"Mademoiselle Blanche, come here at once! Mademoiselle Blanche!"
And turning towards Mme. Derline, he said:
"She has great talent, but I shall myself superintend it; so be
easy--yes, I myself."
Mme. Derline was a little confused, a little embarrassed by her glory,
but happy nevertheless. Mademoiselle Blanche came forward.
"Conduct madame," said M. Arthur, "and take the necessary measures for a
ball-dress, very low, and with absolutely bare arms. During that time,
madame, I am going to think seriously of what I can do for you. It must
be something entirely new--ah! before going, permit me--"
He walked very slowly around Mme. Derline, and examined her with
profound attention; then he walked away, and considered her from a
little distance. His face was serious, thoughtful, and anxious. A great
thinker wrestling with a great problem. He passed his hand over his
forehead, raised his eyes to the sky, getting inspiration by a painful
delivery; but suddenly his face lit up--the spirit from above had
answered.
"Go, madame," he said, "go. Your dress is thought out. When you come
back, mademoiselle, bring me that piece of pink satin; you know, the one
that I was keeping for some great occasion."
Thus Mme. Derline found herself with Mademoiselle Blanche in a trying-on
room, which was a sort of little cabin lined with mirrors. A quarter of
an hour later, when the measures had been taken, Mme. Derline came back
and discovered M. Arthur in the midst of pieces of satin of all colors,
of crêpes, of tulles, of laces, and of brocaded stuffs.
"No, no, not the pink satin," he said to Mademoiselle Blanche, who was
bringing the asked-for piece; "no, I have found something better. Listen
to me. This is what I wish: I have given up the pink, and I have decided
on this, this peach-colored satin. A classic robe, outlining all the
fine lines and showing the suppleness of the body. This robe must be
very clinging--hardly any underskirts. It must be of surah. Madame must
be melted into it--do you thoroughly understand?--absolutely melted
into the robe. We will drop over the dress this crêpe--yes, that one,
but in small, light pleats. The crêpe will be as a cloud thrown over the
dress--a transparent, vapory, impalpable cloud. The arms are to be
absolutely bare, as I already told you. On each shoulder there must be a
simple knot, showing the upper part of the arm. Of what is the knot to
be? I'm still undecided--I need to think it over--till to-morrow,
madame, till to-morrow."
Mme. Derline came back the next day, and the next, and every day till
the day before the famous Thursday; and each time that she came back,
while awaiting her turn to try on, she ordered dresses, very simple
ones, but yet costing from seven to eight hundred francs each.
And that was not all. On the day of her first visit to M. Arthur, when
Mme. Derline came out of the great house, she was
broken-hearted--positively broken-hearted--at the sight of her brougham;
it really did make a pitiful appearance among all the stylish carriages
which were waiting in three rows and taking up half the street. It was
the brougham of her late mother-in-law, and it still rolled through the
streets of Paris after fifteen years' service. Mme. Derline got into the
woe-begone brougham to drive straight to a very well-known
carriage-maker, and that evening, cleverly seizing the psychological
moment, she explained to M. Derline that she had seen a certain little
black coupé lined with blue satin that would frame delightfully her new
dresses.
The coupé was bought the next day by M. Derline, who also was beginning
fully to realize the extent of his new duties. But the next day it was
discovered that it was impossible to harness to that jewel of a coupé
the old horse who had pulled the old carriage, and no less impossible to
put on the box the old coachman who drove the old horse.
This is how on Thursday, April 25th, at half-past ten in the evening, a
very pretty chestnut mare, driven by a very correct English coachman,
took M. and Mme. Derline to the Palmer's. They still lacked something--a
little groom to sit beside the English coachman. But a certain amount of
discretion had to be employed. The most beautiful woman in Paris
intended to wait ten days before asking for the little groom.
While she was going up-stairs at the Palmer's, she distinctly felt her
heart beat like the strokes of a hammer. She was going to play a
decisive game. She knew that the Palmers had been going everywhere,
saying, "Come on Thursday; we will show you Mme. Derline, the most
beautiful woman in Paris." Curiosity as well as jealousy had been well
awakened.
She entered, and from the first minute she had the delicious sensation
of her success. Throughout the long gallery of the Palmer's house it was
a true triumphal march. She advanced with firm and precise step, erect,
and head well held. She appeared to see nothing, to hear nothing, but
how well she saw! how well she felt, the fire of all those eyes on her
shoulders! Around her arose a little murmur of admiration, and never had
music been sweeter to her.
Yes, decidedly, all went well. She was on a fair way to conquer Paris.
And, sure of herself, at each step she became more confident, lighter,
and bolder, as she advanced on Palmer's arm, who, in passing, pointed
out the counts, the marquises, and the dukes. And then Palmer suddenly
said to her:
"I want to present to you one of your greatest admirers, who, the other
night at the opera, spoke of nothing but your beauty; he is the Prince
of Nérins."
She became as red as a cherry. Palmer looked at her and began to laugh.
"Ah, you read the other day in that paper?"
"I read--yes, I read--"
"But where is the prince, where is he? I saw him during the day, and he
was to be here early."
Mme. Derline was not to see the Prince of Nérins that evening. And yet
he had intended to go to the Palmers and preside at the deification of
his lawyeress. He had dined at the club, and had allowed himself to be
dragged off to a first performance at a minor theatre. An operetta of
the regulation type was being played. The principal personage was a
young queen, who was always escorted by the customary four
maids-of-honor.
Three of these young ladies were very well known to first-nighters, as
having already figured in the tableaux of operettas and in groups of
fairies, but the fourth--Oh, the fourth! She was a new one, a tall
brunette of the most striking beauty. The prince made himself remarked
more than all others by his enthusiasm. He completely forgot that he was
to leave after the first act. The play was over very late, and the
prince was still there, having paid no attention to the piece or the
music, having seen nothing but the wonderful brunette, having heard
nothing but the stanza which she had unworthily massacred in the middle
of the second act. And while they were leaving the theatre, the prince
was saying to whoever would listen:
"That brunette! oh, that brunette! She hasn't an equal in any theatre!
She is the most beautiful woman in Paris! The most beautiful!"
It was one o'clock in the morning. The prince asked himself if he should
go to the Palmers. Poor Mme. Derline; she was of very slight importance
beside this new wonder! And then, too, the prince was a methodical man.
The hour for whist had arrived; so he departed to play whist.
The following morning Mme. Derline found ten lines on the Palmer's ball
in the "society column." There was mention of the marquises, the
countesses, and the duchesses who were there, but about Mme. Derline
there was not a word--not a word.
On the other hand, the writer of theatrical gossip celebrated in
enthusiastic terms the beauty of that ideal maid-of-honor, and said,
"_Besides, the Prince of Nérins declared that Mademoiselle Miranda was
indisputedly the most beautiful woman in Paris!_"
Mme. Derline threw the paper in the fire. She did not wish her husband
to know that she was already not the most beautiful woman in Paris.
She has, however, kept the great dress-maker and the English coachman,
but she never dared to ask for the little groom.