Isaura was seated in her pretty salon, with the Venosta, M. Savarin, the
Morleys, and the financier Louvier, when Rameau was announced.
"Ha!" cried Savarin, "we were just discussing a matter which nearly
concerns you, _cher poete_. I have not seen you since the announcement
that Pierre Firmin is no other than Victor de Mauleon. _Ma foi_, that
worthy seems likely to be as dangerous with his pen as he was once with
his sword. The article in which he revealed himself makes a sharp lunge
on the Government. 'Take care of yourself. When hawks and nightingales
fly together the hawk may escape, and the nightingale complain of the
barbarity of kings, in a cage: 'flebiliter gemens infelix avis.''"
"He is not fit to conduct a journal," replied Rameau, magniloquently,
"who will not brave a danger for his body in defence of the right to
infinity for his thought."
"Bravo!" said Mrs. Morley, clapping her pretty hands. "That speech
reminds me of home. The French are very much like the Americans in their
style of oratory."
"So," said Louvier, "my old friend the Vicomte has come out as a writer,
a politician, a philosopher; I feel hurt that he kept this secret from me
despite our intimacy. I suppose you knew it from the first, M. Rameau?"
"No, I was as much taken by surprise as the rest of the world. You have
long known M. de Mauleon?"
"Yes, I may say we began life together--that is, much at the same time."
"What is he like in appearance?" asked Mrs. Morley. "The ladies thought
him very handsome when he was young," replied Louvier. "He is still a
fine-looking man, about my height."
"I should like to know him!" cried Mrs. Morley, "if only to tease that
husband of mine. He refuses me the dearest of woman's rights.--I can't
make him jealous."
"You may have the opportunity of knowing this _ci-devant_ Lovelace very
soon," said Rameau, "for he has begged me to present him to Mademoiselle
Cicogna, and I will ask her permission to do so, on Thursday evening when
she receives."
Isaura, who had hitherto attended very listlessly to the conversation,
bowed assent. "Any friend of yours will be welcome. But I own the
articles signed in the name of Pierre Firmin do not prepossess me in
favour of their author."
"Why so?" asked Louvier; "surely you are not an Imperialist?"
"Nay, I do not pretend to be a politician at all, but there is something
in the writing of Pierre Firmin that pains and chills me."
"Yet the secret of its popularity," said Savarin, "is that it says what
every one says--only better."
"I see now that it is exactly that which displeases me; it is the Paris
talk condensed into epigram: the graver it is the less it elevates--the
lighter it is, the more it saddens."
"That is meant to hit me," said Savarin, with his sunny laugh--"me whom
you call cynical."
"No, dear M. Savarin; for above all your cynicism is genuine gaiety, and
below it solid kindness. You have that which I do not find in M. de
Mauleon's writing, nor often in the talk of the salon--you have
youthfulness."
"Youthfulness at sixty--flatterer!"
"Genius does not count its years by the almanac," said Mrs. Morley.
"I know what Isaura means--she is quite right; there is a breath of
winter in M. de Mauleon's style, and an odour of fallen leaves. Not that
his diction wants vigour; on the contrary, it is crisp with hoar-frost.
But the sentiments conveyed by the diction are those of a nature sear and
withered. And it is in this combination of brisk words and decayed
feelings that his writing represents the talk and mind of Paris. He and
Paris are always fault-finding: fault-finding is the attribute of old
age."
Colonel Morley looked round with pride, as much as to say, "Clever talker
my wife."
Savarin understood that look, and replied to it courteously. "Madame has
a gift of expression which Emile de Girardin can scarcely surpass. But
when she blames us for fault-finding, can she expect the friends of
liberty to praise the present style of things?"
"I should be obliged to the friends of liberty," said the Colonel, drily,
"to tell me how that state of things is to be mended. I find no
enthusiasm for the Orleanists, none for a Republic; people sneer at
religion; no belief in a cause, no adherence to an opinion. But the
worst of it is that, like all people who are _blases_, the Parisians are
eager for strange excitement, and ready to listen to any oracle who
promises a relief from indifferentism. This it is which makes the Press
more dangerous in France than it is in any other country. Elsewhere the
Press sometimes leads, sometimes follows, public opinion. Here there is
no public opinion to consult, and instead of opinion the Press represents
passion."
"My dear Colonel Morley," said Savarin, "I hear you very often say that
a Frenchman cannot understand America. Permit me to observe that an
American cannot understand France--or at least Paris. _Apropos_ of Paris
that is a large speculation of yours, Louvier, in the new suburb."
"And a very sound one; I advise you to invest in it. I can secure you at
present 5 per cent. on the rental; that is nothing--the houses will be
worth double when the Rue de Louvier is completed."
"Alas! I have no money; my new journal absorbs all my capital."
"Shall I transfer the money I hold for you, Signorina, and add to them
whatever you may have made by your delightful _roman_, as yet lying idle,
to this investment? I cannot say more in its favour than this: I have
embarked a very large portion of my capital in the Rue de Louvier, and I
flatter myself that I am not one of those men who persuade their friends
to do a foolish thing by setting them the example."
"Whatever you advise on such a subject," said Isaura, graciously, "is
sure to be as wise as it is kind!"
"You consent, then?"
"Certainly."
Here the Venosta, who had been listening with great attention to
Louvier's commendation of this investment, drew him aside, and whispered
in his ear: "I suppose, M. Louvier, that one can't put a little money-a
very little money--poco-poco pocolino, into your street."
"Into my street! Ah, I understand--into the speculation of the Rue de
Louvier! Certainly you can. Arrangements are made on purpose to suit
the convenience of the smallest capitalists--from 500 francs upwards."
"And you feel quite sure that we shall double our money when the street
is completed--I should not like to have my brains in my heels."
["'Avere il cervello nella calcagna,"--viz., to act without prudent
reflection.]
"More than double it, I hope, long before the street is completed."
"I have saved a little money--very little. I have no relations, and I
mean to leave it all to the Signorina; and if it could be doubled, why,
there would be twice as much to leave her."
"So there would," said Louvier. "You can't do better than put it all
into the Rue de Louvier. I will send you the necessary papers to-morrow,
when I send hers to the Signorina."
Louvier here turned to address himself to Colonel Morley, but finding
that degenerate son of America indisposed to get cent. per cent. for his
money when offered by a Parisian, he very soon took his leave. The other
visitors followed his example, except Rameau, who was left alone with the
Venosta and Isaura. The former had no liking for Rameau, who showed her
none of the attentions her innocent vanity demanded, and she soon took
herself off to her own room to calculate the amount of her savings, and
dream of the Rue de Louvier and "golden joys."
Rameau approaching his chair to Isaura's then commenced conversation,
drily enough, upon pecuniary matters; acquitting himself of the mission
with which De Mauleon had charged him, the request for a new work from
her pen for the Sens Commun, and the terms that ought to be asked for
compliance. The young lady-author shrank from this talk. Her private
income, though modest, sufficed for her wants, and she felt a sensitive
shame in the sale of her thoughts and fancies.
Putting hurriedly aside the mercantile aspect of the question, she said
that she had no other work in her mind at present--that, whatever her
vein of invention might be, it flowed at its own will, and could not be
commanded.
"Nay," said Rameau, "this is not true. We fancy, in our hours of
indolence, that we must wait for inspiration; but once force ourselves to
work, and ideas spring forth at the wave of the pen. You may believe me
here, I speak from experience: I, compelled to work, and in modes not to
my taste--I do my task I know not how. I rub the lamp, 'the genius
comes.'"
"I have read in some English author that motive power is necessary to
continued labour: you have motive power, I have none."
"I do not quite understand you."
"I mean that a strong ruling motive is required to persist in any regular
course of action that needs effort: the motive with the majority of men
is the need of subsistence; with a large number (as in trades or
professions), not actually want, but a desire of gain, and perhaps of
distinction, in their calling: the desire of professional distinction
expands into the longings for more comprehensive fame, more exalted
honours, with the few who become great writers, soldiers, statesmen,
orators."
"And do you mean to say you have no such motive?"
"None in the sting of want, none in the desire of gain."
"But fame?"
"Alas! I thought so once. I know not now--I begin to doubt if fame
should be sought by women." This was said very dejectedly.
"Tut, dearest Signorina! what gadfly has stung you? Your doubt is a
weakness unworthy of your intellect; and even were it not, genius is
destiny and will be obeyed: you must write, despite yourself--and your
writing must bring fame, whether you wish it or not."
Isaura was silent, her head drooped on her breast--there were tears in
her downcast eyes.
Rameau took her hand, which she yielded to him passively, and clasping it
in both his own, he rushed on impulsively--
"Oh, I know what these misgivings are when we feel ourselves solitary,
unloved: how often have they been mine! But how different would labour
be if shared and sympathised with by a congenial mind, by a heart that
beats in unison with one's own!"
Isaura's breast heaved beneath her robe, she sighed softly.
"And then how sweet the fame of which the one we love is proud! how
trifling becomes the pang of some malignant depreciation, which a word
from the beloved one can soothe! O Signorina! O Isaura! are we not made
for each other? Kindred pursuits, hopes, and fears in common; the same
race to run, the same goal to win! I need a motive stronger than I have
yet known for the persevering energy that insures success: supply to me
that motive. Let me think that whatever I win in the strife of the world
is a tribute to Isaura. No, do not seek to withdraw this hand, let me
claim it as mine for life. I love you as man never loved before--do not
reject my love."
They say the woman who hesitates is lost. Isaura hesitated, but was not
yet lost. The words she listened to moved her deeply. Offers of
marriage she had already received: one from a rich middle-aged noble,
a devoted musical virtuoso; one from a young avocat fresh from the
provinces, and somewhat calculating on her dot; one from a timid but
enthusiastic admirer of her genius and her beauty, himself rich,
handsome, of good birth, but with shy manners and faltering tongue.
But these had made their proposals with the formal respect habitual to
French decorum in matrimonial proposals. Words so eloquently impassioned
as Gustave Rameau's had never before thrilled her ears; Yes, she was
deeply moved; and yet, by that very emotion she knew that it was not to
the love of this wooer that her heart responded.
There is a circumstance in the history of courtship familiar to the
experience of many women, that while the suitor is pleading his cause,
his language may touch every fibre in the heart of his listener, yet
substitute, as it were, another presence for his own. She may be saying
to herself, "Oh that another had said those words!" and be dreaming of
the other, while she hears the one. Thus it was with Isaura, and not
till Rameau's voice had ceased did that dream pass away, and with a
slight shiver she turned her face towards the wooer sadly and pityingly.
"It cannot be," she said, in a low whisper; "I were not worthy of your
love could I accept it. Forget that you have so spoken; let me still be
a friend admiring your genius, interested in your career. I cannot be
more. Forgive me if I unconsciously led you to think I could, I am so
grieved to pain you."
"Am I to understand," said Rameau, coldly, for his _amour propre_ was
resentful, "that the proposals of another have been more fortunate than
mine?" And he named the youngest and comeliest of those whom she had
rejected. "Certainly not," said Isaura.
Rameau rose and went to the window, turning his face from her. In
reality he was striving to collect his thoughts and decide on the course
it were most prudent for him now to pursue. The fumes of the absinthe
which had, despite his previous forebodings, emboldened him to hazard his
avowal, had now subsided into the languid reaction which is generally
consequent on that treacherous stimulus, a reaction not unfavourable to
passionless reflection. He knew that if he said he could not conquer his
love, he would still cling to hope, and trust to perseverance and time,
he should compel Isaura to forbid his visits and break off their familiar
intercourse. This would be fatal to the chance of yet winning her, and
would also be of serious disadvantage to his more worldly interests. Her
literary aid might become essential to the journal on which his fortunes
depended; and at all events, in her conversation, in her encouragement,
in her sympathy with the pains and joys of his career, he felt a support,
a comfort, nay, an inspiration. For the spontaneous gush of her fresh
thoughts and fancies served to recruit his own jaded ideas, and enlarge
his own stinted range of invention. No, he could not commit himself to
the risk of banishment from Isaura.
And mingled with meaner motives for discretion, there was one of which he
was but vaguely conscious, purer and nobler. In the society of this
girl, in whom whatever was strong and high in mental organisation became
so sweetened into feminine grace by gentleness of temper and kindliness
of disposition, Rameau felt himself a better man. The virgin-like
dignity with which she moved, so untainted by a breath of scandal, amid
salons in which the envy of virtues doubted sought to bring innocence
itself into doubt, warmed into a genuine reverence the cynicism of his
professed creed.
While with her, while under her chastening influence, he was sensible of
a poetry infused within him far more true to the Camoenae than all he had
elaborated into verse. In these moments he was ashamed of the vices he
had courted as distractions. He imagined that with her all his own, it
would be easy to reform.
No; to withdraw wholly from Isaura was to renounce his sole chance of
redemption.
While these thoughts, which it takes so long to detail, passed rapidly
through his brain, he felt a soft touch on his arm, and, turning his face
slowly, encountered the tender, compassionate eyes of Isaura.
"Be consoled, dear friend," she said, with a smile, half cheering, half
mournful. "Perhaps for all true artists the solitary lot is the best."
"I will try to think so," answered Rameau; "and meanwhile I thank you
with a full heart for the sweetness with which you have checked my
presumption--the presumption shall not be repeated. Gratefully I accept
the friendship you deign to tender me. You bid me forget the words I
uttered. Promise in turn that you will forget them--or at least consider
them withdrawn. You will receive me still as friend?"
"As friend, surely: yes. Do we not both need friends?" She held out her
hand as she spoke; he bent over it, kissed it with respect, and the
interview thus closed.