a family fete. At dessert Madame Planat, the Receiver-General’s wife,
spoke with some enthusiasm of a young American owning an immense
fortune, who had fallen passionately in love with her sister, and made
through her the most splendid proposals.
“A banker, I rather think,” observed Emilie carelessly. “I do not like
money dealers.”
“But, Emilie,” replied the Baron de Villaine, the husband of the Count’s
second daughter, “you do not like lawyers either; so that if you refuse
men of wealth who have not titles, I do not quite see in what class you
are to choose a husband.”
“Especially, Emilie, with your standard of slimness,” added the
Lieutenant-General.
“I know what I want,” replied the young lady.
“My sister wants a fine name, a fine young man, fine prospects, and a
hundred thousand francs a year,” said the Baronne de Fontaine. “Monsieur
de Marsay, for instance.”
“I know, my dear,” retorted Emilie, “that I do not mean to make such a
foolish marriage as some I have seen. Moreover, to put an end to these
matrimonial discussions, I hereby declare that I shall look on anyone
who talks to me of marriage as a foe to my peace of mind.”
An uncle of Emilie’s, a vice-admiral, whose fortune had just been
increased by twenty thousand francs a year in consequence of the Act of
Indemnity, and a man of seventy, feeling himself privileged to say hard
things to his grand-niece, on whom he doted, in order to mollify the
bitter tone of the discussion now exclaimed:
“Do not tease my poor little Emilie; don’t you see she is waiting till
the Duc de Bordeaux comes of age!”
The old man’s pleasantry was received with general laughter.
“Take care I don’t marry you, old fool!” replied the young girl, whose
last words were happily drowned in the noise.
“My dear children,” said Madame de Fontaine, to soften this saucy
retort, “Emilie, like you, will take no advice but her mother’s.”
“Bless me! I shall take no advice but my own in a matter which concerns
no one but myself,” said Mademoiselle de Fontaine very distinctly.
At this all eyes were turned to the head of the family. Every one seemed
anxious as to what he would do to assert his dignity. The venerable
gentleman enjoyed much consideration, not only in the world; happier
than many fathers, he was also appreciated by his family, all its
members having a just esteem for the solid qualities by which he had
been able to make their fortunes. Hence he was treated with the deep
respect which is shown by English families, and some aristocratic houses
on the continent, to the living representatives of an ancient pedigree.
Deep silence had fallen; and the guests looked alternately from the
spoilt girl’s proud and sulky pout to the severe faces of Monsieur and
Madame de Fontaine.
“I have made my daughter Emilie mistress of her own fate,” was the reply
spoken by the Count in a deep voice.
Relations and guests gazed at Mademoiselle de Fontaine with mingled
curiosity and pity. The words seemed to declare that fatherly affection
was weary of the contest with a character that the whole family knew to
be incorrigible. The sons-in-law muttered, and the brothers glanced at
their wives with mocking smiles. From that moment every one ceased to
take any interest in the haughty girl’s prospects of marriage. Her old
uncle was the only person who, as an old sailor, ventured to stand on
her tack, and take her broadsides, without ever troubling himself to
return her fire.
When the fine weather was settled, and after the budget was voted, the
whole family--a perfect example of the parliamentary families on the
northern side of the Channel who have a footing in every government
department, and ten votes in the House of Commons--flew away like a
brood of young birds to the charming neighborhoods of Aulnay, Antony,
and Chatenay. The wealthy Receiver-General had lately purchased in this
part of the world a country-house for his wife, who remained in Paris
only during the session. Though the fair Emilie despised the commonalty,
her feeling was not carried so far as to scorn the advantages of a
fortune acquired in a profession; so she accompanied her sister to the
sumptuous villa, less out of affection for the members of her family who
were visiting there, than because fashion has ordained that every woman
who has any self-respect must leave Paris in the summer. The green
seclusion of Sceaux answered to perfection the requirements of good
style and of the duties of an official position.
As it is extremely doubtful that the fame of the “Bal de Sceaux” should
ever have extended beyond the borders of the Department of the Seine, it
will be necessary to give some account of this weekly festivity, which
at that time was important enough to threaten to become an institution.
The environs of the little town of Sceaux enjoy a reputation due to the
scenery, which is considered enchanting. Perhaps it is quite ordinary,
and owes its fame only to the stupidity of the Paris townsfolk, who,
emerging from the stony abyss in which they are buried, would find
something to admire in the flats of La Beauce. However, as the poetic
shades of Aulnay, the hillsides of Antony, and the valley of the Bieve
are peopled with artists who have traveled far, by foreigners who are
very hard to please, and by a great many pretty women not devoid of
taste, it is to be supposed that the Parisians are right. But Sceaux
possesses another attraction not less powerful to the Parisian. In the
midst of a garden whence there are delightful views, stands a large
rotunda open on all sides, with a light, spreading roof supported on
elegant pillars. This rural baldachino shelters a dancing-floor. The
most stuck-up landowners of the neighborhood rarely fail to make an
excursion thither once or twice during the season, arriving at this
rustic palace of Terpsichore either in dashing parties on horseback,
or in the light and elegant carriages which powder the philosophical
pedestrian with dust. The hope of meeting some women of fashion, and
of being seen by them--and the hope, less often disappointed, of seeing
young peasant girls, as wily as judges--crowds the ballroom at
Sceaux with numerous swarms of lawyers’ clerks, of the disciples of
Aesculapius, and other youths whose complexions are kept pale and moist
by the damp atmosphere of Paris back-shops. And a good many bourgeois
marriages have had their beginning to the sound of the band occupying
the centre of this circular ballroom. If that roof could speak, what
love-stories could it not tell!
This interesting medley gave the Sceaux balls at that time a spice of
more amusement than those of two or three places of the same kind near
Paris; and it had incontestable advantages in its rotunda, and the
beauty of its situation and its gardens. Emilie was the first to
express a wish to play at being COMMON FOLK at this gleeful suburban
entertainment, and promised herself immense pleasure in mingling with
the crowd. Everybody wondered at her desire to wander through such a
mob; but is there not a keen pleasure to grand people in an incognito?
Mademoiselle de Fontaine amused herself with imagining all these
town-bred figures; she fancied herself leaving the memory of a
bewitching glance and smile stamped on more than one shopkeeper’s heart,
laughed beforehand at the damsels’ airs, and sharpened her pencils for
the scenes she proposed to sketch in her satirical album. Sunday could
not come soon enough to satisfy her impatience.
The party from the Villa Planat set out on foot, so as not to betray
the rank of the personages who were about to honor the ball with
their presence. They dined early. And the month of May humored this
aristocratic escapade by one of its finest evenings. Mademoiselle de
Fontaine was quite surprised to find in the rotunda some quadrilles made
up of persons who seemed to belong to the upper classes. Here and there,
indeed, were some young men who look as though they must have saved for
a month to shine for a day; and she perceived several couples whose
too hearty glee suggested nothing conjugal; still, she could only glean
instead of gathering a harvest. She was amused to see that pleasure in
a cotton dress was so very like pleasure robed in satin, and that the
girls of the middle class danced quite as well as ladies--nay, sometimes
better. Most of the women were simply and suitably dressed. Those who
in this assembly represented the ruling power, that is to say,
the country-folk, kept apart with wonderful politeness. In fact,
Mademoiselle Emilie had to study the various elements that composed the
mixture before she could find any subject for pleasantry. But she had
not time to give herself up to malicious criticism, or opportunity for
hearing many of the startling speeches which caricaturists so gladly
pick up. The haughty young lady suddenly found a flower in this wide
field--the metaphor is reasonable--whose splendor and coloring worked
on her imagination with all the fascination of novelty. It often happens
that we look at a dress, a hanging, a blank sheet of paper, with so
little heed that we do not at first detect a stain or a bright spot
which afterwards strikes the eye as though it had come there at the
very instant when we see it; and by a sort of moral phenomenon somewhat
resembling this, Mademoiselle de Fontaine discovered in a young man the
external perfection of which she had so long dreamed.
Seated on one of the clumsy chairs which marked the boundary line of the
circular floor, she had placed herself at the end of the row formed by
the family party, so as to be able to stand up or push forward as her
fancy moved her, treating the living pictures and groups in the hall as
if she were in a picture gallery; impertinently turning her eye-glass
on persons not two yards away, and making her remarks as though she
were criticising or praising a study of a head, a painting of genre. Her
eyes, after wandering over the vast moving picture, were suddenly caught
by this figure, which seemed to have been placed on purpose in one
corner of the canvas, and in the best light, like a person out of all
proportion with the rest.
The stranger, alone and absorbed in thought, leaned lightly against one
of the columns that supported the roof; his arms were folded, and he
leaned slightly on one side as though he had placed himself there to
have his portrait taken by a painter. His attitude, though full of
elegance and dignity, was devoid of affectation. Nothing suggested that
he had half turned his head, and bent it a little to the right like
Alexander, or Lord Byron, and some other great men, for the sole purpose
of attracting attention. His fixed gaze followed a girl who was dancing,
and betrayed some strong feeling. His slender, easy frame recalled the
noble proportions of the Apollo. Fine black hair curled naturally over
a high forehead. At a glance Mademoiselle de Fontaine observed that his
linen was fine, his gloves fresh, and evidently bought of a good maker,
and his feet were small and well shod in boots of Irish kid. He had none
of the vulgar trinkets displayed by the dandies of the National Guard
or the Lovelaces of the counting-house. A black ribbon, to which an
eye-glass was attached, hung over a waistcoat of the most fashionable
cut. Never had the fastidious Emilie seen a man’s eyes shaded by such
long, curled lashes. Melancholy and passion were expressed in this face,
and the complexion was of a manly olive hue. His mouth seemed ready
to smile, unbending the corners of eloquent lips; but this, far from
hinting at gaiety, revealed on the contrary a sort of pathetic grace.
There was too much promise in that head, too much distinction in his
whole person, to allow of one’s saying, “What a handsome man!” or “What
a fine man!” One wanted to know him. The most clear-sighted observer, on
seeing this stranger, could not have helped taking him for a clever man
attracted to this rural festivity by some powerful motive.
All these observations cost Emilie only a minute’s attention, during
which the privileged gentleman under her severe scrutiny became the
object of her secret admiration. She did not say to herself, “He must
be a peer of France!” but “Oh, if only he is noble, and he surely must
be----” Without finishing her thought, she suddenly rose, and followed
by her brother the General, she made her way towards the column,
affecting to watch the merry quadrille; but by a stratagem of the eye,
familiar to women, she lost not a gesture of the young man as she went
towards him. The stranger politely moved to make way for the newcomers,
and went to lean against another pillar. Emilie, as much nettled by his
politeness as she might have been by an impertinence, began talking to
her brother in a louder voice than good taste enjoined; she turned and
tossed her head, gesticulated eagerly, and laughed for no particular
reason, less to amuse her brother than to attract the attention of the
imperturbable stranger. None of her little arts succeeded. Mademoiselle
de Fontaine then followed the direction in which his eyes were fixed,
and discovered the cause of his indifference.
In the midst of the quadrille, close in front of them, a pale girl
was dancing; her face was like one of the divinities which Girodet has
introduced into his immense composition of French Warriors received by
Ossian. Emilie fancied that she recognized her as a distinguished milady
who for some months had been living on a neighboring estate. Her partner
was a lad of about fifteen, with red hands, and dressed in nankeen
trousers, a blue coat, and white shoes, which showed that the damsel’s
love of dancing made her easy to please in the matter of partners.
Her movements did not betray her apparent delicacy, but a faint flush
already tinged her white cheeks, and her complexion was gaining color.
Mademoiselle de Fontaine went nearer, to be able to examine the young
lady at the moment when she returned to her place, while the side
couples in their turn danced the figure. But the stranger went up to the
pretty dancer, and leaning over, said in a gentle but commanding tone:
“Clara, my child, do not dance any more.”
Clara made a little pouting face, bent her head, and finally smiled.
When the dance was over, the young man wrapped her in a cashmere shawl
with a lover’s care, and seated her in a place sheltered from the wind.
Very soon Mademoiselle de Fontaine, seeing them rise and walk round
the place as if preparing to leave, found means to follow them under
pretence of admiring the views from the garden. Her brother lent himself
with malicious good-humor to the divagations of her rather eccentric
wanderings. Emilie then saw the attractive couple get into an elegant
tilbury, by which stood a mounted groom in livery. At the moment when,
from his high seat, the young man was drawing the reins even, she caught
a glance from his eye such as a man casts aimlessly at the crowd; and
then she enjoyed the feeble satisfaction of seeing him turn his head to
look at her. The young lady did the same. Was it from jealousy?
“I imagine you have now seen enough of the garden,” said her brother.
“We may go back to the dancing.”
“I am ready,” said she. “Do you think the girl can be a relation of Lady
Dudley’s?”
“Lady Dudley may have some male relation staying with her,” said the
Baron de Fontaine; “but a young girl!--No!”
Next day Mademoiselle de Fontaine expressed a wish to take a ride. Then
she gradually accustomed her old uncle and her brothers to escorting her
in very early rides, excellent, she declared for her health. She had a
particular fancy for the environs of the hamlet where Lady Dudley was
living. Notwithstanding her cavalry manoeuvres, she did not meet the
stranger so soon as the eager search she pursued might have allowed her
to hope. She went several times to the “Bal de Sceaux” without seeing
the young Englishman who had dropped from the skies to pervade and
beautify her dreams. Though nothing spurs on a young girl’s infant
passion so effectually as an obstacle, there was a time when
Mademoiselle de Fontaine was on the point of giving up her strange and
secret search, almost despairing of the success of an enterprise whose
singularity may give some idea of the boldness of her temper. In point
of fact, she might have wandered long about the village of Chatenay
without meeting her Unknown. The fair Clara--since that was the name
Emilie had overheard--was not English, and the stranger who escorted her
did not dwell among the flowery and fragrant bowers of Chatenay.
One evening Emilie, out riding with her uncle, who, during the fine
weather, had gained a fairly long truce from the gout, met Lady Dudley.
The distinguished foreigner had with her in her open carriage Monsieur
Vandenesse. Emilie recognized the handsome couple, and her suppositions
were at once dissipated like a dream. Annoyed, as any woman must be
whose expectations are frustrated, she touched up her horse so suddenly
that her uncle had the greatest difficulty in following her, she had set
off at such a pace.
“I am too old, it would seem, to understand these youthful spirits,”
said the old sailor to himself as he put his horse to a canter; “or
perhaps young people are not what they used to be. But what ails my
niece? Now she is walking at a foot-pace like a gendarme on patrol in
the Paris streets. One might fancy she wanted to outflank that worthy
man, who looks to me like an author dreaming over his poetry, for he
has, I think, a notebook in his hand. My word, I am a great simpleton!
Is not that the very young man we are in search of!”
At this idea the old admiral moderated his horse’s pace so as to follow
his niece without making any noise. He had played too many pranks in the
years 1771 and soon after, a time of our history when gallantry was held
in honor, not to guess at once that by the merest chance Emilie had met
the Unknown of the Sceaux gardens. In spite of the film which age had
drawn over his gray eyes, the Comte de Kergarouet could recognize the
signs of extreme agitation in his niece, under the unmoved expression
she tried to give to her features. The girl’s piercing eyes were fixed
in a sort of dull amazement on the stranger, who quietly walked on in
front of her.
“Ay, that’s it,” thought the sailor. “She is following him as a pirate
follows a merchantman. Then, when she has lost sight of him, she will be
in despair at not knowing who it is she is in love with, and whether he
is a marquis or a shopkeeper. Really these young heads need an old fogy
like me always by their side...”
He unexpectedly spurred his horse in such a way as to make his niece’s
bolt, and rode so hastily between her and the young man on foot that
he obliged him to fall back on to the grassy bank which rose from the
roadside. Then, abruptly drawing up, the Count exclaimed:
“Couldn’t you get out of the way?”
“I beg your pardon, monsieur. But I did not know that it lay with me to
apologize to you because you almost rode me down.”
“There, enough of that, my good fellow!” replied the sailor harshly, in
a sneering tone that was nothing less than insulting. At the same time
the Count raised his hunting-crop as if to strike his horse, and touched
the young fellow’s shoulder, saying, “A liberal citizen is a reasoner;
every reasoner should be prudent.”
The young man went up the bankside as he heard the sarcasm; then he
crossed his arms, and said in an excited tone of voice, “I cannot
suppose, monsieur, as I look at your white hairs, that you still amuse
yourself by provoking duels----”
“White hairs!” cried the sailor, interrupting him. “You lie in your
throat. They are only gray.”
A quarrel thus begun had in a few seconds become so fierce that the
younger man forgot the moderation he had tried to preserve. Just as the
Comte de Kergarouet saw his niece coming back to them with every sign
of the greatest uneasiness, he told his antagonist his name, bidding him
keep silence before the young lady entrusted to his care. The stranger
could not help smiling as he gave a visiting card to the old man,
desiring him to observe that he was living at a country-house at
Chevreuse; and, after pointing this out to him, he hurried away.
“You very nearly damaged that poor young counter-jumper, my dear,” said
the Count, advancing hastily to meet Emilie. “Do you not know how to
hold your horse in?--And there you leave me to compromise my dignity in
order to screen your folly; whereas if you had but stopped, one of your
looks, or one of your pretty speeches--one of those you can make so
prettily when you are not pert--would have set everything right, even if
you had broken his arm.”
“But, my dear uncle, it was your horse, not mine, that caused the
accident. I really think you can no longer ride; you are not so good a
horseman as you were last year.--But instead of talking nonsense----”
“Nonsense, by Gad! Is it nothing to be so impertinent to your uncle?”
“Ought we not to go on and inquire if the young man is hurt? He is
limping, uncle, only look!”
“No, he is running; I rated him soundly.”
“Oh, yes, uncle; I know you there!”
“Stop,” said the Count, pulling Emilie’s horse by the bridle, “I do not
see the necessity of making advances to some shopkeeper who is only
too lucky to have been thrown down by a charming young lady, or the
commander of La Belle-Poule.”
“Why do you think he is anything so common, my dear uncle? He seems to
me to have very fine manners.”
“Every one has manners nowadays, my dear.”
“No, uncle, not every one has the air and style which come of the habit
of frequenting drawing-rooms, and I am ready to lay a bet with you that
the young man is of noble birth.”
“You had not long to study him.”
“No, but it is not the first time I have seen him.”
“Nor is it the first time you have looked for him,” replied the admiral
with a laugh.
Emilie colored. Her uncle amused himself for some time with her
embarrassment; then he said: “Emilie, you know that I love you as my own
child, precisely because you are the only member of the family who has
the legitimate pride of high birth. Devil take it, child, who could have
believed that sound principles would become so rare? Well, I will be
your confidant. My dear child, I see that his young gentleman is not
indifferent to you. Hush! All the family would laugh at us if we sailed
under the wrong flag. You know what that means. We two will keep our
secret, and I promise to bring him straight into the drawing-room.”
“When, uncle?”
“To-morrow.”
“But, my dear uncle, I am not committed to anything?”
“Nothing whatever, and you may bombard him, set fire to him, and leave
him to founder like an old hulk if you choose. He won’t be the first, I
fancy?”
“You ARE kind, uncle!”
As soon as the Count got home he put on his glasses, quietly took
the card out of his pocket, and read, “Maximilien Longueville, Rue de
Sentier.”
“Make yourself happy, my dear niece,” he said to Emilie, “you may
hook him with any easy conscience; he belongs to one of our historical
families, and if he is not a peer of France, he infallibly will be.”
“How do you know so much?”
“That is my secret.”
“Then do you know his name?”