It was Tuesday, the subscription night; the auditorium was as much the
more brilliant as the play was more interesting than on other nights.
In one of the proscenium boxes sat the Duchesse de Montgeron with the
Comtesse de Lisieux; in another the Vicomtesse de Nointel and Madame
Thomery. In the first box on the left Madame Desvanneaux was to be
seen, with her husband and her son, the youthful and recently rejected
pretender to the hand of Mademoiselle de Vermont.
Among the subscription seats in the orchestra sat the Baron de Samoreau,
the notary Durand, treasurer of the Industrial Orphan Asylum; the
aide-de-camp of General Lenaieff, beside his friend the Marquis de
Prerolles. One large box, the first proscenium loge on the right, was
still unoccupied when the curtain rose on the second act.
The liaison of Eugenie Gontier with the Marquis de Prerolles was not a
mystery; from the moment of her entrance upon the scene, it was evident
that she “played to him,” to use a phrase in theatrical parlance. Thus,
after the recital of the combat undertaken in behalf of Adrienne by her
defender--a recital which she concluded in paraphrasing these two lines:
‘Paraissez, Navarrois, Maures et Castilians,
Et tout ce que l’Espagne a produit de vaillants,’
many opera-glasses were directed toward the spectator to whom the
actress appeared to address herself, when suddenly a new object of
interest changed the circuit of observation. The door of the large,
right-hand box opened, and Zibeline appeared, accompanied by the
Chevalier de Sainte-Foy, an elderly gallant, carefully dressed and
wearing many decorations, and whose respectable tale of years could
give no occasion for malicious comment on his appearance in the role of
‘cavalier servente’. Having assisted his companion to remove her mantle,
he profited by the instant of time she took to settle her slightly
ruffled plumage before the mirror, to lay upon the railing of the box
her bouquet and her lorgnette. Then he took up a position behind the
chair she would occupy, ready to assist her when she might deign to sit
down. His whole manner suggested a chamberlain of the ancient court in
the service of a princess.
Mademoiselle de Vermont disliked bright colors, and wore on this
occasion a robe of black velvet, of which the ‘decolletee’ bodice set
off the whiteness of her shoulders and her neck, the latter ornamented
with a simple band of cherry-colored velvet, without jewels, as was
suitable for a young girl. Long suede gloves, buttoned to the elbow,
outlined her well-modelled arms, of which the upper part emerged,
without sleeves, from lace ruffles gathered in the form of epaulets.
The men admired her; the women sought some point to criticise, and had
the eyes of Madame Desvanneaux been able to throw deadly projectiles,
her powerful lorgnette would have become an instrument of death for the
object of her resentment.
“This morning,” said the irreconcilable matron, “she showed us her
ankles; this evening she allows us to see the remainder.”
“I should have been very well pleased, however--” murmured young
Desvanneaux, with regret.
“If you had married her, Victor,” said his mother, “I should have taken
full charge of her wardrobe, and should have made some decided changes,
I assure you.”
Perfectly indifferent to the general curiosity, Zibeline in her turn
calmly reviewed the audience. After exploring the boxes with her
opera-glass, she lowered it to examine the orchestra stalls, and,
perceiving the Marquis, she fixed her gaze upon him. Undoubtedly she
knew the reason for the particular attention which he paid to the stage,
because, until the end of the act, her glance was divided alternately
between the General and the actress.
As the curtain fell on this act the spectators turned their backs to the
footlights, and Lenaieff, indicating Zibeline to his friend, said in his
slightly Slavonic accent:
“Who is that pretty woman, my dear Henri?”
“One of Jules Verne’s personages, a product of the land of furs.”
“Do you know her?”
“Not at all. I have a prejudice against girls that are too rich. Why do
you ask?”
“Because it seems to me that she looks at you very attentively.”
“Indeed! I had not noticed it.”
In saying this, the General--exaggerated! He had been perfectly well
aware of the gaze of Mademoiselle de Vermont, but whether he still
cherished a slight resentment against the lady, or whether her
appearance really displeased him, he cut the conversation short and went
to pay his respects to the occupants of several boxes.
Evidently Zibeline knew few persons in society, for no visitor appeared
in her box. However, after the next act she made a sign to M. Durand.
That gentleman rejoined the Baron de Samoreau in the corridor and took
him to meet Zibeline, and a sort of council appeared to be going on in
the rear of her box.
“What the deuce can she be talking about to them?” said Desvanneaux to
his wife.
“A new offer of marriage, probably. They say she declares she will marry
no one of lower rank than a prince, in order to complete our chagrin!
Perhaps they have succeeded in finding one for her!”
The instructions that Mademoiselle de Vermont gave to the two men must
have been easy to execute, for neither the notary nor the banker seemed
to raise the least objection. The conversation was finished, and both
gentlemen saluted her, preparing to take leave, when she said to M.
Durand:
“You understand that the meeting is for tomorrow?”
“At five o’clock,” he replied.
“Very well. I will stop for you at your door at a quarter of an hour
before that time.”
The fourth act had begun, that scene in which Adrienne accomplishes her
generous sacrifice in furnishing herself the ransom which must deliver
her unfaithful lover. The rapt attention that Zibeline paid to this
scene, and the slight movements of her head, showed her approval of
this disinterested act. Very touching in her invocation to her “old
Corneille,” Mademoiselle Gontier was superb at the moment when the
comedienne, knowing at last who is her rival, quotes from Racine that
passage in ‘Phedre’ which she throws, so to speak, in the face of the
patrician woman:
.... Je sais ses perfidies,
OEnone! et ne suis point de ces femmes hardies
Qui, goutant dans la crime une honteuse paix,
Ont su se faire un front qui ne rougit jamais.
From the place she was to obliged to take in the arrangement of the
scene, the apostrophe and the gestures of the actress appeared to be
unconsciously directed toward Mademoiselle de Vermont, who could not
restrain a startled movement.
“Look! One would think that Zibeline took that allusion for herself,”
said Madame Desvanneaux, whom nothing escaped.
On reentering the greenroom, after two well-deserved recalls, Eugenie
Gontier was soon surrounded by a throng of admirers who had come to
congratulate her upon her success.
“Were you pleased, Henri?” she said in a low tone to the General.
“Enthusiastically!” he replied.
“Ah, then I can die happy!” she said, laughingly.
As she traversed the ranks of her admirers to go to change her costume
for the last act, she found herself face to face with Zibeline, who,
having quickly recovered from her emotion, was advancing on the arm of
the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy.
“My dear child,” said the old nobleman to the actress, “I bring to you
Mademoiselle de Vermont, who wishes to say to you herself--”
“That Mademoiselle must be very tired of listening to our praises,”
interrupted Zibeline. “But if the tribute of a foreigner can prove to
her that her prestige is universal, I beg that she will accept these
flowers which I dared not throw to her from my box.”
“Really, Mademoiselle, you embarrass me!” Eugenie replied, somewhat
surprised.
“Oh, you need not fear to take them--they are not poisoned!” added
Zibeline, smiling.
And, after a gracious inclination of her head, to which the actress
responded with a deep courtesy, Zibeline took again the arm of her
escort in order to seek her carriage, without waiting for the end of the
play.
Three-quarters of an hour later, as, the audience was leaving the
theatre, M. Desvanneaux recounted to whoever chose to listen that
Mademoiselle de Vermont had passed the whole of the last ‘entr’acte’ in
the greenroom corridor, in a friendly chat with Eugenie Gontier.
BOOK 2.
CHAPTER XIII. THE INDUSTRIAL ORPHAN ASYLUM
When the prefectoral axe of the Baron Haussmann hewed its way through
the Faubourg St. Germain in order to create the boulevard to which this
aristocratic centre has given its flame, the appropriation of private
property for public purposes caused to disappear numerous ancient
dwellings bearing armorial devices, torn down in the interest of the
public good, to the equalizing level of a line of tramways. In the
midst of this sacrilegious upheaval, the Hotel de Montgeron, one of
the largest in the Rue St. Dominique, had the good fortune to be hardly
touched by the surveyor’s line; in exchange for a few yards sliced
obliquely from the garden, it received a generous addition of air and
light on that side of the mansion which formerly had been shut in.
The Duke lived there in considerable state. His electors, faithful
in all things, had made of their deputy a senator who sat in the
Luxembourg, in virtue of the Republican Constitution, as he would have
sat as a peer of France had the legitimate monarchy followed its course.
He was a great lord in the true meaning of the word: gracious to the
humble, affable among his equals, inclined, among the throng of new
families, to take the part of the disinherited against that of the
usurpers.
In Mademoiselle de Prerolles he had found a companion animated with the
same sentiments, and the charitable organization, meeting again at
the Duchess’s residence, on the day following the revival of ‘Adrienne
Lecouvreuer’, to appoint officers for the Industrial Orphan Asylum,
could not have chosen a president more worthy or more devoted.
Besides such austere patronesses as Madame Desvanneaux and her daughter,
the organization included several persons belonging to the world
of fashion, such as Madame de Lisieux and Madame de Nointel, whose
influence was the more effective because their circle of acquaintance
was more extensive. The gay world often fraternizes willingly with those
who are interested in philanthropic works.
The founders of the Industrial Orphan Asylum intended that the
institution should harbor, bring up, and instruct as great a number as
possible of the children of infirm or deceased laborers.
The secretary, M. Andre Desvanneaux, churchwarden of Ste.-Clotilde,
as was his father before him, and in addition a Roman count, had
just finished his address, concluding by making the following double
statement: First, the necessity for combining all available-funds for
the purchase of the land required, and for the building of the asylum
itself; second, to determine whether the institution could be maintained
by the annual resources of the organization.
“I should like to observe,” said the Duchesse de Montgeron, “that the
first of these two questions is the only order of the day. Not counting
the purchase of the land, the architect’s plan calls for an estimate of
five hundred thousand francs in round numbers.”
“And we have on hand--” said the Comtesse de Lisieux.
“One hundred and sixty-odd thousand francs from the first
subscriptions,” said M. Desvanneaux. “It has been decided that the
work shall not begin until we have disposed of half of the sum total.
Therefore, the difference we have to make up at present is about one
hundred and forty thousand francs. In order to realize this sum, the
committee of action proposes to organize at the Palais de l’Industrie
a grand kermess, with the assistance of the principal artists from
the theatres of Paris, including that of Mademoiselle Gontier, of the
Comedie Francaise,” added the secretary, with a sly smile on observing
the expression of General de Prerolles.
“Good!” Henri promptly rejoined. “That will permit Monsieur Desvanneaux
to combine very agreeably the discharge of his official duties with the
making of pleasant acquaintances!”
“The object of my action in this matter is above all suspicion,”
remarked the churchwarden, with great dignity, while his wife darted
toward him a furious glance.
“You? Come, come!” continued the General, who took a mischievous delight
in making trouble for the worthy Desvanneaux. “Every one knows quite
well that you have by no means renounced Satan, his pomps--”
“And his good works!” added Madame de Nointel, with a burst of laughter
somewhat out of place in this formal gathering for the discussion of
charitable works.
“We are getting outside of the question,” said the Duchess, striking her
bell. “Moreover, is not the assistance of these ladies necessary?”
“Indispensable,” the secretary replied. “Their assistance will greatly
increase the receipts.”
“What sum shall we decide upon as the price of admission?” asked Madame
de Lisieux.
“Twenty francs,” said Desvanneaux. “We have a thousand tickets printed
already, and, if the ladies present wish to solicit subscriptions, each
has before her the wherewithal to inscribe appropriate notes of appeal.”
“To be drawn upon at sight,” said the Comtesse de Lisieux, taking a pen.
“A tax on vanity, I should call it.”
She wrote rapidly, and then read aloud:
“MY DEAR BARON:
“Your proverbial generosity justifies my new appeal. You will
accept, I am sure, the ten tickets which I enclose, when you know
that your confreres, the Messieurs Axenstein, have taken double that
number.”
“And here,” said the Vicomtesse de Nointel, “is a tax on gallantry.” And
she read aloud:
“MY DEAR PRINCE:
“You have done me the honor to write to me that you love me. I
suppose I ought to show your note to my husband, who is an expert
swordsman; but I prefer to return to you your autograph letter for
the price of these fifteen tickets. Go--and sin again, should your
heart prompt you!”
“But that is a species of blackmail, Madame!” cried Madame Desvanneaux.
“The end justifies the means,” replied the Vicomtesse gayly. “Besides, I
am accountable only to the Duc de Montgeron. What is his opinion?”
“I call it a very clever stroke,” said the Duke.
“You hear, Madame! Only, of course, not every lady has a collection of
similar little notes!” said the Vicomtesse de Nointel.
The entrance of M. Durand, treasurer of the society, interrupted the
progress of this correspondence.
“Do not trouble yourselves so much, Mesdames,” said the notary. “The
practical solution of the matter I am about to lay before you, if Madame
the president will permit me to speak.”
“I should think so!” said the Duchess. “Speak, by all means!”
“A charitable person has offered to assume all the expenses of the
affair,” said the notary, “on condition that carte blanche is granted to
her in the matter of the site. In case her offer is accepted, she will
make over to the society, within three months, the title to the real
estate, in regular order.”
“Do you guarantee the solvency of this person?” demanded M. Desvanneaux,
who saw the project of the kermess falling to the ground.
“It is one of my rich clients; but I have orders not to reveal her name
unless her offer is accepted.”
The unanimity with which all hands were raised did not even give time to
put the question.
“Her name?” demanded the Duchess.
“Here it is,” replied the notary, handing her a visiting card.
“‘Valentine de Vermont,’” she read aloud.
“Zibeline?” cried Madame de Nointel. “Bravo! I offer her the assurance
of my esteem!”
“And I also,” added Madame de Lisieux.
“I can not offer mine,” said Madame Desvanneaux, dryly. “A young woman
who is received nowhere!”
“So generous an act should open all doors to her, beginning with mine,”
said the Duchesse de Montgeron. “I beg that you will tell her so from
me, Monsieur Durand.”
“At once, Madame. She is waiting below in her carriage.”
“Why did you not say so before? I must beg her myself to join us here,”
said the master of the house, leaving the room in haste.
“See how any one can purchase admission to our world in these days!”
whispered Madame Desvanneaux in her daughter’s ear.
“Heavens! yes, dear mother! The only question is whether one is able to
pay the price.”
We must render justice to the two titled patronesses by saying that the
immediate admission of Mademoiselle de Vermont to their circle seemed to
them the least they could do, and that they greeted her appearance, as
she entered on the arm of the Duke, with a sympathetic murmur which put
the final stroke to the exasperation of the two malicious dames.
“You are very welcome here, Mademoiselle,” said the Duchess, advancing
to greet her guest. “I am delighted to express to you, in behalf of
all these ladies, the profound gratitude with which your generous aid
inspires them!”
“It is more than I deserve, Madame la Duchesse!” said Valentine. “The
important work in which they have taken the initiative is so interesting
that each of us should contribute to it according to his means. I am
alone in Paris, without relatives or friends, and these ladies have
furnished me the means to cure my idleness; so it is I, rather, who am
indebted to them.”
Whether this speech were studied or not, it was pronounced to be in very
good taste, and the stranger’s conquest of the assemblage was more and
more assured.
“Since you wish to join us,” resumed the Duchess, “allow me to present
to you these gentlemen: Monsieur Desvanneaux, our zealous general
secretary--”
“I have already had the pleasure of seeing Monsieur at my house,” said
Valentine, “also Madame Desvanneaux; and although I was unable to accede
to their wishes, I retain, nevertheless, the pleasantest recollections
of their visit.”
“Good hit!” whispered Madame de Nointel to her neighbor.
“The Marquis de Prerolles, my brother,” the Duchess continued.
“The smiles of Fortune must be sweet, Mademoiselle,” said the General,
bowing low.
“Not so sweet as those of Glory, General,” Zibeline replied, with a
pretty air of deference.
“She possesses a decidedly ready wit,” said Madame de Lisieux in a
confidential aside.
“Now, ladies,” added the president, “I believe that the best thing
we can do is to leave everything in the hands of Mademoiselle and our
treasurer. The examination of the annual resources will be the object of
the next meeting. For to-day, the meeting is adjourned.”
Then, as Mademoiselle de Vermont was about to mingle with the other
ladies, the Duchess detained her an instant, inquiring:
“Have you any engagement for this evening, Mademoiselle?”
“None, Madame.”
“Will you do us the honor to join us in my box at the opera?”
“But--I have no one to accompany me,” said Zibeline. “I dismissed my
cousin De Sainte-Foy, thinking that I should have no further need of his
escort to-day.”
“That does not matter at all,” the Duchess replied. “We will stop for
you on our way.”
“I should not like to trouble you so much, Madame. If you will allow me,
I will stop at your door at whatever hour will be agreeable to you, and
my carriage shall follow yours.”
“Very well. At nine o’clock, if you please. They sing Le Prophete
tonight, and we shall arrive just in time for the ballet.”
“The ‘Skaters’ Ballet,’” said the General.
This remark recalled to Mademoiselle her triumph of the evening before.
“Do you bear a grudge against me?” she said, with a smile.
“Less and less of one,” the General replied.
“Then, let us make a compact of peace,” said Zibeline, holding out her
hand in the English fashion.
With these words she left the room on the arm of the Duke, who claimed
the honor of escorting her to her carriage.
“Shall you go to the opera also?” asked the Duchess of her brother.
“Yes, but later. I shall dine in town.”
“Then-au-revoir--this evening!”
“This evening!”
CHAPTER XIV. A WOMAN’S INSTINCT
The General had been more favorably impressed with Zibeline’s appearance
than he cared to show. The generous action of this beautiful girl, her
frankness, her ease of manner, her cleverness in repartee, were likely
to attract the attention of a man of his character. He reproached
himself already for having allowed himself to be influenced by the
rancorous hostility of the Desvanneaux, and, as always happens with just
natures, the sudden change of his mind was the more favorable as his
first opinion had been unjust.
Such was the theme of his reflections on the route from the Hotel de
Montgeron to that of Eugenic Gontie’s, with whom he was engaged to
dine with some of her friends, invited to celebrate her success of the
evening before.
On entering her dining-room Eugenie took the arm of Lenaieff, placed
Henri de Prerolles on her left and Samoreau opposite her--in his
character of senior member, so that no one could mistake his transitory
function with that of an accredited master of the house.
The four other guests were distinguished writers or artists, including
the painter Edmond Delorme, and, like him, all were intimate friends of
the mistress of the house.
Naturally the conversation turned upon the representation of Adrienne,
and on the applause of the fashionable audience, usually rather
undemonstrative.
“Never have I received so many flowers as were given to me last night,”
said Eugenic, displaying an enormous beribboned basket which ornamented
the table. “But that which particularly flattered me,” she added, “was
the spontaneous tribute from that pretty foreigner who sought me in the
greenroom expressly to offer me her bouquet.”
“The young lady in the proscenium box, I will wager,” said Lenaieff.
“Precisely. I know that they call her Zibeline, but I did not catch her
real name.”
“It is Mademoiselle de Vermont,” said Edmond Delorme. “She is, in my
opinion, the most dashing of all the Amazons in the Bois de Boulogne.
The Chevalier de Sainte-Foy brought her to visit my studio last autumn,
and I am making a life-size portrait of her on her famous horse, Seaman,
the winner of the great steeplechase at Liverpool, in 1882.”
“What were you pencilling on the back of your menu while you were
talking?” asked the actress, curiously.
“The profile of General de Prerolles,” the painter replied. “I think
that his mare Aida would make a capital companion picture for Seaman,
and that he himself would be an appropriate figure to adorn a canvas
hung on the line opposite her at the next Salon!”
“Pardon me, dear master!” interrupted the General. “Spare me, I pray,
the honor of figuring in this equestrian contradance. I have not the
means to bequeath to posterity that your fair model possesses--”
“Is she, then, as rich as they say?” inquired one of the guests.
“I can answer for that,” said the Baron de Samoreau. “She has a letter
of credit upon me from my correspondent in New York. Last night, during
an entr’acte, she gave me an order to hold a million francs at her
disposal before the end of the week.”
“I know the reason why,” added Henri.
“But,” Lenaieff exclaimed, “you told me that you did not know her!”
“I have made her acquaintance since then.”
“Ah! Where?” Eugenie inquired, with interest.
“At my sister’s house, during the meeting of a charitable society.”
“Had it anything to do with the society for which Monsieur Desvanneaux
asked me to appear in a kermess?”
“Well, yes. In fact, he has gone so far as to announce that he is
assured of your cooperation.”
“I could not refuse him,” said Eugenie. “Under the mantle of charity,
the holy man paid court to me!”
“I knew well enough that he had not yet laid down his arms forever,”
said the General.
“Oh, he is not the only one. His son-in-law also honored me with an
attack.”
“What, Monsieur de Thomery? Well, that is a good joke!”
“But what is funnier yet,” continued the actress, “is the fact that
the first-named gentleman was on his knees, just about to make me a
declaration, apparently, when the second was announced! Immediately the
father-in-law jumped to his feet, entreating me not to allow them to
meet. I was compelled to open for him the door leading to the servants’
stairway--”
“And what did you do with the other man?” asked Lenaieff, laughing
loudly.
“I rid myself of him in the same way. At a sign from me, my maid
announced the name of the father-in-law, and the alarmed son-in-law
escaped by the same road! Oh, but I know them! They will come back!”
“Under some other pretext, however,” said the General. “Because
Mademoiselle de Vermont’s million francs have destroyed their amorous
designs.”
“So now we see Zibeline fairly launched,” remarked the banker. “Since
the Duchesse de Montgeron has taken her up, all the naughty tales that
have been fabricated about her will go to pieces like a house of cards.”
“That is very probable,” the General concluded, “for she has made a
complete conquest of my sister.”
At these words a slight cloud passed over the actress’s face. The
imagination of a jealous mistress sees rivals everywhere; especially
that of an actress.
After dinner, while her other guests went into the smoking-room, Eugenic
made a sign to her lover to remain with her, and seated herself beside
him.
“I wish to ask you a question, Henri,” said she.
“What is it?”
“Do you still love me?”
“What reason have you to doubt it?”
“None that warrants me in reproaching you for anything. But so many
things separate us! Your career, to which you owe everything! Your
social standing, so different from mine! Oh, I know that you are
sincere, and that if you ever have a scruple regarding our liaison, you
will not be able to hide it from me. It is this possibility of which I
think.”
“You are quite wrong, I assure you. Did I hide myself last night in
order to prove openly my admiration for you? Did I appear to disclaim
the allusions which you emphasized in seeming to address me in the
course of your role?”
“No, that is true. Shall I make a confession? When I am on the stage,
I fear nothing, because there the points of comparison are all in my
favor, since you can say to yourself: ‘This woman on whom all eyes are
fixed, whose voice penetrates to the depths of the soul--this woman,
beautiful, applauded, courted, belongs to me--wholly to me,’ and your
masculine vanity is pleasantly flattered. But later, Henri! When the
rouge is effaced from my lips, when the powder is removed from my
cheeks--perhaps revealing some premature line caused by study and
late hours--if, after that, you return to your own circle, and there
encounter some fresh young girl, graceful and blooming, the object, in
her turn, of the fickle admiration of the multitude, forgetful already
of her who just now charmed them--tell me, Henri! do you not, as do
the others, covet that beautiful exotic flower, and must not the poor
comedienne weep for her lost prestige?”
“It is Mademoiselle de Vermont, then, who inspires you with this
apprehension,” said the General, smiling.
“Well, yes, it is she!”
“What childishness! Lenaieff will tell you that I have never even looked
at her.”
“Last night, perhaps--but to-day?”
“We exchanged no more than a dozen words.”
“But the more I think of her visit to the greenroom, the more
inexplicable it appears to me.”
“You need not be surprised at that: she does nothing that any one else
does.”
“These things are not done to displease you.”
“I may agree as to that; but what conclusion do you draw?”
“That she is trying to turn your head.”
“My head! You jest! I might be her father.”
“That is not always a reason--”
Nevertheless, Henri’s exclamation had been so frank that Eugenie felt
somewhat reassured.
“Are you going so soon?” she said, seeing him take his hat.
“I promised my sister to join her at the opera. Besides, this is your
reception night, and I leave you to your duties as hostess. To-morrow,
at the usual hour-and we will talk of something else, shall we not?”
“Ah, dearest, that is all I ask!” said Eugenie.
He attempted to kiss her hand, but she held up her lips. He pressed his
own upon them in a long kiss, and left her.
CHAPTER XV. DEFIANCE OF MRS. GRUNDY
For more than fifty years the first proscenium box on the ground floor,
to the left, at the Opera, had belonged exclusively to ten members of
the jockey Club, in the name of the oldest member of which the box is
taken. When a place becomes vacant through any cause, the nine remaining
subscribers vote on the admission of a new candidate for the vacant
chair; it is a sort of academy within the national Academy of Music.
When this plan was originated, that particular corner was called
“the infernal box,” but the name has fallen into desuetude since the
dedication of the fine monument of M. Gamier. Nevertheless, as it is
counted a high privilege to be numbered among these select subscribers,
changes are rare among them; besides, the members are not, as a rule,
men in their first youth. They have seen, within those walls, the
blooming and the renewal of several generations of pretty women; and
the number of singers and dancers to whom they have paid court in the
coulisses is still greater.
From their post of observation nothing that occurs either before or
behind the curtain escapes their analysis--an analysis undoubtedly
benevolent on the part of men who have seen much of life, and who accord
willingly, to their younger fellow-members, a little of that indulgence
of which they stand in need themselves.
An event so unexpected as the enthronement of Zibeline in one of the
two large boxes between the columns, in company with the Duchesse de
Montgeron, Madame de Lisieux, and Madame de Nointel, did not escape
their observation and comment.
“The Duchess is never thoughtless in her choice of associates,” said one
of the ten. “There must be some very powerful motive to induce her to
shield with her patronage a foreigner who sets so completely at defiance
anything that people may say about her.”
“Nonsense! What is it, after all, that they say about this young woman?”
demanded the senior member of the party. “That she rides alone on
horseback. If she were to ride with a groom, some one would be sure
to say that he was her lover. They say that she drives out without any
female chaperon beside her in the carriage. Well, if she had one, they
would probably find some other malicious thing to say. Paris has become
like a little country town in its gossip.”
“And all this,” added a third member, “because she is as lovely as a
dream, and because she drives the handsomest turnout in the Bois. If
she were ugly, and contented herself with a hired carriage, she would be
absolved without confession!”
“Where the deuce does Christian charity come in, in all this gossip?”
said Henri de Prerolles to himself, who had just entered the box and
overheard the last remarks. “Will you grant me your hospitality until
the beginning of the next act, gentlemen?” he said aloud. “My sister’s
box is full of guests and transient visitors; she can not admit even
me!”
The General was a great favorite with the members of the club. One of
them rose to offer him his place.
“I shall stay only a moment, to escape a cloud of questioners in the
foyer. Every one that stops me asks--”
“About the new recruit in the Duchess’s box, eh?” said a member. “We,
too, wish to inquire about her; we are all leagued together.”
“Thank you, no,” said the General.
“But if it is a secret--”
“There is no secret about it,” the General replied; and in a few words
he explained the enigma.
“Why, then,” exclaimed the senior member, “she is indeed the fowl that
lays the golden eggs! What a lucky bird will be the one that mates with
her!”
The rising curtain sent the spectators back to their places. The augurs
of the Duchess’s box reinstalled themselves before it where they could
examine at their ease through their lorgnettes the fair stranger of whom
so much had been said; and, mounting to the next floor, the General was
at last able to find room among his sister’s guests.
“You can see for yourself that our young friend is altogether charming,”
whispered Madame de Nointel, behind the shelter of her fan, and
indicating Zibeline.
“If you pronounce her so, Madame, she can receive no higher praise,”
said Henri.
“Say at once that you think me exasperating,” laughed the lady.
“Was it not you that first called her Zibeline?” Henri inquired.
“Yes, but she calls herself Valentine--which rhymes, after all. Not
richly enough for her, I know, but her means allow her to do without the
supporting consonant. See how beautiful she is to-night!”
In fact, twenty-four hours had sufficed to change the lonely stranger
of the day before into the heroine of this evening, and the satisfaction
that shone in her face tempered the somewhat haughty and disdainful
expression that had hitherto characterized her.
“You have not yet said ‘good-evening’ to Mademoiselle de Vermont,
Henri,” said the Duchess to her brother, and he changed his place in
order to act upon her hint.
“Ah, is it you, General?” said Zibeline, affecting not to have seen him
until that moment. “It seems that music interests you less than comedy.”
“What has made you form that opinion, Mademoiselle?”
“The fact that you arrive much later at the opera than at the Comedie
Francaise.”
“Have you, then, kept watch upon my movements?”
“Only a passing observation of signs--quite allowable in warfare!”
“But I thought we had made a compact of peace.”
“True enough, we did make it, but suppose it were only an armistice?”
“You are ready, then, to resume hostilities?” said Henri.
“Now that I have Madame la Duchesse, your sister, for an ally, I fear no
enemies.”
“Not even if I should call for aid upon the camp of Desvanneaux?”
“Alceste leagued with Tartufe? That idea never occurred to Moliere,”
said Zibeline, mischievously.
“Take care!” said the Duchess, interrupting this skirmishing, “you will
fall over into the orchestra! It is growing late, and if Mademoiselle de
Vermont does not wish to remain to see the final conflagration, we might
go now, before the crowd begins to leave.”
“I await your orders, Madame la Duchesse,” said Zibeline, rising.
The other ladies followed her example, receiving their cloaks from the
hands of their cavaliers, and the occupants of the box made their exit
in the following order: Zibeline, on the arm of the Duke; the Comtesse
de Lisieux, leaning upon M. de Nointel; Madame de Nointel with the
General; the Duchess bringing up the procession with M. de Lisieux.
As soon as they reached the outer lobby their footmen ran to find their
carriages, and that of the Duc de Montgeron advanced first.
“I beg, Madame, that you will not trouble yourself to wait here until
my carriage comes,” said Mademoiselle de Vermont to the Duchess, who
hesitated to leave her guest alone.
“Since you wish it, I will leave you, then,” said the Duchess, “and
we thank you for giving us your society this evening. My brother will
accompany you to your carriage.”
When Zibeline’s vehicle drove up to the entrance in its turn, the
General conducted his charge to the door of a marvellously equipped
brougham, to which was harnessed a carriage-horse of powerful frame,
well suited to the kind of vehicle he drew.
A thaw had begun, not yet transforming the gutters into yellow torrents
rushing toward the openings of the sewer, but covering the streets with
thick, black mud, over which the wheels rolled noiselessly.
“Your carriage is late, is it not?” said Zibeline, after the General had
handed her into the brougham.
“My carriage?” said the General. “Behold it!”
He pointed to a passing fiacre, at the same time hailing the driver.
“Don’t call him. I will take you home myself,” said Zibeline, as if such
a suggestion were the most natural thing in the world.
“You know that in France it is not the custom,” said the General.
“What! Do you bother yourself with such things at your age?”
“If my age seems to you a sufficient guaranty, that is different. I
accept your invitation.”
“To the Hotel de Montgeron,” said Zibeline to her footman.
“I never shall forget your sister’s kindness to me,” she continued, as
the carriage rolled away. “She fulfils my idea of the great lady better
than any other woman I have seen.”
“You may be proud of her friendship,” said Henri. “When once she likes
a person, it is forever. I am like her in that respect. Only I am rather
slow in forming friendships.”
“And so am I.”
“That is obvious, else you would have been married ere this.”
“No doubt--to some one like young Desvanneaux, perhaps. You are very
flattering! If you think that I would sacrifice my independence for a
man like that--”
“But surely you do not intend to remain unmarried.”
“Perhaps I shall--if I do not meet my ideal.”
“All women say that, but they usually change their minds in the end.”
“Mine is one and indivisible. If I do not give all I give nothing.”
“And shall you wait patiently until your ideal presents himself?”
“On the contrary, I am always looking for him.”
“Did you come to Europe for that purpose?”
“For that and for nothing else.”
“And suppose, should you find your ideal, that he himself raises
obstacles?”
“I shall try to smooth them away.”
“Do you believe, then, that the power of money is irresistible?”
“Far from it! A great fortune is only a trust which Providence has
placed in our hands, in order that we may repair, in its name, the
injustices of fate. But I have another string to my bow.”
“What is it?”
“The force of my will.”
“You have plenty of that! But suppose, by some impossible chance, your
ideal resists you even then?”
“Then I know what will remain for me to do.”
“You will resort to the pistol?”
“Not for him, but for myself,” she replied, in a tone so resolute as to
exclude any suggestion of bravado.
Zibeline’s horse, which was a rapid trotter, now stopped before the
Hotel de Montgeron, arriving just in advance of the Duchess’s carriage,
for which the Swiss was watching at the threshold of the open Porte
cochere. He drew himself up; the brougham entered the gate at a swift
pace, described a circle, and halted under the marquee at the main
entrance. The General sprang lightly to the ground.
“I thank you, Mademoiselle,” bowing, hat in hand, to his charming
conductor.
“Call me Valentine, please,” she responded, with her usual ease of
manner.
“Even in the character of a stage father, that would be rather too
familiar,” said the Marquis.
“Not so much so as to call me Zibeline,” said Mademoiselle de Vermont,
laughing.
“Ha! ha! You know your sobriquet, then?”
“I have known it a long time! Good-night, General! We shall meet again.”
Then, addressing her footman, she said in English: “Home!”
CHAPTER XVI. FRATERNAL ADVICE
Like all residences where the owners receive much company, the Hotel de
Montgeron had a double porte-cochere. Just as the Swiss opened the
outer gate to allow the departure of Mademoiselle de Vermont, the two
carriages crossed each other on the threshold. In fact, Henri had had
hardly time to cross the courtyard to mount to his own apartments before
his brother-in-law and his sister stopped him at the foot of the steps.
He rejoined them to say good-night.
“Won’t you come and take a cup of tea with us in the little salon?” they
asked.
“Willingly,” was his response. He followed them, and all three seated
themselves beside a table which was already laid, and upon which the
boiling water sang in the kettle.
“Leave us,” said the Duchess to the butler. “I will serve tea myself.
Did Mademoiselle de Vermont bring you home?” she asked, when the servant
had retired.
“Well,” said Henri, “in proposing to do so she mentioned my discreet
age, which appeared to her to make the thing all right! If I had
declined her invitation, I should have seemed to pose as a compromising
person! That is the reason why I accepted.”
“You did quite right. What do you really think of her?”
“She is very different from what I had fancied her: I find her frank,
intellectual, full of originality. I have only one fault to mention: she
is too rich.”
“Well, surely, you do not expect her to ruin herself to please you.”
“I should think not! Besides, what would be the object?”
“To permit you to fall in love with her.”
“Oh, that is what you are thinking of, is it?”
“Certainly, for, if need be, perhaps you would make a sacrifice to your
feelings.”
“In what way?”
“In the toleration of a few remaining millions which she might retain,
so that when you marry her neither of you will be reduced to absolute
beggary!”
“Marry her!--I?” cried the General, astonished.
“What is there to prevent your doing so?”
“The past, my dear sister. To speculate upon my title and my rank in
order to make a wealthy marriage? To quit my nomad’s tent for a fixed
residence other than that where the Prerolles have succeeded one another
from generation to generation? Never! Of all our ancient prejudices,
that is the only one I cherish. Besides, I am free at present to serve
my country under any form of government which it may please her to
adopt. But, with his hereditary estates lost, through his own fault,
shall he who has nothing left to him but his name form a mere branch of
another family? He has no right to do so.”
This declaration was categorical. Madame de Montgeron bent her head; her
jesting vein was quenched in a moment.
After a moment of silence the Duke spoke.
“There are scruples that one does not discuss,” he said. “But, on the
other hand, if I do not deceive myself, there are others which can be
adjusted to suit circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” said the General.
“The subject is rather delicate--especially to mention before you, my
dear Jeanne.”
“I was just about to propose that I should retire,” said the Duchess.
“Good-night, Henri!” And she bent to kiss him.
“You are not vexed?” said her brother, embracing her tenderly.
“What an idea! Good-night!”
“Am I always to be considered as occupying the stool of repentance?”
Henri inquired, as soon as his sister had left the room.
“Yes, but you will not be offended if I interrogate you a little, after
the manner of a judge?” said the Duke.
“Quite the contrary. Go on; I will listen.”
“Had you not just now expressed yourself very distinctly in disfavor of
any project of marriage because of perfectly unimpeachable principles,
I should not permit myself to make any allusion to your private life.
Every man is his own master in his choice of liaisons, and on that head
is answerable only to his own conscience. In these days, moreover, art
is on a level with birth, and talent with military glory. You see that I
am quite modern in my ideas! However--”
“Ah, there is a reserve?”
“Without liability. Mademoiselle Gontier is surrounded by great luxury.
She maintains an expensive house and keeps an open table. Her annual
salary and her income can not possibly cover these expenses. Whence does
she obtain further resources?”
“From the investments made for her by the Baron de Samoreau.”
“Without her having to pay a commission of any kind? A most remarkable
case of disinterestedness!”
“I never have sought to examine the matter particularly,” said Henri.
“And is that the way you keep yourself informed? A future
general-in-chief!”
“I was not aware that I am in an enemy’s country.”
“No, but you are in a conquered country, which is still more dangerous.
Oh, no one will attack you face to face at the point of the sword. But
behind your back, in the shadow, you have already massed against you
various rejected swains, the Desvanneaux of the coulisses, jealous of
a preference which wounds their own vanity, and the more ready to throw
discredit--were they able--upon a man of your valor, because they are
better armed against him with the logic of facts.”
“What logic, in heaven’s name?”
“That which emanates from the following dilemma: Either Danae is obliged
to hide from Jupiter--or, rather, from Maecenas--her intimacy with
you--and you are only a lover who simply loves her--or else Maecenas is
an epicurean who has no objection to share his fortune philosophically;
so that ostensibly you sit at the feast without paying the cost--which
is worse yet.”
“Does any one dare to say that of me?” cried the General, springing from
his chair.
“They are beginning to say it,” the Duke replied, his eyes fixed on his
brother-in-law, who paced to and fro, gnawing his moustache. “I ask your
pardon for throwing such a bucket of ice-water on you, but with men of
your constitution--”
“Pleurisy is not mortal,” Henri interrupted briefly. “I know. Don’t
worry about me.”
“I knew you would understand,” said the Duke, going toward the door
of his own apartments. “That is the reason why I have not spared you a
thorough ducking!”
“I thank you,” said the General, as he was about to leave the room. “I
will talk to you about this tomorrow. The night brings counsel.”
Wrapped in thought, he made his way to the little suite of apartments
between the ground floor and the first story which he occupied, and
which had a separate door opening on the Rue de Bellechase.
At the foot of the stairs, in a coach-house which had been transformed
into a chamber, slept the orderlies beneath the apartment of their
chief. This apartment, composed of four rooms, was of the utmost
simplicity, harmonizing with the poverty of its occupant, who made it a
point of honor not to attempt to disguise his situation.
The ante-chamber formed a military bureau for the General and his chief
orderly.
The salon, hung with draperies to simulate a tent, had no other
decoration than some trophies of Arabian arms, souvenirs of raids upon
rebellious tribes.
More primitive still was the bedroom, furnished with a simple canteen
bed, as if it were put up in a temporary camp, soon to be abandoned.
The only room which suggested nothing of the anchorite was the
dressing-room, furnished with all the comforts and conveniences
necessary to an elegant and fastidious man of the world.
But his real luxury, which, by habit and by reason of his rank, the
General had always maintained, was found among his horses, as he devoted
to them all the available funds that could be spared from his salary.
Hence the four box-stalls placed at his disposal in the stables of his
brother-in-law were occupied by four animals of remarkably pure blood,
whose pedigrees were inscribed in the French stud-book. Neither years,
nor the hard service which their master had seen, had deteriorated any
of his ability as a dashing horseman. His sober and active life having
even enabled him to preserve a comparatively slender figure, he would
have joined victoriously in the races, except that his height made his
weight too heavy for that amusement.
Entering his own domain, still overwhelmed, with the shock of the
revelations and the gossip of which he never had dreamed, he felt
himself wounded to the quick in all those sentiments upon which his
‘amour propre’ had been most sensitive.
The more he pondered proudly over his pecuniary misfortunes, the
more grave the situation appeared to him, and the more imperious the
necessity of a rupture.
When it had been a question of dismissing Fanny Dorville, an actress of
humble standing, his parting gift, a diamond worth twenty-five thousand
francs, had seemed to him a sufficient indemnity to cancel all accounts.
But now, in the presence of an artiste of merit, who had given herself
without calculation and who loved him for himself alone, how, without
wounding her heart and her dignity, could he break violently a chain so
light yesterday, so heavy to-day?
To indulge in tergiversation, to invent some subterfuge to cover his
retreat--he did not feel himself capable of such a course; moreover,
his manoeuvre would be quickly suspected by a clever woman whom nothing
escaped.
To ask to be sent back to Africa, just at the time when his intelligent
and practical instruction in the latest grand manoeuvres had drawn
all eyes upon him, would compromise, by an untimely retirement, the
advantages of this new office, the object of his ambition.
For the first time this nobleman, always prompt and radical in his
decisions, found himself hesitating; and, such is the power of human
egotism even in generous natures, he felt almost incensed against
Eugenie, the involuntary cause of his hesitation.
After weighing everything carefully in his mind, he finally said to
himself that an open confession, sincere and unrestricted, would be the
best solution of the difficulty; and just as the first light of day came
to dissipate the shadow that overcast his mind, when his orderly entered
to open the blinds in his chamber, he formed a fixed resolution as to
his course.
CHAPTER XVII. THE LADY BOUNTIFUL
Valentine de Vermont was not yet twenty-two years old.
Her birth had cost the life of her mother, and, brought up by an
active and enterprising man, her education had been directed by plain
common-sense, rather masculine, perhaps, but without injury to her
personal attractions, nor to those of her delicate and lofty spirit.
Her father, who was endowed with a veritable genius for commercial
action, had monopolized more than the fur-trade of Alaska and of
Hudson’s Bay. From year to year he had extended the field of his
operations: in Central America, dealing in grains and salt meats; in
Europe in wines and brandy; commodities always bought at the right time,
in enormous quantities, and, without pausing in transshipment from one
country to another, carried in vessels belonging to him and sailing
under the English flag.
Without giving her any unnecessary instruction as to the management of
his affairs, he wished his daughter to possess sufficient knowledge of
them to handle herself the wealth that she would receive as a dowry and
at his death; and he decided that she should not contract a marriage
except under the law of the separation of goods, according to the custom
generally adopted in the United States.
An attack of paralysis having condemned him to his armchair, he
consecrated the remainder of his days to settling all his enterprises,
and when he died, about two years before the arrival of Valentine in
Paris, that young lady found herself in the possession of more than
one hundred and twenty million francs, nearly all invested in English,
American, and French State bonds.
At the expiration of her period of mourning, the wealthy heiress could
then live in London, New York, or Paris, at her pleasure; but the French
blood that ran in her veins prevented her from hesitating a moment, and
she chose the last named of the three cities for her abode.
Being passionately fond of saddle and driving-horses, she did not stop
in England without taking the necessary time to acquire everything
of the best for the fitting-up of a stable, and after a time she
established herself temporarily in a sumptuous apartment in the Place de
l’Etoile, furnished with a taste worthy of the most thorough Parisian.
On the evening after her appearance at the Opera, just as she left her
breakfast-table, M. Durand presented himself at her dwelling with the
architect’s plan for the building of the orphan asylum, and declared
himself ready to take her orders regarding the plan, as well as on the
subject of the gift of money to the Society.
“I have resolved,” said Zibeline, “to transform into an asylum,
following a certain plan, the model farm belonging to the estate that
I have recently purchased through you. If I required carte blanche in
choosing the site, it was because I desire that Monsieur Desvanneaux
shall have nothing to do with the matter until the day when I shall put
the committee in possession of the building and its premises, which I
have engaged to furnish, free of all expense to the Society. I shall
employ my own architect to execute the work, and I shall ask you to
indemnify, for me, the architect who has drawn up this first plan, which
will remain as the minimum expense incurred on my part. But I wish to
be the only person to superintend the arrangements, and to be free to
introduce, without control, such improvements as I may judge suitable.
Should the committee demand a guaranty, I have on deposit with Monsieur
de Samoreau a million francs which I intend to use in carrying out these
operations. Half of that sum may be consigned to the hands of some one
they may wish to choose; the other half will serve to pay the laborers
in proportion to their work. In order to insure even greater regularity,
have the kindness to draw up, to cover the interval that will elapse
before I make my final definite donation, a provisionary document,
setting forth the engagement that I have undertaken to carry out.”
“Here it is,” said the notary; “I have already prepared it.”
Having examined the document carefully, to assure herself that all
statements contained therein were according to her intentions, Zibeline
took her pen and wrote at the foot of the page: “Read and approved,” and
signed the paper.
“Mademoiselle appears to be well accustomed to business habits,”
observed M. Durand, with a smile.
“That is because I have been trained to them since childhood,” she
replied. “My plan is to place this document myself in the hands of
Madame la Duchesse de Montgeron.”
“You can do so this very afternoon, if you wish. Thursday is her
reception day,” said the notary, rising with a bow, preparatory to
taking his leave.
“I shall take good care not to fail to call,” earnestly replied the fair
Lady Bountiful.
She telephoned immediately to her head-groom, ordering ham to bring
around her brougham at three o’clock.
CHAPTER XVIII. A MODERN TARTUFE
At the same hour that the elegant carriage of Zibeline was conducting
her to the Hotel de Montgeron, M. Desvanneaux descended from a modest
fiacre at the gate of the hotel occupied by Eugenie Gontier.
The first impulse of the actress--who was engaged in studying a new role
in her library--was not to receive her importunate visitor; but a sudden
idea changed her determination, and she gave the order to admit him.
“This is the first time that I have had the high favor of being admitted
to this sanctuary,” said the churchwarden, kissing with ardor the hand
that the actress extended to him.
“Don’t let us have so great a display of pious manifestations,” she
said, withdrawing her hand from this act of humility, which was rather
too prolonged. “Sit down and be sensible,” she added.
“Can one be sensible when he finds himself at your feet, dear
Mademoiselle? At the feet of the idol who is so appropriately enthroned
among so many artistic objects!” replied the honey-tongued Prudhomme,
adjusting his eyeglasses. “The bust of General de Prerolles, no doubt?”
he added, inquiringly, scrutinizing a marble statuette placed on the
high mantelpiece.
“You are wrong, Monsieur Desvanneaux; it is that of Moliere!”
“I beg your pardon!--I am standing so far below it! I, too, have on my
bureau a bust of our great Poquelin, but Madame Desvanneaux thinks that
this author’s style is somewhat too pornographic, and has ordered me
to replace his profane image by the more edifying one of our charitable
patron, Saint Vincent de Paul.”
“Is it to tell me of your family jars that you honor me with this
visit?” said Eugenie.
“No, indeed! It was rather to escape from them, dear Mademoiselle! But
alas! my visit has also another object: to release you from the promise
you were so kind as to make me regarding the matter of our kermess; a
project now unfortunately rendered futile by that Zibeline!”
“Otherwise called ‘Mademoiselle de Vermont.’”
“I prefer to call her Zibeline--that name is better suited to a
courtesan.”
“You are very severe toward her!”
“I can not endure hypocrites!” naively replied the worthy man.
“She appeared to me to be very beautiful, however,” continued Eugenie
Gontier, in order to keep up the conversation on the woman who she felt
instinctively was her rival.
“Beautiful! Not so beautiful as you,” rejoined M. Desvanneaux,
gallantly. “She is a very ambitious person, who throws her money at our
heads, the better to humiliate us.”
“But, since it is all in the interest of the Orphan Asylum--”
“Say, rather, in her own interest, to put herself on a pedestal because
of her generosity! Oh, she has succeeded at the first stroke! Already,
at the Hotel de Montgeron they swear by her; and if this sort of thing
goes on, I shall very soon be regarded only as a pariah!”
“Poor Monsieur Desvanneaux!”
“You pity me, dear Mademoiselle? I thank you! The role of consoler is
truly worthy of your large heart, and if you do not forbid me to hope--”
said this modern Tartufe, approaching Eugenie little by little.
“Take care!” said she; “suppose the General should be hidden under that
table, like Orgon!”
“The General!” exclaimed Desvanneaux; “he is too much occupied
elsewhere!”
“Occupied with whom?”
“With Zibeline, probably. He never left her side all the evening, last
night at the Opera.”
“Pardon me! He was here until after ten o’clock.”
“Yes, but afterward--when the opera was over?”
“Well, what happened when the opera was over?” Eugenie inquired, forcing
herself to hide her emotion.
“They went away together! I saw them--I was watching them from behind a
column. What a scandal!”
“And your conclusion on all this, Monsieur Desvanneaux?”
“It is that the General is deceiving you, dear Mademoiselle.”
“With that young girl?”
“A bold hussy, I tell you! A Messalina! Ah, I pity you sincerely in my
turn! And should a devoted consoler, a discreet avenger, be able to make
you forget this outrage to your charms, behold me at your feet, devoting
to you my prayers, awaiting only a word from you to become the most
fortunate among the elect--”
A loud knock at the outer door spared Mademoiselle Gontier the trouble
of repelling her ridiculous adorer, who promptly scrambled to his feet
at the sound.
“A visitor!” he murmured, turning pale. “Decidedly, I have no luck--”
“Monsieur le Marquis de Prerolles is in the drawing-room,” a domestic
announced.
“Beg him to wait,” said Eugenie, reassured by this visit, which was
earlier than the usual hour. “You see that you are badly informed,
Monsieur Desvanneaux,” she added.
“For heaven’s sake, spare me this embarrassing meeting!” said the
informer, whose complexion had become livid.
“I understand. You fear a challenge?”
“Oh, no, not that! My religious principles would forbid me to fight
a duel. But the General would not fail to rally me before my wife
regarding my presence here, and Madame Desvanneaux would be pitiless.”
“Own, however, that you richly deserve a lesson, Lovelace that you are!
But I will take pity on you,” said Eugenie, opening a door at the end
of the room. “The servants’ stairway is at the end of that corridor. You
know the way!” she added, laughing.
“I am beginning to know it, dear Mademoiselle!” said the pitiful
beguiler, slipping through the doorway on tiptoe.
CHAPTER XIX. BROKEN TIES
After picking up a chair which, in his alarm, the fugitive had
overturned in his flight, Mademoiselle Gontier herself opened the door
leading to the drawing-room.
“Come in, Henri!” said she, lifting the portiere.
“Do I disturb you?” the General inquired, entering the library.
“Never! You know that well! But how gravely you asked the question!”
“For the reason that I wish to speak to you about serious matters, my
dear Eugenie.”
The image of Zibeline passed before the eyes of the actress. That
which Desvanneaux had revealed, in accusing the girl of debauchery, now
appeared plausible to her, if considered in another way.
“You are about to marry!” she exclaimed.
They were the same words pronounced by Fanny Dorville in similar
circumstances.
“Never! You know that well enough!” he replied, in his turn.
“Speak, then!” said she, sinking upon a chair and motioning him to a
seat before her.
He obeyed, and sitting so far forward upon his chair that his knees
touched her skirt, he took both her hands in his own, and said gently:
“You know how much I love you, and how much I esteem you. You know, too,
the story of my life: my past follies, and also the honorable career
I have run in order to atone for them morally, for in a material sense
they are irreparable--according to my ideas, at least. This career
has been fortunate. I have reached the highest rank that a soldier can
attain to-day. But my rapid promotion, however justifiable it may be,
has none the less awakened jealousy. The nature of my services being
above all possibility of suspicion, calumny has sought another quarter
at which to strike, and at this moment it is my delicacy which is
impugned.”
“Your delicacy, Henri! What do you mean?” asked Eugenie, in an altered
voice.
“Our friendship is well known. You are rich, and I have only my pay:
the antithesis is flagrant! The gossips comment upon it, and exploit the
fact against me.”
“Against you!” cried Eugenie, indignantly.
“Against me--yes. I have proof of it. A man in private life would
be justified in ignoring such gossip, but for a man in my profession
ambiguity has no place, nor has compromise. Himself a severe judge of
the conduct of others, he must not afford them a single instance whereby
they can accuse him of not following his own precepts.”
And, as his companion remained silent and startled before an explanation
so unexpected, he added:
“You say nothing, my love. You must divine the depth of my chagrin
at the prospect of a necessary separation, and you are sufficiently
charitable not to remind me that I ought to have made these tardy
reflections before I yielded to a fascination which made me close my
eyes to facts.”
“I reproach you with nothing, Henri,” said Eugenie in a trembling voice.
“I myself yielded to the same enchantment, and in abandoning myself
to it, I did not foresee that some day it might be prejudicial to your
honor. A singular moral law is that of the world!” she pursued, growing
more excited. “Let General de Prerolles be the lover of Madame de
Lisieux or of Madame de Nointel; let him sit every day at their
tables--if there be only a husband whose hand he may clasp in greeting,
no one will call this hospitable liaison a crime! But let him feel
anything more than a passing fancy for Eugenie Gontier, who violates
no conjugal vow in loving him, but whose love he is not rich enough to
buy--even were that love for sale--oh, then, everyone must point at him
the finger of scorn! As for myself, it seems that it was useless for me
to resist so many would-be lovers in order to open my door more freely
to the man of my choice--an action which no one holds against me,
however, because I am only an actress, and the public classes us in
a separate category, so that they may more readily offer up to us the
incense with which they smother us! Be it so! There are also in my
profession disinterested hearts which may serve as examples--and I
pretend to the very highest rank as an actress in every role I assume,
even in this city. Take back your liberty, Henri!”
“I have most unwillingly offended you,” said he, sadly.
“You? Ah, no! I know that you are loyal and sincere, and I could not
harbor resentment against you after your avowal. You would have lacked
self-confidence had you acted otherwise. But,” she continued, “have you
indeed told me all?”
“All!” he replied, without hesitation.
“Will you give me your word of honor that no other woman stands between
you and me?”
“I swear it to you!”
“I thank you! You are incapable of lying. Whatever happens, you never
will have a better friend than I, for your just pride is still more dear
to me than my own. If you cease to come to the theatre, and appear no
more at my receptions, that will be sufficient to insure the silence of
gossip concerning us. Go without remorse, Henri! But come back to see me
sometimes--quietly, without the knowledge of the envious--will you not?”
“Do you doubt it?” he responded, folding her tenderly in his arms.
“Yes and no! But if this is our supreme farewell, do not tell me so!”
BOOK 3.
CHAPTER XX. ZIBELINE RECEIVES
The Duchesse de Montgeron had no children, and her most tender
affections were concentrated upon her husband and her brother. The
scruples which caused the latter to forswear matrimony grieved her
deeply, for, knowing the inflexibility of his character, she was sure
that no one in the world could make him alter his decision.
Thus, on one side the title of the Duc de Montgeron was destined to pass
to a collateral branch of the family; and on the other, the title of
Marquis de Prerolles would become extinct with the General.
But, although she now considered it impossible to realize the project
which she had momentarily cherished, she continued to show the same
kindness to Mademoiselle de Vermont. She would have regarded any other
course as unworthy of her, since she had made the first advances;
moreover, the young girl’s nature was so engaging that no one who
approached her could resist her charm.
Very reserved or absolutely frank, according to the degree of confidence
with which she was treated, Valentine had sufficient intuition to avoid
a lack of tact.
She was, in feminine guise, like ‘L’Ingenu’ of Voltaire, struck, as was
Huron, with all that was illogical in our social code; but she did not
make, after his fashion, a too literal application of its rules, and
knew where to draw the line, if she found herself on the point of making
some hazardous remark, declaring frankly: “I was about to say something
foolish!” which lent originality to her playful conversation.
After receiving from Valentine’s hands the contract signed in presence
of the notary, for the benefit of the Orphan Asylum, the president of
the society did not fail to give a dinner in honor of the new patroness.
As she was a foreigner she was placed in the seat of honor at the table,
to the great displeasure of Madame Desvanneaux, who was invited to take
the second place, in spite of her title of vice-president.
“It is because of her millions that she was placed before me,” she said
in an undertone to her husband, as soon as the guests had returned
to the drawing-room. And, giving orders that her carriage should be
summoned immediately, she left the house without speaking to any one,
and with the air of a peeress of England outraged in her rights of
precedence!
This was, for the hostile pair, a new cause of grievance against
Zibeline. When she, in her turn, gave at her home a similar dinner, a
fortnight later, she received from them, in reply to her invitation,
which was couched in the most courteous terms, a simple visiting card,
with the following refusal: “The Comte and the Comtesse Desvanneaux,
not being in the habit of accepting invitations during Lent, feel
constrained to decline that of Mademoiselle de Vermont.”
The dinner was only the more gay and cordial.
Valentine’s household was conducted on a footing more elegant than
sumptuous.
The livery was simple, but the appearance of her people was
irreproachable. The butler and the house servants wore the ordinary
dress-coat and trousers; the powdered footmen wore short brown coats,
ornamented, after the English fashion, with metal buttons and a false
waistcoat; the breeches were of black velveteen, held above the knee by
a band of gold braid, with embroidered ends, which fell over black silk
stockings. At the end of the ante-chamber where this numerous personnel
was grouped, opened a long gallery, ornamented with old tapestries
representing mythological subjects in lively and well-preserved
coloring. This room, which was intended to serve as a ballroom at need,
was next to two large drawing-rooms. The walls of one were covered with
a rich material, on which hung costly paintings; the furniture and the
ceiling of the other were of oak, finely carved, relieved with touches
of gold in light and artistic design.
Everywhere was revealed an evident desire to avoid an effect of
heaviness and ostentation, and this was especially noticeable in the
dining-room, where the pure tone of the panels and the moulding
doubled the intensity of the light thrown upon them. Upon the table
the illumination of the apartment was aided by two large candelabra of
beautifully chiselled silver, filled with candles, the light of which
filtered through a forest of diaphanous little white shades.
The square table was a veritable parterre of flowers, and was laid for
twelve guests, three on each side.
The young mistress of the house was seated on one side, between the Duc
de Montgeron and the Marquis de Prerolles. Facing her sat the
Duchesse de Montgeron, between General Lenaieff and the Chevalier de
Sainte-Foy.--Laterally, on one hand appeared Madame de Lisieux, between
M. de Nointel and the painter Edmond Delorme; on the other, Madame de
Nointel, between M. de Lisieux and the Baron de Samoreau.
Never, during the six weeks that Valentine had had friendly relations
with the Duchess, had she appeared so self-possessed, or among
surroundings so well fitted to display her attractions of mind and of
person. She was a little on the defensive on finding herself in this new
and unexpected society, but she felt, this evening, that she was in the
midst of a sympathetic and admiring circle, and did the honors of her
own house with perfect ease, finding agreeable words and showing a
delicate forethought for each guest, and above all displaying toward
her protectress a charming deference, by which the Duchess felt herself
particularly touched.
“What a pity!” she said to herself, glancing alternately at Zibeline
and at her brother, between whom a tone of frank comradeship had been
established, free from any coquetry on her side or from gallantry on
his.
The more clearly Henri divined the thoughts of his sister, the more he
affected to remain insensible to the natural seductions of his neighbor,
to whom Lenaieff, on the contrary, addressed continually, in his soft
and caressing voice, compliments upon compliments and madrigals upon
madrigals!
“Take care, my dear Constantin!” said Henri to him, bluntly. “You will
make Mademoiselle de Vermont quite impossible. If you go on thus, she
will take herself seriously as a divinity!”
“Fortunately,” rejoined Zibeline, “you are there, General, to remind
me that I am only a mortal, as Philippe’s freedman reminded his master
every morning.”
“You can not complain! I serve you as a confederate, to allow you
to display your erudition,” retorted the General, continuing his
persiflage.
But he, too, was only a man, wavering and changeable, to use Montaigne’s
expression, for his eyes, contradicting the brusqueness of his speech,
rested long, and not without envy, on this beautiful and tempting fruit
which his fate forbade him to gather. The more he admired her freshness,
and the more he inhaled her sweetness, the more the image of Eugenie
Gontier was gradually effaced from his memory, like one of those
tableaux on the stage, which gauze curtains, descending from the flies,
seem to absorb without removing, gradually obliterating the pictures as
they fall, one after another.
CHAPTER XXI. A DASHING AMAZON
On leaving the table, the fair “Amphitryonne” proposed that the
gentlemen should use her private office as a smoking-room, and the
ladies followed them thither, pretending that the odor of tobacco would
not annoy them in the least, but in reality to inspect this new room.
Edmond Delorme had finished his work that very morning, and the enormous
canvas, with its life-size subject, had already been hung, lighted from
above and below by electric bulbs, the battery for which was cleverly
hidden behind a piece of furniture.