The heavy vehicle rolled on so slowly, that a pedestrian walking in the
same direction, easily kept up with it through the whole length of the
_Cours-la-Reine_, although he seemed anything but nimble footed.
He was poorly dressed and leaned painfully on his stick; his long beard
was white, as well as his hair and bushy eyebrows, and the dark color
of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of a mulatto.
As the landau approached the Saint-Ramon mansion, however, the coachman
was forced to take his place in the long procession of carriages going
in the same direction, thus permitting the pedestrian to gain a certain
distance ahead.
The old mulatto continued his way slowly to the entrance of abroad
avenue, encumbered with a long line of carriages and almost dazzling
with bright colored lights, and paused in amazement at the gate.
"Why are these grounds so brilliantly illuminated?" he asked a curious
looker-on.
"In honor of the opening of the wonderful _Saint-Ramon_ mansion,"
replied the man addressed.
"_Saint Ramon_!" repeated the old man, softly, as if speaking to
himself. "How strange!"
He seemed buried in reflections for a few minutes, then turning once
more to the man he had already addressed, he asked with evident
curiosity:
"Can you tell me anything about this mansion, monsieur?"
"People say it is the eighth wonder of the world; and upon my word, it
must be wonderful; the work has been going on for five years,"
responded the man.
"To whom does it belong?"
"To a young millionaire, who has spent his money lavishly and very
foolishly, I believe."
"Do you know his name?"
"I believe the name is Saint Harem or Saint-Herem--"
"There is no more doubt," murmured the old man. "But why should he
name it _Saint-Ramon_?"
Again he seemed buried in sad reflections, until aroused from his
reverie by his companion's voice.
"How singular, after all," the man was saying. "A rich marquis should
know only people with equipages; and yet, outside of two or three good
carriages, the whole procession consists of _fiacres and cabriolets_."
"Singular, indeed," repeated the old man. "But can you tell me the
time?"
"Half-past-ten," the man informed him.
"I am to be at Chaillot at midnight only," said the old man to himself.
"It leaves me ample time to investigate this mystery. What a strange
coincidence."
After some hesitation, the old man entered the gate, glided into the
obscurity of a by-path shaded by secular elm-trees, and walked on
toward the mansion. Notwithstanding his evident preoccupation, he
could not help remarking the immense quantity of flowers that banked
the main avenue, their thousand variegated colors illuminated by a
profusion of many-hued lanterns and glittering glass candelabra of all
shapes and shades.
This fairy-land avenue ended in a vast hemicycle as brightly
illuminated, beyond which arose the _Saint Ramon_ mansion, a veritable
palace which, by the beauty and grandeur of its architecture, recalled
the most brilliant days of the Renaissance.
Crossing the hemicycle, the old man reached an immense porch leading to
the peristyle. Through the glass doors that enclosed this antechamber
in all its length, he could see an army of powdered footmen in
magnificent livery, while around him a continual stream of carriages
unloaded a multitude of men, women and young girls, whose extreme
simplicity of toilet seemed in little harmony with the splendors of
this enchanted palace.
Urged on by an invincible curiosity, the old mulatto followed the ever
increasing throng into the peristyle; then passing through a double row
of footmen, in resplendent blue and silver liveries, and standing as
impassible as soldiers, he finally reached the reception room, where
another army of servants in blue coats, black silk breeches and white
silk stockings, stood in array. Although the modest appearance of the
guests seemed little befitting the princely luxury of the house in
which they were received, the stranger noticed, with some surprise,
that the most respectful deference was shown to all. He paused but a
moment here, however, passing almost immediately into the music
gallery, beyond which was an immense circular salon, surmounted by a
dome and forming the center of three other galleries which served as
ball room, banquet hall, and billiard room. These four
galleries--including the music hall--were connected by wide passages
paved in rich mosaics and adorned with a profusion of exotic plants,
while they were covered with glass domes, giving the whole the
appearance of a hot-house.
We shall not attempt to describe the splendor, elegance, noble grandeur
and sumptuousness of the furnishings of these vast rooms, dazzling with
gildings and paintings, sparkling with lights, crystals and flowers,
reflected indefinitely by enormous mirrors, but will merely mention the
rare magnificence that gave this palace its royal, monumental
character. The salon and galleries were adorned with allegorical
paintings and sculptures that would have made the renown of the most
beautiful castle in existence. The most illustrious artists of the day
had contributed to this superb work. Ingrès, Delacroix, Scheffer, Paul
Delaroche, and other future celebrities, such as Couture, Gerome, etc.,
had been employed by the opulent and intelligent creator of this
palace. On the banquet table was displayed a marvel of silverware
worthy of the epoch of Benvenuto; candelabra, ewers, ice basins, fruit
bowls, flower vases, all would have done honor to a musée by the rich
purity of form and the precious finish and delicacy that characterized
each piece.
One odd peculiarity of the vast circular salon must not be omitted,
however. Above a gigantic white marble chimney, a veritable monument
to the bold genius of David--our Michaël Angelo--were a number of
allegorical figures in relief, representing arts and industries, and
supporting a large oval frame incrusted in the entablature of the
chimney. This frame enclosed a painting which might have been
attributed to Velasquez. It was the portrait of a pale man, with a
harsh, austere countenance, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and high,
polished forehead; a brown gown, half in the style of a dressing gown
and half way resembling the gown of a monk, gave the figure the
imposing character of those saints and martyrs so numerous in the
Spanish school of painting; an appearance emphasized, moreover, by a
gold aureole which seemed to cast its dazzling reflections on the
austere, pensive face. Below, traced in large, Gothic letters in a
space formed by the foliage of the border, were these two words:
SAINT RAMON.
Still following the throng, the old mulatto finally found himself
before this chimney. At sight of the portrait, he stood for a moment
in amazement; then, overcome by emotion, tears filled his eyes and he
murmured softly; "Poor friend! it is indeed he! But why the word
_saint_ prefixed to his name? Why that aureole around his brow? Why
this mystic appearance? And besides, what a strange celebration!
Though poorly dressed, and a stranger, I entered without meeting
resistance, or even an inquiry."
At this moment a servant bearing fruits and ices approached and offered
him refreshments, which he refused; he was striving, but in vain, to
guess what might be the condition of the people around him. All the
men were modestly attired; some in black frock-coats, others in new
blouses, while a few wore the customary evening dress; all maintained a
discreet reserve, though they expressed their delight to one another in
low voices; and yet, strange to say, far from appearing amazed at the
riches accumulated in this palace, they seemed perfectly at ease and
not at all awed by the magnificence of their surroundings.
The women and young girls, however, seemed more embarrassed and
intimidated; they naively admired the splendor of the place and
exchanged comments and observations in whispers.
Anxious to penetrate this singular mystery, the old mulatto again
approached the chimney and joined a group of guests who were
contemplating the portrait of _Saint-Ramon_.
"Do you see that portrait, Juliette?" a tall, robust man, with a good
natured countenance, was asking his wife. "That good man is well
entitled to his name. There are many saints in Paradise who are mere
idlers beside him, if we are to judge by the good he has done."
"How is that, Michel?" queried the wife, inquisitively.
"We owe these five years of well-paid work to this worthy man, my
dear," explained the husband. "Thanks to this M. Saint-Ramon, I have
earned sufficiently in the last few years to make us all happy and
contented, and save a great deal besides."
"But, my dear Michel," remonstrated the wife, "this is not the man who
ordered and paid for the work. M. Saint-Herem did all that, and it was
he who welcomed us so kindly when we came this evening."
"That may be, Juliette. But whenever M. Saint Herem came into the
place to watch us at work, he never failed to say: 'My children, were
it not for the riches I have inherited, I could not give you this work
and pay you as you deserve. You must therefore reserve all your
gratitude for the memory of the man who left me so much money; it was
he who accomplished the hardest task, hoarding his wealth cent by cent,
depriving himself of every comfort, while I have nothing to do but
spend this treasure liberally. To spend is my duty! Of what use are
riches, if not to do good! Remember the good old miser then, and bless
his avarice; it gives me the pleasure of giving you work in the
building of a magnificent monument, and to you it gives ample salaries,
honestly earned!"
"All the same, Michel, we must not forget M. Saint-Herem and give him a
share of our gratitude."
"You are right, Juliette. He is a noble young man, and he and his
uncle make a famous pair."
The old mulatto had listened to this conversation with as much interest
as astonishment, and as he wandered from group to group, he heard
nothing but a chorus of praises and blessings in favor of Saint-Ramon,
the worthy miser, and of his nephew, whose nobility of heart and
liberality none could laud too highly.
"Is it a dream?" mused the old man. "Who can believe that these
praises are addressed to the memory of a miser--a memory usually cursed
and execrated by the living! And can it be the heir of this miser, the
dispenser of his wealth, who rehabilitates him thus? And why are these
workmen invited to this inauguration? It must be a dream!"
But the old mulatto's amazement was still more augmented by another
singular contrast at this moment. He had suddenly met a group of men
in evening dress, with many decorations in their buttonholes,
accompanied by women in elegant toilettes. A short distance further on
was Florestan Saint-Herem, more brilliant and gay than ever in this
atmosphere of luxury and splendor. He was standing at the extremity of
the gallery adjoining the reception-room, welcoming his guests with the
utmost grace and courtesy, greeting every one with a cordial smile and
addressing a few words of gracious affability to each woman or young
girl, charming and placing the most timid at their ease by his
unaffected sincerity. It was while accomplishing the duties of this
most admirable hospitality, that he caught his first glimpse of the
beautiful Countess Zomaloff, as she entered the first saloon,
accompanied by Princess Wileska and the Duke de Riancourt.