embarrassed and intimidated when he entered the salons; but it did not
prevent his being red of face and stiff and awkward when he found
himself in the midst of the guests, where he vainly sought Alfred for
some time. At last his friend came to him, and, taking his arm, began by
indulging in some jesting remarks concerning divers persons present.
This gave Robineau time to recover himself; he resumed his
self-assurance, his customary smile, and began to cast his eyes upon
the ladies, thinking only of making conquests.
"By the way, your father, Monsieur le Baron de Marcey--I have not yet
had the honor of paying my respects to him," said Robineau, as he gazed
admiringly at some very pretty young ladies who had just entered the
salon.
"My father has seen you before; must I present you to him again? It’s
the same ceremony every time!"
"It’s a long time since he saw me, my dear fellow, and----"
"That makes no difference; you have one of those faces that no one ever
forgets."
As he spoke, Alfred walked away to speak to some ladies, and Robineau
murmured:
"I certainly have a face that--I wonder if he meant that for an epigram?
that would be very becoming in him.--Ah! there is Monsieur de Marcey."
A man of some forty-eight years was passing Robineau at that moment; he
was of tall stature and his carriage was noble and imposing; his
strongly marked features were still very handsome, although they seemed
to be already fatigued by too intense emotions rather than by years. He
was a little bald in front, although his hair was still dark; lastly,
his face was habitually serious and almost stern. But to those persons
who could read his countenance more understandingly, the expression of
his somewhat sombre glance was rather melancholy than severe. However,
his black eyes grew softer, and a faint smile played about his lips
whenever he looked at his son. Such was the Baron de Marcey.
"Monsieur de Marcey,--I have the honor--I am much flattered----"
The baron glanced at Robineau for an instant, then exclaimed:
"Ah! this is Monsieur Robineau, I believe?"
"Yes, monsieur, an intimate friend of your son, who invited me to come;
and I took advantage of----"
"My son’s friends will always be mine, monsieur, and they confer a favor
on me by coming to my house."
As he spoke, Monsieur de Marcey bowed to Robineau, and passed on to
speak with other guests, while the government clerk puffed himself up
and sauntered through the throng, saying to himself:
"Monsieur de Marcey is always extremely amiable to me; indeed I consider
him more amiable than his son, because he hasn’t always that mocking
air.--Ah! there’s the music; they are going to dance. I think I will
dance, too; but with a pretty woman, for I can never keep in step with
an ugly one,--it’s no use for me to try."
The orchestra had given the signal; one of Tolbecque’s lovely strains
drew the dancers together from all sides, and charmed the ears of those
who did not dance, but who, as they watched beauty and innocence
_chasser_ and _balancer_, listened with delight to airs selected from
our best composers’ prettiest operas.
Robineau addressed himself too late to several comely young ladies who
were already engaged; he was forced to take a partner who had naught in
her favor save her youth and a very stylish costume. He heard somebody
call her madame la comtesse, and that made him desirous to distinguish
himself as her partner; but she seemed to pay very little heed to his
airs and graces, and replied only by monosyllables to the complimentary
remarks he addressed to her.
"She’s a prude!" Robineau muttered, after he had escorted the countess
to her seat; and he proceeded to invite a very attractive young person
to whom also he essayed to play the amiable; but she contented herself
with smiling at what he said to her, and seemed wholly intent on the
dance.
"She’s a fool!" thought Robineau, as he carried his homage elsewhere.
But finding that he created no sensation, despite his energetic
movements and the smiles he lavished on his partners, he left the
ball-room.
"After all," he muttered, "among all these fine ladies there isn’t one
who comes up to Fifine! And if Fifine had a tulle gown, and a wreath in
her hair, and some of those great bracelets with antique cameos--ah!
what a sensation she’d make!--I’ll take a look at the écarté table. I
will carelessly bet a five-franc piece.--Ah! the deuce! there are ices;
I’ll begin by seizing one on the wing."
Robineau took an ice, and, in order to eat in comfort, seated himself
behind two gentlemen of mature years, who were talking together in a
small salon between the ball-room and the card-room.
"How he has changed!" observed one of the two gentlemen, looking at
Monsieur de Marcey, who happened to pass through the salon.
"Changed! whom do you mean?"
"De Marcey."
"Oh! do you think so?"
"If you had known De Marcey twenty-five years ago, as I did, my dear
Dolmont----"
"Parbleu! that’s just it--twenty-five years ago; and it seems to you
that it was only yesterday--and that he ought to appear the same
to-day."
"No, no, I don’t say that.--Dear De Marcey! We made the Austerlitz
campaign together."
"Oho! were you at Austerlitz?"
"Yes, indeed; I am proud to say that I was; and I have been in almost
every battle that has been fought since. Now, I am resting."
Robineau took his eyes from his vanilla ice for an instant, to look at
the speaker. He saw a man of fifty, whose frank and intelligent face
bore more than one scar; his buttonhole was decorated with several
orders, and Robineau said to himself:
"This gentleman has well earned his decorations--that is sure!"
"To be sure," rejoined the old soldier’s companion a moment later, "De
Marcey is not old; he entered the service early in life, as you did; but
so many things have happened since that it always seems as if centuries
had passed over our heads."
"For my part, when I think of my campaigns, it seems as if it had all
happened no longer ago than yesterday, for I fancy that I am still in
the field!"
"He is like me," thought Robineau, "when I think of my first fancy.
And yet it was ten years ago. She was a _figurante_ at the
Porte-Saint-Martin, and on the day of our first rendezvous we dined at
the Vendanges de Bourgogne, Faubourg du Temple. It wasn’t a fashionable
restaurant then as it is to-day, and there was no canal to cross to get
there; but they served delicious _sheep’s-trotters_. It seems to me that
I am there still. I was eighteen years old then. Ah me! one grows old
without perceiving it!"
And Robineau heaved a sigh--which did not prevent his finishing his ice.
"When I say, Dolmont, that De Marcey seems changed to me, I refer to his
temperament rather than to his physical aspect. If you had known him
long ago--he was always in high spirits and a jovial companion; he used
to laugh and joke with us. He was fond of the ladies--oh! he was a great
lady’s man. But he was jealous of his mistresses, very jealous! I recall
that on various occasions that tendency led him into quarrels; and
indeed it was on account of it, I believe, that they married him at
twenty-three to a young lady for whom he cared very little. His parents
maintained that, with his jealous disposition, if he married for love he
would be unhappy. And in fact his marriage began very auspiciously. I
knew De Marcey’s first wife; she was a very attractive woman, and I
believe that she would have made her husband very happy; unfortunately
she died, a year after giving birth to a son. I learned that De Marcey
married again after six years; but I was not in Paris then, and De
Marcey had left the army. I never knew his second wife."
"He didn’t marry the second time in Paris, but somewhere in the
neighborhood of Bordeaux. It seems that his wife’s family had an estate
there, and the marriage took place on that property. Indeed, I think
that he did not return to Paris with his wife until long after his
second marriage."
"And what sort of person was his second wife?"
"Charming! One of those exquisite faces such as the painters succeed in
producing occasionally, but which we see much less frequently in the
world."
"The deuce!"
"But she had a sad, melancholy air; when she smiled, the smile seemed to
conceal a secret grief. I never saw her dance, although she was very
young, eighteen at most; but she seemed to shun the pleasures suited to
her age, and to go into society solely to please her husband."
"And De Marcey was very fond of her?"
"Oh! he adored her; he seized every opportunity of giving her pleasure.
He was untiring in his devotion to her."
"Did he have any children by her?"
"No; but the lovely Adèle--that was the second wife’s name--loved little
Alfred dearly, and manifested all a mother’s affection for him. She died
after three years; De Marcey’s grief was so violent that for a long time
his life was in danger. At last, the sight of his son, meditation, lapse
of time----"
"Yes, time! that is the all-powerful remedy. But for all that, I am no
longer surprised that his humor is so changed from what it was! One may
overcome the most profound sorrow, but it always leaves its traces. It
is like the severe wounds, which heal, but of which one always carries
the scars."
With that the old soldier rose, his companion did the same, leaving
Robineau alone on his chair, which he at once quitted, saying to
himself:
"It is very entertaining to listen to other people’s conversation, and
it’s instructive, too; you seem to be paying no attention, but you
listen; especially when people talk loud, for that means that they are
not saying anything that they wish to conceal. Ah! I must listen to the
conversation of some of the ladies; that will be even more amusing,
because they always sprinkle their talk with wit; when I say always, I
mean of course those who have wit.--Yonder are two ladies who seem to be
engaged in a most interesting conversation, for they are talking with
great animation. There’s a vacant chair beside them."
Robineau nonchalantly took his seat beside two pretty women, and turning
his ear toward them as if without design, caught some fragments of their
conversation.
"Yes, my dear love, I judged him rightly. I was wise, as you see, to
distrust his protestations of love, his ardent oaths, his profound
sighs! And yet you cannot conceive with what an air of sincerity he told
me that he proposed to be virtuous and faithful henceforth, and to love
no one but me! It is ghastly to lie like that!"
Robineau turned his head so that he could see the speaker’s face; and he
saw a lovely brunette, whose vivacious and intelligent features
expressed at that moment a sentiment of vexation which she tried to
conceal beneath a forced smile.
"My dear Jenny, I believe that you are a little annoyed because you put
Alfred’s love to the proof."
"Annoyed! on the contrary, I am delighted. I did not believe in it for
an instant; his reputation with respect to women is too well established
for----"
At that point she lowered her voice and Robineau could not hear the rest
of her sentence; but he thought:
"They are talking about Alfred--this is delightful!--She is a person he
has been making love to, no doubt. Gad! how amusing it is!"
The other lady, who also was young and pretty, replied after a moment:
"I am inclined to think that I should have more confidence in his
friend, Monsieur Edouard Beaumont; he has a less frivolous, less
heedless air than Alfred; and he is very good-looking, is Edouard; he
has a very pretty figure."
"Mon Dieu! my dear love, I’ll wager that he is no better than other men.
It is safer to distrust those cold, reserved manners, too. Nobody is
worse than such men, when it comes to deceiving us poor women. With a
scapegrace who makes no pretence of concealing what he is, one knows
what to expect at all events."
"And that is why you have a weakness for Alfred, I suppose?"
"Oh! never! never! I laughed at his oaths of love. Perhaps it amused me
a little to listen to him.--But, although he is agreeable and
bright--as to loving him, oh! I promise you that I never dreamed of such
a thing. Pray do not think that!"
"If you defend yourself so eagerly, Jenny, I shall end by believing that
you adore him."
"Oh! upon my word, I----"
She lowered her voice again. Robineau tilted his chair a little in order
to hear; but for several minutes the two friends spoke in such low tones
that he could not catch a word. At last the charming Jenny observed
aloud:
"You did well, very well. I am sure that it puzzles him tremendously to
see us talking together, for he thought that we were at odds. Did he
never talk to you about me?"
"Why, no; he talked about nobody but myself."
"Ah, yes! of course. I assure you, Clara, that I shall remain a widow; I
shall never marry again!"
"Can anyone be sure of that, my dear? Remember that you are only
twenty-two years old."
"An additional reason for not endangering the happiness of my life. Is
not what I have known of marriage likely to make me avoid it? Monsieur
de Gerville married me when I was eighteen, having never paid court to
me; without any idea whether I liked him or not, he asked my parents for
my hand. He was rich, so they gave me to him. However, Monsieur de
Gerville was young and good-looking. I might have loved him if he had
taken the trouble to try to win my love, if he had simply tried to make
me think that he loved me. I was such a little idiot then! I believed
whatever anyone chose. But no--I was his wife, and he would have
considered that he disgraced himself by making love to me, by paying me
any attention. He had two or three mistresses who deceived him; but
that was much better than loving his wife, who did not deceive him.
However, he is dead, and it is my duty to forget the suffering he caused
me; but I confess that that taste of married life left me with a very
poor opinion of men in general. I believe them to be, as a rule,
selfish, inconstant, unjust to women: they must have everything, and we
must do without everything; they are pleased to be unfaithful, but they
demand constancy from us; they are good-humored so long as we are
fortunate enough to please them, but as soon as they begin to sigh for
another woman, they do not give us another thought; instead of trying to
conceal their unfaithfulness by redoubling their attentions and
consideration for us, they become sulky, capricious, bad-tempered; and
if we are so unfortunate as to manifest any regret at the change in
their treatment of us, they accuse us of being jealous and exacting!"
"O Jenny! Jenny!"
"You will find out, my dear Clara, that it is all true. In fact, what
happy couples can you mention? Only those where the wives close their
eyes to their husbands’ infidelities. Oh! when we let them do whatever
they choose, go in and out and run after other women, without ever
calling them to account for their actions, then we are what they call
good wives, and they deign to offer us an arm once a month."
"I see that Alfred’s inconstancy has soured you!"
"What do I care for Monsieur Alfred’s inconstancy? I tell you again, I
listened to him only for the fun of it, and I never took his
declarations of love seriously. However, I am very glad that I
know--that I conceived the idea of----"
Here they lowered their voices once more; and as they had reached a very
interesting point, and as Robineau was most desirous to learn what the
idea was that had occurred to Madame de Gerville, he tilted his chair a
little more in the hope of hearing. But the weight of his body
overturned it, and before he could recover himself, he rolled at the
feet of the two friends.
As they had paid no attention to their neighbor, they were not a little
surprised when that gentleman fell almost on their laps. But Robineau
rose hastily, stammered an apology and walked away, muttering:
"They polish their floors a great deal too much! It’s almost too
slippery to stand up! I don’t understand why all the dancers don’t fall
on top of one another. To be sure, they walk instead of dancing.--Curse
that chair! I was just going to learn the idea of that pretty
brunette--Madame Jenny de Gerville. I will remember the name, and I’ll
drive Alfred crazy. Ah! it’s very amusing!"
Robineau returned to the ball-room and looked about for other groups of
people conversing. He heard laughter near at hand, and found that it
came from two ladies who were not dancing; there happened to be a vacant
chair behind them and Robineau took possession of it.
"These ladies are laughing," he said to himself; "I’ll wager that they
are making fun of some other women among the company. I mustn’t miss
this! I didn’t have time to look at them, but I will scrutinize them
when they turn.--Attention!"
"Oh! what a ridiculous creature that man must be, and how I would have
liked to see him dancing with you! You must point him out to me when you
see him."
"Oh, yes! never fear; he is easily recognizable. I can’t imagine where
Monsieur de Marcey found him!"
"Good!" thought Robineau; "they are making fun of someone--I was sure of
it."
And he moved nearer to them, taking care not to tilt his chair.
"Just imagine, my dear love, a short, fat, heavy, awkward man, with a
big nose, stupid little eyes, lips that he presses together when he
talks, and hair curled so tight that he looks like a negro!"
"Ha! ha! ha!"
"And with it all, such a pretentious manner! He asked me to dance--they
were just forming for the first contra-dance; I accepted, and during the
dance he tried to play the amiable, but he had nothing to say except the
most commonplace things, all so flat and wornout that it made me very
sorry for him!--When he found that I made no reply to those entertaining
remarks, he took the liberty to squeeze my hand while we were
dancing!--Ha! ha! ha!"
At that point, the lady who was speaking turned, and Robineau recognized
the countess with whom he had danced the first contra-dance. The blood
rushed to his face. Meanwhile, the lady, who instantly recognized the
gentleman of whom she was speaking, with difficulty restrained an
inclination to laugh, and gently touched her friend’s knee. But before
the latter had time to turn, Robineau was already far away. He was
beside himself with rage, and glared furiously about, muttering:
"Well, upon my word! that woman must be a great joker! I don’t know
whether it was I she was talking about, but in any event, I hope she may
find many of my kind!--But she’s too ugly to have any attention.--To say
that I squeezed her hand! that is false! These ugly women are forever
slandering us men; it’s because they are furious at not finding any
lovers."
Having lost his desire to listen to conversations, Robineau bent his
steps toward the card-room, making such a horrible grimace that Alfred,
meeting him beside one of the tables, stopped him and said:
"Mon Dieu! what a face you are making, my dear Robineau! Have you been
having hard luck?"
"I have lost three hundred francs!"
"That’s nothing; you will win them back." And Alfred walked away, while
Robineau said to himself:
"He takes things easily! That’s nothing, he says! If I had lost three
hundred francs, I should never get over it! But I am very sure not to
lose any such sum, as I have only twenty-one francs fifty. I must risk
that. I will try to win; but they say that it isn’t very prudent to play
écarté at these large parties. However, at Monsieur le Baron de Marcey’s
there can’t be any but honest people. No matter; I am going to bet on
the one who is winning--that’s the best thing to do.--Who is having the
luck?" asked Robineau as he drew near the card-table.
Unluckily for him, the luck changed; in a very short time he lost his
twenty-one francs. Thereupon, making every effort to conceal his
ill-humor, he turned away from the table.
"Good-bye to the trip into the country and the dinner at the restaurant
on Sunday!" he thought. "Fifine will have to dine at her aunt’s, and I
will play the guitar. It was well worth while for me to put myself out,
dress in my best clothes and hire a cab, to come to a grand party!--It
is very amusing, isn’t it? Women who laugh at you; men who stare at you
as if they would like to walk on you; gamblers who win your money
without giving you time to see where you are! Fifine is right: one has
much more fun at Madame Saqui’s or at the Funambules when they play _Le
Fantôme Armé_.--Let us take a look at the buffet. If I can’t put ices in
my pocket, I can put some oranges and cakes."
Robineau went to the refreshment room; there were no oranges left, but
there was an abundance of cakes. He stuffed his pockets with them while
the servants brought refreshments, and he was about to make for the
stairway when Edouard appeared in front of him. The young author
stopped.
"Good evening, Monsieur Robineau," he said; "I haven’t seen you
before--there are so many people here!"
"True; and look you, between ourselves, I don’t consider these enormous
crushes very amusing; I confess that I have had enough of it, and I am
going away."
"Already? Why, it’s only two o’clock. Oh! you must stay; Alfred wants us
to take supper in his apartment after the party, and talk nonsense."
"Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, if we are to have supper.
The devil! if I had known, I wouldn’t have eaten so much sweet stuff.
But no matter--I will stay."
"Let us walk about and look for pretty partners."
"I will gladly walk about; but as to dancing, I am done."
Robineau slapped his pockets softly, to flatten them, and followed
Edouard, saying to himself:
"I am not sorry to be seen talking with an author; I will talk theatre
with him, and people will think that he and I are working together on a
play.--I will bet that you prefer the play to an evening party, eh,
Monsieur Edouard?"
"That depends; there are pleasant parties and very tiresome plays."
"Oh! of course; but I mean to say that it is very pleasant to be an
author.--I must tell you of a plot--I say a plot, but I have a dozen in
my desk!--Oh! I have some astonishingly good ones!"
"I believe it."
"Plots for grand operas, opéra-comiques, vaudevilles, melodramas. Oh! I
do a little of everything; I have an inexhaustible imagination, and if I
had time----"
"Yes, time is always what those people lack who produce nothing."
"That is so, isn’t it? But I will show them to you. What I should like
more than anything would be to have free admission to the theatres.--Ah!
to be able to go behind the scenes, to see the actresses at close
quarters, and the ballet-dancers, who make pirouettes, so they say, as
they bid you good-evening! What a lot of conquests one might make!"
"Not so many as you think; you get accustomed to the wings, as you do to
the auditorium, and you talk with a Turk or a Polish girl without
noticing their costumes."
"Of course; habit--I understand; but to produce a play, to superintend
the rehearsals and the performance."
"It is delightful when one succeeds; but even so, what vexations have to
be undergone before that point is reached! Rehearsals where people are
never prompt, where they talk instead of studying their parts, which
makes it necessary to rehearse forty times what they should have learned
in fifteen; actors who want to make over their parts, managers who want
to rewrite your plays, actresses who don’t like their costumes,
claqueurs who want all your tickets, and last of all the public, that
will have none of your play: such is often the result of six weeks of
discomfort, annoyances and hard work!"
"He says all this to take away any inclination on my part to write
plays," thought Robineau. "All authors are like that; they try to
disgust beginners. I won’t show him my plots; he would steal my ideas,
and then say they were his own.--You are rather inclined to look at the
dark side of things now, Monsieur Edouard," he said aloud, "because you
are still sore from your failure."
"Oh! I assure you that I have forgotten all about it."
"Bah! nonsense! For my part, if I should be hissed, I think that I
should be in a horrible humor.--By the way, have you seen your little
sempstress again? But I suppose that she is already replaced, is she
not?"
"Faith, no! I am beginning to be tired of these _bonnes fortunes_, in
which, as Larochefoucauld says, there is everything except love. I think
that I should prefer a little love and less pleasure."
"That is like me, I am for sentiment, for what is called pure sentiment.
I have adored all the women I ever knew, even my _figurante_ at the
Porte-Saint-Martin; and on their side, they have all treated me with
peculiar favor; I am their spoiled child."
"You are very fortunate, Monsieur Robineau!--For my part, I would like
to find--I don’t know just how to express it, but it seems to me that
there should be a secret sympathy acting at the same time on two hearts
that are made for each other."