AN INTERIOR.
If we do not calculate too much on the memory of our readers, they
certainly know the Rue St. Claude, which joins at one end the
boulevard, and at the other the Rue St. Louis; this was an important
street in the first part of our story, when it was inhabited by Joseph
Balsamo, his sibyl, Lorenza, and his master, Althotas. It was still a
respectable street, though badly lighted, and by no means clean, but
little known or frequented.
There was, however, at the corner of the boulevard a large house, with
an aristocratic air; but this house, which might, from the number of
its windows, have illuminated the whole street, had it been lighted up,
was the darkest and most somber-looking of any. The door was never seen
to open; and the windows were thick with dust, which seemed never
disturbed. Sometimes an idler, attracted by curiosity, approached the
gates and peeped through; all he could see, however, were masses of
weeds growing between the stones of the courtyard, and green moss
spreading itself over everything. Occasionally an enormous rat, sole
inmate of those deserted domains, ran across the yard, on his way to
his usual habitation in the cellars, which seemed, however, to be an
excess of modesty, when he had the choice of so many fine
sitting-rooms, where he need never fear the intrusion of a cat.
At times, one or two of the neighbors, passing the house, might stop to
take a survey, and one would say to the other:
“Well, what do you see?”
“Why,” he would reply, “I see the rat.”
“Oh! let me look at him. How fat he has grown!”
“That is not to be wondered at; he is never disturbed; and there must
be some good pickings in the house. M. de Balsamo disappeared so
suddenly, that he must have left something behind.”
“But you forget that the house was half burned down.”
And they would pursue their way.
Opposite this ruin was a high narrow house inclosed within a garden
wall. From the upper windows, a light was to be seen; the rest was
shrouded in darkness. Either all the inhabitants were already asleep,
or they were very economical of wood and candles, which certainly were
frightfully dear this winter. It is, however, with the fifth story only
that we have any business.
We must, in the first place, take a survey of the house, and, ascending
the staircase, open the first door. This room is empty and dark,
however, but it opens into another of which the furniture deserves our
attention.
The doors were gaudily painted, and it contained easy chairs covered in
white, with yellow velvet trimming, and a sofa to match; the cushions
of which, however, were so full of the wrinkles of old age as scarcely
to be cushions any longer. Two portraits hanging on the walls next
attracted attention. A candle and a lamp—one placed on a stand, about
three feet high, and the other on the chimney-piece—threw a constant
light on them.
The first was a well-known portrait of Henry III., King of France and
Poland; a cap on his head, surmounting his long pale face and heavy
eyes; a pointed beard, and a ruff round his neck.
Under it was the inscription, traced in black letters, on a
badly-gilded frame, “Henri de Valois.”
The other portrait, of which the gilding was newer, and the painting
more fresh and recent, represented a young lady with black eyes, a
straight nose, and rather compressed lips, who appeared crushed under a
tower of hair and ribbons, to which the cap of Henry III. was in the
proportion of a mole-hill to a pyramid.
Under this portrait was inscribed, “Jeanne de Valois.”
Glance at the fireless hearth, at the faded curtains, and then turn
towards a little oak table in the corner; for there, leaning on her
elbow, and writing the addresses of some letters, sits the original of
this portrait.
A few steps off, in an attitude half curious, half respectful, stands a
little old woman, apparently about sixty.
“Jeanne de Valois,” says the inscription; but if this lady be indeed a
Valois, one wonders however the portrait of Henry III., the sybarite
king, the great voluptuary, could support the sight of so much poverty
in a person not only of his race, but bearing his name.
In her person, however, this lady of the fifth story did no discredit
to her portrait. She had white and delicate hands, which from time to
time she rubbed together, as if to endeavor to put some warmth into
them; her foot also, which was encased in a rather coquettish velvet
slipper, was small and pretty.
The wind whistled through all the old doors, and penetrated the
crevices of the shaking windows; and the old servant kept glancing
sadly towards the empty grate. Her lady continued her occupation,
talking aloud as she did so.
“Madame de Misery,” she murmured; “first lady of the bedchamber to her
majesty—I cannot expect more than six louis from her, for she has
already given to me once.” And she sighed. “Madame Patrick, lady’s-maid
to her majesty, two louis; M. d’Ormesson, an audience; M. de Calonne,
some good advice, M. de Rohan, a visit; at least, we will try to induce
him,” said she, smiling at the thought. “Well, then, I think I may hope
for eight louis within a week.” Then, looking up, “Dame Clotilde,” she
said, “snuff this candle.”
The old woman did as she was bid, and then resumed her place. This kind
of inquisition seemed to annoy the young lady, for she said, “Pray go
and look if you cannot find the end of a wax candle for me; this tallow
is odious.”
“There is none,” replied the old woman.
“But just look.”
“Where?”
“In the ante-chamber.”
“It is so cold there.”
“There is some one ringing,” said the young lady.
“Madame is mistaken,” replied the obstinate old woman.
“I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde;” then, abandoning the attempt,
she turned again to her calculations. “Eight louis! Three I owe for the
rent, and five I have promised to M. de la Motte, to make him support
his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable, our marriage has not enriched
him as yet—but patience;” and she smiled again, and looked at herself
in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. “Well, then,” she
continued, “I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris
and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress, and gifts to the
porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but,” said she, starting
up, “some one is ringing!”
“No, madame,” replied the old woman. “It is below, on the next floor.”
“But I tell you it is not,” said she angrily, as the bell rang yet
louder.
Even the old woman could deny it no longer; so she hobbled off to open
the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers, and
seated herself on the sofa, assuming the air of a person humble and
resigned, although suffering.
It was, however, only her body that reposed; for her eyes, restless and
unquiet, sought incessantly, first her mirror and then the door.
At last it opened, and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, “Is it
here that Madame la Comtesse de la Motte lives?”
“Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois,” replied Clotilde.
“It is the same person, my good woman; is she at home?”
“Yes, madame; she is too ill to go out.”
During this colloquy, the pretended invalid saw reflected in the glass
the figure of a lady talking to Clotilde, unquestionably belonging to
the higher ranks. She then saw her turn round, and say to some one
behind, “We can go in—it is here.”
And the two ladies we have before seen asking the way prepared to enter
the room.
“Whom shall I announce to the countess?” said Clotilde.
“Announce a Sister of Charity,” said the elder lady.
“From Paris?”
“No; from Versailles.”
Clotilde entered the room, and the strangers followed her.
Jeanne de Valois seemed to rise with difficulty from her seat to
receive her visitors.
Clotilde placed chairs for them, and then unwillingly withdrew.