“A lady, with a great deal of esprit, to whom forty years’ experience
of the great world had given a prodigious perspicacity of judgment, the
Duchess of Chalux, arbitress of the opinion to be held on all new
comers to the Faubourg Saint Germain, and of their destiny and
reception in it;—one of those women, in a word, who make or ruin a
man,—said, in speaking of Gerard de Stolberg, whom she received at her
own house, and met everywhere, ‘This young German will never gain for
himself the title of an exquisite, or a man of bonnes fortunes, among
us. In spite of his calm and politeness, I think I can see in his
character some rude and insurmountable difficulties, which time will
only increase, and which will prevent him for ever from bending to the
exigencies of either profession; but, unless I very much deceive
myself, he will, one day, be the hero of a veritable romance.’
“‘He, madame?’ answered a young man, of fair complexion and fair hair,
one of the most devoted slaves of the fashion:—‘He, Madame la Duchesse?
why, the man is, at best, but an original, fished out of the Rhine: a
dull, heavy creature, as much capable of understanding a woman’s heart
as I am of speaking bas-Breton.’
“‘Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-Breton. Monsieur de
Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, nor your facility of
telling pretty nothings, nor your—in a word, that particular something
which makes you the most recherché man of the Faubourg Saint Germain;
and even I avow to you that, were I still young, and a coquette, AND
THAT I TOOK IT INTO MY HEAD TO HAVE A LOVER, I would prefer you.’
“All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of raillery and
such a mixture of earnest and malice, that Monsieur de Belport, piqued
not a little, could not help saying, as he bowed profoundly before the
Duchess’s chair, ‘And might I, madam, be permitted to ask the reason of
this preference?’
“‘O mon Dieu, oui,’ said the Duchess, always in the same tone; ‘because
a lover like you would never think of carrying his attachment to the
height of passion; and these passions, do you know, have frightened me
all my life. One cannot retreat at will from the grasp of a passionate
lover; one leaves behind one some fragment of one’s moral SELF, or the
best part of one’s physical life. A passion, if it does not kill you,
adds cruelly to your years; in a word, it is the very lowest possible
taste. And now you understand why I should prefer you, M. de
Belport—you who are reputed to be the leader of the fashion.’
“‘Perfectly,’ murmured the gentleman, piqued more and more.
“‘Gerard de Stolberg WILL be passionate. I don’t know what woman will
please him, or will be pleased by him’ (here the Duchess of Chalux
spoke more gravely); ‘but his love will be no play, I repeat it to you
once more. All this astonishes you, because you, great leaders of the
ton that you are, never fancy that a hero of romance should be found
among your number. Gerard de Stolberg—but, look, here he comes!’
“M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without believing in her
prophecy; but he could not avoid smiling as he passed near the HERO OF
ROMANCE.
“It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, been a hero
of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of romance.
“Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thousand
secrets in the chronicle of the great world: he knew but superficially
the society in which he lived; and, therefore, he devoted his evening
to the gathering of all the information which he could acquire from the
indiscreet conversations of the people about him. His whole man became
ear and memory; so much was Stolberg convinced of the necessity of
becoming a diligent student in this new school, where was taught the
art of knowing and advancing in the great world. In the recess of a
window he learned more on this one night than months of investigation
would have taught him. The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the
confidential chatter of a company of idle women. No man present at a
ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to affect any
indulgence for his companions, and the most learned in malice will
always pass for the most witty.
“‘How!’ said the Viscount de Mondragé: ‘the Duchess of Rivesalte
arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable Dormilly!’—And the
Viscount, as he spoke, pointed towards a tall and slender young woman,
who, gliding rather than walking, met the ladies by whom she passed,
with a graceful and modest salute, and replied to the looks of the men
BY BRILLIANT VEILED GLANCES FULL OF COQUETRY AND ATTACK.
“‘Parbleu!’ said an elegant personage standing near the Viscount de
Mondragé, ‘don’t you see Dormilly ranged behind the Duchess, in quality
of train-bearer, and hiding, under his long locks and his great screen
of moustaches, the blushing consciousness of his good luck?—They call
him THE FOURTH CHAPTER of the Duchess’s memoirs. The little Marquise
d’Alberas is ready to die out of spite; but the best of the joke is,
that she has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to vent her
spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder; if the
Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting him for somebody
else, the poor fellow will turn an idiot.’
“‘Is he jealous?’ asked a young man, looking as if he did not know what
jealousy was and as if he had no time to be jealous.
“‘Jealous! the very incarnation of jealousy; the second edition,
revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged; as jealous as poor
Gressigny, who is dying of it.’
“‘What! Gressigny too? why, ’tis growing quite into fashion: egad! I
must try and be jealous,’ said Monsieur de Beauval. ‘But see! here
comes the delicious Duchess of Bellefiore,’” &c. &c. &c.
Enough, enough: this kind of fashionable Parisian conversation, which
is, says our author, “a prodigious labor of improvising,” a
“chef-d’oeuvre,” a “strange and singular thing, in which monotony is
unknown,” seems to be, if correctly reported, a “strange and singular
thing” indeed; but somewhat monotonous at least to an English reader,
and “prodigious” only, if we may take leave to say so, for the
wonderful rascality which all the conversationists betray. Miss
Neverout and the Colonel, in Swift’s famous dialogue, are a thousand
times more entertaining and moral; and, besides, we can laugh AT those
worthies as well as with them; whereas the “prodigious” French wits are
to us quite incomprehensible. Fancy a duchess as old as Lady ——
herself, and who should begin to tell us “of what she would do if ever
she had a mind to take a lover;” and another duchess, with a fourth
lover, tripping modestly among the ladies, and returning the gaze of
the men by veiled glances, full of coquetry and attack!—Parbleu, if
Monsieur de Viel-Castel should find himself among a society of French
duchesses, and they should tear his eyes out, and send the fashionable
Orpheus floating by the Seine, his slaughter might almost be considered
as justifiable COUNTICIDE.