by Eugène Sue
Mlle. de Beaumesnil, to the utter dismay of the Rochaiguës, and with a sudden display of obstinacy that both amazed and cowed them, had insisted upon dressing as simply as on the occasion of Madame Herbaut’s little entertainment.
A plain white muslin gown and a blue sash, exactly like those she had worn the Sunday before, composed the attire of the heiress, who wished to look neither better nor worse than she did then.
The thought of attiring herself in a ridiculous manner had occurred to her, almost certain that, even in that case, the charming originality of her toilet would be loudly praised on every side, but the thought of what a serious and important thing this test was to her led to a speedy abandonment of that idea.
As had been planned in advance by Mesdames de Mirecourt, de Senneterre, and de la Rochaiguë, Mlle. de Beaumesnil, as soon as she arrived at the ball, and made her way through the eager crowd that blocked her passage, was conducted by her hostess to the large and magnificent room which had been reserved for dancing. Here, Madame de Mirecourt left Ernestine in the care of Madame de la Rochaiguë and Madame de Senneterre, whom the baroness had just met — by the merest chance.
Not far from the divan on which the heiress was seated were several charming young girls, all as pretty and much more elegantly dressed than the belles of Madame Herbaut’s ball, but every eye was riveted upon Ernestine.
“I shall not lack partners this evening,” she thought, “nor shall I be asked out of pity. All those charming girls over there will doubtless be neglected on my account.”
While Mlle. de Beaumesnil was absorbed in these observations, recollections, and comparisons, Madame de Senneterre was telling Madame de la Rochaiguë, in subdued tones, that, unfortunately, Gerald was so ill that it would be impossible for him to attend the ball, and it was therefore decided that Ernestine should be allowed to dance very little, and then only with carefully selected partners.
To attain this end, Madame de la Rochaiguë said to Ernestine:
“My darling child, you can judge of the sensation you are creating in spite of the unheard-of simplicity of your toilet. My predictions are more than realised, you see. You are sure to be overwhelmed with invitations to dance, but as it would never do for you to dance with everybody, we will manage in this way. When I think it advisable for you to accept an invitation, I will open my fan; if, on the contrary, I keep it closed, you will decline on the plea that you are dancing very little, and that you have made too many engagements already.”
Madame de la Rochaiguë had scarcely addressed this remark to Ernestine before quite a number of young people began to take their places for a quadrille. Several young men who were dying to invite Mlle. de Beaumesnil hesitated a little, rightly thinking that it was hardly the thing to ask her the minute she entered the ball-room; but M. de Macreuse, being either less scrupulous or more daring, did not hesitate a second, but, making his way swiftly through the crowd, begged Ernestine to do him the honour to dance the quadrille that was then forming, with him.
Madame de Senneterre, positively stupefied by what she called such unheard-of audacity on M. de Macreuse’s part, turned to hastily implore Madame de la Rochaiguë to give the signal for a refusal, but it was too late.
Mlle. de Beaumesnil, anxious to find herself virtually alone with M. de Macreuse as soon as possible, promptly accepted the invitation, without waiting to note the movements of Madame de la Rochaiguë’s fan, and, to that lady’s great astonishment, immediately rose, accepted the pious young man’s arm, and walked away.
“That scoundrel’s insolence is really unbearable!” exclaimed the duchess, wrathfully.
But checking herself suddenly, she exclaimed in an entirely different tone:
“Why, there he is now!”
“Who?”
“Gerald.”
“How fortunate! Where do you see him, my dear duchess?”
“Over there by the window. Poor boy, how pale he looks!” added the duchess, feelingly. “How brave it was in him to come! We are saved!”
“Yes, it is, indeed, Gerald!” said Madame de la Rochaiguë, no less delighted than her friend. “M. de Maillefort is with him. The marquis did not deceive me, after all. He promised that he would do nothing to interfere with my plans as soon as he found out that M. de Senneterre was the husband I had picked out for Ernestine.”
The music struck up, and just as Madame de Senneterre motioned to Gerald that there was a vacant seat beside her, the quadrille in which M. de Macreuse and Mlle. de Beaumesnil were to participate began.
CHAPTER XII.
M. DE MACREUSE OVERDOES THE MATTER.
MLLE. DE BEAUMESNIL had eagerly availed herself of the first opportunity for a conversation with M. de Macreuse, for from this conversation she hoped to ascertain whether her distrust of him was well founded. She was strongly inclined to think so, the abbé’s protégé having assured Mlle. Helena that he had fallen suddenly and passionately in love with Mlle. de Beaumesnil at first sight.
And after her experience at Madame Herbaut’s, the heiress knew what to think of the sudden and irresistible impressions her beauty must produce.
But recollecting the different things that had attracted her attention to M. de Macreuse, recalling the profound grief he had seemed to feel at his mother’s death, the charity of which he had given such convincing proof by his alms, and, above all, the rare virtues which Mlle. Helena was continually lauding to the skies, Ernestine was anxious to know exactly what to think of this so-called model young man.
“M. de Macreuse has interested me very much,” she said to herself. “He is very prepossessing in appearance, and his melancholy is extremely touching; in fact, but for M. de Maillefort’s sneering remarks, which have made me distrust myself as well as others, I should perhaps have taken a decided fancy to M. de Macreuse. Perhaps, captivated by the rare virtues of which I have heard so much, I should have unconsciously yielded to Mlle. Helena’s influence, and perhaps have married M. de Macreuse, a choice which I am told would assure my happiness for life. Let me see, then, what kind of a choice I should have made, for I have an infallible means of distinguishing truth from falsehood now.”
M. de Macreuse, full of confidence by reason of Helena’s flattering reports, and realising the decisive nature of this interview, had long been preparing himself to play the liar to perfection.
When Ernestine laid her hand lightly on his arm, this pious youth pretended to give a sudden start, and the young girl was conscious of the sort of thrill that traversed her partner’s arm.
When they had taken their places, M. de Macreuse made two ineffectual attempts to address a few words to Mlle. de Beaumesnil, but he seemed dominated by such a powerful, though perfectly natural emotion, that speech failed him and he could only blush deeply.
Abbé Ledoux, by the way, had taught his protégé an almost infallible means of blushing: this was to hang one’s head for several seconds, holding one’s breath all the while.
This skilfully counterfeited emotion occupied the first few minutes of the quadrille, M. de Macreuse having addressed scarcely a word to Mlle. de Beaumesnil.
Moreover, by a marvel of tact and cunning, the originator of the St. Polycarpe mission not only managed to escape the ridicule to which a profoundly melancholy man exposes himself when he undertakes to dance, but also to preserve an interesting appearance in Mlle. de Beaumesnil’s eyes in spite of the terpsichorean evolutions he was obliged to perform.
He was aided not a little by his personal appearance, we must admit.
Dressed entirely in black, booted and gloved in the most irreproachable manner, the cut of his coat was perfection, and his black satin cravat extremely becoming to one with his fair complexion and regular features. His figure, though a little too stout, was replete with an easy grace, and as he walked through the different figures of the quadrille, keeping perfect time to the music, he now and then cast a resigned but pathetic look at Mlle. de Beaumesnil, a look that seemed to say:
“I
am a stranger to worldly pleasures — entirely out of place at fêtes, from which my sorrow impels me to hold myself aloof, but I submit to this painful contrast between my grief and the gaiety around me, because I have no other means of seeing you.”
This beloved disciple of Abbé Ledoux, in short, belonged to that school of actors that seems to make a specialty of meaning but constrained glances, expressive but discreet sighs, all fittingly accompanied with rollings of the eyes, and a contrite, radiant, or ingenuous expression of countenance, as best suits the occasion.
In fact, M. de Macreuse’s rendition of his rôle was so admirable that Mlle. de Beaumesnil, in spite of her suspicions, could not help saying to herself:
“Poor M. de Macreuse! it must be very painful for him to find himself at a gay entertainment in which he can take so little pleasure, overwhelmed as he is by the despair his mother’s death has caused him.”
But her suspicions reasserting themselves, “Then why did he come?” she asked herself. “Very possibly he was impelled to do so solely by avaricious motives. Is it a shameful hope of securing my wealth that makes him forget his grief and his regret?”
M. de Macreuse having at last found a favourable opportunity for beginning a conversation with Ernestine, summoned up another blush, then said, in his most timid, unctuous, and ingratiating tones:
“Really, I must appear very awkward and ridiculous to you, mademoiselle.”
“And why, monsieur?”
“I have not dared to address so much as a word to you since the beginning of the dance, mademoiselle, but — embarrassment — fear—”
“What! I frighten you, monsieur?”
“Alas! yes, mademoiselle.”
“That is not a very gallant remark, monsieur.”
“I make no pretentious to gallantry, mademoiselle,” replied Macreuse, sadly, but proudly. “I am only sincere — and the fear you inspire in me is real, only too real.”
“But why do I inspire you with fear?”
“Because you have unsettled my life and my reason, mademoiselle, for from the first moment I saw you, without even knowing who you were, your image placed itself between me and the only previous objects of my adoration. Up to that time, I had lived only to pray to God and to cherish or mourn for my mother, while now—”
“Good Heavens, monsieur, how tiresome all this is! What I say may surprise you, but it is the truth, nevertheless; for you see,” continued Mlle. de Beaumesnil, assuming from this on the imperious and flippant tone and manner of a spoiled child, “I am in the habit of saying anything that comes into my head, unless I am absolutely compelled to play the hypocrite.”
It is needless to say that M. de Macreuse was astounded by this interruption, and above all by the manner in which it was made, for, from Mlle. Helena’s reports, he had fully expected to find in Ernestine an artless, but deeply religious child; so, up to this time, he had carefully maintained a manner and a style of conversation which would be likely to please an unsophisticated devotee.
Still, too wary to betray his astonishment, and ready to change his character at a moment’s notice if that should prove necessary to put him in tune with the heiress, this pious young man replied, venturing a half smile — he had preserved a melancholy gravity up to that time:
“You are right, mademoiselle, to say whatever comes into your head, particularly as only charming thoughts can find shelter there.”
“Really, monsieur, I like this kind of talk very much better. You were not at all amusing before.”
“It depends upon you, mademoiselle,” responded Macreuse, risking a whole smile this time, and so transforming his formerly grief-stricken face by degrees, as it were, “and it will always depend upon you, mademoiselle, to change sorrow to gladness. Nothing is impossible to you.”
“Oh, as to that, there’s a time for everything, I think. Now this morning at church I seemed sad, because church is so dull any way; besides, in order not to be outdone by Mlle. Helena I put on the most saintly airs imaginable, but in my secret heart I am awfully fond of gaiety and of amusing myself. By the way, what do you think of my gown?”
“It is in exquisite taste. In its charming simplicity it is a delightful contrast to the gaudy attire of all the other young ladies; but they are excusable, after all, and you deserve very little credit, for they have need of outward adornments, while you can dispense with them, mademoiselle. Perfection needs no ornamentation.”
“That is exactly what I said to myself,” responded Ernestine, with the most arrogant and conceited air imaginable. “I felt sure that, even in a plain white dress, I was pretty certain to eclipse all the other young girls and make them turn green with envy. It is such fun to excite envy in others and torment them.”
“You must be accustomed to that pleasure, mademoiselle. It is true that the jealousy of others does afford one a vast amount of amusement, as you so wittily remarked a moment ago.”
“Oh, I am not so wonderfully witty,” responded Ernestine, with an admirable semblance of overweening conceit; “but I am very fond of my own way and can’t bear any one to oppose or contradict me. That is why I hate old people so. They are for ever preaching to young folks. Do you like old people, monsieur?”
“You mean mummies, mademoiselle. The chief aim of life should be pleasure.”
And the imperious necessity of executing a figure in the quadrille having interrupted M. de Macreuse at this point, he took advantage of the excellent opportunity thus afforded to change the expression of his countenance entirely, and to assume the most joyous dare-devil air imaginable. A similar change, too, was apparent in his dancing. It was much more lively and animated. The young man straightened himself up, lifted his head high in the air, and whenever he found an opportunity he bestowed upon Mlle. de Beaumesnil glances which were now as impassioned as the former ones had been timid and discreet.
While he was assuming this new character, the abbé’s protégé was all the while saying to himself:
“How strange! the girl is an arrant hypocrite evidently, inasmuch as she succeeded in deceiving Mlle. de la Rochaiguë so completely in regard to her real character. I strongly suspect, though, that my excellent friend was afraid that she would frighten me if she told me the truth about the girl. She little knows me. I’m glad that the girl is silly and vain, and that she thinks herself witty and beautiful and capable of out-shining all the pretty women here to-night. Deceitfulness, ignorance, and vanity — it must be a fool indeed that can not use three such potent factors as these to advantage. But now to the main question! With a simpleton like this, reserve is unnecessary, nor can one pile on the flattery too thickly. Complaisance must extend almost to baseness, for the girl has evidently been utterly spoiled by her wealth. She knows perfectly well that anything is permissible in her, — that any offence will be condoned in the richest heiress in France.”
So as he returned to his place M. de Macreuse remarked to Ernestine:
“You accused me just now of being too grave, mademoiselle. You must not suppose that I am in the most hilarious spirits now, but the happiness of being with you intoxicates me.”
“And why?”
“If Mlle. Helena, in encouraging me to hope that some day, when you learned to know me better, you might think me worthy to consecrate my life to you, — if Mlle. Helena was mistaken in this—”
“By the way, speaking of Mlle. Helena, you must admit that she is a frightful bore.”
“That is true, but she is so good.”
“So good! Well, that did not prevent her from saying something dreadful to me about you the other day.”
“About me?”
“Yes, she made you out such a paragon of goodness that I said to myself: ‘Great Heavens, how intolerable that man must be with all his virtues. A person as perfect as that must be a frightful nuisance! And then to be always at church or engaged in charitable works, the mere idea of it is enough to make one die of ennui.’ I did not say this to Mlle. Helena, but I thought it all th
e same. Judge then, monsieur, I, who would marry only to be as free as air and amuse myself from morning till night, to be always on the go, to be the most fashionable woman in Paris, and above all to be able to go to the masked ball at the Opera house! Oh, that ball, it sets me crazy just to think of it! Mercy! what is the use of being as rich as I am if one cannot enjoy everything and do exactly as one pleases?”
“When one is as rich as you are,” replied M. de Macreuse, with unblushing effrontery, “one is queen everywhere, above all in one’s own home. The man you honour with your choice should, to follow out my comparison, be the prime minister of your kingdom of pleasure, — no, your chief courtier, and as such be ever submissive and eager to do your bidding. His one thought should be to save you from the slightest annoyance, and leave you only the flowers of existence. The birds of the air should not be freer than you; and if your husband understands his duty, your pleasures, your wishes, and even your slightest caprice, should be sacred to him. Is he not your slave, and you his divinity?”
“Good, monsieur, that would suit me perfectly, but from what Mlle. Helena has told me about you, and from what I myself have seen—”
“And what have you seen, mademoiselle?”
“I have seen you giving alms to the poor and even talking with them.”
“Certainly, mademoiselle, and I—”
“In the first place, I have a horror of poor people, — they are so loathsome in their rags they fairly turn one’s stomach.”
“They are horrible creatures, it is true, but one has to throw them a little money now and then as one throws a bone to a starving dog to keep him from biting you. It is merely a matter of policy.”
“I understand, then, for I wondered how you could feel any interest in such repulsive creatures.”
“Good Heavens, mademoiselle,” replied Macreuse, more and more earnestly, “you must not wonder at certain apparent contradictions between the present and the past. If any do exist you are the cause of them, so ought you not to pardon them? What did I tell you from the very first? Did I not confess that you had wrought a complete change in my life? Ah, yes, I had sorrows, but I have them no longer. I was devout, but henceforth there is only one divinity for me, yourself. As for my virtues,” added M. de Macreuse, with a cynical smile, “they need not worry you. Only too happy to lay the others at your feet, I will retain only such as may please you.”