I have to inform you, my dear fellow, that my uncle, who has always been
admired so far for his virtuous conduct, and whom I should certainly
have been ready to quote as a paragon of husbands, seems just now on the
way to forfeiting his character.
Here is what I have to relate:
Two days ago I went to the Theâtre des Variétés to see for the second
time the play which is just now the rage. Not having obtained a good
place, I left my stall at the end of the first act with the intention of
not returning, when, as I passed a rather closely-curtained stage-box,
I was quite surprised by seeing Barbassou-Pasha, who had pretended to be
going out that evening to an important dinner with some business
friends. He was accompanied by a lady whose features were obscured by
the darkness.
Being a discreet and respectful nephew, I was about to turn my eyes the
other way, when he beckoned me with an imperative gesture to join him in
his box. I immediately obeyed this peremptory summons, and, going round
by the passage, got the box-opener to usher me in.
"Come in, and sit down," said my uncle, pointing out to me a chair
behind him.
Once more I obeyed him, bowing politely to the lady, whose features I
could not clearly distinguish. I was hardly seated when I recognised the
fair heroine of the fainting fit last week.
Exquisitely attired in a perfectly ravishing costume, Madame Jean
Bonaffé replied to my compliments by a charming smile, and a pretty
glance from her fine Spanish eyes, which showed me clearly that she was
troubled by no remnants of that sudden indisposition which the too
unexpected encounter with my uncle had produced.
Our conversation turned upon the play. As she spoke French rather badly
(although she understood it very well), she asked my uncle from time to
time to tell her the words she was in need of. This he did, pronouncing
them with grammatical deliberation, and then leaving us to talk alone,
while he surveyed the audience like one superior to such frivolities as
feminine smalltalk.
My companion was very gay, and was crunching bonbons all the time.
I, as you may be sure, was gallant and attentive, and I followed her
example with the bonbons.
My former aunt, Christina de Portero, is at the happy age of between
twenty-eight and thirty. Or, possibly, she is as old as thirty-two. Her
figure is slender and supple, with those bold expansions of the hips
which, in dancing the fandango, make short work of the skirt. Add to
these fascinating details the accurate information with which I have
already supplied you on the subject of her exuberant bust, and you can
picture her very well for yourself.
She has a fine erect head, clear and singularly expressive features, a
warm complexion, a Grecian nose, with quivering nostrils, and a mouth
adorned with pearly teeth, with a soft, black, downy growth on her upper
lip. She is an Andalusian, overflowing with life and spirits, whose
exuberance, however, is tempered by her graceful and truly refined
demeanour. One can guess what a fire of passion smoulders within her.
My uncle was in perfection that evening. From time to time he discarded
his philosophic calm in order to take a look at us and reply in Spanish
to his fair friend's questions. He addressed her as "querida," in that
indulgent tone which is peculiar to him, like a pasha who is signifying
his approbation.
During the course of our conversation I discovered that things had gone
on like this between them since the day after that famous scene at
Villebon, whose lively incidents had doubtless conduced to this friendly
reconciliation. How had my uncle managed to get round the ferocious
native of Toulon? That I could never discover. However this may have
been, after the play was over, we went off, all three of us, to the Café
Anglais.
We had a capital supper, during which Madame Jean Bonaffé, feeling more
at her ease under these intimate circumstances, gave free play to her
fascinations. I could soon perceive that in her pleasure at forgetting
her regrettable escapades of the past, her grief over her supposed
widowhood, and also the short-lived and illegal marriage which she had
contracted by mistake, she expected that my uncle would settle her at
Paris. She appeared to speak of this happy prospect as of something upon
which her mind was set, and it gave rise to a number of beautiful
castles in the air.
Barbassou-Pasha, gallant and attentive as ever, listened to all these
proposed arrangements for her felicity, in that good-natured,
patronizing manner which he always maintains with women, and only
departs from in the case of my aunt Eudoxia, who keeps him in check.
Nodding his approval of everything she said, he went on eating and
drinking, like a practical man who will not neglect the claims of a good
supper, and he allowed the fair Andalusian to lavish all her attentions
upon him.
About two o'clock in the morning, we took a brougham, drove back my
aunt to the Rue de l'Arcade, where she occupies a splendidly furnished
suite of rooms, and then returned home.
"What do you think of all that, my dear Louis? Hum!"
Our little circle has been augmented by a very pleasant and genial
addition, Mr. Edward Wolsey, a nephew of the commodore's, who may very
likely be engaged to Maud.
As I have become quite intimate with Commodore Montague's party, I
generally join their group, without the smallest fear of raising a
suspicion regarding these encounters. The attention which I pay to
Kondjé-Gul and to Suzannah have caused no little envy, for, as you know,
Kondjé-Gul pretends she does not dance. This peculiarity, together with
her original fascinations with which a certain childish simplicity is
mingled, give rise to the most extraordinary conjectures. What is the
cause of all this reserve? men ask. Is it modesty, bashfulness, or
pride? They know that she can dance splendidly, for she has been seen
dancing occasionally at private parties with Maud and Suzannah. They
think it must be due to some jealous _fiancé_, her betrothal to whom is
kept secret, and to whom she is devoted.
Lent having interrupted the course of public entertainments, our private
parties which usually took place at Teral House, became the gainers by
it. Maud and Suzannah felt more free and easy there, and Kondjé-Gul
experienced quite a childish delight in holding what she called her
"receptions." Our small circle was soon augmented by a dozen select
friends, picked carefully from the ranks of their young ball-room
acquaintances. There were one or two mothers among them whose presence
did not interfere with the harmony of these charming gatherings, and the
tone of elegant distinction which prevailed in no respect interfered
with their exuberant gaiety.
This break in the giddy circle of fashionable dissipation, afforded
quite a new happiness to Kondjé-Gul and me. In the course of her
initiation into the refinements of our life, her exotic charms had
acquired some new and indescribable embellishments. We spent many a long
evening alone together in that delightful privacy which affords the
sweetest opportunities for communion between loving hearts, and we grew
to feel like a modern Darby and Joan. I was quite proud of my handiwork,
and contemplated with joy this pure and ideal being whose nature I had
inspired, whose soul and whose heart I had moulded. The cultivation of
this young and virgin mind, as I may be permitted to call it, so
possessed by its Oriental beliefs, had produced a charming contrast of
enthusiasm and calm reason which imparted a most original effect to her
frank utterances of new ideas. I was often quite surprised to find in
her mingled with her Asiatic superstitions, and transformed as it were
by contact with a simpler faith, the substance of my own private
sentiments and of my wildest aspirations. One might really think that
she had borrowed her thoughts, nay, her very life, as it were, from me,
and that her tender emotions had their source in my own heart.
Our happiness seemed so assured, and we had it so completely under our
own control, that it would have appeared absurd for us to imagine it to
be at the mercy of Fate. Still, in the midst of this tranquillity there
sometimes arose in my mind an anxious thought. Light clouds floated
across my clear azure sky, and often, as I sat by her side, I began to
think, in spite of myself, about the future--about this marriage of
which you yourself have reminded me, and from the obligations to which
nothing could save me. However great the sacrifice might be, I could not
even think of failing to carry out my uncle's wishes in this matter. My
heart bound me to this adoptive father who had placed unlimited faith in
my loyalty: my whole life was pledged to this chivalrous benefactor who
had left all his fortune in my hands, nor could I permit the least
suspicion of ingratitude on my part to pass over his mind.
But melancholy as was the recollection of this duty to which I had
resigned myself, I must confess that, after all, this impression was but
a fugitive one. I no longer attempted to struggle against the temptation
to a compromise, by means of which I had determined to reconcile my
passion for Kondjé-Gul with my marital duties to Anna Campbell. The
retiring nature of the latter would surely permit our union to be
treated as one of those arrangements known as _mariages de convenance_,
and my charming romantic connection with Kondjé-Gul would always remain
a secret. Moreover, my uncle, should he ever discover this after-match
of my oriental life, was certainly not the man to be seriously
scandalised at it, directly he assured himself that "the
respectabilities" had not been violated.
By-the-bye, I should tell you that was a false alarm I sounded about my
uncle! I calumniated him when I believed him to have committed anything
so shocking as a double adultery.
We went again yesterday to the forest of Meudon, which we had almost
given up visiting of late, my uncle having been engaged for the last
fortnight upon "some important morning business," as he says. Well, we
arrived at Villebon's restaurant, our usual destination. When we entered
that celebrated room--empty this time--which had been the scene of the
drama which you remember, the latter came back very naturally to our
memory, and would have done so even without the superfluous aid of the
grins with which our waiter greeted us. Equally naturally, and as
becomes a dutiful nephew, who does not wish to appear indifferent to
family matters, I, seeing my uncle cast a glance towards the window near
which the incident that produced such momentous consequences occurred,
took the opportunity of asking after my pseudo-aunt Christina, about
whom I had not had any previous chance of questioning him.
"Christina!" exclaimed Barbassou-Pasha, "why, she's gone back!"
"Dear me! I thought she wanted to settle in Paris?"
His eye lightened up with a sly look.
"Oh, yes! She would have liked to do so very well," he replied. "In
fact, we made the round of the upholsterers' shops,--and she fancied, up
to the last moment, that it was all settled. But I had made up my mind,
and I sent her back to Jean Bonaffé."
"The deuce you did!" I said, quite astonished at the news.
Then my uncle just closed one of his eyes, and looked at me out of the
other, as he added--
"You see, I was not sorry to return that rascal the little trick he
played me before!"
And, with that, Barbassou-Pasha began to whistle a hunting song, with
all the calm complacency of an honest soul on satisfactory terms with
his neighbour. I accompanied him whistling the bass, and we got on very
well together that time.
I believe that after this explanation, you will at once renew the esteem
which you used to accord to my uncle, and will join me in a sincere
expression of regret for having suspected him for one moment in this
matter:--in which, in reality, he had merely played the part of an
avenging deity, punishing sinners with remorse by recalling to them the
blisses of their lost Paradise. And I am ready to testify that he has
spared no expense; for during the last three weeks he has had from me
more than twenty thousand francs in pocket-money. I warrant you he has
given his fair friend a jolly time of it, purposely holding the golden
cup to her faithless lips, and letting them taste of all the
pleasures----
The severe lesson of an abrupt return to her husband, Jean Bonaffé,
after the awakening of such delightful anticipations, will certainly
impress the guilty one, and engrave in her heart a keen remorse for her
past misconduct.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]