THE BOUDOIR OF MADAME
There was plenty of room in the Hôtel Montmirail when it was opened
at night for Madame’s distinguished receptions. Its screen of lights
in front, its long rows of windows, shedding lustrous radiance on
the ground and second floors, caused it to resemble, from outside,
the enchanted palace of the White Cat, in that well-known fairy tale
which has delighted childhood for so many generations. Within, room
after room stretched away in long perspective, one after another, more
polished, more decorated, more shining, each than its predecessor. The
waiting-room, the gallery, the reception-room, the dining-hall, the
two withdrawing-rooms, all with floors inlaid by the most elaborate
and slippery of wood-work, all heavy with crimson velvet and massive
gilding in the worst possible taste, all adorned by mythological
pictures, bright of colour, cold of tone, and scant of drapery, led the
oppressed and dazzled visitor to Madame’s bed-chamber, thrown open like
every other apartment on the floor for _his_ or _her_ admiration. Here
the eye reposed at last, on flowers, satin, ivory, mirrors, crystal,
china—everything most suggestive of the presence of beauty, its influence
and the atmosphere that seems to surround it in its home. The bed,
indeed, with lofty canopy, surmounted by ciphers and coronets, was almost
solemn in its magnificence; but the bath of Madame, her wardrobe, above
all, her toilet-table, modified with their graceful, glittering elegance
the oppressive grandeur of this important article in a sleeping-apartment.
At each of the four corners strips of looking-glass reached from ceiling
to floor, while opposite the bed the first object on which Madame’s
eyes rested in waking was a picture that conveyed much delicate and
appropriate flattery to herself.
It represented the Judgment of Paris. That dangerous shepherd of Mount
Ida was depicted in appropriate costume of brown skin, laughing eyes, a
crook, and a pair of sandals, with a golden apple in his hand. Juno stood
on one side—Minerva on the other. The ox-eyed goddess, with her rich
colouring and radiant form, affording a glowing type of those attractions
which are dependent on the senses alone; while Minerva’s deep grey eyes,
serene, majestic air, and noble, thoughtful brow, seemed to promise
a triumph, glorious in proportion to the wisdom and intellect to be
overcome.
Paris stood between them, somewhat in front of the immortal rivals,
his right arm skilfully foreshortened, and offering the apple—to whom?
To neither of these, but to the Marquise, as she got out of bed every
morning; thereby inferring that _she_ was the Olympian Venus, the Queen
of Love and Beauty both for gods and men!
Malletort, in his many visits to the Hôtel Montmirail, never passed this
picture without a characteristic grin of intense amusement and delight.
Traversing the bed-chamber, one arrived at last in a small apartment
which concluded the series, and from which there appeared no further
egress, though, in truth, a door, concealed in the panelling, opened on
a narrow staircase which descended to the garden. This room was more
plainly furnished than the others, but an air of comfort pervaded it that
denoted the owner’s favourite retreat. Its tables were littered, its
furniture was worn. The pens and portfolio were disordered; a woman’s
glove lay near the inkstand; some half-finished embroidery occupied the
sofa; and a sheet of blotted music had fallen on the floor. There was no
kind of mirror in any part of the apartment. It was an affectation of
the Marquise, pardonable enough in a handsome woman, to protest that she
hated the reflection of her own features; and this little chamber was her
favourite retreat—her inner citadel, her sanctuary of seclusion—or, as
the servants called it, the Boudoir of Madame.
It was undoubtedly the quietest room in the house, the farthest removed
from the noise of the courtyard, the domestics, even their guests.
Profound silence would have reigned in it now, but for the ring of a
hooked hard beak drawn sharply at intervals across a row of gilt wires,
and a ghastly muttering, like that of a demoniac, between whisper and
croak, for the encouragement of somebody or something named “Pierrot.”
It was Madame’s West Indian parrot, beguiling his solitude by the
conscientious study of his part. Presently the bird gave a long shrill
whistle, for he heard a well-known step on the garden stair, and his
mistress’s voice singing—
“Non, je te dis
Ma sœur, c’est lui,
C’est mon Henri,
A l’habit gris
Des Mousquetaires, des Mousquetaires,
Des Mousquetaires
Du roi Louis.
“Amant gentil
Qui chante, qui rit,
Joli, poli,
Fidèle? Mais, Oui
Comme Mousquetaire, comme Mousquetaire,
Comme Mousquetaire,
Du roi Louis.”
At which conclusive point in its argument Pierrot interrupted the ballad
with a deafening shriek, and Madame, sliding the panel back, passed into
the apartment.
She was dressed in a simple morning toilet of white, with scarlet
breast-knots, and a ribbon of the same colour gathering the shining
masses of her black hair. It suited her well. Even Pierrot, gazing at her
with head on one side, and upturned eye, seemed to be of this opinion,
though bigger and better talkers by rote had probably long ago informed
her of the fact. She had a large _bouquet_ of flowers, fresh gathered,
in her hand, and she gave the bird a caressing word or two as she moved
through her boudoir, disposing of them here and there to the best
advantage; then she selected a few of the rarest, and put them carefully
in water, telling the parrot “these are for Cerise, Pierrot,” and
endeavouring to make it repeat her daughter’s name. Of course, without
success; though on other occasions this refractory pupil would shriek
these well-known syllables, time after time, till the very cook, far off
in the basement, was goaded to swear hideously, wishing in good Gascon he
had the accursed fowl picked and trussed and garnished with olives in the
stew-pan.
Cerise had been brought back from her pension in Normandy, as we have
seen, partly by Malletort’s advice, partly because her mother longed
to have the girl by her side once more. They had been inseparable
formerly, and it is possible she was conscious, without confessing it,
that her whole character deteriorated during her daughter’s absence.
So the heavy family coach, postilions, outriders, footmen, and all,
rolled into the courtyard of the Hôtel Montmirail, after a slight delay,
as we have seen, at one of the barriers, and deposited its freight to
the great jubilation of the whole household. These were never tired of
praising mademoiselle’s beauty, mademoiselle’s grace—her refinement,
her manners, her acquirements, her goodness of heart, were on every
lip. But though she said less about it than the domestics, nobody in
her establishment was so alive to the merits of Cerise as her mother.
In good truth, the Marquise loved her daughter very dearly. She never
thought she could love anything half so much, except—except perhaps, the
germ of a new idea that had lately been forming itself in her heart,
and of which the vague shadowy uncertainty, the shame, the excuses,
the unwillingness with which she acknowledged it, constituted no small
portion of the charm. Is it possible that Love is painted blind because,
if people could see before them, they would never be induced to move
a step along the pleasant path?—the pleasant path that leads through
cool shades and clustering roses, down the steep bank where the nettles
grow, through briar and bramble, to end at last in a treacherous morass,
whence extrication is generally difficult, sometimes impossible, and
always unpleasant. Nevertheless, to get Cerise back from her pension,
to find that she had grown into a woman, yet without losing the child’s
blue eyes, fond and frank and innocent as ever—to watch her matured
intellect, to feel that the plaything was a companion now, though playful
and light-hearted still—lastly, to discover that she was a beauty, but
a beauty who could never become a rival, because in quite a different
style from her mother—all this was very delightful, and the Marquise,
seldom low-spirited at any time, had become perfectly sparkling since her
daughter came home.
So she carolled about the boudoir like a girl, coaxing Pierrot, arranging
the flowers, and warning Célandine, between the notes of her foolish
love-song, not to let mademoiselle’s chocolate get cold. Mademoiselle,
you see, was tired and not yet down; indeed, to tell the truth, not yet
up, but pressing a soft flushed cheek against her laced pillow, having
just awoke from a dream, in which she was back at the convent in Normandy
once more, sauntering down the beech-walk with her director, who somehow,
instead of a priest’s habit, wore the uniform of the Grey Musketeers,
an irregularity that roused the wrath of the Lady Superior and made her
speak out freely; whereat the Musketeer took his pupil’s part, looking
down on her with a brave brown face and kind eyes, while he clasped her
hand in fond assurance of his aid. Waking thus, she tried hard to get
back to sleep, in hopes of dreaming it all over again.
The mother, meanwhile, having disposed her chamber to her liking, sank
into the recesses of a deep arm-chair, and began to speculate on her
daughter’s future. It is not to be supposed that such an important
consideration as the child’s marriage now occupied her attention for
the first time. Indeed her habits, her education, the opinions of that
society in which she lived, even her own past, with its vicissitudes and
experiences, seemed to urge on her the necessity of taking some step
towards an early settlement in life for her attractive girl. Cerise was
beautiful, no doubt, thought the Marquise; not indeed in her mother’s
wicked, provoking style, of which that mother well knew the power, but
with the innocent beauty of an angel. At such a Court, it was good she
should be provided as soon as possible with a legitimate protector. Of
suitors there would be no lack, for two strains of the best blood in
France united in the person of this fair damsel, whose wealth, besides,
would make her a desirable acquisition to the noblest gentleman in the
realm. Then she reviewed in turn all the eligible matches she could think
of in the large circle of her acquaintance; scanning them mentally, one
after another, with the proverbial fastidiousness that, looking for a
perfectly straight stick, traverses the wood from end to end in vain.
The first man was too young, the second too old, a third too clever, a
fourth too stupid. Count Point d’Appui had been hawked at by all the
beauties in Paris, and owned half Picardy; but she was afraid of him.
No, she could not trust him with her Cerise. He was worn out, debauched,
one of the roués, and worse than the Regent! Then there was the Marquis
de la Force Manquée, he would have been the very thing, but he had
sustained a paralytic stroke. Ah! she knew it. The family might hush it
up, talk of a fall in hunting, a shock to the system, a cold bath after
exercise, but Fagon had told her what it was. The late king’s physician
should understand such matters, and she was not to be deceived! To be
sure, there was still the Duc de Beaublafard left—noble rank, tolerable
possessions, easy temper, and a taste for the fine arts. She wavered a
long time, but decided against him at last. “It is a pity!” said the
Marquise, in a half-whisper, shaking her head, and gazing thoughtfully
at Pierrot; “a thousand pities! but I dare not risk it. He is too
good-looking—even for a lover—decidedly for a husband!”
It was strange that, with her knowledge of human nature, her experience,
by observation at least, of human passions, she should so little have
considered that person’s inclinations who ought to have been first
consulted in such a matter. She never seemed to contemplate for an
instant that Cerise herself might shrink from the character of the Count,
appeal against becoming sick-nurse to the Marquis, or incline to the
excessive and objectionable beauty of the Duke. It seemed natural the
girl should accept her mother’s choice just as that mother had herself
accepted, without even seeing, the chivalrous old Montmirail whom she had
so cherished and respected, whose snuff-box stood there under glass on
her writing-table, and for whom, though he had been dead more years than
she liked to count, she sometimes felt as if she could weep even now.
Such a train of reflection gradually brought the Marquise to her own
position in life, and a calculation of the advantages and disadvantages
attendant on marriage as regarded herself. She could not but know she
was in the full meridian of her beauty. Her summer, so to speak, was
still in its July; the fruit bright, glowing, and mature; not a leaf yet
changed in colour with forewarning of decay. She might take her choice
of a dozen noble names whenever she would, and she felt her heart beat
while she wondered why this consideration should of late have been so
often present to her mind. It could only arise from an anxiety to settle
Cerise, she argued with herself; there _could_ be no other reason.
Impossible! absurd! No—no—a thousand times—No!
She went carefully back over her past life, analysing, with no foolish,
romantic, tendencies, but in a keen, impartial spirit, the whole history
of her feelings. She acknowledged, with a certain hard triumph, that in
her young days she had never loved. Likings, flirtations, passing fancies
she had indulged in by hundreds, a dozen at a time, but to true feminine
affection her nearest approach had been that sentiment of regard which
she entertained for her husband. She did not stop to ask herself if this
was love, as women understand the word.
And was she to be always invulnerable? Was she indeed incapable of that
abstraction, that self-devotion which made the happiness and the misery
of nearly all her sex? She _did_ ask herself this question, but she did
_not_ answer it; though Pierrot, still watching her out of one eye, must
have seen her blush.
Certainly, none of her declared suitors had hitherto inspired it. Least
of all, he to whom the world had lately given her as his affianced wife.
Brave he was, no doubt, chivalrous in thought and action; stupid enough
besides; yes, quite stupid enough for a husband! generous too, and
considerate—but oh! not like the kind, unselfish, indulgent old heart she
mourned for in widow’s weeds all those years ago. She could almost have
cried again now, and yet she laughed when she thought of the united ages
of her late husband and her present adorer. Was it her destiny, then,
thus ever to captivate the affections of old men? and were their wrongs
to be avenged at last by her own infatuation for a lover many years
younger than herself? Again the burning blushes rose to her brow, and
though Pierrot was the only witness present, she buried her face in her
hands.
Lifting her eyes once more, they rested on a picture that held the place
of honour in her boudoir. It was a coloured drawing of considerable
spirit, and had been given her by no less a favourite than the
Prince-Marshal himself, for whose glorification it had been executed by a
rising artist.
It represented a battle-field, of which the Prince de Chateau-Guerrand
constituted the principal object; and that officer was portrayed with
considerable fidelity, advancing to the succour of the Count de Guiches,
who at the head of the Guards was covering Villeroy’s retreat before
Marlborough at Ramillies. Two or three broad, honest faces of the
English grenadiers came well out from the smoke and confusion in the
background, ingeniously increased by a fall of rafters and conflagration
of an imaginary farm-house; but the Count de Guiches himself occupied no
prominent place in the composition, dancing about on a little grey horse
in one corner, as if studious not to interfere with the dominant figure,
who was, indeed, the artist’s patron, and who presided over the whole
in a full-bottomed wig, with a conceited smile on his face and a laced
hat in his hand. There lay, also, a dead Musketeer in the foreground,
admirably contrived to impart reality to the scene of conflict; and
it was on this figure that the eyes of the Marquise fixed themselves,
devouring it with a passionate gaze, in which admiration, longing,
self-scorn, and self-reproach, seemed all combined.
For a full minute the wild, pitiful expression never left her face, and
during that minute she tore her handkerchief to the coronet near its hem.
Then she rose and paced the room for a couple of turns, restless as a
leopard; but ere she had made a third, footsteps were heard approaching
through the bed-chamber. The door opened, and one of her servants
announced “Monsieur l’Abbé Malletort!”