A PARIS LETTER.
A few days after the appearance at Erlach Court of the grass-widow, the
mail brings Rohritz a letter with the Paris post-mark. Edgar recognizes
his sister-in-law's hand, opens it not without haste, and reads it not
without interest. It runs thus:
"_Eh bien_, my dear Edgar, _j'espere que vous serez content de moi_,"
Therese always writes to her brother in a jargon of French, Italian,
German, and English, which, out of regard for the pedantry of modern
purists, we translate into as good English as we are able to command:
"I hope you will be pleased with me. I frankly confess to you, what you
probably guessed from my last postal card, that your request to me to
try to brighten their life in Paris for two of your countrywomen did
not afford me much pleasure. As a rule, compatriots so recommended are
an unmitigated bore, from the pianists whose three hundred--no, that's
too few--five hundred tickets we must dispose of, and who then, when
you ask them to a soiree, are too grand to play the smallest mazourka
of Chopin, to the Baronesses Wolnitzka, who request you to introduce
them to Parisian society because they never have an opportunity to see
any one at home. The pianists are bad enough, but the Wolnitzkas--oh!
In one respect they are precisely alike: they are always offended. If
you invite them _en famille_ they are offended because they suppose you
are ashamed of them; if you invite them to a ball they are offended
because you pay them no particular attention. The upshot is that you
always have to refuse them something,--to lend a thousand francs to the
genius when he already owes you five hundred,--to procure for the
Wolnitzkas an invitation to some ball at the embassy; then ensues a
quarrel, and they draw down the corners of their mouths and look the
other way when they meet you in the street.
"Only at the repeated request of your brother, who wherever anything
Austrian is concerned is the personification of self-sacrificing
devotion, did I make up my mind to call upon your acquaintance at the
'Negroes.'
"The hotel is--very plain, but I believe very respectable,--which is
more than one has a right to expect of just such furnished lodgings in
Paris. The staircase, a narrow crooked flight of steps with slippery
sloping stairs, creaked beneath my feet; I was afraid it would break
down as I mounted to the Meinecks' _appartement_. One final,
depressing, menacing memory of the Wolnitzkas assailed me. Justin
rings, the door opens, and all my prejudices vanish like snow before
the sun. The daughter alone was at home. I fell in love with her on the
instant,--so deeply in love that before I left I called her Stella and
kissed her cheek. She is enchanting.
"It is not only that she is exquisitely beautiful; she combines the
most innocent simplicity with the greatest distinction, a combination
never found except in Austrian women. You see I know how to value your
countrywomen when they are really worth it.
"Her face, her entire air, seemed created to banish all sadness from
her presence; and yet there was a pathos in her look, in her smile,
that went to my heart. But she must be happy. I mean to search for
happiness for her; and I shall find it.
"_Ce que femme le veut y Dieu le veut!_ When I do anything I do it
thoroughly. What do you think? It took me three weeks to resolve to
call upon the Meinecks. I invited them to dine without waiting for them
to return my visit. You know my way. We passed a charming evening
together, strictly informal, to become acquainted with one another. The
mother was as little eccentric as is possible for a blue-stocking to
be, and in the course of four hours had only two attacks of absence of
mind, which does her honour. What a handsome face! Edmund, who is a
connoisseur in such matters, maintains that she must have been more
beautiful than her daughter,--high praise, since the daughter, by the
way, pleases him as much as she does me. And then what wealth of
learning behind that brow with its white hair! Wells of knowledge! a
walking encyclopaedia!
"Although the fashion of her gown was that of twenty years ago, she is
still a thorough _grande dame_; and that is saying much in
consideration of the evident dilapidation of their finances.
"As a mother she may have her disagreeable side; she is too
original,--too egotistic. She neglects her lovely daughter frightfully.
All the time not absorbed by her literary labours she devotes to the
study of Paris; and what mode of pursuing this study with the due
amount of thoroughness do you suppose she has invented? She drives
about for a certain number of hours daily on the tops of the various
omnibuses.
"Fancy!--on the top of an omnibus! A day or two ago, coming home from
the Bon-Marche, as I was detained by a crowd of vehicles in the Rue du
Bac I saw her comfortably installed upon the dizzy height of an
omnibus-top. She wore a short black velvet cloak frayed at all the
seams, the fur trimming eaten away by moths, pearl-gray gloves (her
hands are ridiculously small), such as were worn twenty years ago upon
state occasions, a black straw bonnet, and no muff. She sat between two
vagabonds in white blouses, with whom she was talking earnestly, and
looked like--well, like a queen dowager in disguise. As it was just
beginning to rain, I sent my servant to beg her to alight, and took her
home in my carriage.
"A lady on the top of an omnibus! It is frightful; it is impossible.
But still more impossible is a young girl who wishes to go upon the
stage; and Stella wishes to go upon the stage.
"Nevertheless my relations with the Meinecks grow daily more intimate.
Heroic conduct on my part, is it not?
"Poor little Stella! I feel an infinite pity for her. I have no faith
in her career. Pshaw! Stella Meineck on the stage! 'Tis ridiculous! She
does not know what she is talking about.
"Meanwhile, I have impressed upon her that she is to tell no one of her
artistic plans, which may come to naught. It might do her an injury.
And I have a scheme! Ah, leave it to me. What I do I do well. Before
the season is over Stella will be married. To establish a young girl
with no money is difficult nowadays, particularly in Paris, where every
man has a fixed price; but there are bargains to be had occasionally.
"She is beautiful, she is lovely, and if the Meinecks do not date
precisely from the Crusades the name sounds fine enough to impress some
wealthy citizen who writes on his card the name of his estate in the
country after his own, in hopes of thus manufacturing a title for
himself.
"I see you curl your haughty Austrian lip; you regard all these
pseudo-aristocrats with sovereign contempt. You are wrong. Good
heavens! why should not a man call himself after his castle if it has a
prettier name than his own? Do we not find it more agreeable to present
him to our acquaintances as Monsieur de Hauterive than as Monsieur
Cabouat? Now 'tis out! There is a certain Monsieur Cabouat de Hauterive
whom I have in my eye for Stella. He is very rich, has frequented
the society of gentlemen from childhood, and has been received during
the last few years by everybody; he loves music, has one of the
finest private picture-galleries in Paris, and is in the prime of
life,--barely forty-two,--quite young for a man: in short, he seems
made for Stella. Last summer he laughingly challenged me to find a wife
for him, expressly stating that he desired no dowry. At that time he
was longing for repose and a home. I heard lately, however, that he had
become entangled in a _liaison_ with S----, of the Opera-Bouffe. That
would be frightful.
"Moreover, I have two other men in view for Stella,--an Englishman,
forty-five years old, rather shy in consequence of deafness, of very
good family, an income of six thousand pounds sterling, and of good
trustworthy character; and a Dutchman whose ears were cut off in
Turkey, wherefore he is compelled to wear his hair after the fashion of
the youthful Bonaparte; but these are trifles.
"Poor melancholy little Stella will be glad to shelter her weary head
beneath any respectable roof. The only thing that troubles me is that
Zino knew her three years ago in Venice, and is perfectly bewitched by
her. Can I prevent him from making love to her? It would be dreadful.
Not that it would ever occur to him to be wanting in respect for her,
but he might turn her head, and that would ruin all my plans. She
might then conceive the idea of marrying only a man with whom she is in
love,--perfect nonsense in her position: there is none such for her.
Love is an article of supreme luxury in marriage, and exists for
wealthy people and day-labourers only.
"Yes, when I do anything I do it well! I do not write to you for two
years, but then I give you twenty pages at once. Have you had the
patience to read all this? If you have, let me entreat you to take to
heart what follows.
"Give us the pleasure of a visit from you. You do not know our new
home, and I am burning with desire to show it to you. In the first
story of our little house there is a room all ready for you, very
comfortable, and, I give you my word, the chimney does not smoke. If
you cannot be induced to come to us, let Edmund take rooms for you
wherever you please. Only come! I shall else fancy that you have never
forgiven me for once being bold enough to want to marry you off. Adieu!
I promise you faithfully not to try to lasso you again. With kindest
messages from us all,
"Your affectionate sister,
"Therese."
An extra slip of paper accompanied this succinct document. Its contents
were as follows:
"Paris, 27th December.
"How forgetful I am! The enclosed letter has been lying for a week in
my portfolio. Although it is an old story now, I send it, because it
will inform you of all that has been going on.
"Two words more. Since I wrote it I have invited Stella and Hauterive
to dinner once, and have had them another evening in our box at the
opera. They both dislike Wagner: that is something. Moreover, he thinks
her enchanting, and she does not think him very disagreeable,--which is
about all that can be expected in a _mariage de conveyance_. Everything
is working along smoothly; the betrothal is a mere question of time.
What do you say now to my energy and capacity?"
* * * * *
He says nothing. He is very pale, and his hands tremble as he folds the
letter and puts it away in his desk. A distressing, paralyzing
sensation overpowers him. For a moment he sits motionless at his
writing-table, his elbows resting upon it, his head in his hands.
Suddenly he springs to his feet.
"'Tis a crime! I must prevent it!" The next moment he slays his zeal
with a smile. He prevent? And how? Shall he, like his namesake in the
opera, rush in at the moment when the betrothal is going on and shout
out his veto? And what is it to him if Stella chooses to lead a
wealthy, brilliant existence beside an unloved husband? No one forces
her to do so.
Meanwhile, the door of his room opens, and with the familiarity of an
old comrade the captain enters.
"Will you not play a game of billiards with me, Edgar, before I drive
out?" he asks.
Rohritz declares himself ready for a game.