"Madame," I said, "have you any ... Chinese curiosities?"
"We have, monsieur, black tea, green tea, and some very fine Pekin."
"Well, madame, ... give me some of all."
"Do you want it in boxes, monsieur?"
"In boxes, madame, if you choose."
I looked all around the room and saw nobody but two old women standing behind another counter—no signs of Irene.
I paid for my tea, and while writing down my address, I questioned the saleswoman:
"I promised my wife to meet her here at three o'clock to select this tea—not that my presence was necessary, as her taste is always mine—but she requested me to come, and I fear I have made a mistake in the hour, my watch has run down and I had no idea it was so late—I hope she did not wait for me? has she been here?" Thereupon I gave a minute description of Irene de Chateaudun, from the color of her hair to the shade of her boot.
"Yes, monsieur, she was here about three o'clock, it is now five; she was only here a few minutes—long enough to make a little purchase."
"Yes, ... I gasped out, ... I know, but I thought I saw her ... did she not come in ... that door?"
"Yes, sir, she entered by that door and went out by the opposite one, that one over there," said she, pointing to a door opening on New Vivienne street.
I suppressed an oath, and rushed out of the door opening on this new street, as if I expected to find Mlle. de Chateaudun patiently waiting for me to join her on the pavement. My head was in such a whirl that I had not the remotest idea of where I was going, and I wandered recklessly through little streets that I had never heard of before—it made no difference to me whether I ran into Scylla or Charybdis—I cared not what became of me.
Like the fool that repeats over and over again the same words without understanding their meaning, I kept saying: "The fiend of a woman! the fiend of a woman!" At this moment all my love seemed turned to hate! but when this hate had calmed down to chill despair, I began to reflect with agonizing fear that perhaps Irene had seen me at the Odeon with those dreadful women. I felt that I was ruined in her eyes for ever! She would never listen to my attempt at vindication or apologies—women are so unforgiving when a man strays for a moment from the path of propriety, and they regard little weaknesses in the light of premeditated crimes, too heinous for pardon—Irene would cry out with the poet:
"Tu te fais criminel pour te justifier!"
You are fortunate, my dear Edgar, in having found the woman you have always dreamed of and hoped for; you will have all the charms of love without its troubles; it is folly to believe that love is strengthened by its own torments and stimulated by sorrows. A storm is only admired by those on shore; the suffering sailors curse the raging sea and pray for a calm.
Your letter, my dear Edgar, is filled with that calm happiness that is the foundation of all true love; in return, I can only send you an account of my despair. Friendship is often a union of these two contrasts.
Enjoy your happy lot, my friend; your reputation is made. You have a good name, an enviable and an individual philosophy, borrowed neither from the Greeks nor the Germans. Your future is beautiful; cherish the sweetest dreams; the woman you love will realize them all.
Night is a bad counsellor, so I dare not make any resolutions, or come to any decision at this dark hour. I shall wait for the sun to enlighten my mind.
In my despair I have the mournful consolation of knowing that Irene is in Paris. This great city has no undiscovered secrets; everything and every person hid in its many houses is obliged sooner or later to appear in the streets. I form the most extravagant projects; I will buy, if necessary, the indiscretion of all the discreet lips that guard the doors; I shall recruit an army of salaried spies. On the coast of the Coromandel there is a tribe of Indians whose profession is to dive into the Gulf of Bengal, that immense bathing-tub of the sun, and search for a beautiful pearl that lies buried among the coral beds at the bottom of the ocean. It is a pearl of great price, as valuable as the finest diamond.... Irene is my pearl of great price, and I will search for and find her in this great ocean of men and houses called Paris.... After thinking and wondering till I am dizzy and sick at heart, I have come to the conclusion that Irene is acting in this manner to test my love—this thought consoles me a little, and I try to drown my sorrow in the thought of our mutual happiness, when I shall have triumphantly passed through the ordeal.
The most charming of women is willing to believe that everybody loves except her lover.
ROGER DE MONBERT.
Chapter XII
*
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Grenoble, (Isère).
PARIS, June 2d—Midnight.
Oh! How indignant I am! How angry and mortified are my feelings! Good Heavens! how his shameful conduct makes me hate and despise him!... I will try to be calm—to collect my scattered thoughts and give you a clear account of what has just occurred—tell you how all of my plans are destroyed—how I am once more alone in this cruel world, more sad, more discouraged and more hopeless than I ever was in my darkest days of misery and poverty.... but I cannot be calm—it is impossible for me to control my indignation when I think of the shameful behavior of this man—of his gross impertinence—his insolent duplicity.... Well, I went to the Odeon; M. de Monbert was there, I saw him, he certainly made no attempt to conceal his presence; you know he plumes himself upon being open and frank—never hides anything from the world—wishes people to see him in his true character, &c., precisely what I saw to-night. Yes, Valentine, there he was as tipsy as a coachman—with those little hair-brained de S.'s, the eldest simply tipsy as a lord, the young one, George, was drunk, very drunk. This is not all, the fascinating Prince was escort to two fashionable beauties, two miserable creatures of distressing notoriety, two of those shameless women whom we cannot fail to recognise on account of their scandalous behavior in public; sort of market-women disguised as fashion-plates—half apple-venders, half coquettes, who tap men on the cheek with their scented gloves and intersperse their conversation with dreadful oaths from behind their bouquets and Pompadour fans! ... these creatures talked in shrill tones, laughed out loud enough to be heard by every one around—joined in the chorus of the Choir of Antigone with the old men of Thebes!... People in the gallery said: "they must have dined late," that was a charitable construction to put upon their shameful conduct—I thought to myself, this is their usual behavior—they are always thus.
I must tell you, so you can better appreciate my angry mortification, that just as we were stepping into the carriage the servant handed me the letters that I had sent him to bring from the Hotel de Langeac. Among the number was one from M. de Monbert, written several days after I had left Paris; this letter is worthy of being sent to Grenoble; I enclose it. While reading it, my dear Valentine, don't forget that I read it at the theatre, and my reading was constantly interrupted by the vulgar conversation and noisy laughter of M. de Monbert and his choice companions, and that each high-flown sentence of this hypocritical note had at the same time a literal and free translation in the scandalous remarks, bursts of laughter, and stupid puns of the despicable man who had written it.
I confess that this flow of wit interfered with my perusal of these touching reproaches; the brilliant improvisations of the orator prevented me from becoming too much affected by the elegiacs of the writer.
Here is the note that I was trying to decipher through my tears when Monsieur de Monbert swaggered into the theatre.
"Is this a test of love—a woman's vengeance or an idle caprice, Mademoiselle? My mind is not calm enough to solve the enigma. Be merciful and drive me not to madness! To-morrow may be too late—then your words of reason might be responded to by the jargon of insanity! Beware! and cast aside your cloak of mystery before the sun once more goes down upon my frenzy. All is desolation and darkness within and without—nothing appears bright to my eyes, and my soul is wrapped in gloom. In your absenc
e I cease to live, but it seems as if my deep love gives me still enough strength to hold a wandering pen that my mind no longer guides. With my love I gave you my soul and mind—what remains to me would excite your pity. I implore you to restore me to life.
"You cannot comprehend the ecstasy of a man who loves you, and the despair of a man who loses you. Before knowing you I never could have imagined these two extremes, separated by a whole world and brought together in one instant. To be envied by the angels—to breathe the air of heaven—to seek among the divine joys for a name to give one's happiness, and suddenly, like Lucifer, to be dashed by a thunderbolt into an abyss of darkness, and suffer the living death of the damned!
"This is your work!
"No, it cannot be a jest, it is not a vengeance; one does not jest with real love, one does does not take vengeance on an innocent man; then it must be a test! a test! ah well, it has been borne long enough, and my bleeding heart cries out to you for mercy. If you prolong this ordeal, you will soon have no occasion to doubt my love!... your grief will be remorse.
"ROGER."
Yes, you are right this time, my dear Prince; my sorrow is remorse, deep remorse; I shall never forgive myself for having been momentarily touched by your hear-trending moans and for having shed real tears over your dramatic pathos.
I was seated in the corner of our box, trembling with emotion and weeping over these tender reproaches—yes, I wept!—he seemed so sad, so true to me—I was in an humble frame of mind, thoroughly convinced by this touching appeal that I had been wicked and unjust to doubt so faithful a heart. I was overcome by the magnitude of my offence—at having caused this great despair by my cruelty. Each word of this elaborate dirge was a dagger to my heart; I credulously admired the eloquence and simplicity of the style; I accepted as beautiful writing all these striking images—these antitheses full of passion and pretension: "Reason responded to by insanity." "The power of love that gives him strength to hold a pen. Extremes separated by a whole world and brought together in an instant, and this living death that he suffers, this name for his past happiness that had to be sought for among the joys of heaven!"
I accepted as gospel truth all these high-flown fictions, and was astonished at nothing until I came to the Lucifer part; that, I confess, rather startled me—but the finishing tirade composed me. I thought it fascinating, thrilling, heart-rending! In my enthusiastic pity I was, by way of expiation, admiring the whole letter when I was disturbed by a frightful noise made by people entering the adjoining box. I felt angry at their insulting my sadness with their heartless gayety. I continue to read, admire and weep—my neighbors continue to laugh and make a noise. Amidst this uproar I recognise a familiar voice—I listen—it is certainly the Prince de Monbert—I cannot be mistaken. Probably he has come here with strangers—he has travelled so much that he is obliged to do the honors of Paris to grand ladies who were polite to him abroad—but from what part of the world could these grand ladies have come? They seem to be indulging in a queer style of conversation. One of them boldly looked in our box, and exclaimed, "Four women! Four monsters!" I recognised her as a woman I had seen at the Versailles races—all was explained.
Then they played a sort of farce for their own pleasure, to the great annoyance of the audience. I will give you a sample of it, so you can have an idea of the wit and good taste displayed by these gentlemen. The most intoxicated of the young men asked, between two yawns, who were the authors of Antigone? "Sophocles," said M. de Monbert. "But there are two, are there not?" "Two Antigones?" said the Prince laughing; "yes, there is Ballanche's." "Ah, yes! Ballanche, that is his name," cried out the ignorant creature; "I knew I saw two names on the hand-bill! Do you know them?"
"I am not acquainted with Sophocles," said the Prince, becoming more and more jovial, "but I know Ballanche; I have seen him at the Academy."
This brilliant witticism was wonderfully successful; they all clapped so loud and laughed so hilariously that the audience became very angry, and called out, "Silence!" "Silence!" For a moment the noisy were quiet, but soon they were worse than ever, acting like maniacs. At the end of each scene, little George de S., who is a mere school-boy, cried out in deafening tones: "Bravo! Ballanche!" then turning to the neighboring boxes he said: "My friends, applaud; you must encourage the author;" and the two bold women clapped their hands and shrieked out, "Let us encourage Ballanche! Bravo! Ballanche!" It was absurd.
Madame Taverneau and her friends were indignant; they had heard the compliment bestowed upon us—"Four women. Four monsters!" This rapid appreciation of our elegant appearance did not make them feel indulgent towards our scandalous neighbors. Near us were several newspaper men who gave the names of the Prince de Monbert, the Messrs. de S., and their two beauties. These journalists spoke with bitter contempt of what they called the young lions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, of the rude manners of the aristocracy, of the ridiculous scruples of those proud legitimists, who feared to compromise themselves in the interests of their country, and yet were compromised daily by a thousand extravagances; then they related falsehoods that were utterly without foundation, and yet were made to appear quite probable by the disgraceful conduct of the young men before us. You may imagine how cruelly I suffered, both as a fiancée and as a legitimist. I blushed for our party in the presence of the enemy; I felt the insult offered to me personally less than I did the abuse brought upon our cause. In listening to those deserved sneers I detested Messrs. de S. as much as I did Roger. I decided during this hour of vexation and shame that I would rather always remain simple Madame Gruérin than become the Princess de Monbert.
What do you think of this despair, the result of champagne? Ought I not to be touched by it? How sweet it is to see one's self so deeply regretted!
It is quite poetical and even mythological; Ariadne went no further than this. She demanded of Bacchus consolation for the sorrows caused by love. How beautifully he sang the hymn to Bacchus in the last act of Antigone! He has a fine tenor voice; until now I was not aware of his possessing this gift. How happy he seemed among his charming companions! Valentine, was I not right in saying that the trial of discouragement is infallible? In love despair is a snare; to cease to hope is to cease to feign; a man returns to his nature as soon as hypocrisy is useless. The Prince has proved to me that he prefers low society, that it is his natural element; that he had completely metamorphosed himself so as to appear before us as an elegant, refined, dignified gentleman!
Oh! this evening he certainly was sincere; his real character was on the surface; he made no effort to restrain himself; he was perfectly at home, in his element; and one cannot disguise his delight at being in his element. There is a carelessness in his movements that betrays his self-satisfaction; he struts and spreads himself with an air of confidence; he seems to float in the air, to swim on the crest of the wave ... People can conceal their delight when they have recognised an adored being among a crowd ... can avoid showing that a piece of information casually heard is an important fact that they have been trying to discover for weeks; ... can hide sudden fear, deep vexation, great joy; but they cannot hide this agreeable impression, this beatitude that they feel upon suddenly returning to their element, after long days of privation and constraint. Well, my dear, the element of Monsieur de Monbert is low company. I take credit to myself for not saying anything more.
I have often observed these base proclivities in persons of the same high condition of life as the Prince. Men brought up in the most refined and cultivated society, destined to fill important positions in life, take the greatest pleasure in associating-with common people; they impose elegance upon themselves as a duty, and indulge in vulgarity as a recreation; they have a spite against these charming qualities they are compelled to assume, and indemnify themselves for the trouble of acquiring them by rendering them mischievously useless when they seek low society and attempt to shine where their brilliancy is unappreciated. This low tendency of human nature explains the eternal struggle
between nature and education; explains the taste, the passion of intelligent distinguished men for bad company; the more reserved and dignified they are in their manners, the more they seek the society of worthless men and blemished women. Another reason for this low proclivity is the vanity of men; they like to be admired and flattered, although they know their admirers are utterly worthless and despicable.
All these turpitudes would be unimportant if our poor nobility were still triumphantly occupying their rightful position; but while they are struggling to recover their prestige what can be done with such representatives? Oh, I hated those little fools who by their culpable folly compromised so noble a cause! Can they not see that each of their silly blunders furnishes an arm against the principles they defend, against their party, against us all? They are at war with a country that distrusts their motives and detests and envies their advantages ... and they amuse themselves by irritating the country by their aggressive hostility and blustering idleness. By thus displaying their ill manners and want of sense, it seems as if they wished to justify all the accusations of their enemies and gain what they really deserve, a worse reputation than they already bear. They are accused of being ignorant ... they are illiterate! They are accused of being impudent ... They are insolent! They are accused of being beasts ... They show themselves to be brutes! And yet not much is exacted of them, because they are known to be degenerate. Only half what is required from others is expected from them. They are not asked for heroism or talent, or genius: they are only expected to behave with dignity, they cannot even assume it! They are not asked to add to the lustre of their names, they are only entreated to respect them—and they drag them in the mire! Ah, these people make me die of shame and indignation.
It is from this nursery of worthless, idle young fops that I, Irene de Chateaudun, will be forced to choose a husband. No, never will I suffer the millions that Providence has bestowed upon me to be squandered upon ballet-dancers and the scum of Paris! If it be absolutely necessary that my fortune should be enjoyed by women, I will bestow it upon a convent, where I will retire for the rest of my life; but I certainly would prefer becoming the wife of a poor, obscure, but noble-minded student, thirsting for glory and ambitious of making illustrious his plebeian name, seeking among the dust of ages for the secret of fame ... than to marry one of the degenerate scions of an old family, who crawl around crushed by the weight of their formidable name; these little burlesque noblemen who retain nothing of their high position but pride and vanity; who can neither think, act, work nor suffer for their country; these disabled knights who wage war against bailiffs and make their names notorious in the police offices and tap-rooms of the Boulevard.
The Cross of Berny Page 12