by Eugène Sue
“‘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 ray 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 wen
t 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 Luis 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 digusting.”
By Pommerive’s pantomime, I easily recognised the story about Ismael, 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 Pëna fiel’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 introduc
e 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.