THE BALL AT THE OPERA.
The ball was at its height when they glided in quietly, and were soon
lost in the crowd. A couple had taken refuge from the pressure under
the queen’s box; one of them wore a white domino and the other a black
one. They were talking with great animation. “I tell you, Oliva,” said
the black domino, “that I am sure you are expecting some one. Your head
is no longer a head, but a weather cock, and turns round to look after
every newcomer.”
“Well, is it astonishing that I should look at the people, when that is
what I came here for?”
“Oh, that is what you came for!”
“Well, sir, and for what do people generally come?”
“A thousand things.”
“Men perhaps, but women only for one—to see and be seen by as many
people as possible.”
“Mademoiselle Oliva!”
“Oh, do not speak in that big voice, it does so frighten me; and above
all, do not call me by name; it is bad taste to let every one here know
who you are.”
The black domino made an angry gesture; it was interrupted by a blue
domino who approached them.
“Come, monsieur,” said he, “let madame amuse herself; it is not every
night one comes to a ball at the Opera.”
“Meddle with your own affairs,” replied Beausire, rudely.
“Monsieur, learn once for all that a little courtesy is never out of
place.”
“I do not know you,” he replied, “and do not want to have anything to
do with you.”
“No, you do not know me; but I know you, M. Beausire.”
At hearing his name thus pronounced, Beausire visibly trembled.
“Oh, do not be afraid, M. Beausire; I am not what you take me for.”
“Pardieu! sir, do you guess thoughts, as well as names?”
“Why not?”
“Then tell me what I thought. I have never seen a sorcerer, and should
find it amusing.”
“Oh, what you ask is not difficult enough to entitle me to that name.”
“Never mind—tell.”
“Well, then! you took me for an agent of M. de Crosne.”
“M. de Crosne!” he repeated.
“Yes; the lieutenant of police.”
“Sir!”
“Softly, M. de Beausire, you really look as if you were feeling for
your sword.”
“And so I was, sir.”
“Good heavens! what a warlike disposition; but I think, dear M.
Beausire, you left your sword at home, and you did well. But to speak
of something else, will you relinquish to me madame for a time?”
“Give you up madame?”
“Yes, sir; that is not uncommon, I believe, at a ball at the Opera.”
“Certainly not, when it suits the gentleman.”
“It suffices sometimes that it should please the lady.”
“Do you ask it for a long time?”
“Really, M. Beausire, you are too curious. Perhaps for ten
minutes—perhaps for an hour—perhaps for all the evening.”
“You are laughing at me, sir.”
“Come, reply; will you or not?”
“No, sir.”
“Come, come, do not be ill-tempered, you who were so gentle just now.”
“Just now?”
“Yes; at the Rue Dauphine.”
Oliva laughed.
“Hold your tongue, madame,” said Beausire.
“Yes,” continued the blue domino, “where you were on the point of
killing this poor lady, but stopped at the sight of some louis.”
“Oh, I see; you and she have an understanding together.”
“How can you say such a thing?” cried Oliva.
“And if it were so,” said the stranger, “it is all for your benefit.”
“For my benefit! that would be curious.”
“I will prove to you that your presence here is as hurtful as your
absence would be profitable. You are a member of a certain academy, not
the Académie Française, but in the Rue du Pôt au Fer, in the second
story, is it not, my dear M. Beausire?”
“Hush!” said Beausire.
The blue domino drew out his watch, which was studded with diamonds
that made Beausire’s eyes water to look at them. “Well!” continued he,
“in a quarter of an hour they are going to discuss there a little
project, by which, they hope to secure 2,000,000 francs among the
twelve members, of whom you are one, M. Beausire.”
“And you must be another; if you are not——”
“Pray go on.”
“A member of the police.”
“Oh, M. Beausire, I thought you had more sense. If I were of the
police, I should have taken you long ago, for some little affairs less
honorable than this speculation.”
“So, sir, you wish to send me to the Rue du Pôt au Fer: but I know
why—that I may be arrested there: I am not such a fool.”
“Now, you are one. If I wanted to arrest you, I had only to do it, and
I am rid of you at once; but gentleness and persuasion are my maxims.”
“Oh, I know now,” said Beausire, “you are the man that was on the sofa
two hours ago.”
“What sofa?”
“Never mind; you have induced me to go, and if you are sending a
gallant man into harm, you will pay for it some day.”
“Be tranquil,” said the blue domino, laughing; “by sending you there, I
give you 100,000 francs at least, for you know the rule of this society
is, that whoever is absent loses his share.”
“Well, then, good-by!” said Beausire, and vanished.
The blue domino took possession of Oliva’s arm, left at liberty by
Beausire.
“Now!” said she, “I have let you manage poor Beausire at your ease, but
I warn you, you will find me not so easy to talk over; therefore, find
something pretty to say to me, or——”
“I know nothing prettier than your own history, dear Mademoiselle
Nicole,” said he, pressing the pretty round arm of the little woman,
who uttered a cry at hearing herself so addressed; but, recovering
herself with marvelous quickness, said:
“Oh, mon Dieu! what a name! Is it I whom you call Nicole? If so, you
are wrong, for that is not my name.”
“At present I know that you call yourself Oliva, but we will talk
afterwards of Oliva; at present I want to speak of Nicole. Have you
forgotten the time when you bore that name? I do not believe it, my
dear child, for the name that one bears as a young girl is ever the one
enshrined in the heart, although one may have been forced to take
another to hide the first. Poor Oliva, happy Nicole!”
“Why do you say ‘Poor Oliva’? do you not think me happy?”
“It would be difficult to be happy with a man like Beausire.”
Oliva sighed and said, “Indeed I am not.”
“You love him, however.”
“A little.”
“If you do not love him much, leave him.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I should no sooner have done so than I should regret it.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am afraid I should.”
“What could you have to regret in a drunkard; a gambler, a man who
beats you, and a black-leg, who will one day come to the gallows?”
“You would not understand me if I told you.”
“Try.”
“I should regret the excitement he keeps me in.”
“I ought to have guessed it; that comes of passing your youth with such
silent people.”
“You know about my youth?”
“Perfectly.”
Oliva laughed and shook her head.
“You doubt it?”
“Really I do.”
“Then we will talk a little about it, Mademoiselle Nicole.”
“Very well; but I warn you, I will tell nothing.”
“I do not wish it. I do not mean your childhood. I begin from the time
when you first perceived that you had a heart capable of love.”
“Love for whom?”
“For Gilbert.”
At this name Oliva trembled.
“Ah, mon Dieu!” she cried. “How do you know?” Then with, a sigh said,
“Oh, sir! you have pronounced a name indeed fertile in remembrances.
You knew Gilbert?”
“Yes; since I speak to you of him.”
“Alas!”
“A charming lad, upon my word. You loved him?”
“He was handsome. No, perhaps not; but I thought him so; he was full of
mind, my equal in birth, but Gilbert thought no woman his equal.”
“Not even Mademoiselle de Ta——”
“Oh, I know whom you mean, sir. You are well instructed. Yes, Gilbert
loved higher than the poor Nicole: you are possessed of terrible
secrets, sir; tell me, if you can,” she continued, looking earnestly at
him, “what has become of him?”
“You should know best.”
“Why, in heaven’s name?”
“Because if he followed you from Taverney to Paris, you followed him
from Paris to Trianon.”
“Yes, that is true, but that is ten years ago; and I wished to know
what had passed since the time I ran away, and since he disappeared.
When Gilbert loved Mademoiselle de——”
“Do not pronounce names aloud,” said he.
“Well, then, when he loved her so much that each tree at Trianon was
witness to his love——”
“You loved him no more.”
“On the contrary, I loved him more than ever; and this love was my
ruin. I am beautiful, proud, and, when I please, insolent; and would
lay my head on the scaffold rather than confess myself despised.”
“You have a heart, Nicole?”
“I had then,” she said, sighing.
“This conversation makes you sad.”
“No, it does me good to speak of my youth. But tell me why Gilbert fled
from Trianon.”
“Do you wish me to confirm a suspicion, or to tell you something you do
not know.”
“Something I do not know.”
“Well, I cannot tell you this. Have you not heard that he is dead?”
“Yes, I have, but——”
“Well, he is dead.”
“Dead!” said Nicole, with an air of doubt. Then, with a sudden start,
“Grant me one favor!” she cried.
“As many as you like.”
“I saw you two hours ago; for it was you, was it not?”
“Certainly.”
“You did not, then, try to disguise yourself?”
“Not at all.”
“But I was stupid; I saw you, but I did not observe you.”
“I do not understand.”
“Do you know what I want?”
“No.”
“Take off your mask.”
“Here! impossible!”
“Oh, you cannot fear other people seeing you. Here, behind this column,
you will be quite hidden. You fear that I should recognize you.”
“You!”
“And that I should cry, ‘It is you—it is Gilbert!’”
“What folly!”
“Take off your mask.”
“Yes, on one condition—that you will take off yours, if I ask it.”
“Agreed.” The unknown took off his immediately.
Oliva looked earnestly at him, then sighed, and said:
“Alas! no, it is not Gilbert.”
“And who am I?”
“Oh, I do not care, as you are not he.”
“And if it had been Gilbert?” said he, as he put on his mask again.
“Ah! if it had been,” cried she passionately, “and he had said to me,
‘Nicole, do you remember Taverney Maison-Rouge?’ then there would have
been no longer a Beausire in the world for me.”
“But I have told you, my dear child, that Gilbert is dead.”
“Ah! perhaps, then, it is for the best,” said Oliva, with a sigh.
“Yes; he would never have loved you, beautiful as you are.”
“Do you, then, think he despised me?”
“No; he rather feared you.”
“That is possible.”
“Then you think it better he is dead?”
“Do not repeat my words; in your mouth they wound me.”
“But it is better for Mademoiselle Oliva. You observe, I abandon
Nicole, and speak to Oliva. You have before you a future, happy, rich,
and brilliant.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, if you make up your mind to do anything to arrive at this end.”
“I promise you.”
“But you must give up sighing, as you were doing just now.”
“Very well. I sighed for Gilbert, and as he is dead, and there are not
two Gilberts in the world, I shall sigh no more. But enough of him.”
“Yes; we will speak of yourself. Why did you run away with Beausire?”
“Because I wished to quit Trianon, and I was obliged to go with some
one; I could no longer remain a ‘pis aller,’ rejected by Gilbert.”
“You have, then, been faithful for ten years through pride? You have
paid dearly for it.”
Oliva laughed.
“Oh, I know what you are laughing at. To hear a man, who pretends to
know everything, accuse you of having been ten years faithful, when you
think you have not rendered yourself worthy of such a ridiculous
reproach. However, I know all about you. I know that you went to
Portugal with Beausire, where you remained two years; that you then
left him, and went to the Indies with the captain of a frigate, who hid
you in his cabin, and who left you at Chandernagor when he returned to
Europe. I know that you had two millions of rupees to spend in the
house of a nabob who kept you shut up; that you escaped through the
window on the shoulders of a slave. Then, rich—for you had carried away
two beautiful pearl bracelets, two diamonds, and three large rubies—you
came back to France. When landing at Brest, your evil genius made you
encounter Beausire on the quay, who recognized you immediately, bronzed
and altered as you were, while you almost fainted at the sight of him.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Oliva, “who are you, then, who know all this?”
“I know, further, that Beausire carried you off again, persuaded you
that he loved you, sold your jewels, and reduced you to poverty. Still,
you say you love him, and, as love is the root of all happiness, of
course you ought to be happy.”
Oliva hung her head, and covered her eyes with her hands, but two large
tears might be seen forcing their way through her fingers—liquid
pearls, more precious, though not so marketable, as those Beausire had
sold.
“And this woman,” at last she said, “whom you describe as so proud and
so happy, you have bought to-day for fifty louis.”
“I am aware it is too little, mademoiselle.”
“No, sir; on the contrary, I am surprised that a woman like me should
be worth so much.”
“You are worth more than that, as I will show you; but just now I want
all your attention.”
“Then I will be silent.”
“No; talk, on the contrary, of anything, it does not matter what, so
that we seem occupied.”
“You are very odd.”
“Take hold of my arm, and let us walk.”
They walked on among the various groups. In a minute or two, Oliva
asked a question.
“Talk as much as you like, only do not ask questions at present,” said
her companion, “for I cannot answer now; only, as you speak, disguise
your voice, hold your head up, and scratch your neck with your fan.”
She obeyed.
In a minute, they passed a highly perfumed group, in the center of
which a very elegant-looking man was talking fast to three companions,
who were listening respectfully.
“Who is that young man in that beautiful gray domino?” asked Oliva.
“M. le Comte d’Artois; but pray do not speak just now!” At this moment
two other dominoes passed them, and stood in a place near, which was
rather free from people.
“Lean on this pillar, countess,” said one of them in a low voice, but
which was overheard by the blue domino, who started at its sound.
Then a yellow domino, passing through the crowd, came up to the blue
one, and said, “It is he.”
“Very good,” replied the other, and the yellow domino vanished.
“Now, then,” said Oliva’s companion, turning to her, “we will begin to
enjoy ourselves a little.”
“I hope so, for you have twice made me sad: first by taking away
Beausire, and then by speaking of Gilbert.”
“I will be both Gilbert and Beausire to you,” said the unknown.
“Oh!” sighed Oliva.
“I do not ask you to love me, remember; I only ask you to accept the
life I offer you—that is, the accomplishment of all your desires,
provided occasionally you give way to mine. Just now I have one.”
“What?”
“That black domino that you see there is a German of my acquaintance,
who refused to come to the ball with me, saying he was not well; and
now he is here, and a lady with him.”
“Who is she?”
“I do not know. We will approach them; I will pretend that you are a
German, and you must not speak, for fear of being found out. Now,
pretend to point him out to me with the end of your fan.”
“Like that?”
“Yes; very well. Now whisper to me.”
Oliva obeyed with a docility which charmed her companion.
The black domino, who had his back turned to them, did not see all
this; but his companion did. “Take care, monseigneur,” said she; “there
are two masks watching us.”
“Oh, do not be afraid, countess; they cannot recognize us. Do not mind
them; but let me assure you that never form was so enchanting as yours,
never eyes so brilliant, never——”
“Hush! the spies approach.”
“Spies!” said the cardinal, uneasily. “Disguise your voice if they make
you speak, and I will do the same.”
Oliva and her blue domino indeed approached; he came up to the
cardinal, and said, “Mask——”
“What do you want?” said the cardinal, in a voice as unlike his natural
one as he could make it.
“The lady who accompanies me desires me to ask you some questions.”
“Ask,” said M. de Rohan.
“Are they very indiscreet?” said Madame de la Motte.
“So indiscreet that you shall not hear them;” and he pretended to
whisper to Oliva, who made a sign in answer. Then, in irreproachable
German, he said to the cardinal, “Monseigneur, are you in love with the
lady who accompanies you?”
The cardinal trembled.
“Did you say monseigneur?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You deceive yourself; I am not the person you think.”
“Oh, M. le Cardinal, do not deny it; it is useless. If even I did not
know you, the lady who accompanies me assures me she knows you
perfectly.” And he again whispered to Oliva, “Make a sign for ‘yes.’ Do
so each time I press your arm.”
She did so.
“You astonish me!” said the cardinal. “Who is this lady?”
“Oh, monseigneur, I thought you would have known; she soon knew you. It
is true that jealousy——”
“Madame is jealous of me!” cried the cardinal.
“We do not say that,” replied the unknown, rather haughtily.
“What are you talking about?” asked Madame de la Motte, who did not
like this conversation in German.
“Oh, nothing, nothing!”
“Madame,” said the cardinal to Oliva, “one word from you, and I promise
to recognize you instantly.”
Oliva, who saw him speaking to her, but did not understand a word,
whispered to her companion.
All this mystery piqued the cardinal.
“One single German word,” he said, “could not much compromise madame.”
The blue domino again pretended to take her orders, and then said: “M.
le Cardinal, these are the words of madame, ‘He whose thoughts are not
ever on the alert, he whose imagination does not perpetually suggest
the presence of the loved one, does not love, however much he may
pretend it.’”
The cardinal appeared struck with these words; all his attitude
expressed surprise, respect and devotion.
“It is impossible!” he murmured in French.
“What is impossible?” asked Madame de la Motte, who seized eagerly on
these few words she could understand.
“Nothing, madame, nothing!”
“Really, cardinal, you are making me play but a sorry part,” said she,
withdrawing her arm angrily.
He did not even seem to notice it, so great was his preoccupation with
the German lady.
“Madame,” said he to her, “these words that your companion has repeated
to me in your name are some German lines which I read in a house which
is perhaps known to you.”
The blue domino pressed Oliva’s arm, who thereupon bowed an assent.
“That house,” said the cardinal, hesitatingly, “is it not called
Schoenbrunn?”
She again made a gesture of assent.
“They were written on a table of cherry-wood, with a gold bodkin, by an
august hand.”
“Yes,” bowed Oliva again.
The cardinal stopped, he tottered, and leaned against a pillar for
support. Madame de la Motte stood by, watching this strange scene. Then
the cardinal, touching the blue domino, said: “This is the conclusion
of the quotation—‘But he who sees everywhere the loved object, who
recognizes her by a flower, by a perfume, through the thickest veils,
he can still be silent—his voice is in his heart—and if one other
understands him, he is happy.’”
“Oh, they are speaking German here,” said a young voice from an
approaching group; “let us listen. Do you speak German, marshal?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“You, Charny?”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Here is M. le Comte d’Artois,” said Oliva softly to her companion.
A crowd followed them, and many were passing round.
“Take care, gentlemen!” said the blue domino.
“Monsieur,” replied the prince, “the people are pushing us.”
At this moment some invisible hand pulled Oliva’s hood from behind, and
her mask fell. She replaced it as quickly as possible, with a
half-terrified cry, which was echoed by one of affected disquiet from
her companion.
Several others around looked no little bewildered.
The cardinal nearly fainted, and Madame de la Motte supported him. The
pressure of the crowd separated the Comte d’Artois and his party from
them. Then the blue domino approached the cardinal, and said:
“This is indeed an irreparable misfortune; this lady’s honor is at your
mercy.”
“Oh, monsieur!” murmured the cardinal, who was much agitated.
“Let us go quickly,” said the blue domino to Oliva; and they moved
away.
“Now I know,” said Madame de la Motte to herself, “what the cardinal
meant was impossible: he took this woman for the queen. But what an
effect it has had on him?”
“Would you like to leave the ball?” asked M. de Rohan, in a feeble
voice.
“As you please, monseigneur,” replied Jeanne.
“I do not find much interest here, do you?”
“None at all.”
They pushed their way through the crowd. The cardinal, who was tall,
looked all around him, to try and see again the vision which had
disappeared; but blue, white, and gray dominoes were everywhere, and he
could distinguish no one. They had been some time in the carriage, and
he had not yet spoken to Jeanne.