M. FINGRET.
Madame de la Motte, looking at all this, began to perceive how much she
wanted. She wanted a drawing-room to hold sofas and lounging-chairs; a
dining-room for tables and sideboards; and a boudoir for Persian
curtains, screens, and knick-knacks; above all, she wanted the money to
buy all these things. But in Paris, whatever you cannot afford to buy,
you can hire; and Madame de la Motte set her heart on a set of
furniture covered in yellow silk, with gilt nails, which she thought
would be very becoming to her dark complexion. But this furniture she
felt sure would never go into her rooms on the fifth story; it would be
necessary to hire the third, which was composed of an ante-chamber, a
dining-room, small drawing-room, and bedroom, so that she might, she
thought, receive on this third story the visits of the cardinal, and on
the fifth those of ladies of charity—that is to say, receive in luxury
those who give from ostentation, and in poverty those who only desire
to give when it is needed.
The countess, having made all these reflections, turned to where M.
Fingret himself stood, with his hat in his hand, waiting for her
commands.
“Madame?” said he in a tone of interrogation, advancing towards her.
“Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois,” said Jeanne.
At this high-sounding name M. Fingret bowed low, and said: “But there
is nothing in this room worthy Madame la Comtesse’s inspection. If
madame will take the trouble to step into the next one, she will see
what is new and beautiful.”
Jeanne colored. All this had seemed so splendid to her, too splendid
even to hope to possess it; and this high opinion of M. Fingret’s
concerning her perplexed her not a little. She regretted that she had
not announced herself as a simple bourgeoise; but it was necessary to
speak, so she said, “I do not wish for new furniture.”
“Madame has doubtless some friend’s apartments to furnish?”
“Just so,” she replied.
“Will madame, then, choose?” said M. Fingret, who did not care whether
he sold new or old, as he gained equally by both.
“This set,” said Jeanne, pointing to the yellow silk one.
“That is such a small set, madame.”
“Oh, the rooms are small.”
“It is nearly new, as madame may see.”
“But the price?”
“Eight hundred francs.”
The price made the countess tremble; and how was she to confess that a
countess was content with second-hand things, and then could not afford
to pay eight hundred francs for them? She therefore thought the best
thing was to appear angry, and said: “Who thinks of buying, sir? Who do
you think would buy such old things? I only want to hire.”
Fingret made a grimace; his customer began gradually to lose her value
in his eyes. She did not want to buy new things, only to hire old ones,
“You wish it for a year?” he asked.
“No, only for a month. It is for some one coming from the country.”
“It will be one hundred francs a month.”
“You jest, surely, monsieur; why, in eight months I should have paid
the full price of it.”
“Granted, Madame la Comtesse.”
“Well, is not that too bad?”
“I shall have the expense of doing it up again when you return it.”
Madame de la Motte reflected. “One hundred francs a month is very dear,
certainly; but either I can return it at the end of that time and say
it is too dear, or I shall then perhaps be in a situation to buy.”
“I will take it,” she said, “with curtains to match.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And carpets.”
“Here they are.”
“What can you give me for another room?”
“These oak chairs, this table with twisted legs, and green damask
curtains.”
“And for a bedroom?”
“A large and handsome bed, a counterpane of velvet embroidered in
rose-color and silver, an excellent couch, and blue curtains.”
“And for my dressing-room?”
“A toilet-table hung with Mechlin lace; chest of drawers with
marqueterie; sofa and chairs of tapestry. The whole came from the
bedroom of Madame de Pompadour at Choisy.”
“All this for what price?”
“For a month?”
“Yes.”
“Four hundred francs.”
“Come, Monsieur Fingret, do not take me for a grisette who is dazzled
by your fine descriptions. Please to reflect that you are asking at the
rate of four thousand eight hundred francs a year, and for that I can
take a whole furnished house. You disgust me with the Place Royale.”
“I am very sorry, madame.”
“Prove it, then; I will only give half that price.” Jeanne pronounced
these words with so much authority that the merchant began again to
think she might be worth conciliating.
“So be it, then, madame.”
“And on one condition, M. Fingret.”
“What, madame?”
“That everything be arranged in its proper place by three o’clock.”
“But consider, madame, it is now ten.”
“Can you do it or not?”
“Where must they go to?”
“Rue St. Claude.”
“Close by?”
“Precisely.”
The upholsterer opened a door, and called, “Sylvain! Landry! Rémy!”
Three men answered to the call.
“The carts and the trucks instantly. Rémy, you shall take this yellow
furniture; Sylvain, you take that for the dining-room; and you, Landry,
that for the bedroom. Here is the bill, madame; shall I receipt it?”
“Here are six double louis,” she said, “and you can give the change to
these men if the order is completed in time;” and, having given her
address, she reentered her coach.
On her return she engaged the third floor, and in a few hours all was
in order.
The lodgings thus transformed, the windows cleaned, and the fires
lighted, Jeanne went again to her toilet, which she made as recherché
as possible, and then took a last look at all the delights around her.
Nothing had been forgotten: there were gilded branches from the walls
for wax-lights, and glass lusters on each side of the mirror; Jeanne
had also added flowers, to complete the embellishment of the paradise
in which she intended to receive his eminence. She took care even to
leave the door of the bedroom a little open, through which the light of
a bright fire gave a glimpse of the luxuries within.
All these preparations completed, she seated herself in a chair by the
fire, with a book in her hand, listening eagerly to the sound of every
carriage that passed; but nine, ten, and eleven o’clock struck, and no
one came. Still she did not despair; it was not too late for a gallant
prelate, who had probably been first to some supper, and would come to
her from there. But at last twelve struck; no one appeared, the lights
were burning low, and the old servant, after many lamentations over her
new cap, had fallen asleep in her chair.
At half-past twelve Jeanne rose furious from her chair, looked out of
window for the hundredth time, and, seeing no one near, undressed
herself and went to bed, refusing supper, or to answer any of the
remarks made to her by Clotilde; and on her sumptuous bed, under her
beautiful curtains, she experienced no better rest than she had on the
previous night. At last, however, her anger began a little to abate,
and she commenced framing excuses for the cardinal. He had so much to
occupy him, he must have been detained, and, most potent of all, he had
not yet seen her. She would not have been so easily consoled if he had
broken the promise of a second visit.