PORTRAITS
A year after my arrival in Paris, the peaceful days that I had passed
with Hélène at Serval seemed like a beautiful dream, so much in
contrast with my new sensations that I hardly cared to recall it. From
that time I was convinced that the pretended "pleasures of memory" are
all falsehoods, for from the moment we begin to regret the past, memory
is only a bitterness, and, by comparison, the present becomes
distasteful.
The publicity of Hélène's refusal had deeply wounded both my love and
my vanity. I was too proud to admit that I was unhappy, and so I
succeeded in forgetting my imagined wrongs. I soon became transported
with delight at finding myself so completely my own master, and in
musing on the employment of my newly found liberty. Then I readily found
a way to excuse myself for my ungrateful neglect of my father's memory.
I told myself that it was in pious obedience to his counsels that I had
brought to naught the mercenary projects of Hélène, for I still
sometimes found a miserable consolation, or, rather, a base excuse, for
my behaviour in devising new and unworthy motives for the conduct of
that good girl, who had now left her native province to travel in
Germany with her mother.
However, as formerly, in spite of my regret for the past, its
remembrance soon became dim, and then was entirely obliterated from my
mind.
It was most probably the excitement of the Parisian life which brought
about this forgetfulness of those happy days which were so dear to my
heart.
I had not come to Paris as an unsophisticated provincial. I had spent
two brilliant seasons in London, and, thanks to the long and intimate
relations of my uncle with our ambassador, an intimacy which my father
and my aunt had reminded him of in introducing me to him when I was on
my voyage, I had been presented to the best and most aristocratic
society in England.
Now the English aristocracy, proud, overbearing, and justly vain of its
incontestable superiority in wealth and influence to all the other
aristocracies of Europe, is excessively reserved towards strangers who
seek to enter its charmed circle; but when one has gone through this
ordeal, nowhere is one treated with more perfect cordiality or put more
at one's ease.
Nevertheless, in the "_vie Parisienne_," which cannot in any way pretend
to rival or approach that splendid existence that one leads in London,
there is to be found that which must be sought vainly in London or
elsewhere; it is a fascinating charm not to be explained, which even the
most calm and stolid natures seldom escape.
Parisian society, in its real acceptation and perfect flower, is limited
to the elegant and refined existence led by the élite of five or six
salons, in the one or two quarters of the city that are the rendezvous
of all pleasure-seekers of the upper class.
On my arrival in Paris, I fortunately did not have to undergo that
apprenticeship to material life which generally costs strangers so much
money and so many disappointments. My father had lived there such a long
time that, being well informed as to the most comfortable mode of
existence, I was able to avoid mistakes. Thus, instead of housing myself
at a high price and with very little space in one of those swarming and
noisy apartment-houses five or six stories high, which begin on the
ground floor in a magnificent store, and end in a miserable garret, I
rented a little house near the Champs Élysées, brought my horses and
servants from Serval, and started my establishment in a proper way.
I called on several relatives or distant connections of my family, who
received me with great cordiality, some on account of my name and the
respect they bore to my father, others because they had daughters to
marry, and I was doubtless in their eyes what is called a "great catch;"
while some were polite because idle people are always delighted to have
one more visitor on their list, and thus to be able to pass one more of
their unoccupied hours.
Among these last was to be found M. le Comte Alfred de Cernay; one of my
former London friends who knew him intimately had given me letters to
him, and had given me very credible information about him, whose
character I found had been truthfully described.
I may as well describe him here, for, though not an eminently
distinguished man, M. de Cernay was the very type of a "man of fashion,"
in the best and least vulgar acceptance of the word. Now, a man of
fashion of our day is a person of a well-recognised type. M. de Cernay
was about thirty years old, of a very handsome face, and not wanting in
ready wit of a certain kind. He was subtle, something of a scoffer,
though at the same time he affected a high-toned good nature which gave
him the reputation of being a "good fellow," though people said that he
had to reproach himself with some perfidious actions and several
mischievous falsehoods. He was very elegant in his dress, though, with
some attempt at originality of appearance, he tried to look unlike other
men; however, he always looked extremely well dressed. He was a good
judge and very fond of horses, had the handsomest turnouts you could
wish to see, and posed for as distinguished a sportsman as a man of
fashion.
M. de Cernay was very rich, very selfish, and uncommonly well versed as
to business, which latter quality is particularly noticeable among men
of our epoch, and which seems to exclude all ideas of beauty or display.
M. de Cernay denied himself nothing; he lived luxuriously, but he paid
his servants himself, and settled all accounts, being inexorable for
every outlay that did not pay, at least in outward show, for what it was
worth. He was a wily speculator, and had no scruples about serving a
notice on any one of his farmers who was behind with his rent. He made
out his leases himself, for (must the enormity be made public?) he had
studied law in the most profound secrecy, under the direction of an old
attorney. But it must be admitted that no glimpse of this legal
knowledge was visible in the count's behaviour. His manners were
perfect; he came of an ancient and noble race, and was as much of the
"grand seigneur" as one can be in these days; and his sense of saving in
superfluities and economy in luxuries was only known to the few people
who had to ask some favour of him, and those are the last ones to tell
of having been refused such a service.
Nothing can be wiser nor more praiseworthy than to live with so much
prudence and foresight. I insist on this significative peculiarity
because it belongs to our epoch, which is becoming so strictly material
and positive. Nowadays nobody ruins himself. It is considered very bad
form to be in debt, and nothing appears more ridiculous and shameful
than that wild and disorderly existence (sometimes even indelicate and
dishonourable), which was for a long time tolerated as a type of what
was called "delightful French gaiety," of the vagabond life of those
"harebrained but good-hearted" fellows, who, on the contrary, had very
cool heads and very bad hearts, and were generally the greatest villains
in the world.
Now, on the contrary, nothing is considered better form than to talk of
one's property, of your lands, the improvements you mean to make, your
agricultural experiments, the care of your forests and woodlands, and
the beauty of the cattle that you raise in your fields. Every one
nowadays talks like an overseer, and every one is right, because these
last named personages are the only ones who are living like masters in
the few magnificent old residences that yet remain in France. The time
that is spent at the country place is prolonged every year, and there is
an evident reaction towards the life at the château for eight months of
the year, and life at the clubs in Paris during the winter months.
But to return to M. de Cernay, he was a very great, and, above all, a
very intelligent gambler. This seems in contradiction of those
principles of order and economy of which I have just spoken? Not at all.
For most men of the world, play is only a frightful challenge that is
thrown to fate, a means of burning excitement and terrible emotions; it
is more of a necessity than an amusement.
Men have their money for play, which is a given sum that they never
exceed. It is a capital which they try to render as profitable as
possible by good management, by running no great risks, and by studying
the chances and combinations of the game with an incredible ardour; in
comprehending its every detail, and in playing constantly, so as to keep
in good practice; also by experimenting with the deepest attention in
order to make new discoveries; so that in this way the capital brings
in, if the season has been a good one, from fifteen to twenty per cent,
to a cool, prudent, and skilful player.
And, besides this, play having become an affair of exact science, of
interest, and generally of perfect honesty, the forces of the players
are generally so equally matched that one can allow himself the
excitement of a stake of twelve or fifteen hundred louis, because it is
well known that at the end of a bad season the losses and gains are
about equal.
Nothing is more curious in our epoch than this strange struggle between
a wise and cool forethought which looks to the future, and the ardent
passions natural to men; which they find in this way the means of
satisfying to a certain degree, by a sort of insurance against bad
luck.[1]
M. de Cernay, they say, has been very successful with women; but in
growing old, as he said, he had found it more satisfactory, as it gave
him more liberty and saved him from worry, besides giving him more
chances for display (this was one of his salient points), to put to one
side a certain sum of money annually, for his favourite of the season.
This amount, which he never went beyond, he laid regularly at the feet
of one of the theatrical beauties most in vogue.
I had sent my card with the letters of our mutual friend to M. de
Cernay. Two days after he came to see me, but I was out; a few days
later I called on him one morning. He lived alone in a very pretty
house, which seemed to be the very triumph of all that was comfortable,
joined to an elegant simplicity. His _valet de chambre_ begged me to
wait an instant in a salon, where I noticed some beautiful hunting
scenes by Géricault.
Five minutes after my arrival, M. de Cernay entered. He was tall,
slender, and graceful, with a most agreeable face, and manners which
were those of the most polished society.
The count received me charmingly, spoke to me of our mutual friend, and
offered me his services in the most obliging way. I perceived that he
was watching me closely. I had just arrived from the provinces, but I
had travelled a great deal and had lived a long time in England; thus he
was hesitating, I thought, to find out if he should treat me as a
provincial, or as a man already in society. I believe what decided him
to treat me as the latter was the vexation which I thought he felt at
not seeing me more overpowered with his great elegance. Envied,
imitated, flattered, he perhaps found me too much at my ease, too
polite, and not sufficiently astonished.
Now I admit that this slight shade of vexation on M. de Cernay's face
caused me to smile.
He asked me to have a cup of tea with two of his friends, and an Italian
renegade who had taken service with Méhémet-Ali. This Italian, he
said, was a man of great bravery, who had gone through the most
extraordinary scenes and romantic adventures, been obliged, in fact, to
assassinate two or three women and as many men, to save himself and
escape from a delicate situation.
I was very little astonished at hearing about this peculiar person, for
I had already been told that M. de Cernay had a perfect mania for
celebrities of every kind; and that no sooner did an Arab, a Persian, an
Indian, or any foreigner of distinction arrive in Paris, than M. de
Cernay would fly to be presented to him. Was it by way of attracting
attention to himself, that he liked to be surrounded with extraordinary
acolytes, or had his reputation as a fashionable man reached beyond the
shores of the Ganges and Nile? I can't say why, but the fact was so.
"Will you stay and take tea with me?" said, therefore, M. de Cernay.
"Leaving aside my renegade, you will meet one of the most eccentric and
clever men that I know of, and one of the silliest and most ridiculous:
the first one is Lord Falmouth, the other is M. du Pluvier."
"I have frequently heard Lord Falmouth spoken of," said I, "and I shall
consider myself very fortunate in being able to meet him; but I thought
he was in India?"
"He has only been back for the last month," said M. de Cernay; "but you
must be aware of the way he decided on that voyage. You may perhaps know
that Falmouth always goes to bed at six in the morning. Well, one day,
about eighteen months ago, he waked up about four o'clock in the
afternoon; he had slept very badly, was restless, excited, nervous;
besides, he had just been winning enormous sums at play, and so was
deprived of those feelings of interest which sometimes awaked him from
the lethargy of his colourless life; the fact is, he was more than
usually bored to death. He calls his _valet de chambre_ and asks him
what the weather is like. The weather was gloomy, dismal, foggy. 'Ah,
this everlasting fog! Never a ray of sunshine!' says Falmouth, yawning
fearfully; then in his coolest way he adds, 'Send for the horses.' The
horses arrive, his travelling carriage is always in readiness; they
harness the horses; his _valet de chambre_, who is accustomed to his
master's ways, packs up the trunks, and two hours afterwards my lord
came down-stairs and said to his hall porter, 'If any one asks for me
you can say I have gone--'and he hesitated a moment between
Constantinople and Calcutta. Finally deciding for the latter, he said,
with a yawn, 'Gone to Calcutta.' In fact he had gone there, and there he
remained for three months, and now he comes back as imperturbable as
ever, as if he had simply gone off to Baden and back again."
"Lord Falmouth is an extremely distinguished man?" said I to the count.
"He has a great deal of _esprit_ and of the best kind," he answered me,
"a prodigious amount of learning, and a no less marvellous practical
experience of men and things, having travelled in the four quarters of
the globe, and seen all the courts of Europe as only an English peer can
visit them. Son of one of the greatest lords in the three kingdoms, he
possesses five or six hundred thousand francs of revenue in his own
right; and yet, with all this, Falmouth is the only really blasé and
bored man that I know of, he has exhausted everything, nothing amuses
him any more."
"And M. du Pluvier," said I to M. de Cernay, "what is he like?"
"Oh, M. le Baron Sébastien du Pluvier," said the count, with a scornful
and mocking air, "M. du Pluvier is I don't know who, and he comes from I
don't know where; I was forced to be presented to him. He has
disembarked from some old castle in Normandy, I believe, with his
miserable twenty or thirty thousand francs income, which he is stupidly
going to melt away in this hell of Paris, in two or three winters. He
will be one of those numerous pale meteors which shine for an instant in
the blazing sky of the great city, and suddenly disappear for ever, in
darkness and forgetfulness, amidst the jeers of those they leave behind.
But he is a good speaking-trumpet; as soon as I want to spread abroad
any absurd rumour or any news from that other _monde_, I pick up M. du
Pluvier, put him to my mouth, and--well, he does the rest! I don't mind
making fun of him, because he is not contented with being a fool, but he
must be conceited and vain as well. You should see the mysterious way in
which he shows you the envelopes he receives that are sealed with coats
of arms, all addressed to him, by the way; you should hear the tone in
which he asks you, as he plumes himself with pride, 'Do you know the
handwriting of the Countess of ----? of the Marquise of ----? of the
Duchess of ----?' (Such an ordinary word as madame is beneath his
notice.) And then the little man will show you such and such
handwritings, which are letters from lady patronesses, enclosing tickets
for charities, balls, lotteries, nobody knows what; for all the women of
my acquaintance, to whom I introduce him, are sure to victimise him
without the smallest scruple, so that he is the most ridiculously
philanthropic fellow that I know of.
"But," said M. de Cernay, interrupting himself, "I hear a carriage, I
would wager it was Du Pluvier; you shall see something that is worth
admiring."
We then went to the window, and saw entering into the courtyard an open
carriage drawn by two very handsome horses; but both carriage and
harness were loaded down with ornaments in the worst possible taste. His
men, dressed in liveries all covered with gold braid, looked like church
beadles, and all this ridiculous and dazzling parade was to go and take
lunch with a man in the morning.
Very soon M. du Pluvier entered noisily. He was a stout little man,
short, puffy red as a cherry, fair, and, though he only looked to be
about twenty-five, he was quite bald. His eyes were greenish and dull;
he spoke loudly with a Norman accent; he was dressed with the most
ridiculous show and pretension, wore jewels, a waistcoat with silver
embroidery, and more than I can think of that was out of place. M. de
Cernay presented us to one another, and as soon as he had spoken my name
M. du Pluvier exclaimed: "Ah, _parbleu_, I have seen you some place."
This impoliteness shocked me, and I replied that I did not believe that
I had ever had that pleasure, as I certainly should never have forgotten
him.
A few moments after Lord Falmouth was announced.
He had come on foot, and was dressed with the most perfect simplicity.
I shall never forget the singular impression that he made on me. His
face was pale, regular, white and expressionless as marble, and was
illuminated, so to speak, by two brown eyes, which were placed very near
to his nose; his slightly mocking smile also impressed me, and, without
attaching any importance to the idea, the thought of a vampire came into
my mind, for I could not have imagined a more suitable body had I been
making a sketch of that fantastic creation.
M. de Cernay presented me to Lord Falmouth, and we exchanged the
customary politenesses. We were only waiting now for the Italian
renegade, that the count called his assassin, to sit down to the table.
At last the _valet de chambre_ announced M. Ismaël; it was the
renegade.
He was of medium height, brown, nervous, magnificently costumed as an
Egyptian, and had a very handsome face, though its expression was
sombre. Ismaël could not speak a word of French; his language was
composed of vulgar Italian and some scraps of the Frankish tongue.
Very soon the _maître d'hôtel_ of M. de Cernay opened the doors of the
dining-room.
The lunch was served in the English style; the silver was from
Mortimer's, the porcelain was old Sèvres, and the glassware from Venice
and Bohemia.
Ismaël ate like an ogre and never uttered a word; but as there was
nothing to drink on the table except tea, coffee, and chocolate, he
bravely asked for wine, and drank it freely.
M. de Cernay seemed to be very much annoyed at the obstinate silence of
his assassin, whom M. du Pluvier kept continually worrying with
grotesque phrases, such as "_mamamouchi_," which he probably had
borrowed from the reception of M. Jourdain.
Not responding to these advances, Ismaël, from time to time, would
growl like a chained-up bear, and glance impatiently aside at Du
Pluvier, who seemed to irritate him extremely.
All this time I was talking to Lord Falmouth, and I remember that our
conversation was principally about a remark he had made me, and to which
I assented, on the subject of the rococo style of luxury, almost
feminine indeed, that many young men had begun to use in the interior
decoration of their apartments. He laughed very heartily to think that
all these mirrors, framed in gold and surrounded by cupids, doves, and
garlands of flowers, would nevermore reflect any but masculine faces,
looking innocently out from clouds of cigar smoke. While, by way of
contrast, instead of making use of all this magnificence, instead of
doubling the charm by surrounding it with mysterious luxury, instead of
exposing all these beautiful creations of art to the vulgar gaze, if one
of these young beaux had to wait, with amorous impatience, for one of
those sweet and secret apparitions that deserve to be surrounded with
all that is beautiful and luxurious, it is generally way off in some
dirty part of the city, in some mean and out-of-the-way hole, that are
passed those rare and enchanting hours, which stand out in glowing
colours among the other pale souvenirs of our lives.
We concluded, then, with this aphorism, that for a man of tact, of
taste, and of experience, the known and visible dwelling should be all
that is comfortable and severely simple; but the unknown and invisible
abode, the hidden diamond of our lives, should be a triumph of luxury,
and all that was dazzlingly beautiful and rare.
After breakfast we went into the smoking-room (the universal use of
tobacco makes this sort of subdivision of an apartment necessary), which
was furnished with large armchairs and broad divans. It was ornamented
with an admirable collection of pipes and tobacco of all kinds, from the
East Indian hookah, glittering with gold and precious stones, to the
vulgar clay pipe, the _brûle-gueule_ of the Parisian workman; from the
brown and perfumed leaf of the l'Atakia or Havana, with its pale amber
shade, to the strong and black tobacco, called Régia, whose pungent and
corrosive savour some palates are depraved enough to like.
There was to be that day a race of gentleman-riders in the Bois de
Boulogne; M. de Cernay was one of the judges, and invited me to go. He
was to take his lion, Ismaël, in his phaëton.
M. du Pluvier made me shudder by offering me a seat in his mountebank's
chariot, but I escaped this man-trap, for I had fortunately ordered my
cabriolet to wait for me. Then M. du Pluvier fell upon Lord Falmouth,
who replied with his usual _sang-froid_, "I am sorry not to be able to
accept, my dear M. du Pluvier, but I have to start immediately for the
House of Parliament."
"To the House of Peers? Very well, I can take you there. What difference
does it make? My horses are made for that."
"And they would do it beautifully," replied Lord Falmouth. "But
unfortunately I am going to London; I wish to speak on the East Indian
question, and as the discussion will open to-morrow night, I want to get
there on time. I have found out at what hour the packet-boat leaves, and
I expect to be in London to-morrow afternoon."
I was still smiling at such a singular excuse, when we heard the
jingling bells of post-horses, and very soon Lord Falmouth's travelling
coupé entered the courtyard. I looked at M. de Cernay with surprise,
and, while Lord Falmouth was out of the room giving some directions to
his man, I asked the count if it was true that Lord Falmouth was going
to London.
"He is really going there," said M. de Cernay. "He often takes the
notion of speaking on some political question which pleases him, and
which he always treats with unquestionable authority; but he so detests
both London and England that he leaves his carriage at Westminster,
takes his seat, makes his speech, gets into his carriage, and returns to
Paris."
Lord Falmouth just then returned. He was gracious enough to ask me to
call on him at some future time. His courier started off, and he got up
into his carriage.
"The race is to come off at two o'clock," said M. de Cernay. "The
weather is superb. I have sent my horses around to the Porte Dauphine;
if you would like to take a turn in the Bois, I have a horse that is at
your service."
"Many thanks," said I, "I have sent my horses there, too. But will this
race be an interesting one?"
"It is, unfortunately, only too interesting: two miles to run, three
hedges four and a half feet high, and, to finish, a barrier fixed at
five feet to leap over."
"That is impossible!" I cried out. "For finish a barrier five feet high!
But there are not two horses out of a hundred that could take such a
leap, with any degree of certainty, after such a race; and if the horse
should fail to take the bar, the rider would be instantly killed."
"That is just it," said the count, with a sigh. "I am in despair at
having been chosen judge, or rather witness, of this deadly challenge
which may cost the life of one or both of these brave gentlemen, perhaps
both, but it was absolutely impossible to refuse."
"What do you mean by that?" said I to M. de Cernay.
"Oh," replied he, "it is quite a romance and a secret as sad as it is
incredible; but I can tell you about it now, for if for certain reasons
no one has yet been told of it, in an hour from now, on beholding the
last terrible obstacle in this race, which is undertaken through a
pretext, every one will see what is really a duel between the two young
riders, and will easily guess the cause and the object."
I tried to read in M. de Cernay's face whether or not he was speaking
seriously; but if he were joking my penetration was at fault, so much in
earnest did he seem to be.
"I will tell you," said he, "the real story about this race, which is
quite extraordinary.
"One of the prettiest women in Paris, Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel,
has among the number of her adorers two who are rivals, and whose
devotion to her is well known, or, rather, guessed at. Having one day
exchanged some hasty words in regard to a mutual rival, who was each
one's enemy without helping the cause of either, and being too well-bred
to fight about a woman they both loved, and who would be seriously
compromised by the scandal of a duel,--to avoid this inconvenience and
gain the same object, they chose this deadly way of settling their
quarrel.
"Their chances are equal, as they are both splendid riders and have
magnificent horses, but the result is not to be doubted; because if
there is any horse capable of running a race of two miles, and leaping
over three hedges, and yet being equal to taking a jump over a fixed
barrier five feet high, it is almost impossible that there should be two
horses who would be so tremendously lucky. Thus, you see, there is no
possible chance that this race can end in any other way than by a
terrible accident. If they escape this time, they will try it again at
some future day, as a duel is begun over again after the principals have
vainly exchanged shots."
All this seemed to be so strange, so unusual,--though there was no
reason why it should therefore be absolutely impossible,--that I was
quite stupefied.
"And Madame de Pënâfiel," I asked M. de Cernay, "does she know
anything of this fatal contest of which she is the cause?"
"Certainly she does; and to give you an idea of her character, it is not
at all impossible that she may come to look on."
"If she should come," said I, this time with a very marked smile of
incredulity, "Madame de Pënâfiel will find it quite as natural as to
assist at the bloody fights of the toreadors of her own country; for,
from her name and her ferocious disregard of our customs, I judge that
this savage marquise is some Spanish amazon of the very bluest
blood,--one of those black-eyed daughters of Xérès, or of Vejer, who
to this day carry a knife in their garter!"
M. de Cernay could not refrain from a laugh, and said to me:
"You are not anywhere near the truth. Madame de Pënâfiel is a
Frenchwoman, born in Paris, and a Parisienne in every sense of the word.
Furthermore, she is a very distinguished person, and allied to some of
the best families in France. She is a widow, and her late husband, the
Marquis de Pënâfiel, was a Spaniard."
"Come, now," said I to the count, laughing in my turn, "I see how it is;
you are trying to awaken an interest, a romantic and fantastic interest,
about a race of which you are to be the judge. I wonder all Paris does
not go to look on."
"I assure you I am speaking in all seriousness," said he, and he really
looked solemn.
"But seriously, then, I might be made to believe that a woman could not
help it if two crazy men wanted to break each other's necks, but I never
will believe that any well-bred woman would go to look on at such a
contest, when she knew that she was the cause. She would lay herself
open to the greatest blame, and to universal contempt."
"In the first place, Madame de Pënâfiel cares very little about what
people say; and, secondly, she is the only person who knows the real
cause of this species of duel."
"But, even admitting that she has no fear of her secret being betrayed
by this event, she shows herself to be abominably heartless and cruel."
"Oh, she has the hardest and coldest heart imaginable; think of it, when
she is only twenty-five, and as beautiful as an angel!"
"And how comes it that you have not dissuaded these two intrepid young
men from this foolish danger? For if, as you say, every one knows why
they run this race, all their generous desire to shield the lady amounts
to nothing."
"To tell you the truth," said the count, "they did not tell me their
secret. I found it out by a strange accident, therefore could not allow
myself to make the smallest observation on what I was presumed to know
nothing about. I spoke seriously to them, but as to putting too much
stress on the dangers of the race, it was almost as much as to doubt
their courage, and thus it was impossible. If they had consulted me, I
should have told them that they were behaving like two crazy men,
because no one would ever be got to believe that for two hundred louis,
which was announced as the stake, two men of their fortune and position
would almost risk losing their lives; consequently, every one would be
wild to discover the real motive of their duel, and that would cause a
great scandal, and bring discredit on Madame de Pënâfiel."
"How do you know, then, that this race has anything to do with her?" I
asked the count.
"How do I know it? Every one says so; and as for me, I have been
acquainted with Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and my certainty
on the subject is based on the pretended indifference with which she
behaves to both of these young men, for on some occasions I have known
her to show the deepest dissimulation."
There was, in all this story of M. de Cernay's, such a strange mixture
of likelihood and improbability, that I found it hard to decide whether
I believed it or not.
"I can scarcely believe," said I, "from what you have told me, that
Madame de Pënâfiel can really be in good standing. Who goes to see
her?"
"She entertains the most distinguished men and women in society, for she
has one of the handsomest houses in Paris, an enormous fortune, and
receives in an almost royal style; besides this, her salon has great
weight in intellectual circles, but all this does not prevent Madame de
Pënâfiel from being detested according to her deserts."
"And what kind of a woman is she outside of all this? Is she clever?"
"Enormously clever, but she can say very sharp, very biting things; and
then she is scornful, capricious, excessively overbearing, for she is
used to having everything give way to her, because certain positions are
so elevated that, whether or no, you are expected to be obsequious. It
is needless to tell you that her coquetry passes all limits, and as to
describing her, she has the most ridiculous pretensions. She undertakes
to know all about--guess what! The abstract sciences, art, everything
you can imagine! Oh, I assure you, she is a strange, charming, and
ridiculous woman. As I am one of her very good friends, I would propose
to you to call and be presented to her, warning you, however, that she
is as dangerous as she is peculiar; but she is so capricious and
changeable that I cannot promise that you will be well received, for
what she refuses to-day she cries for to-morrow.
"But," said the count, as he looked at the clock, "it is getting to be
late, it is two o'clock; let us send for the carriages." And he rang the
bell.
We all went out. The miraculous turnout of M. de Pluvier went ahead, and
the little man threw himself triumphantly into it, missing the step as
he did so.
I had fancied that for the last few minutes M. de Cernay showed signs of
uneasiness. I imagined that he was somewhat curious to find out if I was
worthy (by my horses at least) to gravitate around such a brilliant
planet as he.
As my cabriolet drew up, M. de Cernay looked it over with a
connoisseur's glance. It was very simple, very plain, the harness was
all black; but the bay horse was very large and of perfect form, and his
action was almost equal to the celebrated "Coventry's."[2]
"_Diable!_ but that is a beautiful turnout, and you certainly have there
the finest cabriolet horse in Paris!" said M. de Cerval, in a tone of
approbation, in which there seemed to be just the smallest possible
shade of envy.
From that moment I felt that the count had placed me high in his
estimation. His phaëton drove up; he got into it beside Ismaël.
It is impossible to describe the elegance and lightness of this charming
light green carriage. Neither could anything do justice to the ensemble
of the turnout, which consisted of one gray and one sorrel horse of
medium size. All was perfect, even to the two little grooms of exactly
the same build and size, who mounted lightly to the back seat. It was
the first time I had seen horses with their manes docked, and this
especially suited M. de Cernay's horses, so arched and full of race were
their necks. We set off for the Bois de Boulogne.
[Footnote 1: In contrast to our present manners, I cannot help quoting
this note of Madame la Princesse de Henin to Madame de Créquy, which is
given in the delightful and witty Souvenirs de Madame de Créquy. "I
shall not say 'you who know everything,' because you are weary of that
formula, but you who are ignorant of nothing, my dear, have the goodness
to explain to me something which I cannot understand, and which, it
seems, is important to my financial interests (pardon for such a
reason). I will begin by telling you that M. Lally is at St. Germain,
and that Madame de Poix does not know how to answer the question that
vexes me; her children are away; and so you will see why I write to you
at the far end of Paris. The Chevalier de Thuysi writes to me word for
word: 'I warn you to be on your guard against M. Lefèvre; I have been
notified that he is about to settle his accounts.' (I must tell you that
this Lefèvre has become my man of business.) But what can the chevalier
mean by this warning? Tell me, I beg of you, what does it mean to 'hand
in his cheque-book?' for these are his words. Madame de Poix thinks it
is a metaphor of some sort, and that is all we can guess."]
[Footnote 2: A famous carriage horse of Lord Chesterfield's.]