THE OPÉRA
M. de Cernay having invited me to fill a vacant seat in a box at the
Opéra, which he and Lord Falmouth leased together, I was glad to
accept, and went there the very night of this unfortunate race, which,
by the way, happened on a Friday.
As I ascended the staircase, I was accosted by a certain M. de
Pommerive, who was an amusing sort of parasite in good society. He was
from fifty to sixty years old. He had more curiosity and malice than any
man I ever knew, and, besides, was the greatest gossip and liar that you
can imagine.
"Well," said he, as he joined me with an air of great consternation, "do
you know what has happened? That unfortunate M. de Merteuil is dead! Ah,
_mon Dieu, mon Dieu_, what a dreadful misfortune! I have just been
dining with Count ----; I can't remember a single thing I have eaten, I
was so overcome!"
"It was a frightful accident!"
"Frightful, frightful, frightful! But what is worse still, is the cause
of the challenge. You know what people say?"
"I know what they say," I replied, "but I do not know the facts of the
case."
"It amounts to the same thing," said M. de Pommerive; "but don't you
think it was the height of insolence in Madame de Pënâfiel to go to
that race? Because she has one of the most elegant houses in Paris,
because she is witty enough to say the most clever and cutting things,
this imperious marquise thinks she may be permitted to do anything she
pleases. It is revolting! My word of honour,--she ought to be made to
feel it! And since, after all, people will go to her house, because they
are well received and dine well there, it would be a shame, it would be
an indignity, it would be positively wicked, I say, to be quiet about
such a scandal. We would all seem to be the slaves of her caprices;
perfect slaves!" said he, with indignation.
"You are quite right," said I; "you show your independence, and your
noble contempt for benefits that you have received; nothing could be
more manly. But do they really say that De Merteuil and De Senneterre
had any quarrel about Madame de Pënâfiel, and that their challenge was
in consequence of it?"
"Certainly; people say so, every one repeats the same story, and every
one believes it though they themselves, that is to say Senneterre, for
he is the only one left, will never admit it. I met him awhile ago as I
went to inquire for that poor De Merteuil, who only lived two hours
after his fall. I met Senneterre at the door looking perfectly
wretched,--such a face!
"I began to sound him about Madame de Pënâfiel, but he had sufficient
control over himself to pretend not to understand a word I was saying.
But after the way Madame de Pënâfiel treated them both on the
race-course, Senneterre could not admit the real cause of the challenge
without being thought a fool."
"How could that be?" said I.
"What, haven't you heard the good story about the marquise and the
Turk?" exclaimed M. de Pommerive, suddenly elated with joy.
As I had scarcely taken my eyes off Ismaël during the whole period of
the race, I was curious to know how much of his story could be true; so
I told M. de Pommerive that I had heard nothing at all about such a
story.
Then that infernal mountebank began the following tale, accompanying it
with ridiculous gestures and malicious pantomime, so as to make it more
mischievous by making it amusing.
"Imagine, then, my dear monsieur," said De Pommerive, "that at the very
moment when these two unfortunate young men were about to risk their
lives, from an exaggerated sense of what was due to her reputation,
Madame de Pënâfiel was amusing herself by falling suddenly in love
with a Turk. Yes, monsieur, for an infernal scoundrel of a Turk, who is
as handsome as he can be, and whom De Cernay is infatuated with, nobody
knows why. But to get up such a sudden passion for a Turk; can you
conceive of such a thing? I can readily believe it, for every one knows
how capricious and how blasé she is, that marquise! Nothing that she
could do would astonish me. But women generally try to hide such
exhibitions of their feelings,--not she, not at all."
"That is a very strange story," said I.
"There is not the slightest doubt about its truth," replied he. "Cernay,
who was one of the judges, told me all about it, for it was of him that
Madame de Pënâfiel had asked, with almost indecent haste, who was that
Turk; for no sooner had she laid eyes on that remarkable specimen, then
she had no eyes, no thoughts, for any one else. (Here M. de Pommerive
spoke in a falsetto voice in supposed imitation of Madame de
Pënâfiel). 'Ah, _mon Dieu_, how handsome he is! Where did he come
from? Ah, what an adorable costume! Ah, how different from your hideous
clothes! (She never thinks anything is handsome.) _Mon Dieu_, what an
adorable face! What a noble figure! Oh, there is nothing of the common
herd about him! What daring! How splendidly he holds his horse,' etc. I
suppress the etcetera," added De Pommerive, as he returned to his
natural voice, "because it would take me until to-morrow to repeat all
of her impassioned exclamations. But, can you believe it? She ordered
her driver to go up as close as possible, so that she might see him
nearer, that lovely Turk, that adorable Turk!"
"You are quite right. It was a sudden and violent passion. It was almost
African," said I to M. de Pommerive, hardly able to keep from laughing
outright at this truthful recital.
"Ah, but wait," said he, "you have not yet heard the best of the story!
Thanks to Madame Pënâfiel's cursed curiosity, one of her carriage
horses ran against the crupper of the Grand Turk's horse, and the latter
began to rear, to plunge, to paw the air with his fore feet; then, the
marquise, almost fainting with alarm, terrified for the safety of her
dear, delightful Turk, commenced to utter shrieks and lamentations.
"'Take care!'" exclaimed Pommerive, in his former falsetto, imitating
Madame de Pënâfiel's cry of alarm. "'Take care! Hold his horse! Ah,
heavens, the poor man! I have killed him! It was my fault! Save him,
save him! Help, help! If he is killed I shall never forgive myself!
Ismaël! Ismaël!' Till at last," said M. de Pommerive, "the marquise
was so beside herself that she was half hanging out of the window of her
carriage, waving her arms, and stretching them out towards her dear
Turk, with such an accompaniment of sobs and stifled cries that people
took her for a woman who had suddenly become insane. She was as pale as
death, her features were all convulsed, and, with her eyes starting
almost out of her head and streaming with tears, you can imagine what
she looked like and what a sensation she created. All that might have
passed for overexcitement or weak nerves, and thus have simply appeared
ridiculous, if we who knew the whole story did not know it to be worse
than ridiculous, it was abominable; for since Madame de Pënâfiel had
braved public opinion so far as to come and look on at the race, of
which she knew herself to be the cause, she might have behaved decently,
and not made a spectacle of herself in such an indecorous way, and for
whom, pray? _Bon Dieu_, for a devil of a Turk, that five minutes before
she didn't know from Eve nor from Adam!"
Every word of De Pommerive's story was revoltingly stupid and false;
there were twenty people, at least, who could deny it with as much
certitude as I. But when it came to calumniating and belittling Madame
de Pënâfiel, from whatever motive I knew not, these absurdities would
probably find an echo among people of the best society, for calumny
needs no foundation, and can feed upon itself.
"Well, what have you got to say to it? Is it not abominable?" said De
Pommerive, snorting with indignation, and panting with fatigue from his
efforts in mimicry and the strain on his voice.
"I have got to say this, my dear M. de Pommerive," said I, "that your
information is entirely unreliable, and your story utterly false. I am
simply astounded, that a man of your sense and experience could have put
the least particle of faith in such a romance."
"How is that?"
"I was at the race; by accident I was standing very close to Madame de
Pënâfiel's carriage and I saw her all the time."
"Very well, and what then?"
"Madame de Pënâfiel did what any other woman would have done in her
place; she simply asked, in an indifferent sort of way, the name of the
man whose striking costume had necessarily attracted the attention of
every one, and when the Egyptian's horse reared, and he was in danger of
being thrown off backwards and killed, by having the horse fall on him,
Madame de Pënâfiel was naturally overcome with terror for a minute or
so. She covered her eyes with her hand, and threw herself back in her
carriage without saying a word; this is the exact and entire truth."
M. de Pommerive looked at me in a mysterious manner, which he tried to
render as sly as possible, and said to me, as he half closed his
deceitful eyes under his gold spectacles:
"Come, come, you are also under her spell, she has bewitched you too,
you are in love with her already. The devil take me if that woman ever
does anything else; she is a veritable siren."
All this was so silly, and I had spoken so seriously, that I became
flushed with impatience and anger; but containing myself on account of
M. de Pommerive's age, I said to him, very coldly:
"Monsieur, I do not understand you, neither do you understand me. What I
have told you about Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel, whom I have not
the honour of being acquainted with, is the exact truth. In the tale you
have told me, she is made the victim of a malicious falsehood. You
should be very much obliged to me for correcting your information, and
enlightening you as to the truth of this ridiculous calumny."
Just then M. de Pommerive interrupted me, and made me many
incomprehensible signals, then he bowed very low several times to some
one that I did not see, for we were standing in the corridor, and I had
my back turned to the staircase.
At the same instant, a man's voice said, very politely, and with a
foreign accent:
"I beg pardon, gentlemen, but madame wishes to pass."
I turned quickly. It was Madame de Pënâfiel, accompanied by another
lady; they were on their way to their opera box, and I was standing in
the passage-way. I stepped to one side and bowed; M. de Pommerive
disappeared, and I kept on to my box.
I was very much irritated, for I thought that perhaps Madame de
Pënâfiel had heard what I was saying. Perhaps, after all, some of the
other stories people told about her were partly true, and I was ashamed
and angry with myself for having undertaken to defend a woman that I did
not know; then giving credit to others for being distrustful and
calculating like myself, I was enraged to think that Madame de
Pënâfiel might fancy I only spoke thus because I knew she was near me,
and wanted to make a favourable impression on her.
When I reached my box, I hid behind the curtain, and looked around the
tiers of boxes for Madame de Pënâfiel. I saw her very soon in a box on
the first tier, which was hung with blue damask. She was seated in a
gilt armchair, and wore over her shoulders a long ermine-lined cloak.
The other lady I had seen was near her, and an elderly gentleman sat in
the back of the loge.
Very soon Madame de Pënâfiel took off her cloak, and handed it to the
old gentleman. She wore a dress of straw-coloured crêpe, very simply
made, and she had a great bouquet of Parma violets in her corsage, and
another in her hair, which was caught in bandeaux just below the
temples, and then fell in soft curls on her neck and shoulders. Her
complexion, which was heightened by the slightest touch of rouge, was
perfectly dazzling by lamplight, and her two great, half closed eyes
shone under their long black lashes.
Hidden behind my curtain, I watched Madame de Pënâfiel through my
opera-glasses. The expression of her face was as it had been that
morning,--restless, nervous, and even somewhat anxious or weary. She
held her head bent over a bouquet of violets, which she pulled to pieces
in an absent-minded way.
Her companion was a striking contrast to her in every way. Imagine a
young girl of not more than eighteen, in the very first bloom of youth.
Her countenance was frank and sympathetic, and her features regular. She
wore a white dress, and her black hair was parted smoothly over her
forehead. Her eyebrows were dark and well defined, and her astonished
blue eyes gleamed with the infantile wonder of a young girl who, for the
first time, enjoys with pleased and eager curiosity the splendour of
scenery and the rapture of music.
From time to time, Madame de Pënâfiel would speak to her, scarcely
turning her head towards her; the young girl would reply with the
greatest deference, though she seemed constrained.
As for Madame de Pënâfiel, after having glanced carelessly around the
theatre two or three times, she seemed to become perfectly unconscious
of the beautiful music of "William Tell," which was being performed that
night. She appeared so disdainful, so tired of the sameness of pleasure,
her pale face, in spite of its youth and harmonious outline, expressed
such indifference and vexation, that I was seized with this conviction,
"There is a woman to be pitied."
They were near the end of the second act of "William Tell," and were
singing the magnificent trio of the Three Swiss. Never had this
wondrously powerful _morceau_ been sung with so much spirit and
ensemble, never had it created more enthusiasm; the young girl at Madame
de Pënâfiel's side bent forward eagerly towards the stage in rapt
attention. All at once she raised up her head in a proud and resolute
way, as though her gentle and timid soul had involuntarily felt the
enthusiasm and bravery which this sublime trio is meant to inspire.
Perhaps Madame de Pënâfiel was jealous of the deep emotion of her
companion, who had scarcely taken notice of the last few words which had
been addressed to her, for when the marquise spoke to her again, it was
to say something so unkind that I saw tears shining in the young girl's
dark eyes, and a shadow pass over her face; then, shortly afterwards,
she took up her silk mantle, and, wrapping it around her shoulders, she
went out with the old gentleman who had accompanied Madame de
Pënâfiel. He probably put the young girl in the carriage, for he very
soon returned alone.
I was pondering on the meaning of this scene, of which I had doubtless
been the only attentive spectator, when M. de Cernay came into our box,
and said, quickly, "Well, is it true then? Is Madame de Pënâfiel here
to-night? It seems she is perfectly wild about my assassin; it is quite
delightful! People are talking of nothing else; the news spread with
telegraphic rapidity. But where is she? I am sure she is looking as
though she knew nothing whatever about it."
"It certainly would be quite impossible to appear more indifferent," I
answered M. de Cernay. The count stepped forward, looked at her through
his glass, and said:
"That is true. There is no one in the world can brave a thing out as she
can! The very evening after poor Merteuil's death, after all the stories
that are going around,--for it is the talk of all Paris,--to dare to
come here to the opera, in her own box! It passes everything!"
I carefully noticed M. de Cernay's face, and believed I saw there an
expression of spite, not to say hatred, which I had already seen when he
spoke of Madame de Pënâfiel. I had a great mind to tell him that no
one knew better than he that every word of the story about Ismaël was
false and stupid, and that Madame de Pënâfiel could not behave in any
other way than in following the course she was now pursuing; for, if the
stories were true, she owed it to her self-respect to give them the lie
by affecting an entire indifference; while if they were false, her
indifference was perfectly natural.
But as I had no reason to take up her defence a second time, I contented
myself with asking some questions about her, after the count's strange
indignation had spent itself.
"Who is that very pretty brunette that was with Madame de Pënâfiel
until just now?" I asked.
"That is Mlle. Cornelia, her companion. The Lord knows what a life she
leads, that poor girl; her mistress treats her with the greatest
cruelty, and with unequalled tyranny. She pays dearly for the bread she
eats, so they say. She has been living with her three years, and is so
afraid of her that she doesn't dare to leave her."
This strange reason made me smile, but I kept on.
"And who is the old gentleman with the white hair?"
"He is the Chevalier don Luiz de Cabrera, a relation of her husband's.
During the lifetime of the marquis he lived at the residence of De
Pënâfiel, and he continues to live there as a sort of chaperon for his
cousin. He looks after the way the house and equipages are kept up,
though she is ridiculous enough to keep an equerry, absolutely like in
the days of the old régime, an old fellow that doesn't eat in the
servants' hall, but has his meals served in his own room. I tell you she
can't do like other people,--the foolish things she does are incredible.
But," said the count, interrupting himself, "who is that lady entering
her box? Ah, it is Madame la Duchesse de X----. She has gone to be
polite to her, so as to be able to take some one with her to the concert
to which all Paris would like to be invited, because Madame de
Pënâfiel has so bewitched Rossini that he is going to play for her an
unpublished morceau. Ah, who is going in her box now? Why, to be sure,
it is old, fat Pommerive. The old beggar! He goes to pay his compliments
in hopes of a dinner at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, and after uttering his
thousand platitudes he will go away and tell stories that he ought to be
hung for."
"Is he one of her friends?" I asked M. de Cernay.
"He is one of her diners,--that is all; for he has the worst tongue that
exists in the world, perfidious as a snake, never spares any one.
"But is it not a pity," continued the count, "that Madame de Pënâfiel,
who has so many charming qualities, is beautiful, witty, too witty in
fact, and has an enormous fortune, should manage to make herself so
universally disliked? She does just what she pleases and cares for no
one's opinion; so she only gets what she deserves."
"It seems to me," said I, "that a visit from such an important personage
as Madame la Duchesse de X---- shows that if people detest her they take
care to keep it to themselves."
"That can not be helped,--society is so indulgent," the count answered
me.
"Yes, indulgent to its own pleasures," I said to him; "but there is one
thing that surprises me: it is not that every one slanders Madame de
Pënâfiel, who seems, though she may have her faults, to have
everything else in the world to create envy; but why, for the sake of
strengthening her position, she does not marry again!"
Whatever was the reason I know not, but when I had spoken in this way,
M. de Cernay's face flushed up, and he looked confused as he answered
me, "Why do you put such a question to me?"
"Simply because there are only two of us in this box, and so I have no
one else to question."
The count perceived the foolishness of his question, but he continued:
"You must not fancy that I am as intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel as
all that. But see, fat old Pommerive has left her box now, and there he
is in the box of those two beautiful women who are such devoted
friends,--Orestes and Pylades in petticoats. Ah, see, what can he be
telling them with his ridiculous gesticulations, and his side-glances at
Madame de Pënâfiel? How the ladies are laughing! Good Heavens! what a
silly buffoon that man is, and at his time of life, too, it is
disgusting."
By Pommerive's pantomime, I easily recognised the story about Ismaël,
which he probably meant to tell every one in the house.
"By the way," said M. de Cernay to me, with a smile, "although I am not
sufficiently intimate with Madame de Pënâfiel to know why she does not
marry again, I know her quite well enough to present you to her if you
wish for an introduction, and if she does; which is more than I can
answer for, because she is fanciful and has her whims; but as I am going
to pay her a visit, I can ask her, if you say so."
Thinking how ridiculous and in what bad taste this request would seem to
Madame de Pënâfiel, should she have overheard my defence of her, and
fearing lest M. de Cernay would really do as he threatened, I said to
him, quickly and very seriously:
"For a reason which I do not wish to give, I beg you, indeed I really
desire you, not to mention my name to Madame de Pënâfiel."
"Really!" said the count, as he looked at me attentively; "and why not?
What an idea!"
"I must beg you most seriously not to do anything of the kind," I
repeated slowly, as I wished to impress M. de Cernay with the fact that
I did not wish to be mentioned at all.
"Very well," he said, "it shall be as you wish; but you are wrong, for
you will miss an opportunity of seeing how fascinating she can be."
He went out, and I also went to pay my respects to several of my lady
acquaintances. The scandal of the hour was that Madame de Pënâfiel was
responsible for the death of M. de Merteuil, and that now she had fallen
a victim to a sudden passion for Ismaël. Nobody could talk about
anything else. To all the women who repeated this story to me, with
numerous variations on the theme, and various exclamations on such
hard-heartedness and levity, I replied (presuming that all these fair
ladies were assiduous guests at all of Madame de Pënâfiel's
entertainments)--I replied, I say, with a melancholy tone, that nothing
could be more deplorable, more odious, more unfortunate, but that,
thanks to the respect society owed to its own dignity, this shameless
marquise, who had fallen so furiously in love with a Turk, would be
surely made to suffer for her abominable behaviour; for surely no
self-respecting woman would ever again set her foot inside the door of
the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. Then I bowed and returned to my loge.
I found M. de Cernay there, and M. du Pluvier, who had finished his
involuntary race of that morning by a fall, which, fortunately, was not
a dangerous one.
"Ah," said the count, "this is worse than all."
"Is it another coat of black for Madame de Pënâfiel?"
"You do well to laugh; I was hardly in her box when who do you think she
asked me to introduce to her,--guess?"
"How should I know?"
"Guess. It is the strangest thing, it is unheard of, inconceivable,
prodigious!"
"It is unheard of, inconceivable!" repeated M. du Pluvier, imitating De
Cernay.
"It was not you, Du Pluvier," said the count, "you need not be uneasy;
guess again." Speaking to me then, he said, "Come, try and find out."
"I do not know."
"Ismaël."
"Ismaël!"
"The very same."
"Oh, what a good story!" cried out Du Pluvier, "what a good story to
tell!"
I will admit that what the count said surprised me so much that I in my
turn asked him if it was not a joke. He answered me quite seriously that
it was true, and he appeared somewhat annoyed at such a request.
"Ah, _mon Dieu_, she asked it without the slightest hesitation: she said
in the most careless and trifling way (to hide the importance of the
request no doubt), 'M. de Cernay, your Turk is very interesting, you
must bring him to see me.'"
"She said that to you, seriously?"
"Very seriously, I give you my word."
This affirmation was made in such a grave way that I believed it.
M. du Pluvier started off like an arrow to repeat this next proof of
Madame de Pënâfiel's inconsequence, and by the end of the opera this
final chapter was added to the rest of the entertaining recital.
I went to call at one of the embassies, and then returned home.
As soon as I was alone and left to reflection, I felt that I had been
terribly saddened by the events of the day.
I had seen something of the world and society; but this heaping up of
falsehoods, absurdities, deliberate assertions of what was known to be
untrue; this furious slandering of a woman, who seemed to authorise it
by certain frivolous actions which were unexplainable; these men who
could repeat every malicious and odious thing that they heard about her,
and then go the next instant and bow before her in servile homage,--all
this, though it was as old as humanity, was none the less vile and
disgusting to me. However, by a strange contradiction, I felt that I was
becoming interested in Madame de Pënâfiel, for the very reason that
she occupied so high a position that none of these hateful stories would
ever reach her ears. What is the most frightful thing in these society
slanders, which attack persons whose importance commands the respect, or
rather the base flattery, of every one, is that those in high places
live in an atmosphere of lies and hatred, the air they breathe is
saturated with falsehood, and yet they are unconscious of it all.
Thus it was impossible, seeing the gracious smiles of the women, the
obsequious bows of the men who greeted her as she left the Opéra, it
was impossible that Madame de Pënâfiel should ever dream of a
thousandth part of the miserable scandal of which she was the subject.
As I was saying, all this was miserable, and left me in a state of
overwhelming sadness. I had just passed a whole day of that life of
pleasure, as it is called, that luxurious existence which is only
permitted to the few to enjoy, and now I found myself at the end of it
with this frightful void at my heart. Then, following this train of
thought, I compared this false, hollow, sterile, and glittering life
with the vivifying, expansive, and generous existence that I had led at
Serval! Poor old paternal château! Peaceful and smiling horizon,
towards which my heart always turned when overburdened with grief or
wounded by heartlessness!
Oh, what desperate remorse I felt as I thought of Hélène, whom I had
lost by an infamous doubt; of that noble girl, so adorable in her halo
of candour, and so chastely surrounded by her atmosphere of angelic
purity that nothing had ever clouded, but which, for a moment only, on
one memorable morning, had been obscured by her love for me! Hélène!
Hélène! One of those divine natures which are born and die, like a
swan on some solitary lake, pure and spotless.
And then descending from the high sphere of thoughts that shone with
such pure lustre, I tried to find some means of dulling the sad memories
they awakened in my breast. I tried to hope that, at some far-off day,
my heart might find consolation, and I thought of the involuntary
interest I already began to feel in Madame de Pënâfiel. But I felt
that, for a woman who had been so blasted by calumny, so tarnished with
abuse, however undeserved, it would never be possible for me to feel the
ardent, deep, and holy love of which one is as proud as of a noble
action.
When the world throws discredit on a woman's reputation, that modest and
sacred veil which even a breath can destroy, that first flower of life,
so delicate and ethereal, it smirches by its vile accusations her good
name, and it destroys for ever her future chances of happiness; for she
is henceforth deprived of the sad consolation of inspiring a devoted,
sincere, and enduring love. It forces her into the degrading caprices of
short-lived attachments, in which are to be found neither respect nor
faith. For what man will ever see in a woman, who has been suspected of
such shameful actions, anything but a charming fantasy, the desire of
yesterday, the joy of to-day, and the forgetfulness of to-morrow? Who in
her presence would dare to give way to those bursts of passionate
confession, during which one longs to tell the one woman he believes
worthy of his confidence, the joys, the sadness, the mysteries, the
ravishments of the soul that she fills with love, and that only God can
understand? Who is there, that in the midst of such moments of rapture,
would not dread to hear the echo, the mocking and sinister echo, of all
these slanderous tales about the woman at whose feet he is about to
throw himself, to whom he longs to kneel?
What reverence can we have for the idol we have so often seen treated
with disrespect, outraged and insulted?