CHAPTER XVII

PRIMA-SERA

Before starting for the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, I compared my present state of anxiety and distrust with the careless abandonment of my former life, and the days I spent with Hélène, when, no matter at what time I entered the old salon at Serval, I was sure of being received with pleasant smiles from every one.

Without dreading this interview with Madame de Pënâfiel, I knew that, although by common consent she was abused and calumniated, her salon was held in high consideration. It had great importance in the fact that its judgment was not to be impeached; right or wrong, its stamp was the valuation that would henceforth be accepted by the world.

The number of such salons, whose influence is so great that it irrevocably decides the rank of each individual in good society, is already restricted, and grows less every year. The reason is this, there are no longer any men who are willing to submit to its restrictions. The life of the club and the representative chamber, that other great political club, has swept away the life of the salon. Between to-day's speech and that of yesterday, between a game of whist or a revenge of two or three thousand louis, the anxious and absorbing interest in a race in which a favourite horse is entered for an enormous sum, there remains very little time for that intimate, flowery, and elegant conversation, which has no "echo in the country," as the monomaniacs of the tribune say, and helps you neither to win nor lose at whist or on the turf. And then the life of the salon is a constraint. You must appear in evening dress to go and smother in a heated reception, and then be frozen while waiting for your carriage; whereas it is so much easier and pleasanter to stretch out in a soft armchair at the club, where you take a comfortable nap after dinner, from which you awake refreshed, and ready for an exciting game of whist, with no interruption but that of your cigar.

However, at the period of which I write, there were still a few houses where people conversed, and the Hôtel de Pënâfiel was one of these eccentricities.

Madame de Pënâfiel, among all her defects, was not what was called a bluestocking, but she was something worse, for she was a woman of real erudition, and a linguist, speaking three or four languages well, and having high scientific attainments, they said. If I had no better ground for believing all this than the word of a savant such as De Cernay, I should have had my doubts as to its truth, but I recalled a strange circumstance which was a proof of Madame de Pënâfiel's learning. Having been fortunate enough when in London to meet the celebrated Arthur Young, he had spoken to me with great admiration of a young compatriot of mine who was remarkably well read, although very pretty and in the best society. He said she had complimented him in the most intelligent and scientific manner on his famous theory of Interferences, but had attacked him on the subject of the syllabic or dissyllabic value he applied to hieroglyphics, in which his system was entirely at variance with that of Champollion.

This had struck me as very singular, especially when told me by such a great savant, and I had even made a note of it in my diary.

It was only on my return to Paris, and some time after having seen and heard of Madame de Pënâfiel, that I confusedly recalled the conversation of Arthur Young. I then got out my note-book, and found these details, as well as the name of the marquise.

All that I had heard of Madame de Pënâfiel was far from creating a pleasant impression. Her strange caprices, her artistic and perpetual desire to attract attention, her poses, which they said were constantly studied to the end of making a beautiful portrait of herself, her fantastic disposition, her scientific studies, were all unbecoming in a woman of her standing, and were all thoroughly distasteful to me.

Women who are constantly talked about and discussed from various points of view are rarely influential; all they really care for is to exhibit their various qualities. A woman who is serious, dignified, and calm, of whom nobody says or knows anything, can have much more influence and be more imposing.

And then a man who is naturally cold and reserved, even though he may not be a social success, will always be well received and perfectly on a level with the best company that he meets, for it is only the extremely agreeable or the very ridiculous who attract much attention.

I repeat, then, that it was without any embarrassment, but with a great deal of rather ill-natured curiosity, that I presented myself at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel one Wednesday, after the opera.

The house was kept up in a really princely way. In the vestibule, which was lofty and decorated with statues and immense marble vases filled with flowers, were several footmen, who wore powder and liveries of blue and orange, braided with silver.

In a vast antechamber, where there were some fine paintings and magnificent Faïence vases also filled with flowers, was another footman, whose livery was orange colour with a blue collar, and braided on all the seams with silk passementerie, and embroidered with the crest of De Pënâfiel. Finally, in a third waiting-room, were two valets de chambre who, instead of being clothed in funereal black, wore suits of light blue plush, lined with orange-coloured silk and ornamented with crested gilt buttons.

When I was announced, there were with Madame de Pënâfiel five or six ladies and two or three men.

She was dressed in black on account of some court mourning or other, and had jet ornaments in her soft brown hair. I thought her dazzlingly beautiful and, though I may be mistaken, that she blushed beneath her rouge when she received me in her most formal and ceremonious manner. Perhaps it was the blush that made me think her so beautiful. After I had spoken a few polite words, the conversation which my arrival had interrupted was continued.

They were discussing the latest scandal, in which a woman's honour and two men's lives were at stake; the story was told in the most guarded language, but with so feeble an attempt at disguise, and such transparent withholding of details, that to have mentioned proper names outright would have been less significant.

As it almost always happens by one of those coincidences that luck brings about, just as every one was having his little word or sharp little witticism on the subject, the husband and wife who were being discussed were announced. This conjugal entrance astonished no one. It was explained by an unexpected return to Paris, which necessitated a first visit.

Though every one who was in the salon was quite used to such impromptus, there was for a second an embarrassing silence, but Madame de Pënâfiel, with the most natural and perfect ease, addressed me as though we were continuing an interrupted conversation:

"You think then, monsieur, that this new maëstro's opera shows great promise?"

"It shows that he possesses a talent of unquestionable charm and melancholy, madame," I replied, quite naturally. "Perhaps the music is wanting in vigour, but it is full of sweetness and inexpressible grace."

"And pray who is the new musical luminary?" said, in an impertinent way, the young woman who had just entered the room, and who had been the subject of the previous discussion.

"M. Bellini, madame," said I, with a bow, wishing to save Madame de Pënâfiel the trouble of answering.

"And the title of the new opera, madame la marquise?" asked the husband, with an air of great interest, and unwilling to drop such a subject for conversation.

"I forgot to tell you, madame, that the name of the new opera is 'La Norma,'" I hastened to say, addressing Madame de Pënâfiel. "The subject is the love of a priestess of the Gauls." Madame de Pënâfiel immediately took up this theme, and enlarged on it in a very entertaining way, showing what a good subject it was for a drama.

She then seized the opportunity of showing her erudition on the religion of the Druids; she talked about the Celtic stones, and I felt sure that, by an easy transition, she would soon arrive quite naturally at the syllabic value of hieroglyphics, and the discussion of which Arthur Young had spoken. It so happened that I chanced to be very much interested in this study, for my father, who was an intimate friend of M. de Guignes, had in his last years been a student of those alphabetical problems. I could have continued the conversation by drawing Madame de Pënâfiel into a discussion, in which she probably would have shone at my expense; but her pretension to being learned shocked me, and I warded off a hieroglyphic attack, which I thought imminent, by declaring my perfect ignorance of the subject, whose aridity I said frightened me.

My avowal of ignorance seemed to lift a weight off the minds of the other men present, because they would have been mortified at being left out of such a conversation, which would show an unusual fondness for studies that were quite beyond an ordinary education. I do not know whether Madame de Pënâfiel was provoked at my speech, which had lost her the opportunity of showing her learning, or if she believed my ignorance was affected. She did not pretend to hide a slight movement of annoyance, but, with great tact and infinite skill, she resumed her conversation about the Druids, passing from the Celtic inscriptions to the picturesque costume of the priestesses of the Gauls, their long, clinging robes, and the charming effect of the holly leaves in either blonde or brown hair. She brought down the conversation naturally from the scientific heights on which she at first had started to the vulgar plains of every day costume, and then it became general. I admit that these transitions were skilfully managed by Madame de Pënâfiel, and that any one but a person who was well-read, clever, quick, and used to society, would have failed entirely.

I was far from being astonished, for I had not expected to find candour and inexperience, so as I was tired of so much senseless babble, and saw that this was not the opportunity I desired of studying and observing at my ease this person, who was said to be so singular, I rose to go out unperceived, as a new arrival was being announced; but Madame de Pënâfiel, near whom I was seated, said to me as she saw that they were bringing the urn and the waiters into the other little salon:

"Monsieur, will you not have a cup of tea?"

I bowed and remained.

That night there was a grand ball at the house of one of those easy-going foreigners, who, on the express condition that they may be permitted to remain in their own salons, and look on at the fête which is given at their expense, are willing to lend their houses, their servants, and their supper to the fashionable circle, who take it all as a matter of course.

Almost all of Madame de Pënâfiel's visitors were going there. I was hesitating about going also, when, as good luck would have it, Lord Falmouth was announced.

I had not seen him since his sudden departure for the House of Lords, where he went to speak on the India question which interested him. There was such a difference between his original mind and most of the people I met habitually, that I decided to remain longer than I had at first intended at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel.

After tea, Lord Falmouth and I were left alone with madame la marquise. I have forgotten to mention that, in a far-off corner of the salon, behind the marquise's armchair, unobserved and forgotten, there was a distinguished young stranger, Baron Stroll, who seemed very timid, and who, to hide his embarrassment, had been for the last half-hour turning over the pages of the same album. The young baron was quite red, and his eyes were staring fixedly, while he held his hat tightly between his knees. Lord Falmouth called my attention to him, and said, in a low voice, with his mocking air, the well-known words of the Vizier Maréco to the Sultan Chaabaam, who was looking at the goldfish: "Let him alone, he has got occupation enough for another hour yet."

Madame de Pënâfiel had not noticed this stranger, for, as I say, he was seated behind the very high back of her armchair, beside a table that was covered with albums; for she did the honours of her salon too well to have neglected a guest. She began the conversation by graciously reproaching Lord Falmouth for not coming to see her oftener. To which he replied that he was unfortunately so stupid, and so terribly communicative, that out of a hundred persons that he wanted to converse with, only one or two were strong-minded enough to resist the contagion of his stupidity, and not to become as dull as himself after a quarter of an hour's conversation. It was a dreadful effect he had on most persons, and he deplored it with the most comical humility, and reproached himself for having made an infinite number of victims, whose names he cited as living witnesses of his fatal influence.

"Ah, madame la marquise," he said, shaking his head in a disconsolate way, "I have done a great deal of mischief by my stupidity, as you can plainly see."

"There is no doubt of it, but you are very much to be blamed for having only half killed your victims, for they come to life again, and annoy people in every sort of way," said Madame de Pënâfiel, "and unfortunately the species is as varied as it is abundant and tiresome. Really there is nothing I know of that is more positively distressing than the presence of a bore; there is something in his dreadful influence that is painful to you, that saddens you in a twofold manner, as you might feel remorse for a wicked deed you had not committed."

"For my part," said Lord Falmouth, "I ask your forgiveness for the stupidity of such a trivial comparison; but we are not able to control our impressions. Well, when it happens that I have to submit to a bore, I feel exactly the same sensation as when I hear any one sawing a cork; yes, it is a sort of dull, grinding, squeaking, monotonous sound, which makes me quite understand the ferocity of Tiberius and Nero. Those tyrants must have been uncommonly bored by their courtiers."

"As far as I am concerned," said I, "one of my weak points is that I am very fond of stupid people. When you talk with a clever person, you are always filled with regret when you come to the end of the conversation. Whereas, if you are trying to talk to a fool, oh, there comes a moment, a precious, single moment which compensates you for more than you have suffered! It is the moment when a kind Providence takes him off your hands."

"The fact is," said Lord Falmouth, "that we should look upon such a trial in the light of discipline or mortification, and then it would be of benefit to us. But never mind, if, by saying a word, a single word, they could all be annihilated, would you be sufficiently philanthropic to speak that word, madame la marquise?"

"Annihilate them?" said Madame de Pënâfiel. "Annihilate them bodily?"

"Certainly, for they are already annihilated spiritually. I mean to annihilate them altogether, flesh, and bones, and cravat," said Lord Falmouth.

"In fact, that is all there is to them. But it would be a very violent remedy. Still, if by pronouncing a single word— It is very tempting," replied the marquise.

"A single word," I said to her,—"by pronouncing, let us say, your name, as they utter some sacred word to chase away an evil spirit."

"But it would be a dreadful massacre," she said.

"Very well, madame, but have we not just decided that stupidity is deadly?" said Lord Falmouth. "Then you need have no scruples, and afterwards you will be able to breathe more freely. You will find how much purer the atmosphere will be, cleansed of all its malarial germs, that bring on attacks of dismal gaping. You will be able to go freely and fearlessly everywhere."

"Come, I think I will be tempted to say 'Let there be no more bores,'" replied the marquise; "for, truly, it is a perpetual source of anxiety. One has to be always on guard as to what one is saying, and it is an intolerable annoyance. But, with all this folly, you have reminded me of a very strange story that I lately read in an old German book, which might be taken for a touchstone, or thermometer, to measure human selfishness by, if every one would but truly answer the question asked in the story.

"The story tells of a poor student in Leipsic, who, in a fit of despair, invoked the wicked spirit, who appeared, and proposed to make this strange compact with him.

"'Every wish of yours shall be granted, but on this condition, that you pronounce aloud this word, Sathaniel; and that every time you utter the word one of your fellow creatures shall die; a man in some distant country shall die. You will not see him suffer, and no one in the world but yourself will know that the realisation of your desires has cost the life of one of your fellow men.' 'And may I choose the country, the nation of my victim?' said the student. 'Certainly.' 'Shake hands, master, it is a bargain,' said he to the demon. Now the Turks were besieging Belgrade at that period, and it was at their expense that the student satisfied all his wishes, which amounted to fifty or sixty thousand Turks. It is a very vulgar story," said the marquise, "but I should like to know if there are many human beings who, if they were assured of secrecy, could resist the temptation of pronouncing the fatal word, if they were sure of realising an ardently desired wish."

"It is simply what might be called a venial homicide," said Lord Falmouth; "and, as for me, if the wish was worth the trouble, if it were some impossible thing, as if, for example, it were a question of being honoured by your friendship, madame la marquise, I certainly would not hesitate at such a trifle as the life of some obscure inhabitant of Greenland, for example, or a Laplander, because, as he is the smallest sort of a man, the sin would no doubt be less."

The marquise smiled and shrugged her shoulders, saying to me, "And you, monsieur, do you think that most men would hesitate very long between their wish and the fatal word?"

"I believe there would be so little hesitation, madame, even among the most honourable of men, that if in our golden age the wicked spirit should make such a proposition, the world would become a wilderness in eight days; and, perhaps, you, madame, you and Lord Falmouth and I, would be immolated by the caprice of one of our intimate friends, who, instead of taking the trouble of going all the way to Greenland for a victim, would treat us in a neighbourly way."

"But I have an idea," said Lord Falmouth; "suppose that the caprices and desires of humanity, by dint of satisfying themselves on the human race, had reduced the inhabitants of the world to two people in some far corner of this earth, a man who passionately loved a woman who detested him in return, and that Satan, according to his system, said to him: 'My terms are still the same; pronounce the redoubtable name, she will love you, but she will die, and you will have caused her death.' Should the man say the word?"

"To pronounce the word would be to prove that he loved desperately," said I to Lord Falmouth.

"Yes, if he were a good Catholic," said Madame de Pënâfiel; "because then he would have purchased love at the price of eternal punishment, without which it is only ferocious selfishness."

"But, madame, permit me to observe that, since there is a question of Satan, it is evident that they would both be good Catholics."

"You are quite right," replied Lord Falmouth, "and your observation reminds me of the joyful and hopeful exclamation of a poor man who was saved from shipwreck. On getting to land, the first thing he saw was a gallows. 'God be praised,' said he, 'I have landed in a civilised country.'

"But," said Lord Falmouth, "is it not enough to bring one to the verge of despair, to think that even now there are some people so happily, so wonderfully endowed, that they spend three or four hours every morning trying to see the devil,—evoking and invoking the evil one? I lately came across one of those credulous individuals in the Rue de la Barillerie. I assure you he is perfectly convinced that one of these days he will succeed, and I must admit that I greatly envy him his credulity, for he has an occupation that he will never become tired of; for a constant desire sustained by unfailing hope seems to me to come very near to perfect happiness."

"But," said I to Lord Falmouth, "did not your great poet Byron amuse himself with such follies at one time?"

"Byron! Ah, do not speak to me of that man!" exclaimed the marquise, with a look of dislike that almost amounted to hatred.

"Ah, take care, monsieur," said Lord Falmouth, smiling. "With no ill intention, you have called up a diabolical spirit, that madame la marquise will have to exorcise, for she detests him."

I was quite astonished, for I was far from expecting to find Madame de Pënâfiel an anti-Byronian. On the contrary, everything that I had heard of her fantastic and bold character was quite in harmony with that disdainful and paradoxical genius. I therefore listened very attentively to the rest of her conversation. She continued, with a scornful smile:

"Byron! Byron! so cruel and so desperate! What a hard and wicked heart! When we think how, by some inexplicable fatality, every youthful mind, with its wealth of imagination, wastes itself in admiration of this scornful and insatiable demon, it is enough to convince us of the law of contraries."

"There is nothing truer than the attraction of contraries," said Lord Falmouth. "Does the charming little butterfly, for example, intelligent little aerial creature that he is, does he ever fail, so soon as he perceives a beautiful, bright, hot flame, to hasten with all the speed of a son of Zephyr and Aurora, and roast himself in an ecstasy of delight?"

"I cannot bear to think," said Madame de Pënâfiel, in a state of exaltation, that made her more beautiful than ever, "I cannot bear to think of so many noble and trusting souls being made for ever desperate by the malevolent genius of Byron! Oh, how well he has depicted himself in Manfred! Manfred's Castle, so dark and desolate, well represents Byron's poetry. It is his terrible spirit. You enter this castle full of confidence, its wildness and grandeur captivate your imagination, but when you are once within its walls, under the spell of its pitiless host, all regret is in vain; he despoils you mercilessly of your purest and fondest beliefs. And then, when the last spark of faith is extinct, and your last hope is torn from you, the great lord chases you away with an insulting smile; and should you ask him what he is to give you in return for all these riches of your soul, that he has thus profaned and destroyed—"

"Madame," said I, allowing myself to interrupt her, "Lord Manfred answers, 'I have given you doubt,—doubt,—the wisdom of the wisest.' But," I added, being curious to see if Madame de Pënâfiel shared in my admirations as well as my antipathies, "if you have such a strong dislike to Byron, does not his noble country offer you an antidote to his dangerous poison, in Walter Scott?"

"Oh," said she, as she clasped her hands with almost infantile grace, "how charming it is, monsieur, to hear you speak thus! Is it not true that the great, the good, the adorable Scott is the counterpoise of Byron? Ah, when wounded to the heart you fly in despair from the terrible Castle of Manfred, with what grateful relief do you find yourself in the smiling and peaceful abode of Scott, that kind old man, so grave and so serene! How tenderly he receives you, how touching is his pity for you, how he comforts and consoles you! In what a pure and radiant light he shows you the world, exalting all that is noble, good, and generous in the human heart! He raises your self-respect as much as Byron has degraded it. If he can never restore your lost illusions, which, alas! is an impossibility, he can, at least, tranquillise and soothe your incurable grief by his beneficent stories. Is it not, monsieur, true glory to be as great as Walter Scott? Which man is more truly grand and powerful, he who afflicts or he who consoles? For, alas! monsieur, it is so easy to get people to believe in evil," added the marquise, with a grieved expression.

Though all this was very true and very well stated, it would have seemed too prearranged for a conversation, had there not been something else that surprised me more.

No doubt every one has felt the same inexplicable sensation. It is this: you feel, for the space of one or two seconds, that you have positively seen or heard already the things you are seeing or hearing, although you have the absolute certainty that the place you see or the person who speaks has never been seen or heard by you before.

The opinion that Madame de Pënâfiel had just expressed on Byron and Scott gave me this strange sensation. It was so like my own that it seemed the echo of my own thoughts. At first I was almost stupefied, but reflecting that, after all, it was but a simple and natural comparison between two minds that were diametrically opposed to one another, I continued calmly, for I was determined not to be influenced by my feelings, although Madame de Pënâfiel had been very eloquent, and really seemed to feel what she said.

"No doubt, madame, the genius of Byron is very saddening, and that of Scott very consoling, and one seems very superior to the other; but these despairs and consolations are quite superfluous nowadays, for at the present epoch nobody is distressed or pleased by such trifles."

"How is that?" asked she.

"It appears, madame, that we no longer live in the age of imaginary joys and misfortune; we have come to the wise conclusion of substituting reality and material comfort for dreamy, foolish ideality and passion; so in all probability we are much nearer happiness than we ever have been before, for there is nothing more difficult, more impossible to realise, than the ideal, while, with a little common sense, every one can arrange for himself a comfortable existence according to his own taste."

"Then, monsieur," said Madame de Pënâfiel, with some show of impatience, "you deny the existence of passion? You say that in our day it does not exist?"

"I was mistaken, madame, if I said that, for there is still one passion remaining, and only one, and in this one passion all others are concentrated. Its influence is tremendous; it is the only one which, being well managed, carries any weight in society nowadays; it controls our customs so completely that, though we are still a thousand leagues away from the gracious ways of the great period of gallantry and pleasure, the passion that I speak of, madame, is able to change every salon of Paris into a Quaker meeting or an assemblage of American citizens."

"How could that be?" said she.

"To be brief, madame, would you wish to see the strictest prudery reign in all conversation? Would you wish to hear endless invocations (by unmarried men, you understand) on the sanctity of marriage and the duty of married women? Would you wish to see the Utopia dreamed of by the sternest moralists realised?"

"For my part, I should like to see it once, just for a minute or two," said Lord Falmouth, pretending to be alarmed at the idea, "but that would be sufficient; I should utter a protest if it were to last any longer."

"Tell us what this passion is, monsieur," said Madame de Pënâfiel, "this passion that can perform all these miracles,—what is it?"

"It is selfishness, or the passion for material comfort, madame; a passion that can be translated by a trivial and very significant word,—money."

"And how will you utilise the excessive love of money in the development of this excessive and threatening virtue, of which you have drawn such an exaggerated picture that I am still quite overcome?" said Lord Falmouth.

"Just as they do in your country, monsieur, by punishing every infraction of duty by an enormous fine. How else can it be done? In our epoch of materialism we no longer fear anything except that which touches our daily life, our pocket; this being the case, the system of fines applied to the maintenance of good morals will certainly be the most powerful social lever of the period. For instance, imagine that a confirmed, inexorable moralist was determined to put a stop, suddenly and brutally, to those weaknesses that society pardons,—a man entirely devoted to his sense of duty, or, if you like it better, take a man who is very ugly, very tiresome, and consequently very envious of certain charming sins that he has never been lucky enough to commit, but that he is determined to exterminate,—suppose that this blood-thirsty moralist is a legislator, and that one day in the halls of state he discloses a most deplorable state of affairs, and then demands and obtains, after some discussion, from the majority, whom you can, without any great stretch of imagination, suppose to consist of men who are also very ugly, old, and tiresome, the passage of a bill organising a secret police, destined to ferret out and unmask every act that threatens private life: imagine that finally a law is promulgated, which punishes by a fine of fifty thousand francs the tender crime whose victims fill our tribunals, and that the fine shall be doubled in case of a second arrest. This fine is not to be offered in the shameful form of damages to the injured party, but employed, let us suppose, in the education of abandoned children,—so that the superfluous would help the necessitous."

"And do you believe, monsieur," cried the marquise, "that the ignoble fear of paying a given sum would render the majority of men less attentive, less devoted to women?"

"I believe it so firmly, madame, that I can give you an excellent sketch of the two very different aspects of a salon, filled with the same persons, on the day before and the day after the promulgation of such a law.

"The day before you would see all the men smiling, expansive, charming, using their softest tones and tenderest looks to prove by every grace of look and accent the amorous principles of such logic as this: 'Whatever is pleasant is right.' 'Discretion is the only virtue.' 'Your heart was not consulted when they gave you your tyrant.' 'There are certain feelings that are inevitably sympathetic.''Your soul longs for its twin sister, take my soul.' (This piece of a soul, by the way, has enormous moustaches, or side-whiskers.) 'When it has reached a certain stage, guilty love becomes a sacred duty,' etc. I will excuse you, madame, from hearing a variety of other excellent reasonings, which generally do not deceive those that hear them, any more than those that give utterance to them.

"But on the evening after the promulgation of this terrible law, when there would be danger of the fine, what a difference! As all those pretty paradoxes of night before last might end, after all, in the payment of a heavy sum, and as that sum would reduce by just so much the luxury and comfort which are the necessities of an essentially material life, while love is only a delightful superfluity, you would see all the men suddenly become serious, pompous, dignified, frightened at the slightest attempt at conversation from a woman, if she was at all removed from the rest of the company; prudish and scared as schoolgirls before their head teacher, you would hear them cry out aloud so that every one could hear them, and in their most solemn voice, the voice that they use when they make political speeches, refuse requests, and later scold their wives and children with: 'After all, good morals are the foundation of society.' 'We must draw the line somewhere!' 'There are some duties that a gallant man ought to respect.' 'I had a mother once.' 'I shall be a father some day.' 'There is no real pleasure except in the satisfaction of conscience,' etc. For I will spare you, madame, a quantity of other formulas more or less moral, which, as soon as the question of a fine came up, might be translated thus: 'Ladies, I know that you are all as charming as possible; but I love my opera box, my house, my table, my stable, my gaming, my journey to the summer resorts or to Italy, my pictures, my bric-à-brac; shall I risk all of these for a few moments of felicity, as rare as it is intoxicating? No!'"

"It is infamous," said the marquise; "out of a hundred men, not one would answer in this way."

"Permit me, madame, to be of an absolutely opposite opinion. I believe the men of our day are pitilessly attached to material comfort, and willing to sacrifice everything else to it, and, more than all the rest, that which is called love."

"You believe that?" said Madame de Pënâfiel with profound astonishment. "You believe that? And how old might you be, monsieur?"

The question was so strange and so impolite, besides being so difficult to answer without being extremely ridiculous, that I bowed respectfully and said at haphazard:

"My star was so favourable, madame la marquise, that I was born the day before your birthday."

Madame de Pënâfiel drew herself up with a haughty expression of impatience, and said, in a lofty way, "I was speaking in earnest, monsieur."

"And it is in all seriousness, madame, that I have the honour of answering; the question that you were so kind as to ask is too flattering a proof of your interest to allow me to answer it in any other way."

"But how do you know my age?" she asked me, with surprise and curiosity.

"It will be many long years from now, madame, before this secret need give you any uneasiness, and, by that time, I hope that I shall have been so long in your good graces that I shall have forgotten all about it."

At this very instant a terrible sneeze, all the more sonorous from having been restrained, was heard in the direction of the young stranger, who, as Lord Falmouth had predicted, had been turning over the pages of the same album for the last hour, in profound silence. The noise caused Madame de Pënâfiel to start with surprise, and she turned her head quickly, when, to her great consternation, she saw M. de Stroll. But she made such profound and gracious excuses to the young baron for her apparent neglect of him, that he found her conduct quite natural, and seemed rather pleased to have sneezed so loud.

It was now late, and I left.

I was waiting for my carriage in one of the entrance salons, when Lord Falmouth and M. de Stroll came to find their servants.

"Well," said Lord Falmouth to me, "what do you think of Madame de Pënâfiel?"

Whether from false shame at having to acknowledge myself already under the spell, or from pure dissimulation, I answered, pleasantly: "Madame de Pënâfiel appears to be extremely unassuming in manners, she possesses a candid mind devoid of all pretentiousness, an enchanting personality, and has an innocent way of saying just what she thinks."

"Upon my word," replied Lord Falmouth, with his grave irony, "your judgment is a true one, as true as that we are now standing at noonday in the middle of a thick forest listening to the songs of the birds." Then he added, seriously: "The most infernal thing about her is her falseness. I am quite sure that she does not believe a word of all she said to us about Scott and Byron, for she has about as much heart as that," said he, striking with his cane the base of a colossal Japanese vase filled with flowers that he was standing near; "or rather," he said, taking from the vase a beautiful crimson camellia, and holding it up to me; "she resembles this flower,—colour and brilliance, nothing more; no more soul than this flower has perfume. After all, though, when she wants to, she can talk very charmingly. But people say you should hear her when one of her guests has just left,—how she can take them to pieces! One of these days we will play at that game; you shall go out and I will stay behind, then I will tell you all that she has said about you, and you shall do as much sometime for me."

Just then our carriages came up. Lord Falmouth went off to the club to make a night of it; after a moment's hesitation as to accompanying him, I decided to go home.

In spite of Lord Falmouth's opinion and what I myself had said about Madame de Pënâfiel, I had quite agreed with her, and what she said about Byron had made a deep impression on me; for I thought that I detected hidden under this discussion, the signs of mental anguish and heartfelt loneliness, and this gave me much to reflect upon, because I believed I had perceived something of her true character, which was absolutely in opposition to all that they said about Madame de Pënâfiel.

CHAPTER XVIII

ON WHAT THE WORLD SAID AND ON COQUETRY

There is nothing more difficult, not to say impossible, than to successfully defend in society a poor young woman, who is so unfortunate as not only to occupy a prominent position both as to name and fortune, but who is beautiful both in face and figure, has a remarkable mind, is talented and extremely well informed.

When once she has unchained the world's wrath, on account of this insolent reunion of advantages, her every action, the best as well as the most unimportant, her virtues, her graces, all are criticised with the most artistic perfidy, and people are only lenient in regard to her defects.

There is nothing more saddening than to observe the contrary effect of this persistent belittling. If the woman against whom such unanimous hatred is shown is the mistress of a splendid home, every one is eager to go there, no effort is too great to gain admittance to her circle of friends. Is she considered too fast? What does it matter? All the mothers take their daughters to call on her, no doubt in order to return good for the evil that they themselves have done, and to show that they pay no attention to the scandals they themselves have spread abroad.

These remarks are spoken apropos of Madame de Pënâfiel, whom I began to see quite frequently, and very soon saw every day.

As it usually happens, I found her totally different from the descriptions that had been given me. She had been described as haughty and imperious, I had found her only dignified; ironical and scornful, I had never seen her so except towards low-lived persons, who well deserved such treatment; unkind and hateful, she had seemed to me kind and pitiful; fantastic, capricious, and morose, I had seen her sad, but very rarely.

Now this marked dissimilarity between what I heard and what I saw, ought it to be credited to the deep dissimulation with which Madame de Pënâfiel was accused? I do not know.

I do not know even if I was in love with Madame de Pënâfiel, but I felt for her, as I became more and more intimate, a very lively interest, caused as much by her fascination, her mind, by the simplicity with which she admitted certain defects, as by the persistent way that she was continually attacked, a persistence that had cost me many violent discussions.

It is not without a certain amount of vainglory that I recall this circumstance, for nothing is more frequent than the cowardly way that we join the backbiters, when they tear our absent friends to pieces.

Besides, I had begun to discover the falseness of the many absurdities that at first I had given credence to.

Thus when I knew her well enough to speak confidentially, I told her frankly that her presence at that fatal race, where M. de Merteuil had been killed, had appeared strange to every one.

With a surprised look she asked me why?

I told her that, as M. de Merteuil and M. de Senneterre were both her intimate friends, her devoted admirers indeed—

But without giving me time to finish, she exclaimed that it was an outrageous falsehood, that she received M. de Merteuil and M. de Senneterre only on her days of reception; that she hardly ever saw them in the morning; that she was ignorant of the danger they ran. Knowing nothing of their wager, she went to the race as she had gone to many another, and only was prevented remaining until the finish because she was cold.

In reply, I told her of the rumour and the public opinion in consequence of it, which was as follows: "She had known both Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre to be in love with her, having inexcusably encouraged their rival attentions; she was thus responsible for this murderous challenge, and her careless departure from the ground before the end of the race had given as much offence as her presence on the race-course; finally, her appearing that night in a conspicuous box at the Opéra was the height of disdainful heartlessness."

Madame de Pënâfiel could not at first believe these miserable stories; when I had convinced her she was greatly distressed, and asked me how it was that well-bred persons could be so stupid or so blind as to think that a woman of her position and breeding could play such a part.

To this I answered that good society resigned itself with most Christian humility, and, forgetting all the experience that the world had taught it, was willing to descend to the most stupid and commonplace credulity, the moment there was any question of believing a slander.

I then told her the story of Ismaël. She said that she had in fact noticed and admired, as an artist might have done, his characteristic costume, and that for an instant she had been afraid of seeing the unfortunate man thrown from his horse. But when it came to the rest of the tale, and the conviction of the public that she had asked to have Ismaël presented to her, she burst out laughing and told me how she had said at the Opéra to M. de Cernay, who it seems was quite provoked, "Nothing nowadays is more vulgar than these Chasseurs and Heiduques; when you have shown off your lion sufficiently, and have had all the benefit you care for in parading him as a contrast to yourself, you can send him to me, and I will have him sit behind my carriage with a valet de pied; it will be very original and something new."

"Very well, madame," said I, laughing too, "here is the rest of the story: While Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre were risking their lives to please you, with perfect indifference to their rash struggle, whose object you knew, you had no eyes for anything but the Turk, your admiration was expressed in a thousand signs and transports that were almost frenzied. When that evening you appeared at the Opéra, after the death of one of your devoted admirers, your first thought was to beg M. de Cernay to present Ismaël to you. Finally, taking the advice of your friends and wishing to escape the deep impression that this savage foreigner had made, you had the resolution to leave town suddenly, and take refuge way off in Brittany."

Madame de Pënâfiel asked me if it were not M. de Cernay who had started these false and slanderous reports. As I attempted to elude this question, though there was no reason why I should protect the count, she said, after an instant's reflection:

"Confession for confession. M. de Cernay, after having paid me some attention, ended by making me an offer of marriage, which was not accepted any more than a declaration of love would have been. For as I had no desire to do a foolish thing, I could not think seriously of committing such an irreparable mistake. As M. de Cernay had no more reason to be vain of my refusal than I had to be vain of his offer, the secret was scrupulously kept between us; now that he calumniates me it shall be a secret no longer; use it as you see fit and 'give your authority,' as my venerable friend, Arthur Young, would say. Now as to this hurried journey to Brittany, you may have noticed at the Opéra that night that I spoke rather sharply to that poor Cornelia, my lady companion. I had told her the day before that I meant to start for the country. She began to make a thousand objections, on the weather, the cold, etc., and ended by making me angry, because if the weather was good enough for me it was good enough for her. Now, it was not absolutely to escape the terrible Turk that I was going away, but simply to pay a last visit to the woman who had nursed me. She was ill and believed herself dying unless I would come to see her, which she thought was the only thing that would restore her to health. As I am very much attached to this excellent creature, I started off, and what is very strange is that now she is perfectly well again, so I am not at all sorry that I was courageous enough to undertake such a tiresome journey in midwinter."

I made Madame de Pënâfiel laugh when I told her how deeply I had pitied her companion for having to submit to such tyrannical treatment, etc., the night I saw the poor young girl's annoyance at the Opéra.

I only cite these particulars, as I believe them to be specimens of the absurd rumours which are often absolutely credited in the social world, and which are capable of doing so much injury.

I could not understand this perpetual resentment against a young woman who, the more intimately I became acquainted with her, the less I understood her character; for, although she was always agreeable, and possessed a singularly cultivated mind, she was frequently paradoxical, and had some pretensions to scientific knowledge (this was considered one of her failings). Moreover, she very rarely showed any genial cordiality or real enthusiasm.

As to her innermost sentiments, she appeared to be constrained or oppressed, as though weighed down by some sad secret; then, again, she would evince traits of deep-felt commiseration and kindness, which did not seem spontaneous or natural, but, rather, the result of comparison or the recollection of some great misfortune, as though she said, "I have suffered so much that I am worthy of compassion."

At other times she gave way to the most violent explosions of contempt for all these spiteful and envious persons, and would break forth with the most cutting sarcasms, sparing no one. This was one of the reasons of her having so many bitter enemies.

A circumstance that I thought strange was that, in spite of all that was said about her levity, I had never seen a single man who appeared to be on terms of intimacy with her, or any one in whom she could be supposed to take any affectionate interest.

If, then, I loved Madame de Pënâfiel, it was not with that fresh, pure, passionate love I had felt for Hélène, it was a sentiment in which love and curiosity were strangely allied to distrust; for, although I condemned the absurd calumnies of the world, I was often quite as foolish and quite as unjust as other people.

Although I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel constantly for nearly three months, I had never breathed a word of gallantry. This was as much through calculation as distrust. I had found her to be so essentially different from the portrait the world had drawn of her, that I could not help thinking at times of what I had heard, and wondering if she were as false as she was accused of being. Therefore, I wished to study her more fully, before allowing myself to be carried away on the current of a declaration, whose refusal I did not wish to risk, for I am ready to declare that Madame de Pënâfiel was very seductive.

Among her other delightful faults, what charmed me most was her coquetry, which was quite peculiar.

It was not shown by any pretended demonstrations of solicitude, or by a flattering way of receiving a friend, flattery which is usually as deceptive as it is encouraging. No; her nature was too proud and independent to permit her to stoop to such means of winning admirers.

Her coquetry was entirely in the perfect gracefulness that she wished, and knew how, to impart to her every motion, to those poses that were apparently the least studied. No doubt all that grace was calculated, reasoned out, if I may say so, but habit had so harmonised the enchanting art with the native elegance of her manners that it was impossible to gaze on anything more charming. Besides, when it is a question of exquisite manners, naturalness can never bear a comparison with studied politeness, any more than the pale wild flower of the eglantine can compare in size, colour, and perfume with the cultivated hothouse rose.

Madame de Pënâfiel admitted, with delightful sincerity, that she took the greatest pleasure in dressing beautifully and tastefully, so that she might look pretty; that she loved to see her graceful attitudes reflected in a mirror; and that she did not see why a woman should be ashamed any more of adorning her body than cultivating her mind,—that people should study how to take an elegant and proper pose as well as to speak properly and wittily.

She declared that she practised these graces more to please herself than others, who, she said, never knew how to flatter her properly, while she herself knew exactly how much she was entitled to; so she preferred her own admiration, and always craved it.

One would scarcely believe to what a point Madame de Pënâfiel carried this art of making pictures.

Thus, as she was very fond of painting, she had a sort of parlour, which was at the same time a salon, library, and studio. It was arranged with perfect taste, and here she preferred to receive. According to the way she felt, her toilet, or the events of the day, by means of shades and a clever combination of old stained glass windows, the room would be more or less lighted, and with the most admirable and poetical knowledge of light and shade and the many intelligent resources of artistically opposed colourings.

For example, if she were nervous and pale, and all clothed in white, her beautiful brown hair with its golden gloss arranged in bandeaux, if she happened to be seated in a half light, which fell from above, and threw great shadows in the apartment, you should have seen how this dim light, falling on her fair forehead, her pale pink cheeks, and her ivory throat, left all the rest of her face in a marvellous half-tone. Nothing could be lovelier to look at than such a white and vapoury figure, shining in soft light upon a very dark background.

Then, besides this, carefully arranged light would glitter here and there like sparks of fire, on the gilded carving of an armchair, on the glossy folds of some piece of satin, on the tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl of a piece of furniture, or on the polished surface of the porcelain vases that were filled with flowers. The light thus distributed not only gave the appearance of a charming picture to this elegant figure, but to all its surrounding accessories. This manner of lighting an apartment pleased me very much, because it coincided with my own ideas, for, if there is anything shocking, it is the complete ignorance, or the deplorable neglect architects show in this matter.

Thus, without taking into consideration the style or the epoch, or, if a woman is concerned, her appearance or the type of her beauty, an architect thinks he has done everything, and has done it to perfection, when, by means of two or three enormous windows, ten feet high, he has thrown a dazzling sheet of light from every side of a room, enough to blind one. Now in this prodigal and unskilful way light is neutralised, and loses its effect; it neither shows off pictures, materials, nor sculptures, because, shining indifferently on all, it gives value to none.

In a word, as résumé, it seems to me that an apartment—not a place of reception, but of intimacy—should be lighted with as careful study, as much art, as though it were a picture.

Therefore, a great many things must be sacrificed in the shadow and the half-tone, in order to bring out the high lights. Then the eye and the mind are refreshed and rested, as they gaze with pleasure, love, and a sort of poetic contemplation, on such an interior.

It is a real picture, a living picture, that we admire as though it were painted on canvas.

But it needs a certain elevation of the mind, a certain instinctive ideality, perhaps an exaggerated sense of the beautiful, to cultivate this domestic art, and find in it the constant sources of meditative enjoyment, which are incomprehensible to most people.

If I insist upon speaking of this peculiarity, it is because I was much pleased with this similarity in Madame de Pënâfiel's tastes with my own, and it showed her coquetry in such a way that I loved her to adoration.

I remember that nothing angered me more than the rudeness of all the men of her acquaintance, who were all perfectly furious on the subject of what they called her intolerable and hateful coquetry. It was, they said, with strange ill-nature, it was a ridiculous pretension on her part, a sort of wager that she had made with herself, to be always gracious and charming. Never was she to be seen unless she was exquisitely dressed; all was prearranged and studied out, from the dim light to the colouring of the curtains, which harmonised with her complexion as though she expected to clothe herself with them. And then, oh, horror! on her writing-table there were natural flowers in a vase, and, could you believe it? they were chosen to match the colour of her hair, as though she meant to wear a head-dress of natural flowers! But that was not all. She had a foot as small as a child's, the finest arms that ever were seen, and an exquisite hand. Well, was it not intolerable? No one could help noticing and admiring her foot, her arm, or her hand, for she was so clever that these charms were always in evidence. It was odious, scandalous, not to be put up with.

Now, even if all this were true,—and in a certain way it was true,—could there be anything in the world more absurd or idiotic than to hear a lot of men, dressed in the careless and even untidy way that is permissible nowadays for morning visits, and who went like caterpillars—an old expression that might be revived—to pass an hour at a lady's house, to hear them, I say, complaining bitterly because she had received them surrounded by all that taste, art, and refinement could add to her natural graces?

For my part, on the contrary, I took the greatest pleasure in these delightful coquetries of Madame de Pënâfiel, in the contemplation, even though it were simply as a work of art, of such a delicious living picture, which was sometimes so animated, sometimes so sad and languishing.

I forgot to say that among the most violent detractors of Madame de Pënâfiel were several young Christians of her acquaintance. Since I have written these words, they require some explanation; for the young Christian of the salon, a pretentious and grotesque type, that will soon be displaced by another equally ridiculous, deserves to be properly described, so that his exhilarating personality may be handed down to posterity.

CHAPTER XIX

ON PARLOUR CHRISTIANITY

Parlour Christianity is divided into two classes: the first, pretentious and grotesque, and the second, respectable, because its members have at least an exterior, a language and manners that are not in too ridiculous a contrast with their specialty.

These mundane apostles can also be divided into two sorts,—the young Christian who dances, and one who does not. This classification will be sufficient to enable one to recognise them at a glance.

The first, the dancing Christians, are more or less plump and rosy, curled, frizzled, cravated, stiffened, starched, and perfumed. They are the beaux, the cavaliers, the lions of parlour Christianity, of tea-table Catholicism; they eat, drink, talk, laugh, sing, shout, dance, waltz, galop, dance the cotillon and mazurka, and make love (when they get a chance) as enthusiastically as the most austere Lutheran or the most hardened sinner. Some of them, remembering that David danced before the ark, have even gone so far as to study the cachucha, no doubt with a view of rendering Christian homage to that adorable dance, which is so popular in Spain, the most Catholic of countries. Some of them, however, more strict than these, before consenting to rival the most agile of the "Majos," have demanded that cachucha shall be rebaptised "the inquisition." The question is now under consideration.

However this may be, when we see these young apostles in kid gloves and high pompadours arrive, all panting, from a galop, and abandon themselves to a delirious waltz, devouring their partners with their eyes; when we see them afterwards trying to forget or remembering their charming partners in the exciting intimacy of the Pierettes of the Bal Musard, we can hardly believe that they are very much more Christian than Abd-el-Kadir.

But thanks to certain indiscreet revelations on the topography of divine religions, to certain compromising confessions as to the duration of eternal punishment, and more than all, by their triumphant fatuity, we divine, we almost can see the supernumerary angel under the terrestrial veil of these young Christians.

The only thing I can reproach them with is that they do not take more pains to conceal the fact of their intimacy with Jehovah, their hand-in-glove acquaintance with a kind Providence, that they have lots of influential friends up there, and that the seraphim are their most humble servants.

But, while waiting orders to return to the King of kings, who, in a moment of generosity, kindly loaned us these plump cherubs to lighten our sorrows, these young Christian dancers practise our profane joys faithfully, without, however, neglecting their sacred pleasures. In fact, the young Christian dancer should possess his chronicle of church and sacristy, as an habitué of the Opéra keeps his record of all that goes on behind the scenes. The dancing Christian should know all the fashionable preachers, their manners, their habits, anecdotes of their private life; should be able to tell how the Abbé —— does not write his own sermons; how Abbé —— has ousted the Abbé ——; how Abbé —— is very graceful or very awkward when he preaches; how rudely one of the vicars of St. Thomas of Aquinas squabbled with his curé; how some pious soul discovered, on the hat of a lady who is no longer young, but youthful looking and well preserved, several yards of splendid old lace that she herself had offered to the jovial curé of S——, to make an altar cloth for his church. The dancing Christian should, in a word, know which are the best places in church to see and hear the preacher; he must never lose the first hearing of a sermon or a conference, and must always be on hand afterwards, to report as to its success or failure, exactly as though it were a new opera that was under discussion.

Thanks to this perpetual haunting of the pulpit and the sacristy, and to the vigour of his calves, the young Christian dancer, who is recognised as such, enjoys all the privileges that are attached to his eccentric position.

Always a Christian, everywhere a Christian, at a ball, at the theatre, at the table, in the country, in town, standing, sitting down, in bed, dreaming or awake, he is intolerant, inquisitorial, indignant; he assigns you at once your place, either in heaven or hell; he fulminates fearful anathemas on the new Gomorrah while he drinks his punch, or cries "Babylon! Babylon!" as he sups like an ogre. Finally, with a terrible cry of desolation, he announces the near and threatening probability of the last judgment, and then goes off to dance the cotillon.

After which, worn out, overcome by the fatigues of the sermon and the ball, he goes to bed, and is very soon oppressed by a frightful nightmare. He dreams he is a father confessor, and that his last partner, with whom he discussed the honest modesty of Joseph fleeing from Potiphar's wife, comes to confess to him that she committed all sorts of ravishing sins with a Jansenist, two Calvinists, eleven deists, and she does not know how many atheists.

Far from the dancing Christians who flourish under the brilliant chandeliers, blooms the young Christian who does not dance. If the former are the Cavaliers of this parlour religion, the latter are its Puritans,—grave, pale, austere, thin, dismal, negligent, more bashful than St. Joseph, it would give them real pleasure to cover themselves with ashes, but they go about dragging here and there their melancholy and their religiously pure and transparent lives. Taking no interest in our profane joys, which they witness but do not associate in, they are entirely taken up by their divine aspirations, their celestial visions; they are tolerant, kind, and full of pity for human error; these are the tender Fénélons of this mundane church, while the dancing Christians are the merciless Bossuets, for the dancing Christian is implacable, unapproachable, impossible. As soon as there is any question of human weakness, not in himself, but in another, there is no compromise, no mean term, it is the devil and hell, the devil with his horns and tail; it is perfectly clear, there is no escape.

The Christian who does not dance is extremely fond of purgatory. Extremes disgust his pious soul. He is scrupulous and charitable, he would hesitate a long, long time, he would need the proof of many dreadful iniquities, before he could bring himself to say positively, "Alas, my poor, dear brother, it appears to me that, unless you amend your ways, you will one of these days be claimed by the great devil of hell."

The dancing Christian, on the contrary, sends you off there at once and for ever, for the smallest little sin, with frightful assurance.

As for the future of the human race, the Christian who does not dance seems still to have some hopes that the world will be saved in spite of the crimes and errors of mankind. He presumes, though he will not assert it positively, that at the last judgment, there may be a general amnesty which will remit the sins of the damned. The Christian who does not dance seems to count on the inexhaustible mercy of God, who is as kind as he is powerful, he says, and one might think that he was very well informed as to celestial politics; but the dancing Christian, who comes to take part in the conversation while eating an ice, overturns with a single word all these pleasant and comforting thoughts. Then he holds forth only threats and menaces. There is no more hope,—nothing but the smell of sulphur and bitumen which give you a foretaste of a future of eternal flames, eternal pitchforks, and everlasting gridirons. There is nothing left for poor human beings but to weep with despair and to moan over their fatal destiny, and so, while awaiting the terrible predictions of the young Christian dancer, they give themselves up to an endless galop, or an orgy in the two worlds of society, worthy of Belshazzar's feast.

CHAPTER XX

THE PARLOUR

I have now reached an event in my life that was very blissful and yet cruel. The thought of it still causes me many a sigh of pleasure and of pain.

I found myself one day, for no reason whatever, in a singular state of hatred and distrust. I felt greatly provoked with Madame de Pënâfiel, because I began to perceive that the thought of her influenced me more than I meant it should. This irritated me, for I feared that I had as yet formed no real opinion as to her true nature, and it made me uneasy and apprehensive.

That day, when I went to the Hôtel Pënâfiel, contrary to the usual custom of the house, which was marvellously strict, when the footman had opened the door from the vestibule, I saw no valet de chambre in the waiting-room who could announce me. Before reaching the parlour, one had to pass through three or four other rooms, which had no doors, but only portières. Not expecting me, she could scarcely hear me coming, as the carpets were so thick as to entirely prevent the sound of my footsteps.

I had reached the portière which shut off the parlour, and could see Madame de Pënâfiel before she perceived me, unless the reflection from a mirror had betrayed my presence. I shall never forget my astonishment at the sight of her pale and woebegone countenance. She looked weary, sorry, hopeless, if a face is capable of expressing all three of these feelings at the same moment.

I can see her still. She usually sat on a little low armchair. It was of gilt wood, covered with brown satin embroidered in little roses. In front of it was a long ermine rug, on which she placed her feet, and beside it against the wall was a little cabinet of buhl, whose upper half opened with doors like a bookcase; these doors were half open, and within them I saw, to my great astonishment, an ivory crucifix.

She had probably slid from off her chair, for she was half kneeling, half seated on the ermine rug, her hands were clasped on her knees, and her face was turned towards the crucifix, while a ray of light that shone on her forehead showed how intense was her sadness.

Nothing could be more beautiful or touching than the sight of this young woman, surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and elegance, and yet crushed under the burden of an untold sorrow.

After my first sensation of astonishment I was lost in sad contemplation, and with much distress I attempted to imagine what could be the cause of her grief.

But alas! almost immediately, by some mysterious fatality my habitual distrust, added to Madame de Pënâfiel's reputation for duplicity, suggested that this scene was only a tableau arranged for my benefit. That hearing me approaching, she had assumed this melancholy attitude, from what motive I will explain later.

I know that it was absurd and ridiculous to believe in such a deliberate piece of coquetry when apparently overcome by such a weight of sorrow; but whether it was the result of her habitual desire to appear charming, or was merely accidental, it would be impossible to see anything more perfect than the expression of her uplifted eyes, shining so beautifully through the limpid crystal of her tears; her slender, graceful form thus bending on the carpet, her swan-like throat with its lovely curve, and even her charming foot with its high instep, that was exposed by the disorder of her costume, as well as her ankle and the lower part of a delicate limb bound with the ribbons that fastened her black satin slippers,—the whole picture was ravishing.