THE PURSUIT OF A HUSBAND.
A short distance from the mansion of Segel, separated only by their
gardens, was a pretty little stone villa covered with ivy and other
climbing vines. The low windows opened on a veranda, and sculptured
ornaments of wood and stone gave it an attractive appearance, although
it was a little deteriorated by the dampness, and there was about it a
general air of neglect.
The proprietor of this villa was a man who could not live in it on
account of the expense he had incurred in building it. His puerile
fancy had ruined him, and he was reduced to living in a garret. The
plaything was let during the summer, and during the rest of the year it
remained empty.
This dwelling lacked a master who would love it and care for it; such
was the air of neglect it had taken on.
For several months it had been occupied by Madame Wtorkowska and her
daughter. This lady was the widow of a speculator who had been
unfortunate in business, and had died in debt. His wife had succeeded
in concealing from the creditors some portions of the estate. She lived
on this with a certain elegance, and aspired to move in the best
society. She went sometimes to Ems, to Spa, or to Paris, and hoped
everything from her only daughter, whom she considered a marvel.
Mademoiselle Emma was really charming. She was twenty-two years old and
owned to twenty, but no one had yet offered her his name and fortune.
Although the mother was persuaded that a king or a prince of the blood
would have been fortunate to possess such a treasure, the simple
gentlemen found that this pearl was exacting, and had luxurious tastes
a little too costly for men of moderate fortunes.
That was why, in her despair, Madame Wtorkowska, _nee_ Weinberg, went
back to her Israelite friends, among whom she hoped to find a rich
merchant who would marry her daughter.
Emma was very beautiful, of that ideal type taken by the painters for
Rachel or Rebecca. She was a dark-eyed blonde, with a snowy complexion,
features which were like sculptured marble, large, black eyes full of a
mysterious fascination, and rosy lips whose charming smiles displayed
teeth of pearl. Nature had made her an actress, and her mother had
developed in her the art of simulating all emotions and playing all
roles.
This mother knew excellently how to appear a literary woman, without
having read much. She gave herself out as an accomplished musician,
though she hardly knew the notes. She posed as a lady of high degree,
although she had seen the best society only _en neglige_ at the baths
and in some salons of doubtful distinction, and she masked her poverty
under a deceitful elegance and an appearance of wealth.
Emma, of which the Polish is Emusia, called herself, for short, Musia,
which she further transformed into the French, Muse, which gave her a
stamp of originality, and expressed by a name her diverse talents and
her dazzling accomplishments. At an early age she learned to play the
piano, and initiated herself in light and easy literature. Provided
that the book was written in French, in an elegant style, her mother
asked no more; as for the morals they inculcated she was utterly
indifferent. "This is not suitable. That can harm you. You must guard
yourself well from this or from that." These were the rules of conduct
that Madame Wtorkowska gave to her daughter, who soon became
accomplished in all her refinements: the art of dissimulation, habitual
and unblushing falsehood, elegant and perfumed deceit. She had a great
natural talent for music. At six years she passed for a little prodigy,
at twelve she played in public, and at eighteen she was proclaimed
Chopin's most clever interpreter. She had so enchanted Liszt at Ems, to
believe her mother, that he would have married her then and there had
it not been for the double obstacles of the princess ... and his
priesthood. Muse, the better to attract attention, had adopted a very
beautiful, although somewhat eccentric, toilet. Her mother lost no
occasion to show her beautiful daughter at the theatre, at charity
concerts, at the industrial exhibitions, and at the art galleries. She
also added the publicity of the press, by procuring, from time to time,
a flattering mention of the beauty and talents of Muse in the _Courrier
de Varsovie_.
In spite of all, she had no luck so far; all the artifices of coquetry
had not obtained a proposal of marriage worthy of being taken into
consideration. Two aspirants only had presented themselves in a
legitimate and honourable manner: a youth of eighteen years all fire
and flame, and an old man foolishly in love. As neither of them had any
money they were quickly refused.
At the baths of Spa or Ems a count also had offered himself, but this
noble had ruined himself by a dissipated life, and, as he could not
return to Warsaw on account of his debts, lived "by his wits."
In a moment of discouragement Muse thought of becoming an actress.
"With my beautiful voice and charms of person," said she, "success is
certain, and I shall soon be rolling in gold." But this idea was
extremely distasteful to her mother, whose ambition was for a solid
establishment, and not for the precarious life of the theatre. She
wept, and implored her daughter not to think of it, and assured her
that their pecuniary resources were sufficient to keep them in luxury
for another year. Much might be accomplished during a twelvemonth. They
were sure to secure a rich husband by that time. Why not wait before
leaving the social sphere to which they were accustomed? The scenic
career would always remain open.
The same day that Jacob dined at the Segels Madame Wtorkowska returned
from the city to her villa in radiant humour, and found her daughter at
the window reading one of Feval's novels. She contemplated her a moment
with admiration.
"How lovely you are to-day," said she; "more beautiful than ever! That
is right; your beauty is your capital. I have a magnificent project. We
must succeed. Conquer or die is our motto!"
"What has happened now?" asked Muse, throwing down her book and giving
a side glance in the mirror.
"I have just learned that Jacob, your old acquaintance, has returned to
Warsaw. He will be your husband. I have a presentiment of it. A natural
presentiment never deceives. You know the proverb: 'That which a woman
wishes'"--
"'The devil wishes,'" replied the girl laughing. "You are in great
spirits, but you need not waste your wit on me."
"I have already said that twice in public with great success."
The mother kissed her forehead, and said in French:--
"You are sublime! But listen to me: you must proceed cautiously with
this Jacob; you must be prudent, calculating, dignified, and full of
tact."
"Never fear," replied the daughter, "I remember him perfectly. I know
his peculiarities, and shall not make a false move."
"Be careful when you are near him not to be too gay, too witty, too
brilliant. Be grave, modest, and poetical; quote much ideal poetry to
him; such are the strategetic man[oe]uvres which will serve you."
"Do you know, mamma, I have been told that he has been already in
love?"
"And with whom?"
"With Mathilde, or she with him; it is the same thing. I do not know
whether this love still exists or has vanished."
"Several years have passed since then. She has had time to fade, to
grow ugly; and, furthermore, she is married, so that she is no obstacle
for us. His love for her proves that he is capable of passion. So much
the better. Now-a-days, men have become veritable icebergs. They resist
an enchantress like you, and let themselves be devoured by the
demimonde"--
"Yes, they do not think of marriage. It is the spirit of the age."
"Jacob, of whom I have heard much from people who know him well, is a
serious young man, sentimental, pious, and even fanatic. When you are
with him, you must seem to bear the burden of the sufferings of two
thousand years; you must sigh, and pretend to be full of tender and
elegiac poetry."
"Dear mamma, do I need these lessons?" said Muse, a little piqued.
"No, my child; but a mother's heart is always full of fears. A better
match would be difficult to find. Use every means to captivate him;
meet him as if by chance, and invite him here. He loves music. We will
give two or three entertainments where we will have Kontski and
Doprzynski, and you and those two singers will make an adorable trio.
Then will come the supper, when you will be irresistible from the
charms of your toilet."
Muse shrugged her shoulders.
"O mamma," said she, "leave it all to me! I know well how to play my
cards."
"Listen once more," said Madame Wtorkowska, drawing near her daughter,
blushing and a little embarrassed. "We will play our part well. Jacob
is a man of honour, sensitive and conscientious. With him, but with him
alone, dear Emusia, one can resort to extreme measures to force him
into the last intrenchments and bind him to us. He is young,
passionate. It would be very easy to awaken in him--you understand me?
I would not advise you to go so far with another, but with him it is
different."
"Of course I understand you; why not? I am no longer a child," replied
Muse, with an offended air. "The means are heroic, but might succeed
with a perfectly honest man like Jacob. There was real genius in that
idea, mamma."
The mother blushed at this praise, for the idea appeared brazen even to
herself, coming from a mother who should have instructed and guided her
daughter.
"Our desperate situation only has made me suggest such a thing."
"Why speak of despair? Have we not the theatre as a last resort?"
"To see you an actress; that would be a great sorrow for me."
"And Malibran, and Pasta, and Schroeder, and Grisi, and Sontag, and
many others. La Sontag, did she not become a countess and
ambassadress?"
"I don't care for that. I do not wish to see you on the stage. I would
prefer"--
"Do not fear, mamma."
"I have already apian," replied Madame Wtorkowska calmly. "Jacob dines
at the Segels to-day. You are a friend of Mathilde's. She lives near
here; dress yourself quickly and go to see her. You can feign ignorance
of the circumstances. I will not accompany you, a servant alone will
follow. We must take advantage of each favourable moment. To arrive at
dessert or at coffee will be best. After a repast men are in good
humour; you will produce a lively impression on Jacob. Modestly dressed
and not expecting to see company, you must blush, draw back, and wish
to retire. They will beg you to remain. You will remain. What follows I
leave to you."
Muse rose quickly, like a soldier whom the clarion calls to battle, and
embraced her mother, who kissed her and said:--
"One more word of advice. Do not put on any powder, your complexion
does not need it, and he might think you had lost your freshness; and
how will you dress?"
"In black lace, modestly, poetically. You can depend on me."
A half-hour after, while Muse was at her toilet, Madame Wtorkowska's
eagle eyes at the window saw carried from Segel's kitchen into the
dining-room a sumptuous roast, then ices; she ran to her daughter and
cried:--
"Now is the time. Hasten, I beseech you!"
Muse was all ready. She might have served for a painter's model to
represent a contemporaneous elegy; her usually mobile features were
changed completely. By a profound study before the mirror she had given
them an expression of sweet melancholy. She was enchanting; with an
infinite art she concealed art, and seemed natural, and no one would
have imagined she was playing a false role.
Women attract and conquer men sometimes by gayety of spirit, and
sometimes by a mystical reserve; nothing awakens ardour in a man more
than an enigma to solve. When he has arrived at the last page of that
book called woman, it is necessary that she be a marvellous masterpiece
for him to commence the reading with the same interest as before.
Muse was a living sphinx with such an attractive and finished beauty
that it would have been difficult for the most clever observer to
discover the least defect in her person, either physically or morally.
She wore a black lace dress, light and _negligee_; for ornaments, a
coral bracelet and brooch; nothing more save a white handkerchief and a
flower in her hand. To her mother, even, she appeared in a light so new
as to draw from her enthusiastic exclamations:--
"Oh, my Ophelia! You are charming!"
Muse smiled proudly, kissed her mother, and with a calm and composed
mien left the house as if to keep an engagement, and not to engage in a
struggle where her object was to capture a man's heart. Her heart had
never yet spoken; it surprised her that men in general were so little
susceptible to passionate love, and that she herself had never felt
this emotion. Her feelings were in her head, and if at times her brain
had been inflamed, this flame had never descended to the heart. Love,
as she dreamed of it, presented itself to her imagination covered with
silk and diamonds in a superb _salon_, amid a royal court.
Did her heart beat on the way? Her black dress could alone tell us, but
her face did not reveal a single sign of inquietude. The chronological
reckoning of Madame Wtorkowska had been so exact, that Muse arrived
just at the moment when they were taking coffee, and, as the piano was
opposite the door, Mathilde saw her enter and then draw back as if to
go. She arose at once and ran to her, and drew her into the room. Jacob
was near her, but she passed him without recognition.
"But this is Monsieur Jacob, an old acquaintance of yours," said
Mathilde.
"Ah, really! He has returned from his travels, then. How he has
changed! I should never have recognized him. I am charmed to see him
again."
The first step was of great importance. She appeared at first to be
altogether indifferent; she played her first lines admirably. As for
Jacob, he felt no emotion whatever. There exist in some men certain
instincts which warn them, if they are not under the empire of a brutal
passion, to avoid danger. Beautiful as she was, Muse did not attract
him. Her beauty was for him like that of a statue or a lovely picture,
no more.
She had more success with the group of men who were drinking coffee.
They all praised her beauty. Henri alone dared not openly express his
admiration, for fear of being heard by his wife.
"Delicious girl!" said Mann. "A dainty enough morsel for a king!"
"A morsel for a king!" added Simon; "but one must have golden teeth to
chew it."
Mathilde's father, a great admirer of women, remarked in a low voice:--
"My word for it, she is well worth a thousand ducats!"
"Oh, much more!" cried Mann.
"Wait, gentlemen," added Simon; "put off the sale until after the
marriage."
"How clever those women are," said Mann. "Madame Wtorkowska is not
worth a sou, and look how they dress, how they live."
"I suspect the object of this visit," whispered Simon. "It is a chase
organized against Jacob. I pity him if he falls into their hands."
While they were talking, Muse drew near the piano and looked at the
music before Mathilde. It was a composition of Schumann's, and as Jacob
was near her she asked him:--
"Do you remember our promenades with Mathilde? Are you as serious as
ever?"
"Always the same, mademoiselle, with the difference, perhaps, that age
has augmented my failing."
During this conversation Mathilde felt her heart beat violently. Father
Simon made from afar some warning gestures, and finished by approaching
the piano. Muse greeted him coldly as an enemy, but just then some one
asked her to play something.
"With pleasure," said she; "I love music, and I never refuse to play.
Above all, I love Schumann the best."
She executed one of those fantastic reveries where grief gushes out in
poignant notes like drops of blood.
She played admirably and with much expression. An actress even in
music, she expressed ravishingly the sentiments which she could not
feel.
She was warmly applauded. Mathilde, who was herself an excellent
musician, found new food for thought in this manner of interpreting a
composition that she loved. Jacob praised, but coldly. Father Simon
took him by the arm and drew him aside.
"Do you know Muse?" asked he.
"Yes, I used to see her often."
"Do you know the mother?"
"Very little."
"Then learn that they are two very dangerous women. The daughter,
reared in luxury, without being worth a sou, seeks a rich husband. Take
care of yourself. They will catch you, if possible. They are setting
their cap for you already."
"Why, I have only just arrived!"
"The mothers of these days have, such a scent that they smell from afar
the marriageable young men. Take care of yourself. This Muse is
enchantingly beautiful and versed in all deceit."
"Very beautiful women do not please me."
"She can make herself anything you wish, for she can divine your
thoughts."
Seated by the mistress of the house, Muse turned her head. She
immediately understood that Simon was acting the part of Mentor to the
young Telemachus, and called to him familiarly:--
"I have a favour to ask of you, Monsieur Simon, and I feel that I am
very fortunate to meet you here."
"A favour! Of me?"
"Yes, monsieur, on the part of my mother. She dotes on your witty
repartees and wishes to see you sometimes in her _salon_, if you will
so honour us."
She had counted on gaining Father Simon over by her seductive flattery,
but the old rogue only bowed courteously, smiled maliciously, and
withdrew hastily to the other side of the room. He went up to Jacob and
whispered:--
"She has been trying to burn me with incense right under my very nose.
What a siren! To avoid her snares, stuff your ears with cotton, shut
your eyes, and save yourself."
"For me," said Jacob, "there are neither sirens nor witches."
"There have been, however, many more than those in the Odyssey."
Muse knew better than to show too much interest in the man she was
seeking to ensnare. She had Mathilde ask him to tell them something of
his travels. Thanks to this diplomatic stratagem, Jacob joined them,
and engaged in a lively conversation.
She saw that he was absorbed in Mathilde, and felt that he did not
listen to her. Finding further efforts useless she arose to take leave.
With a cold and polite tone she said to the young man only, that she
would be happy to see him at her home, as if it was out of compliment
to her friend.
"Man of ice," thought she, "in vain you seek to escape me. I shall
subdue you. You will belong to me. Then we will square our account."
She left the room modestly, almost timidly, Madame Segel conducting her
to the door. When she returned she said to Jacob:--
"Well, how did you like her?"
"She is wonderfully beautiful, but there is also something disagreeable
about her."
Some of them protested.
"She is the least natural woman I have ever met," said Jacob. "My ideal
is a true and sincere woman."
Mathilde fell into a revery. During this time Henri had escorted Muse
to the street. It was easily seen by his sparkling eyes that this pearl
pleased him. On her part Mademoiselle Muse found Segel to her taste
also, but she could not compromise herself with a married man while she
sought a husband. Otherwise these two souls were sympathetic, and
seemed created for each other. Henri's last glance was so ardent, that
it almost compensated Muse for Jacob's coldness.
Her mother impatiently awaited the result of this first attack.
"You have seen him?" asked she.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Preludes, as you have often said yourself, dear mamma, are always
tiresome. I played for him one of Schumann's fantasies as I never
played it before; I felt inspired; I showed myself at the same time
bewitching and indifferent. I threw him furtive glances, neither too
ardent nor too cold. By slow and insidious steps, by proceeding with
much caution I can put him off his guard and take him captive. I am
sure of him, I think."
"Then you do not think it will be an easy matter?"
"No, probably not. He has something else on his mind."
"And can you not by your magic art draw from him that which is rooted
in his heart?"
"I will try, but it is a difficult part to play."
"I am chagrined to see you doubtful of success so soon."
"Oh, if I absolutely will it, I can succeed! But I shall be obliged to
compromise myself. Not in the way you suggested this morning, however.
It will suffice to expose myself in the eyes of the world. For the
rest, that which Count Alfred said of the chase applies perfectly to my
situation. It is not necessary to make any plans in advance to draw on
the game. The plan will develop when the time comes. But I have some
news for you. Henri is desperately in love with me."
"What Henri?"
"Our neighbour, Segel."
"What, has he dared?"
"If you could have seen him squeeze my hand; if you could have heard
him sigh when he escorted me to the street! Oh, it was droll!"
"Unfortunately, he is married."
"Yes, but Mathilde has a bad cough. They say that her lungs are
affected. She is not yet twenty-five years old; at that age phthisis is
fatal. But may God preserve her!"
"You are truly a genius! Your foresight is admirable. If we could keep
him in reserve it would not be bad; however, I prefer Jacob. Men of
Henri's calibre never become seriously in love. Their sentiment is not
love, it is passion. Every year they change their mistress. It is the
theatre that furnishes them."
"Bah! That is the custom now-a-days!"
"Believe me, you had better hold Jacob. There is something horrible
about counting on a death."
"I will do all I can to satisfy you. I am very sorry for poor Mathilde,
yet one can see death in her eyes."
"Do not think of her, then; think rather of Jacob."
"We will see. As for me, I like Henri better."
The mother frowned and said no more.