Dunoisse, to the ring of his dress-spurs upon the pavement, passed in
by the glazed double-doors. A somnolent porter, rousing out of his
chair, admitted the guest by yet another glass door to a handsome
vestibule upon the ground floor, an orderly-sergeant of the 999th
saluted his officer, received his cloak, shako, and sword, delivered
him to a footman in light green livery with silver cords and
shoulder-knots, whose roseate calves preceded him across an ante-room
of stately proportions towards a high doorway, draped with curtains
of deep crimson velvet tasseled with gold. Brilliant light streamed
from between the curtains, warm fragrance was borne to the nostrils
of the visitor with the hum of voices; the white shoulders of ladies,
their ringleted heads wreathed, in the charming fashion of the day,
with natural flowers, moved across the shining vista, companioned by
the figures of men in uniform, or lay-wear of the latest mode and most
fashionable shades of color; or displaying the severe black frock-coat
and tricolored rosette of the New Provisional Government of France.
A man thus distinguished was speaking, as the footman raised the
crimson curtain and signed to Dunoisse to pass beneath. A cessation in
the stream of general chatter had conveyed that the speaker was worth
hearing. And in the dignity of the massively-proportioned figure,
crowned by a leonine head of long waved auburn hair, in the deep
melodious tones of the voice that rose and fell, swelled or sank at the
will of the accomplished orator, there was something that fascinated
the imagination and stirred the pulse.
“No, Madame, I do not despise Rank or Wealth,” he said to a seated
lady of graceful shape, whose face, like his own, was turned from
the doorway and invisible to the entering guest. “But though I do
not despise, I fear them. They should be handled as ancient chemists
handled subtle poisons, wearing glass masks and gloves of steel.”
No one answered. The speaker continued:
“That Kings have been noble and heroic--that Emperors have reigned
who were virtuous and honest men, can be proved from the pages of
History. Their reigns are threads of gold in a fabric of inky black.
The reverence in which we hold their names proves them to have been
prodigies. They, by some miracle of God or Nature--were not as evil as
they might have been.... For, even as the handle of the racket used
by the Eastern tyrant had been impregnated, by the skill of the wise
physician, with healing agents; the juice of medicinal herbs that,
entering by the pores, cleansed, purified, regenerated the leper’s
corrupted flesh: so in the folds of the ermine mantle there lurks
deadly contagion: so, in the grasp of the jeweled truncheon of State
there is a corroding poison that eats to the heart and brain.”
The mellow-voiced orator ceased, and the silence into which his closing
sentences had fallen was broken by the announcement of Dunoisse’s
name. The recent speaker glanced round as it was uttered. Only to
one man could that pale, close-shaven, classic mask belong; only one
brain could house behind the marble rampart of that splendid forehead,
or speak in the flashing glances of those gold-bronze eagle eyes. It
was Victor Hugo; and the thrill a young man knows in the recognition
of a hero, or the discovery of a demigod, went through Dunoisse, as
amidst the rustling of silks and satins, the fluttering of fans and the
agitation of many heads, curled, or ringleted, or braided, that turned
to stare, he moved over the pale Aubusson carpet towards the seated
figure of the lady, indicated by the footman’s whisper as the mistress
of the house.
How soon the demigod was to be forgotten in the revelation of the
goddess....
As the writer of the lilac-colored note rose up, with supple indolent
grace, amidst a whispering purplish-gray sea of crisp delicate silken
flounces,--held out a small white hand flashing with diamonds and
rubies--murmured something vaguely musical about being charmed;--as
Dunoisse, having bent over the extended hand with the required degree
of devotion, raised his head from the ceremonious salute, a pair of
eyes that were, upon that particular night, hazel-green as brook-water
in shadow, looked deep into his own.... And the heart beating behind
the young soldier’s Algerian medals knocked heavily once, twice,
thrice!--as the knock behind the curtain of the Théâtre Français when
the curtain is about to rise upon the First Act, and the strong young
throat encircled by the stiff black-satin-covered leather stock, and
the collar with the golden Staff thunderbolt, knew a choking sensation,
and the blood hummed loudly in his ears.
A flame, subtle, electric, delicate and keen, had passed into him with
the look of those eyes, with the touch of the little velvet hand that
was fated to draw, what wild melody, what frenzied discords from the
throbbing hearts of men....
And the gates of his heart opened wide. And with a burst of triumphant
music Henriette passed in,--and they were shut and locked and barred
behind her.