Yes, the "Sens Commun" was a success: it had made a sensation at
starting; the sensation was on the increase. It is difficult for an
Englishman to comprehend the full influence of a successful journal at
Paris; the station--political, literary, social--which it confers on the
contributors who effect the success. M. Lebeau had shown much more
sagacity in selecting Gustave Rameau for the nominal editor than Savarin
supposed or my reader might detect. In the first place, Gustave himself,
with all his defects of information and solidity of intellect, was not
without real genius,--and a sort of genius that when kept in restraint,
and its field confined to sentiment or sarcasm, was in unison with the
temper of the day; in the second place, it was only through Gustave that
Lebeau could have got at Savarin, and the names which that brilliant
writer had secured at the outset would have sufficed to draw attention to
the earliest numbers of the "Sens Commun," despite a title which did not
seem alluring. But these names alone could not have sufficed to
circulate the new journal to the extent it had already reached. This was
due to the curiosity excited by leading articles of a style new to the
Parisian public, and of which the authorship defied conjecture. They
were signed Pierre Firmin,--supposed to be a _nom de plume_, as, that
name was utterly unknown in the world of letters. They affected the tone
of an impartial observer; they neither espoused nor attacked any
particular party; they laid down no abstract doctrines of government.
But somehow or other, in language terse yet familiar, sometimes careless
yet never vulgar, they expressed a prevailing sentiment of uneasy
discontent, a foreboding of some destined change in things established,
without defining the nature of such change, without saying whether it
would be for good or for evil. In his criticisms upon individuals, the
writer was guarded and moderate--the keenest-eyed censor of the press
could not have found a pretext for interference with expression of
opinions so polite. Of the Emperor these articles spoke little, but that
little was not disrespectful; yet, day after day, the articles
contributed to sap the Empire. All malcontents of every shade
comprehended, as by a secret of freemasonry, that in this journal they
had an ally. Against religion not a word was uttered, yet the enemies of
religion bought that journal; still, the friends of religion bought it
too, for those articles treated with irony the philosophers on paper who
thought that their contradictory crotchets could fuse themselves into any
single Utopia, or that any social edifice, hurriedly run up by the crazy
few, could become a permanent habitation for the turbulent many, without
the clamps of a creed.
The tone of these articles always corresponded with the title of the
journal,--"Common-sense." It was to common-sense that it appealed,--
appealed in the utterance of a man who disdained the subtle theories,
the vehement declamation, the credulous beliefs, or the inflated bombast,
which constitute so large a portion of the Parisian press. The articles
rather resembled certain organs of the English press, which profess to be
blinded by no enthusiasm for anybody or anything, which find their sale
in that sympathy with ill-nature to which Huet ascribes the popularity of
Tacitus, and, always quietly undermining institutions with a covert
sneer, never pretend to a spirit of imagination so at variance with
common-sense as a conjecture how the institutions should be rebuilt or
replaced.
Well, somehow or other the journal, as I was saying, hit the taste of the
Parisian public. It intimated, with the easy grace of an unpremeditated
agreeable talker, that French society in all its classes was rotten; and
each class was willing to believe that all the others were rotten, and
agreed that unless the others were reformed, there was something very
unsound in itself.
The ball at the Duchesse de Tarascon's was a brilliant event. The summer
was far advanced; many of the Parisian holiday-makers had returned to the
capital, but the season had not commenced, and a ball at that time of
year was a very unwonted event. But there was a special occasion for
this fete,--a marriage between a niece of the Duchesse and the son of a
great official in high favour at the Imperial Court.
The dinner at Louvier's broke up early, and the music for the second
waltz was sounding when Enguerrand, Alain, and the Vicomte de Mauleon
ascended the stairs. Raoul did not accompany them; he went very rarely
to any balls,--never to one given by an Imperialist, however nearly
related to him the Imperialist might be. But in the sweet indulgence of
his good-nature, he had no blame for those who did go,--not for
Enguerrand, still less, of course, for Alain.
Something too might well here be said as to his feeling towards Victor de
Mauleon. He had joined in the family acquittal of that kinsman as to the
grave charge of the jewels; the proofs of innocence thereon seemed to him
unequivocal and decisive, therefore he had called on the Vicomte and
acquiesced in all formal civilities shown to him. But such acts of
justice to a fellow-gentilhomme and a kinsman duly performed, he desired
to see as little as possible of the Vicomte de Mauleon. He reasoned
thus: "Of every charge which society made against this man he is
guiltless; but of all the claims to admiration which society accorded to
him before it erroneously condemned, there are none which make me covet
his friendship, or suffice to dispel doubts as to what he may be when
society once more receives him. And the man is so captivating that I
should dread his influence over myself did I see much of him."
Raoul kept his reasonings to himself, for he had that sort of charity
which indisposes an amiable man to be severe on bygone offences. In the
eyes of Enguerrand and Alain, and such young votaries of the mode as they
could influence, Victor de Mauleon assumed almost heroic proportions. In
the affair which had inflicted on him a calumny so odious, it was clear
that he had acted with chivalrous delicacy of honour. And the turbulence
and recklessness of his earlier years, redeemed as they were, in the
traditions of his contemporaries, by courage and generosity, were not
offences to which young Frenchmen are inclined to be harsh. All question
as to the mode in which his life might have been passed during his long
absence from the capital was merged in the respect due to the only facts
known, and these were clearly proved in his pieces justificatives: First,
that he had served under another name in the ranks of the army in
Algiers; had distinguished himself there for signal valour, and received,
with promotion, the decoration of the cross. His real name was known
only to his colonel, and on quitting the service, the colonel placed in
his hands a letter of warm eulogy on his conduct, and identifying him as
Victor de Mauleon. Secondly, that in California he had saved a wealthy
family from midnight murder, fighting single-handed against and
overmastering three ruffians, and declining all other reward from those
he had preserved than a written attestation of their gratitude. In all
countries, valour ranks high in the list of virtues; in no country does
it so absolve from vices as it does in France.
But as yet Victor de Mauleon's vindication was only known by a few, and
those belonging to the gayer circles of life. How he might be judged by
the sober middle class, which constitutes the most important section of
public opinion to a candidate for political trusts and distinctions, was
another question.
The Duchesse stood at the door to receive her visitors. Duplessis was
seated near the entrance, by the side of a distinguished member of the
Imperial Government, with whom he was carrying on a whispered
conversation. The eye of the financier, however, turned towards the
doorway as Alain and Enguerrand entered, and passing over their familiar
faces, fixed itself attentively on that of a mach older man whom
Enguerrand was presenting to the Duchesse, and in whom Duplessis rightly
divined the Vicomte de Mauleon. Certainly if no one could have
recognized M. Lebeau in the stately personage who had visited Louvier,
still less could one who had heard of the wild feats of the _roi des
viveurs_ in his youth reconcile belief in such tales with the quiet
modesty of mien which distinguished the cavalier now replying, with
bended head and subdued accents, to the courteous welcome of the
brilliant hostess. But for such difference in attributes between the
past and the present De Mauleon, Duplessis had been prepared by the
conversation at the Maison Doree. And now, as the Vicomte, yielding his
place by the Duchesse to some new-comer, glided on, and, leaning against
a column, contemplated the gay scene before him with that expression of
countenance, half sarcastic, half mournful, with which men regard, after
long estrangement, the scenes of departed joys, Duplessis felt that no
change in that man had impaired the force of character which had made him
the hero of reckless coevals. Though wearing no beard, not even a
mustache, there was something emphatically masculine in the contour of
the close-shaven cheek and resolute jaw; in a forehead broad at the
temples, and protuberant in those organs over the eyebrows which are said
to be significant of quick perception and ready action; in the lips, when
in repose compressed, perhaps somewhat stern in their expression, but
pliant and mobile when speaking, and wonderfully fascinating when they
smiled. Altogether, about this Victor de Mauleon there was a nameless
distinction, apart from that of conventional elegance. You would have
said, "That is a man of some marked individuality, an eminence of some
kind in himself." You would not be surprised to hear that he was a
party-leader, a skilled diplomatist, a daring soldier, an adventurous
traveller; but you would not guess him to be a student, an author, an
artist.
While Duplessis thus observed the Vicomte de Mauleon, all the while
seeming to lend an attentive ear to the whispered voice of the Minister
by his side, Alain passed on into the ball-room. He was fresh enough to
feel the exhilaration of the dance. Enguerrand (who had survived that
excitement, and who habitually deserted any assembly at an early hour for
the cigar and whist of his club) had made his way to De Mauleon, and
there stationed himself. The lion of one generation has always a mixed
feeling of curiosity and respect for the lion of a generation before him,
and the young Vandemar had conceived a strong and almost an affectionate
interest in this discrowned king of that realm in fashion which, once
lost, is never to be regained; for it is only Youth that can hold its
sceptre and command its subjects.
"In this crowd, Vicomte," said Enguerrand, "there must be many old
acquaintances of yours?"
"Perhaps so, but as yet I have only seen new faces."
As he thus spoke, a middle-aged man, decorated with the grand cross of
the Legion and half-a-dozen foreign orders, lending his arm to a lady of
the same age radiant in diamonds, passed by towards the ball-room, and in
some sudden swerve of his person, occasioned by a pause of his companion
to adjust her train, he accidentally brushed against De Mauleon, whom he
had not before noticed. Turning round to apologize for his awkwardness,
he encountered the full gaze of the Vicomte, started, changed
countenance, and hurried on his companion.
"Do you not recognize his Excellency?" said Enguerrand, smiling. "His
cannot be a new face to you."
"Is it the Baron de Lacy?" asked De Mauleon.
"The Baron de Lacy, now Comte d'Epinay, ambassador at the Court of -----,
and, if report speak true, likely soon to exchange that post for the
_porte feuille_ of Minister."
"He has got on in life since I saw him last, the little Baron. He was
then my devoted imitator, and I was not proud of the imitation."
"He has got on by always clinging to the skirts of some one stronger than
himself,--to yours, I dare say, when, being a _parvenu_ despite his
usurped title of baron, he aspired to the entree into clubs and salons.
The entree thus obtained, the rest followed easily; he became a
millionaire through a wife's dot, and an ambassador through the wife's
lover, who is a power in the State."
"But he must have substance in himself. Empty bags can not be made to
stand upright. Ah! unless I mistake, I see some one I knew better. Yon
pale, thin man, also with the grand cross--surely that is Alfred
Hennequin. Is he too a decorated Imperialist? I left him a socialistic
Republican."
"But, I presume, even then an eloquent avocat. He got into the Chamber,
spoke well, defended the _coup-d'etat_. He has just been made _Prefet_
of the great department of the a popular appointment. He bears a high
character. Pray renew your acquaintance with him; he is coming this
way."
"Will so grave a dignitary renew acquaintance with me? I doubt it."
But as De Mauleon said this, he moved from the column, and advanced
towards the Prefet. Enguerrand followed him, and saw the Vicomte extend
his hand to his old acquaintance.
The Prefet stared, and said, with frigid courtesy, "Pardon me,--some
mistake."
"Allow me, Monsieur Hennequin," said Enguerrand, interposing, and wishing
good-naturedly to save De Mauleon the awkwardness of introducing
himself,--"allow me to reintroduce you to my kinsman, whom the lapse of
years may well excuse you for forgetting, the Vicomte de Mauleon."
Still the Prefet did not accept the hand. He bowed with formal ceremony,
said, "I was not aware that Monsieur le Vicomte had returned to Paris,"
and moving to the doorway, made his salutation to the hostess and
disappeared.
"The insolent!" muttered Enguerrand.
"Hush!" said De Mauleon, quietly, "I can fight no more duels,--especially
with a Prefet. But I own I am weak enough to feel hurt at such a
reception from Hennequin, for he owed me some obligations,--small,
perhaps, but still they were such as might have made me select him,
rather than Louvier, as the vindicator of my name, had I known him to be
so high placed. But a man who has raised himself into an authority may
well be excused for forgetting a friend whose character needs defence.
I forgive him."
There was something pathetic in the Vicomte's tone which touched
Enguerrand's warm if light heart. But De Mauleon did not allow him time
to answer. He went on quickly through an opening in the gay crowd, which
immediately closed behind him, and Enguerrand saw him no more that
evening.
Duplessis ere this had quitted his seat by the Minister, drawn thence by
a young and very pretty girl resigned to his charge by a cavalier with
whom she had been dancing. She was the only daughter of Duplessis, and
he valued her even more than the millions he had made at the Bourse.
"The Princess," she said, "has been swept off in the train of some German
Royalty; so, _petit pere_, I must impose myself on thee."
The Princess, a Russian of high rank, was the _chaperon_ that evening of
Mademoiselle Valerie Duplessis.
"And I suppose I must take thee back into the ballroom," said the
financier, smiling proudly, "and find thee partners."
"I don't want your aid for that, Monsieur; except this quadrille, my list
is pretty well filled up."
"And I hope the partners will be pleasant. Let me know who they are," he
whispered, as they threaded their way into the ball-room.
The girl glanced at her tablet.
"Well, the first on the list is milord somebody, with an unpronounceable
English name."
"Beau cavalier?"
"No; ugly, old too; thirty at least."
Duplessis felt relieved. He did not wish his daughter to fall in love
with an Englishman.
"And the next?"
"The next?" she said hesitatingly, and he observed that a soft blush
accompanied the hesitation.
"Yes, the next. Not English too?"
"Oh, no; the Marquis de Rochebriant."
"Ah! who presented him to thee?"
"Thy friend, _petit pere_, M. de Braze."
Duplessis again glanced at his daughter's face; it was bent over her
bouquet.
"Is he ugly also?"
"Ugly!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly; "why, he is--" she checked
herself and turned away her head.
Duplessis became thoughtful. He was glad that he had accompanied his
child into the ball-room; he would stay there, and keep watch on her and
Rochebriant also.
Up to that moment he had felt a dislike to Rochebriant. That young
noble's too obvious pride of race had nettled him, not the less that the
financier himself was vain of his ancestry. Perhaps he still disliked
Alain, but the dislike was now accompanied with a certain, not hostile,
interest; and if he became connected with the race, the pride in it might
grow contagious.
They had not been long in the ball-room before Alain came up to claim his
promised partner. In saluting Duplessis, his manner was the same as
usual, not more cordial, not less ceremoniously distant. A man so able
as the financier cannot be without quick knowledge of the human heart.
"If disposed to fall in love with Valerie," thought Duplessis, "he would
have taken more pains to please her father. Well, thank heaven, there
are better matches to be found for her than a noble without fortune and a
Legitimist without career."
In fact, Alain felt no more for Valerie than for any other pretty girl in
the room. In talking with the Vicomte de Braze in the intervals of the
dance, he had made some passing remark on her beauty. De Braze had said,
"Yes, she is charming; I will present you," and hastened to do so before
Rochebriant even learned her name. So introduced, he could but invite
her to give him her first disengaged dance, and when that was fixed, he
had retired, without entering into conversation.
Now, as they took their places in the quadrille, he felt that effort of
speech had become a duty, if not a pleasure; and of course, he began with
the first commonplace which presented itself to his mind.
"Do you not think it a very pleasant ball, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes," dropped, in almost inaudible reply, from Valerie's rosy lips.
"And not over-crowded, as most balls are?"
Valerie's lips again moved, but this time quite inaudibly. The
obligations of the figure now caused a pause. Alain racked his brains
and began,
"They tell me the last season was more than usually gay; of that I cannot
judge, for it was well-nigh over when I came to Paris for the first
time."
Valerie looked up with a more animated expression than her childlike face
had yet shown, and said, this time distinctly, "This is my first ball,
Monsieur le Marquis."
"One has only to look at Mademoiselle to divine that fact," replied
Alain, gallantly.
Again the conversation was interrupted by the dance; but the ice between
the two was now broken; and when the quadrille was concluded, and
Rochebriant led the fair Valerie back to her father's side, she felt as
if she had been listening to the music of the spheres, and that the music
had now suddenly stopped. Alain, alas for her! was under no such
pleasing illusion. Her talk had seemed to him artless indeed, but very
insipid, compared with the brilliant conversation of the wedded
Parisiennes with whom he more habitually danced; and it was with rather a
sensation of relief that he made his parting bow, and receded into the
crowd of bystanders.
Meanwhile De Mauleon had quitted the assemblage, walking slowly through
the deserted streets towards his apartment. The civilities he had met at
Louvier's dinner-party, and the marked distinction paid to him by kinsmen
of rank and position so unequivocal as Alain and Enguerrand, had softened
his mood and cheered his spirits. He had begun to question himself
whether a fair opening to his political ambition was really forbidden to
him under the existent order of things, whether it necessitated the
employment of such dangerous tools as those to which anger and despair
had reconciled his intellect. But the pointed way in which he had been
shunned or slighted by the two men who belonged to political life--two
men who in youth had looked up to himself, and whose dazzling career of
honours was identified with the Imperial system--reanimated his fiercer
passions and his more perilous designs. The frigid accost of Hennequin
more especially galled him; it wounded not only his pride but his heart;
it had the venom of ingratitude, and it is the peculiar privilege of
ingratitude to wound hearts that have learned to harden themselves to the
hate or contempt of men to whom no services have been rendered. In some
private affair concerning his property, De Mauleon had had occasion to
consult Hennequin, then a rising young avocat. Out of that consultation
a friendship had sprung up, despite the differing habits and social
grades of the two men. One day, calling on Hennequin, he found him in a
state of great nervous excitement. The avocat had received a public
insult in the salon of a noble, to whom De Mauleon had introduced him,
from a man who pretended to the hand of a young lady to whom Hennequin
was attached, and indeed almost affianced. The man was a notorious
_spadassin_,--a duellist little less renowned for skill in all weapons
than De Mauleon himself. The affair had been such that Hennequin's
friends assured him he had no choice but to challenge this bravo.
Hennequin, brave enough at the bar, was no hero before sword-point or
pistol. He was utterly ignorant of the use of either weapon; his death
in the encounter with an antagonist so formidable seemed to him certain,
and life was so precious,--an honourable and distinguished career opening
before him, marriage with the woman he loved. Still he had the
Frenchman's point of honour. He had been told that he must fight; well,
then, he must. He asked De Mauleon to be one of his seconds, and in
asking him, sank in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and burst
into tears.
"Wait till to-morrow," said De Mauleon; "take no step till then.
Meanwhile, you are in my hands, and I answer for your honour."
On leaving Hennequin, Victor sought the _spadassin_ at the club of which
they were both members, and contrived, without reference to Hennequin, to
pick a quarrel with him. A challenge ensued; a duel with swords took
place the next morning. De Mauleon disarmed and wounded his antagonist,
not gravely, but sufficiently to terminate the encounter. He assisted to
convey the wounded man to his apartment, and planted himself by his
bedside, as if he were a friend.
"Why on earth did you fasten a quarrel on me?" asked the spadassin; "and
why, having done so, did you spare my life; for your sword was at my
heart when you shifted its point, and pierced my shoulder?"
"I will tell you, and in so doing, beg you to accept my friendship
hereafter, on one condition. In the course of the day, write or dictate
a few civil words of apology to M. Hennequin. Ma foi! every one will
praise you for a generosity so becoming in a man who has given such
proofs of courage and skill to an avocat who has never handled a sword
nor fired a pistol."
That same day De Mauleon remitted to Hennequin an apology for heated
words freely retracted, which satisfied all his friends. For the service
thus rendered by De Mauleon, Hennequin declared himself everlastingly
indebted. In fact, he entirely owed to that friend his life, his
marriage, his honour, his career.
"And now," thought De Mauleon, "now, when he could so easily requite me,
--now he will not even take my hand. Is human nature itself at war with
me?"