Twenty-three years after the events already recorded, on a cold
afternoon in February, the Bois de Boulogne appeared to be draped in a
Siberian mantle rarely seen at that season. A deep and clinging covering
of snow hid the ground, and the prolonged freezing of the lakes gave
absolute guaranty of their solidity.
A red sun, drowned in mist, threw a mild radiance over the landscape,
and many pedestrians stamped their feet around the borders of the lake
belonging to the Skaters’ Club, and watched the hosts of pretty women
descending from their carriages, delighted at the opportunity afforded
them, by this return of winter, to engage in their favorite exercise.
Received on her arrival by one of the attendants posted at the entrance,
each of the fair skaters entered in turn a small building reserved for
ladies, whence she soon came forth in full skating array, ready to risk
herself on the ice, either alone or guided by the hand of some expert
cavalier.
Here and there, around the enclosure, large garden-seats, shaped like
sentry-boxes, were reserved for the mothers and sisters of the members
of the club, so that they could observe, from a comfortable shelter, the
evolutions of those in whom they were interested.
Within two of these nooks, side by side, sat the Duchesse de Montgeron,
president, and the Comtesse Desvanneaux, vice-president of the Charity
Orphan Asylum; the latter had come to look on at the first essay on the
ice of her daughter, Madame de Thomery; the former, to judge the skill
of her brother, General the Marquis de Prerolles, past-master in all
exercises of strength and skill.
At forty-five years of age, the young General had preserved the same
grace and slenderness that had distinguished him when he had first
donned the elegant tunic of an officer of chasseuys. His hair, cut
rather short, had become slightly gray on his temples, but his jaunty
moustache and well-trimmed beard were as yet innocent of a single silver
thread. The same energy shone in his eyes, the same sonority rang in his
voice, which had become slightly more brusque and authoritative from his
long-continued habit of command.
In a small round hat, with his hands in the pockets of an outing-jacket,
matching his knickerbockers in color, he strolled to and fro near his
sister, now encouraging Madame de Thomery, hesitating on the arm of her
instructor, now describing scientific flourishes on the ice, in rivalry
against the crosses dashed off by Madame de Lisieux and Madame de
Nointel--two other patronesses of the orphanage--the most renowned among
all the fashionable skaters. This sort of tourney naturally attracted
all eyes, and the idlers along the outer walks had climbed upon the
paling in order to gain a better view of the evolutions, when suddenly a
spectacle of another kind called their attention to the entrance-gate in
their rear.
Passing through the Porte Dauphine, and driven by a young woman
enveloped in furs, advanced swiftly, over the crisp snow, a light
American sleigh, to which was harnessed a magnificent trotter, whose
head and shoulders emerged, as from an aureole, through that flexible,
circular ornament which the Russians call the ‘douga’.
Having passed the last turn of the path, the driver slackened her grasp,
and the horse stopped short before the entrance. His owner, throwing the
reins to a groom perched up behind, sprang lightly to the ground amid a
crowd of curious observers, whose interest was greatly enhanced by the
sight of the odd-looking vehicle.
The late-comer presented her card of invitation to the proper
functionary, and went across the enclosure toward the ladies’ salon.
“Ah! there is Zibeline!” cried Madame Desvanneaux, with an affected air.
“Do you know her?” she inquired of the Duchesse de Montgeron.
“Not yet,” the Duchess replied. “She did not arrive in Paris until the
end of spring, just at the time I was leaving town for the seashore. But
I know that she says her real name is Mademoiselle de Vermont, and that
she was born in Louisiana, of an old French family that emigrated to the
North, and recently became rich in the fur trade-from which circumstance
Madame de Nointel has wittily named her ‘Zibeline.’ I know also that
she is an orphan, that she has an enormous fortune, and has successively
refused, I believe, all pretenders who have thus far aspired to her
hand.”
“Yes--gamblers, and fortune-hunters, in whose eyes her millions excuse
all her eccentricities.”
“Do I understand that she has been presented to you?” asked the Duchess,
surprised.
“Well, yes-by the old Chevalier de Sainte-Foy, one of her so-called
cousins--rather distant, I fancy! But the independent airs of this young
lady, and her absolute lack of any respectable chaperon, have decided me
to break off any relations that might throw discredit on our patriarchal
house,” Madame Desvanneaux replied volubly, as ready to cross herself as
if she had been speaking of the devil!
The Duchess could not repress a smile, knowing perfectly that her
interlocutor had been among the first to demand for her son the hand of
Mademoiselle de Vermont!
During this dialogue, the subject of it had had time to cast aside her
fur cloak, to fasten upon her slender, arched feet, clad in dainty,
laced boots, a pair of steel skates, with tangent blades, and without
either grooves or straps, and to dart out upon this miniature sheet of
water with the agility of a person accustomed to skating on the great
lakes of America.
She was a brunette, with crisply waving hair, a small head, well-set,
and deep yet brilliant eyes beneath arched and slightly meeting brows.
Her complexion was pale, and her little aquiline nose showed thin,
dilating nostrils. Her rosy lips, whose corners drooped slightly,
revealed dazzling teeth, and her whole physiognomy expressed an air of
haughty disdain, somewhat softened by her natural elegance.
Her cloth costume, which displayed to advantage her slender waist and
graceful bust, was of simple but elegant cut, and was adorned with
superb trimmings of black fox, which matched her toque and a little
satin-lined muff, which from time to time she raised to her cheek to
ward off the biting wind.
Perhaps her skirt was a shade too short, revealing in its undulations a
trifle too much of the dainty hose; but the revelation was so shapely it
would have been a pity to conceal it!
“Very bad form!” murmured Madame Desvanneaux.
“But one can not come to a place like this in a skirt with a train,” was
the more charitable thought of the Duchess.
Meantime the aforesaid tournament went on in the centre of the sheet of
ice, and Zibeline, without mingling with the other skaters, contented
herself with skirting the borders of the lake, rapidly designing a chain
of pierced hearts on the smooth surface, an appropriate symbol of her
own superiority.
Annoyed to see himself eclipsed by a stranger, the General threw a
challenging glance in her direction, and, striking out vigorously in a
straight line, he sped swiftly toward the other end of the lake.
Stung to the quick by his glance, Mademoiselle de Vermont darted after
him, passed him halfway along the course, and, wheeling around with
a wide, outward curve, her body swaying low, she allowed him to pass
before her, maintaining an attitude which her antagonist might interpret
as a salute, courteous or ironic, as he chose.
By this time the crowd was gradually diminishing. The daylight was
waning, and a continued sound of closing gates announced the retreat of
the gay world toward Paris.
Zibeline alone, taking advantage of the free field, lingered a few
moments to execute some evolutions in the deepening twilight, looking
like the heroines in the old ballads, half-visible, through the mists, \
to the vivid imagination of the Scottish bards.
Henri de Prerolles had entered his sister’s carriage, in company with
Madame Desvanneaux and Madame Thomery, and during the drive home, these
two gentle dames--for the daughter was worthy of the mother--did not
fail to sneer at the fair stranger, dilating particularly upon the
impropriety of the challenging salute she had given to the General, with
whom she was unacquainted.
“But my brother could hardly request his seconds to call upon her for
that!” laughingly said the Duchess who, it seemed, had decided to defend
the accused one in all attacks made upon her.
“Look! Here she comes! She is passing us again. One would think she was
deliberately trying to do it!” exclaimed Madame Desvanneaux, just before
their carriage reached the Arc de Triomphe.
Zibeline’s sleigh, which had glided swiftly, and without hindrance,
along the unfrequented track used chiefly by equestrians, had indeed
overtaken the Duchess’s carriage. Turning abruptly to the left, it
entered the open gateway belonging to one of the corner houses of the
Rond-Point de l’Etoile.
“Decidedly, the young lady is very fond of posing,” said the General,
with a shrug, and, settling himself in his corner, he turned his
thoughts elsewhere.
Having deposited her two friends at their own door, the Duchess ordered
the coachman to take her home, and at the foot of the steps she said to
her brother:
“Will you dine with us to-night?”
“No, not to-night,” he replied, “but we shall meet at the theatre.”
And, crossing the court, he entered his little bachelor apartment, which
he had occupied from time to time since the days when he was only a
sub-lieutenant.