From the French of ALPHONSE DAUDET.
M. Majesté, a seltzer-water manufacturer of the Marais, has just
indulged in a little Christmas supper with a few friends of the Place
Royale, and walks home humming. The clock at St. Paul's strikes two.
"How late it is!" thinks the good man as he hurries along. But the
pavement is slippery, the streets are dark, and then, in this devil
of an old neighborhood which belongs to the time when carriages were
scarce, there are the greatest number of turns, corners, steps, and
posts in front of the houses for the accommodation of horsemen, all
of which are calculated to impede a man's progress, particularly when
his legs are heavy and his sight somewhat blurred by the toasts of
the Christmas supper. M. Majesté reaches his destination at last,
however. He stops before a great doorway above which gleams in the
moonlight the freshly gilded coat-of-arms, the recently retouched
armorial-bearings which he has converted into a trade-mark.
Former
Hôtel de Nesmond.
MAJESTÉ, JR.,
Seltzer-water Manufacturer.
The old Nesmond coat-of-arms stands out, resplendent, on all the
siphons of the factory, on all the memoranda and letter-heads.
The doorway leads directly to the court,--a large, sunny court which
floods the narrow street with light even at noon, when the portals
are thrown open. Far back in this court stands a great and ancient
structure,--blackened walls covered with lace-work and embroideries
of stone, bulging iron balconies, stone balconies with pilasters,
great high windows crowned with pediments, and capitals rearing
their heads along the upper stories like so many little roofs within
the roof, then above it all, set in the very slate, the mansard
dormer-windows, like the round mirrors of a boudoir, daintily framed
with garlands. From the court to the first story rises a great stone
stairway gnawed and worn green by the rains. A meagre vine dangles
along the wall, lifeless and black like the rope that swings from
the pulley in the attic; and the whole has an indescribable air of
sad grandeur and decay.
This is the ancient Hôtel de Nesmond. In the broad light of day it
has quite a different aspect. The words "Office," "Store," "Entrance
to the work-rooms," in bright gilt letters, seem to rejuvenate
the old walls and infuse a new life into them. The drays from the
railroad shake the iron portals as they rumble through, and the
clerks step out on the landing to receive the goods. The court is
obstructed with cases, baskets, straw, wrappers, and pack-cloth. One
is conscious of being in a factory. But at night, in the death-like
stillness, with the winter moon casting and tangling fantastic
shadows through the confused intricacy of all these roofs, the old
dwelling of the Nesmonds resumes its lordly air. The court of honor
seems to expand; the wrought-iron of the balconies looks like fine
lace; the old stairway is full of shadows in the uncertain light, of
mysterious recesses like those of a cathedral; there are empty niches
and half concealed steps that suggest an altar.
On this particular night M. Majesté is deeply impressed with the
grandeur of his dwelling. The echo of his own footsteps startles
him as he crosses the great deserted court. The stairway seems even
broader than usual, and peculiarly heavy to climb. But that is the
Christmas supper, no doubt. At the first landing he stops to take
breath; he leans on one of the window-sills. So much for living in
a historic mansion! M. Majesté is certainly not a poet, oh, no! and
still as he gazes around him at this lordly old place, which seems to
be sleeping so peacefully under its benumbed, snow-hooded roofs, as
he looks down into this grand, aristocratic old court which the moon
floods with a bluish light, weird fancies flash through his brain.
"Suppose the Nesmonds should take it into their heads to come back,
eh?"
Just then there is a violent pull at the door-bell. The portal swings
open instantly, so brusquely that it puts out the light of the
lamp-post in the court. From the shadow of the doorway come rustling
sounds and confused whisperings. There seems to be a great crowd
wrangling and jostling to get in. There are footmen, a multitude
of footmen, coaches with glass panes glimmering in the moonlight,
sedan-chairs swaying lightly between two torches whose long flames
writhe and twist in the draught of the doorway. In a second the court
is crowded; but at the foot of the stairway the confusion ceases.
People alight from the coaches, recognize one another, smile, bow,
and make their way up the stairs, chatting softly as though they were
quite familiar with the house. There is much rustling of silks and
clanking of swords on the landing, and billows of white hair, heavy
and dull with powder. Through the faint sound of the airy tread comes
a thin, high quiver of voices and little peals of laughter that has
lost its vibration. All these people seem old, very old,--eyes that
have lost their fire, slumbering jewels that have lost their light,
antique brocades that shimmer with a subdued iridescence in the light
of the torches, and above it all a thin mist of powder that rises at
every courtesy from the white-puffed scaffoldings of these stately
heads. In a moment the place seems to be haunted. Torches glitter
from window to window and up and down the curving stairways; the very
dormers in the mansard twinkle with joy and life. The whole mansion
is ablaze with light, as though a great burst of sunset had set its
windows aglow.
"Merciful saints! they will set the house on fire!" thinks M.
Majesté; and having recovered from his stupor, he makes an effort to
shake the numbness from his legs, and hurries down into the court,
where the footmen have just lighted a great bonfire. M. Majesté goes
up to them, speaks to them; but they do not answer; they stand there
chatting among themselves softly, and not the faintest breath issues
from their lips into the freezing shadow of the night. M. Majesté
is somewhat put out. He is reassured, however, when he realizes that
this great fire with its long straight flames is a most peculiar
fire, which emits no heat,--which simply glows, but does not burn.
The good man therefore sets his mind at rest, goes upstairs again,
and makes his way into the store.
These stores on the first floor must have been grand reception-halls
in their day. Particles of tarnished gold still cling to the angles.
Mythological frescos circle about the ceilings, wind round the
mirrors, hover above the doorways, vague and subdued, like bygone
memories. Unfortunately there are no curtains or furniture anywhere,
nothing but baskets, great cases filled with leaden-headed siphons,
and the withered limb of an old lilac bush rising in black outline
outside the window. M. Majesté enters. He finds the rooms crowded and
brilliantly illumined. He bows, but nobody seems to notice him. The
women, in their satin wraps, lean on their cavaliers' arms and flirt
with ceremonious, mincing graces. They promenade, chat, separate into
groups. All these old marquises really seem quite at home. One little
shade stops, all of a quiver, before a painted pier-glass; then she
glances smilingly at a Diana that rises out of the wood-work, lithe
and roseate, with a crescent on her brow.
"This is I; think of it! And here I am!"
"Nesmond, come and see your crest!" and they laugh immoderately at
the sight of the Nesmond coat-of-arms displayed on the wrappers above
the name of Majesté, Jr.
"Ha, ha, ha! Majesté! There are some majesties left in France after
all, then!"
And there is no end of merriment, of mincing coquetries. Little
trills of laughter rise like the notes of a flute in the air. Some
one exclaims suddenly,--
"Champagne! champagne!"
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, indeed, champagne. Come, Countess, what say you to a little
Christmas supper?"
They have mistaken M. Majesté's seltzer-water for champagne. They
naturally find it somewhat flat. But these poor little ghosts have
such unsteady heads! The foam of the seltzer-water somehow excites
them and makes them feel like dancing. Minuets are immediately
organized. Four rare violinists provided by Nesmond strike out with
an old melody by Rameau, full of triplets, quaint and melancholy in
its vivacity; and you should see the pretty little grandmothers turn
slowly and bow gravely in time with the music.
Their very finery seems freshened and rejuvenated by the sound,
and so do the waistcoats of cloth-of-gold, the brocaded coats and
diamond-buckled shoes. The panels themselves seem to awake. The old
mirror, scratched and dim, which has stood encased in the wall for
over two hundred years, recognizes them all, glows softly upon them,
showing them their own images with a pale vagueness like a tender
regret.
In the midst of all this elegance M. Majesté feels somewhat ill at
ease. He is huddled in a corner, and looks on from behind a case of
bottles. But gradually the day dawns. Through the glass doors of
the store one can see the court growing light, then the top of the
windows, then all one side of the great parlor. Before the light of
day the figures melt and disappear. The four little violinists alone
are belated in a corner; and M. Majesté watches them evaporate as the
daylight creeps upon them. In the court below he can just see the
vague form of a sedan-chair, a powdered head sprinkled with emeralds,
and the last spark of a torch that a lackey has dropped on the
pavement, and which blends with the sparks from the wheels of a dray,
rumbling in noisily through the open portals.
[Illustration]