confidence, the joys, the sadness, the mysteries, the ravishments of the soul that she fills with love, and that only God can understand? Who is there, that in the midst of such moments of rapture, would not dread to hear the echo, the mocking and sinister echo, of all these slanderous tales about the woman at whose feet he is about to throw himself, to whom he longs to kneel?
What reverence can we have for the idol we have so often seen treated with disrespect, outraged and insulted?
One morning, five or six days after the evening I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel at the Opéra, M. de Cernay entered my room. He was radiant.
"Well," said he, "she has gone away. She has left Paris. She went yesterday, in the very height of the season. Does not that strike you as peculiar? But it was the only thing left for her to do; the scandal was too great. Society has laws that can not be disobeyed with impunity."
"How is that?" said I to him. "Why has Madame de Pënâfiel quitted Paris?"
"It is probable," he replied, "that some of her relations, out of respect for the good name of their family, have charitably told her that, until the bad impression she has made by her ridiculous and sudden passion for Ismaël, and by De Merteuil's death, was somewhat forgotten, it would be proper for her to go and spend some time at one of her country-seats; contrary to her usual custom, she has acceded to this advice, and gone to conquer her love in some solitude."
"Did you ever present Ismaël to her, as she requested you?"
"Impossible," replied the count, "he is as savage as a bear, capricious as a woman, and stubborn as a mule. I never could prevail on him to accompany me to the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, so I fancy it is more out of spite than from any respect of public opinion that Madame de Pënâfiel has decided to leave town."
I admit that this sudden departure in the middle of the gay season seemed as strange as the request to be presented to Ismaël. But while I wished to continue on a subject which interested me, I was weary of all this revolting gossip, so I said to the count:
"What sort of a man was the Marquis de Pënâfiel?"
"A very illustrious and powerful lord of Aragon, grandee of Spain, and ambassador to Rome; it was there he met for the first time Mlle. de Blémur, now Madame de Pënâfiel, who was travelling in Italy with her uncle and aunt."
"Was the marquis young?"
"He was about thirty-five years old," said the count, "besides being very handsome and agreeable, and a grand seigneur in every way; and yet they say it was not a love match, but only a marriage of convenance. M. de Pënâfiel had a colossal fortune, but Mlle. de Blémur was enormously rich. She was an orphan and her own mistress. Why, then, did she decide to marry a man she did not love? Nobody knows. The marquis had always been extremely desirous of living in France; so as soon as they became engaged he hastened to Madrid to see the king and hand in his resignation, then he left Spain for ever, and came to Paris, where he married Mlle. de Blémur. After they had been married two years, he died of some long sickness that ends in 'is,' whose diabolical name I don't remember."
"And before her marriage, what did people say about Mlle. de Blémur?"
"Well, although she was as beautiful as the graces themselves, she had already made herself unpopular by her coquetry and her affectations, but above all by her pretensions to scholarship, which were worthy of one of the femmes savantes of Molière; for she had made her uncle, who did whatever his niece desired, give her masters in astronomy, chemistry, mathematics, and I know not what all besides! So, thanks to the fine education she had received, Mlle. de Blémur thought she had the right to behave with great contempt, and ridicule the men of her acquaintance who had not studied all those wonderful things. Now you easily see how many friends she made by her airs of superiority; but all this did not prevent her being flattered and surrounded with admirers, for, after all, one is willing to put up with a great deal from an heiress who has four hundred thousand francs a year in her own right, and who is of such a disposition that she will marry anybody she may take a fancy to; so that when she married a foreigner she made enemies of all the young men who had aspired to her hand."
"That I can readily believe, so many hours and so many sighs were all thrown away. But, at least, this enmity was patriotic," said I, with a smile. "Then this marriage was only one of convenience, you say, although M. de Pënâfiel was very agreeable."
"It seemed to be so," replied M. de Cernay. "They were never very demonstrative to each other; but when the marquis became ill, Madame de Pënâfiel showed great devotion to him; that means nothing, however, as you very well know."
"It means a great deal of devotion or a great deal of hypocrisy, for she probably had as many lovers before her widowhood as afterwards."
"People believe she had, at least, and people are not often mistaken," said the count; "but she is clever, and so careful! She never writes any but most trifling and insignificant little notes to any one. As for Ismaël, her conduct towards him has been an incomprehensible folly, which is quite unlike her usual behaviour, and can only be explained by the violence of the sudden passion he inspired; there is a story, too, of her having disguised herself, and gone to some little house, in a distant, lonely part of town. In a word, it is very evident to sensible people that, if Madame de Pënâfiel was in love with any honourable man, she would not hide it; but as, on the contrary, she permits every sort of contradictory rumour to be spread abroad concerning her, in order to mislead investigation, there can be no doubt that she gives herself up to the wildest fancies, and carries on the worst intrigues in secrecy. Then, why is she such a coquette? Why does she always take such pains to make herself agreeable? If you ever go to her house you will see how it is. Now when a woman has such a passion for being fascinating, she is never contented with disinterested admiration."
"But," said I to M. de Cernay, "what has become of the winning man in that extraordinary race, which, by its publicity, must have greatly upset the mysterious ways of Madame de Pënâfiel? M. de Senneterre, what has become of him?"
"Oh," said the count, "Senneterre was sacrificed, shamefully sacrificed; for, to say nothing about her crazy passion for Ismaël, she is capable, merely in a spirit of contradiction, of weeping for the dead lover, and hating the living one. A proof of this is that Senneterre has now the tact and good sense to insist upon it that Madame de Pënâfiel had nothing whatever to do with the race, which, he now tells every one who will listen to him, came about by a wager he made with that unfortunate De Merteuil, when they were both in high spirits.
"He says they had both been dining with Lord ——, and as they left, each one had begun to boast of the rare accomplishments of his horse, each one praising his own. They talked until they became excited, and the fatal challenge was the result of their boasting. The next day, when their enthusiasm had somewhat cooled down, they recognised the danger of their proposition; but neither wished to appear to shrink from it, and so from pure bravado they carried out their plan. That is all a very plausible tale, but it is not true, at least I do not believe it, for I know the real cause of their duel, and you must admit that De Senneterre's story is probable. After all, though, after hearing what rumours have connected Madame de Pënâfiel with their race, he is only behaving like a gallant gentleman in denying it all as he does."
Many years have passed since all this happened, and I still wonder how such puerile gossip should yet be so distinctly remembered.
It is because they formed a part of a very painful experience in my life, and because they were the exact type of certain sorts of conversations, and an example of the discussions, the praises, the attacks, and the malicious falsehoods that interest and occupy the minds of idle society people. If this statement of mine seems overdrawn or exaggerated, you have only to remember the last piece of gossip you heard yesterday, or your conversation of this morning, to find that I am right.
But to return to M. de Cernay. As there was, after all, an appearance of logic in the absurd propositions of which he was the cause, as well as the echo,—in fact, quite enough logic to appease the conscience of slander,—I did not attempt to defend Madame de Pënâfiel to the count. What was more, I fancied that I saw the cause of his persistent attacks on her; for all these rumours, that had been holding the best society in Paris spellbound for the last five or six days, had evidently no other author than he.
As for the other long conversation on the antecedents and character of Madame de Pënâfiel, I only repeated it because it exactly coincided with all that I had heard said, and it might be taken as the general opinion of the world as to Madame de Pënâfiel.
"Let us hope," said I to the count, "that Paris will not be very long deprived of the society of a woman who furnishes such a wonderful subject for conversation. We certainly will give her the credit of having entertained everybody for the last five or six days, for no one else has been spoken of."
"I would lay a wager that you wanted to see her back again," said M. de Cernay, as he gave me an inquisitive look.
"Without wanting to see her very badly, I am willing to admit that she inspired me, if not with interest, at least with curiosity."
"From curiosity to interest there is but a single step, and from interest to love there is but one more, and so I am sure that you will become at last wildly in love with Madame de Pënâfiel. But take care!"
"In spite of all the dangers I might encounter, I should be delighted to think that your prediction could be fulfilled; for there is nothing in the world so happy as a man who is in love, even if he is hopelessly in love."
"That is just the reason why I have thought it right to let you know the real character of Madame de Pënâfiel, so that you might be on your guard if you ever were presented to her. Really, I should have been sorry to see you fall a victim to her fascinations," said the count to me, with such an expression of kindliness that I could hardly believe it to be feigned. "Between gentlemen," said he, "there are certain services one should render one another; but really, it must have been the great interest I take in you, or the desire I have to be useful to you, that made me warn you so frankly; because really—" and the count hesitated for a moment, and then began again in a serious way, in which there seemed to be a real tone of affectionate solicitude:
"Come now, would you like to know just what I think?"
"Certainly I would," said I, quite surprised at this sudden transition.
"Well, then, you know that between men there can be nothing more stupid than complimentary speeches; in spite of which I mean to tell you that there is something about you which attracts one from the very first, but after that charming first impression there seems to be something in your manner, something that is either stiffness, coolness, or a haughty reserve, that repels people. You are young, but you have neither the enthusiasm nor the trustfulness of youth. There is a contrast in your nature that I have not yet been able to explain. When you take part in a conversation of young men who are jovial, careless, and free, your face brightens up, you say things that are wilder and gayer than the gayest and the wildest; and then, when you have said the last words, you put on an air of coldness, of weariness, and seem as though you were bored to death, so that no one knows what to think of gaiety which is so closely followed by such gloomy sadness. So I will frankly tell you that it is devilish hard to take you into one's confidence, no matter how much one would like to."
You can be sure that I did not believe a word that the count said about my wonderful powers of attraction, and as I could not understand why he should want to flatter me, except for some purpose of his own, and as these compliments seemed stupid and vulgar, I decided to show him how I felt about it, and to show myself in such a light that he would spare me any such confidences in the future.
"You are right," said I to the count. "I know that it is not easy to be confidential with me, for I am by nature very hypocritical, and, knowing myself, put very little faith in others. Consequently, it is quite impossible that any one should ever feel attracted towards me or that I should ever desire such sympathy."
The count looked as though he were seriously astonished; then he said, in an injured tone:
"Your dissimulation is not very dangerous, since you acknowledge it."
"But I have never wanted to be dangerous," said I, smiling.
"Ah, so; and where do you suppose you are going to find any friends if you talk like that?"
"Friends? And pray, what would I do with them?"
There probably was, in the expression of my features, in the tone of my voice, such an appearance of truthfulness, that the count was really surprised.
"Are you speaking seriously?" said he.
"Very seriously, I assure you; what is there to astonish you in such a question?"
"And you are not afraid to confess such an opinion?"
"Why should I be afraid?"
"Why?" replied the count, with a bewildered look. "Come, it is a paradox that amuses you. It is very amusing and original, no doubt, but I am certain that in your heart you do not believe a word you are saying."
"Very well; let us talk about something else."
"No, but seriously," he replied, "can you really mean to say, 'Of what use are friends?'"
"Certainly I do. For example, what good am I to you? What good are you to me? Suppose we were never to meet after to-day, what would you lose? What would I? When I say you and I, I generalise. I mean, so far, at least, as I am concerned, those commonplace, trite affections for people we really care nothing about, to which the world gives the name of friendships."
"I grant you that one can easily get along without any such friendships as those, or, rather, that they are so easy to find that nobody takes the trouble to seek for them. What I mean is real, true, deep, devoted friendship."
"Nisus and Euryalus, Castor and Pollux?"
"Yes. Would you say 'what to do with them' if you were ever fortunate enough to meet with such friends?"
"I should surely say, 'What shall I do with them?' For, suppose I should ever find a Nisus, I know I never could become an Euryalus, and I hope I am too honest a man to accept what I never could return.
"But, suppose I should really find that true, deep, sincere friendship that you spoke of just now. It would be perfectly useless and even a dead weight while I was happy, for then I hate confidences; so it would only be of any use to me when I was miserable. Now it is mathematically impossible that I shall ever be miserable."
"How can that be?" said the count, more and more amazed.
"For a very simple reason. My health is perfect, my name and connections place me on a level with any one, my fortune is in landed property, I have always two years' income ahead of my expenditures, I never play high, I never loan money,—how, then, am I ever to be miserable?"
"But then you imagine there are no other troubles than physical pain or material embarrassment? And the sorrows of the heart?" said the count, and he really looked grieved. But I answered by such a burst of laughter that he seemed stunned; then he said:
"If you can look at things like that, it is evident that you will never need anybody, and all I can say for you is, that I pity you very much. But, come now," said he, almost impatiently, "admit that if I came to-morrow to ask a favour of you, you would not refuse me, even if you should grant it only out of respect of the world's opinion; that is all the world cares for."
"But even admitting that I would render you a service, what would that prove? Only that you had need of me, not I of you—"
"And thus you believe you will never be in need of any one?"
"Yes, that is my principal luxury, and I hold fast to it."
"So let it be; your fortune is in land, it is safe; your position is equal to the very best, you do not believe in any heartaches, or, if they should come, you will suffer alone; but, for instance, suppose you ever have to fight a duel, you will have to ask some gentleman to be your second; that is a great obligation! You see you may need others to help you in this world."
"If ever I have a duel, I shall walk into the first barracks I come to, I shall pick up the first two non-commissioned officers or soldiers that I lay my hand on, and there I shall have two excellent seconds, and ones that no man of honour could take exception to."
"What a devil of a man you are!" said the count to me. "But suppose you are wounded, who will come to see you?"
"Nobody, thank the Lord! In physical suffering I am like a wild beast, I want only solitude and the dark night."
"But in the world, to talk to, to live with, to live in the world you must live with others."
"Oh, for all that, the others will not fail me any more than I shall abandon them. The world of society is a concert, where the most miserable musicians are placed on the same footing as the greatest artists, and where each one plays his one note, but such chance acquaintances cannot be called friends. Such attachments are like strong, free-growing plants, which have neither sweet perfume nor brilliant colouring, but which are ever green, and which we are not afraid of crushing; the proof is that, after all we have been saying to each other, we will remain on the same good terms as heretofore; to-morrow we will shake hands before everybody, we will talk about Madame de Pënâfiel's adorers, or of anything else you may please; and in six months we will call each other 'dear fellow,' but in six months and a day, should you or I disappear from this happy earth, either you or I would be perfectly indifferent to the other's disappearance. And it is perfectly natural that this should be the case. Why should it be otherwise? What right have I to exact any other sentiment of you? And why should you require it of me?"
"What you say is very uncommon; every one does not think as you do."
"I hope they do not for their own sakes. I fancy that I am like no one because I am like all."
"And, no doubt, with such principles, you despise all alike, both men and women."
"In the first place, I do not despise men," said I, "for a very simple reason; I am no better nor worse than another, and I have often had a mental struggle to decide one of those questions which prove a man's honesty, or show that he is a scoundrel."
"Well?" said the count.
"Well, as I have always been very severe in my self-examinations, I have often doubted my own motives more than those of other people; thus, being no better than other men, I cannot despise them. As for women, as I know no more about them than you do, it is impossible for me to give any opinion on the subject."
"No more than I?" said De Cernay, who was evidently displeased. "I know nothing about women?"
"Neither you, nor I, nor any one can say that he perfectly understands women," said I, with a smile. "What man is there who even knows himself? Where is one who knows how he would act under any conceivable circumstances? How much less, then, could he pretend to understand not women, but a single woman, even were she his mother, his mistress, or his sister? Of course, I do not discuss this subject with every one, nor am I expected to go through such a catechism, which would be about as reasonable as a manual for learning to speak a language, in which every conceivable question is given with its proper answer."
"In that you are quite right," said the count; "but stop, I am delighted at a chance of making you contradict yourself. I am going to do you a kindness: you would like to know Madame de Pënâfiel; some one, either I or another, will have to present you to her."
"Nothing could be more amiable," said I, "and though I am a bankrupt in friendship, I certainly would find some means of requiting such a generous offer. Madame de Pënâfiel is charming; I believe all the wonderful tales you have told about her. I know that it is considered a compliment to be invited to her salon, which is very exclusive; but really and truly, I beg you, as I would any one else, not to ask her to receive me."
"What reason have you for doing so?"
"Because whatever pleasure I might receive from being acquainted with her would be more than overbalanced by the humiliation I should feel in case she refuses to meet me."
"What childish vanity!" said the count. "Not very long ago Lord Falmouth wished to present to her the young Duke of ——, who is related to the royal family of England. Would you believe it? Madame de Pënâfiel flatly refused to see him."
"You are too well-bred, my dear count, not to understand that my position places me on a certain social footing, and that I ought not to risk such a refusal. You may think me foolish, but it is thus; don't let us speak of it again."
"Yes, one word more," said the count; "will you wager two hundred louis that, when she returns, you will be presented to, and received by Madame de Pënâfiel inside of a month?"
"At my own request?"
"No; on the contrary."
"How could it be on the contrary?"
"Certainly it could. I bet you that Madame de Pënâfiel, meeting you frequently in society, and seeing that you take no pains to be presented to her, will manage, out of pure contradiction, to have it brought about in spite of your opposition."
"That would be a triumph to be very proud of,—but I do not believe it will ever happen. In fact, I have so little confidence in it that I will accept your wager, which is this: A month after her return, I shall not have been presented to Madame de Pënâfiel."
"But," said De Cernay, "it must be understood that, if such a proposition comes from her, you are not to refuse."
"It is so understood," said I, interrupting him. "I certainly would never answer so honourable and flattering a proposal by a rudeness; so, as I repeat to you, I will accept your wager."
"Your two hundred louis are as good as mine," said the count as he left me. "But stop a moment," he added, as he held out his hand; "thanks for your frankness."
"What frankness?"
"What you said about friendship,—your thoughts on the subject which you expressed so bluntly. It shows that you are very honest."
"With discretion, or rather dissimulation, honesty is my other virtue," said I, shaking his hand cordially. And so we parted.
After M. de Cernay had gone, I felt grieved to think of his friendly advances and how I had repulsed them. But what he said about my great attractiveness seemed a ridiculous untruth, and made me distrust him. Then the bitter hatred with which he pursued Madame de Pënâfiel gave me but a poor idea of the kind of a friend he would make.
Perhaps I was mistaken, for women, in men's eyes, are outside of the law, if that can be; and the unkind things they say about women to each other, and which they say with a certain self-glorification, in no way injure their reputation as men of honour. M. de Cernay might then have possessed all the good qualities of a warm and steadfast friend; but it was impossible for me to receive him as such, or to behave to him in any other way.
I took great satisfaction, too, in having been able to conceal my real nature from him, and to have given him an absolutely false idea, or a singularly indefinite one, of myself.
It was always hateful to me to be understood or divined by people I cared nothing about; and for an enemy to do so was dangerous. Indeed, I liked to have even a friend kept out of my secret thoughts.
If there is in our moral organisation a culminating point, the source and termination of all our thoughts, our longings, our desires, if we are conscious that any one idea, whether good or evil, is steadily throbbing with every beat of our heart, this palpitating spot is the one that must be most sedulously hidden, most carefully defended from sudden attack, for there is the weak, the sore place, the infallibly vulnerable spot in our nature.
If envy, pride, or covetousness are your predominating characteristics, you should attempt to appear modest, kind, and disinterested, as compassionate and generous persons sometimes hide their kindliness under a rough exterior; for through education we instinctively conceal our vices and our virtues, as nature gives to certain animals the means of protecting themselves when attacked in their weakest place.
I had therefore pretended to the count that I was a terrible egotist and cynic, simply because I still felt an unconquerable yearning towards virtue and generosity. But, alas! it was only a yearning. The terrible lessons my father had taught me, besides filling my mind with distrust of all good motives, had developed to the highest degree my vanity and susceptibility. In fact, what I most dreaded, was to be taken for a fool, should I follow the enthusiastic instincts of my nature.
But though day by day suspicion and vanity were drying up the germs of these noble instincts, their souvenir still remained with me, and, like fallen man, I remembered the lost Eden. I could understand, though I felt it not, all the divine ravishment there must be in self-sacrifice and confidence.
On my part there was a continual aspiration towards an ethereal, radiant sphere, from the midst of which the most devoted friendships, the most passionate loves, smiled on me.
But, alas! my implacable, shameful, distrusting spirit would whisper in my ear that all these adorable apparitions were but deceitful appearances, and his icy breath would dispel in an instant the enchanting visions.
I knew that I did not deceive myself as to my own nature. What was mean, selfish, and weak in it, was stronger than what still remained of noble and generous sentiments.
My conduct towards Hélène had proved this to be the case. The man who can calculate and meanly weigh the result of his impulses, who refuses a generous feeling of attraction, for fear of being repulsed, is devoid of strength of purpose, liberality, and kindness.
Distrust is the next thing to cowardice. From cowardice to cruelty there is only one more step. I was to suffer miserably for my distrust of others, and to cause others to suffer as well.
And yet I was not of a hateful or spiteful disposition. I was filled with the most pleasurable sensations when I had secretly rendered any one a service that I was not afraid of having to blush for. Then I loved to contemplate the beauties of nature, which is a sentiment that thoroughly wicked and perverse souls are not capable of. The sight of a magnificent sunset gave me intense delight. I was happy when I found the description of noble and generous actions in the books I read, and the deep sympathy I felt proved that all the noble cords of my heart were not yet broken. As much as I admired Walter Scott, that sublime benefactor of unhappy minds, whose genius leaves one so refreshed and purified, just so much did I detest Byron, whose sterile and desolating scepticism only leaves a taste of gall and bitterness.
I had so just an appreciation of every kind of trouble or affliction that I carried my delicacy and fear of wounding the feelings of the unfortunate or lonely to a ridiculous length. I was seized with pity and tenderness for no apparent reason. I felt sometimes an immense need of loving some one, of devoting my life to some one. My first impulses were always sincere and unselfish; but then came reflections and second thoughts to blight everything. There was a perpetual struggle going on in my mind and heart. One said: Believe, love, hope; and the other said; Doubt, despise, fear.
I was in this way constantly impelled by two opposite forces. I seemed to feel with my mother's heart and think with my father's mind; but the intellect was always stronger than the affections.
I also possessed the terrible faculty of comparing myself with others, by the aid of which I found a thousand reasons why I was not lovable, consequently I considered every one in the light of a flatterer.
My mother had adored me, and I had forgotten my mother; or, rather, I only thought of her when I was in desperate trouble. But when I was completely happy, when my vanity was satisfied, and I was dazzled with my own importance, all such pious recollections as I had momentarily evoked vanished into the shade of the maternal tomb.
I owed everything to my father, and I only remembered him to curse the fatal experience he had given me. Hélène had loved me with the truest and purest affection, and I had returned her innocent love by insult and suspicion.
Thus being always ungrateful, suspicious, and forgetful, what right had I to expect from others love and devotion?
In vain I would say to myself: "My father, my mother, and Hélène loved me just as I was; why, then, should not others do the same?" But my father was my father, my mother was my mother, and Hélène was Hélène (for I very properly placed Hélène's love for me among the innate, natural family affections). And yet the aversion with which I had inspired her had been so great that the love she had borne me in her heart from her earliest childhood was destroyed in a day.
Ah, that was a fearful and useless punishment, and I had been both the victim and the executioner; but all my useless grief had made me no better, nor more useful to myself or my fellow men.
I will return to Madame de Pënâfiel. I had not told my plans to M. de Cernay, because his intervention might be useful to me, and I knew that the best of all accomplices is one who is unconscious and perfectly honest. I felt the greatest desire to become acquainted with this strange woman, in spite of all the ill things that were said of her, or, perhaps, because, in at least one instance, I had known that they were slanderous exaggerations; but my defiant and proud nature saw an insurmountable obstacle in this very desire.
When I had undertaken to defend Madame de Pënâfiel against the attacks of De Pommerive, that night at the Opéra, when he was telling his story about Ismaël, she might have heard me. Now if this were the case, I thought that to ask to be presented to her would be the height of bad taste, as my discussion with De Pommerive might appear simply a prelude to such a request.
My scruples may have been exaggerated, but they were real, and I had firmly resolved to make no attempt to be admitted to the circle of Madame de Pënâfiel's acquaintances. I hoped, however, that if she knew that I had defended her she would appreciate my reserve, and, with the tact of a well-bred woman, would find some very simple way of having me presented to her, for she would frequently meet me in society. In this way my self-respect would not suffer.
What made it all the easier for me to reason in this way, and wait for developments, was the fact that, on the whole, my desire to meet Madame de Pënâfiel was not strong enough to preoccupy my mind so as to exclude all other interests. If I should receive a refusal, it would not greatly disappoint me.
Neither did I fear in any sense (except in the improbable possibility of my falling very much in love with Madame de Pënâfiel) that danger with which M. de Cernay had threatened me. I did not believe there could be any danger for me, because I was certainly able to hide any wounds my vanity might receive, and was surely able (so wise and suspicious did I think myself) to see through any of her attempts at deception, in case she meant to play me false. Only I felt that, in case I meant to range myself among the number of her adorers, so many and so invisible though they appeared to be, it would be well that, on her return from her voyage to Brittany, I should be, or at least seem to be, interested in some one, so as to appear to sacrifice another to Madame de Pënâfiel, for a woman is always the most pleased when, in addition to doing her homage, a man sacrifices a former affection for her sake. Then there is not only triumph, but triumph over another woman.
I therefore resolved, that before Madame de Pënâfiel returned, I would become assiduous in my attentions to some well-known woman of fashion, to one who had some officially recognised admirer.
I insisted on both of these conditions, for, in this way, my supposed interest would be talked about all the more and the sooner.
This was a very simple calculation, inasmuch as, when my pretended admiration should be noticed, rumour would, with its usual charity and veracity, instantly proclaim the downfall of the former admirer, and my promotion to his place.
I decided, then, to persuade some fashionable lady to receive my attentions.
What really saddened me was that, as I coldly calculated such a series of lies and deceptions, I perfectly understood their meanness. I had not the excuse of passion, not even any very great desire of pleasing Madame de Pënâfiel. It was simply as a means of distraction, and the necessity of occupying my restless and discontented spirit, that I forced myself to seek, in the miserable chances and changes of mundane life, some unforeseen event that might save me from the mournful and deadening apathy that was crushing my life out.
Strange enough, when I was once in for it, I recovered my spirits, my youthfulness, my gaiety, and many joyful hours of contented vanity. It seemed as if there were two of me, so astonished was I to hear myself talk in this extravagant way, and then, as soon as I was left alone with my reflections, my mind became agitated by my old painful, baseless worries, and by a thousand uncertainties as to myself, every one, and everything.
Whoever has been in society must know that, without any self-glorification, it is not at all difficult for any man who is fairly well-bred and properly presented to attract the attention of a fashionable woman, if he firmly wishes to do so.
What a singular existence is that of a woman of fashion, a life made up of a series of efforts to charm the most selfish and ungrateful half of the human race. When once a woman is recognised as a leader of fashion, when it is admitted that she dresses well, and always in the latest and most becoming style, that she is charming or witty, the poor woman no longer belongs to herself. She is simply one of the stars of that brilliant crown that Paris wears on its forehead every evening.
She is obliged to show herself at every fête; joyous or sad, she must be there, always there; her dress must be the most elegant, her hair must be dressed in the latest way, her face must wear its sweetest smile; she must be always gracious and accessible, polite to every one; the stupidest fool in the room has a right to expect to be received as though she were enchanted to meet him.
There is a regular warfare between women of fashion,—a quiet but bitter warfare, in which flowers, ribbons, precious stones, and smiles are the weapons. It is a mute but terrible struggle, full of cruel suffering, unshed tears, unknown despair; a struggle that leaves deep and painful wounds, for wounded pride leaves incurable scars. But what does it matter? If one wishes to reign as sovereign over this society of the chosen few, she must be more charming than this one, more coquettish than this other one, more polite and suave than all the rest, but, above all, she must show no preference for any one, for, as she wishes to please all, she must permit every one to believe that he will be the favoured one.
But you should hear him, this favoured one, the last favourite, the favourite of to-day, of to-night, of the last waltz, the last cotillon, the winner in that charming contest, in which flowers have battled with flowers, and graces with graces. You should see him in his ugly black coat, as he sits at supper, telling the other favourites (who tell him other tales in return) all the delightful things he has had said to him; how he only has to throw his handkerchief among so many eager beauties, who rival each other in their attentions to him; his disdain for them all.
In listening to these mysterious and veracious confidences, one is sometimes tempted to ask, Where am I? and who are these men talking about? and to admire more than ever the self-abnegation of women, who give themselves body and soul to fashion, that cruel and brutal goddess, whose priests are these men, and who renders only indifference or scorn for all these years of youth spent in her service. But as I also wished to appear to profit by the abnegation of one of these charming victims, among all the beauties that were blooming at that time, I attached myself to a very pretty young woman. She was blonde, fresh, and rosy, too rosy almost, but she had beautiful large black eyes, that were both tender and bright; her lips were scarlet, and she had beautiful white teeth, real little pearls set in coral, and she showed them on all occasions, and was quite right.
The only thing that I did not like was her adorer, a splendid young fellow, as handsome as possible, who, unfortunately for himself (and for her, poor woman, for it showed her bad taste), was called "Beau Sainville." That epithet, "beau," is fearfully ridiculous, and if one is ever unlucky enough to take it seriously, by attempting to live up to it, one is ruined for ever.
Certainly, if I had had more leisure to choose, I should have selected a more worthy rival than Beau Sainville, but the lady was pretty and facile, and I had not much time to spare, so I was obliged to appear as his adversary in this contest for her heart. As I had supposed, he was a perfect fool, and when I was presented to the lady he honoured with his attentions, he began almost immediately to manifest every sort of ridiculous jealousy.
Wishing to show what he probably considered his rights, he began to treat the poor young woman in the rudest and most compromising manner, which distressed me very much, for I could not offer her any compensation for her loss, neither did she desire any. But at last she became justly provoked at the brutal behaviour of her strange adorer, and, to avenge herself, flirted with me in an innocent sort of way. Very soon M. de Sainville did more for me than I had even hoped, for after two or three scenes, in which he gave vent to his wounded feelings, he passed from wounded dignity to cold irony and rude indifference; finally, he went and made love, with all his might, to another poor young thing, who didn't know what to make of it.
So that although it was almost entirely untrue, the world very soon gave me the credit and glory of being preferred to Beau Sainville. It served me right for my duplicity, but I had to stand it. As for the proofs the world had of my good fortune, they were of the most positive evidence, such as the world always can show on like occasions. First, I had once called for the carriage of the lady because there was no one else at hand; then she had offered me a place in her loge at one of the small theatres; I had hastened to offer her my arm, and we had made the tour of a crowded reception-room together in sight of all Paris; finally, last and flagrant proof, she had remained at home one evening, instead of going to a concert, and my carriage had been seen that same evening standing at her door. In the face of such convincing evidence, it was a duly established fact that I was the luckiest of mortals.
In the midst of this felicity, I learned, through M. de Cernay, of Madame de Pënâfiel's return. In order to win his wager, the count served my purposes uncommonly well, whether Madame de Pënâfiel had overheard my defence of her or not.
As soon as she came back to Paris, therefore, M. de Cernay never saw her without commenting on my strange behaviour, in neglecting to ask for a presentation, especially as I moved in precisely the same circle, and could hardly help meeting her every evening, to say nothing of my knowing that the count was one of her intimate friends, and would gladly procure me this favour, which so many desired. But, said M. de Cernay, it was rumoured that I was seriously attached to a charming young woman, who, no doubt, had made me promise never to go near the Hôtel Pënâfiel, which was supposed to be a sort of palace of Alcina, from which no one came out except in a state of enchantment, and hopelessly in love.
At last, by dint of heaping up so many silly stories, and constantly harping on this one subject, or from some unknown reason, Madame de Pënâfiel became either tired of hearing him, or provoked at my apparent indifference. As she was habitually sought after and flattered, she began to think my neglect was a want of respect to herself and to social customs.