In Paris there are parties for all tastes, all social ranks, all
professions, all shades of opinion; in a word, for all classes.
A young man with tact and breeding may go everywhere; nothing is so easy
as to obtain admission to the enormous parties, the gorgeous fêtes and
balls, which are so popular that people go thither in crowds and do not
see one another. The master and mistress of the house do not know the
names of half the men who crowd their salons. In the best society it is
customary for an invited guest to introduce whomsoever he may choose,
without asking permission. The newcomer salutes the host and his wife;
they exchange the conventional phrases, smiling at each other most
amicably; that is all that is necessary; and one may then proceed to
play cards, dance, and regale one's self, without paying any further
attention to the master of the house.
It is not so easy to obtain admission to what are called _bourgeois_
parties. There the host, being a little more particular than the banker
or marquis of the Chaussée d'Antin, likes to know the people who come to
his house. When one young man introduces another to him, he inquires his
name, his profession, and his character; indeed, there are some who
carry their absurd prejudices so far as to turn a cold shoulder to young
men whose too free and easy manners do not please them. But this
extreme severity of morals is found only in the Marais or in the heart
of Faubourg Saint-Germain.
Between the first society and the bourgeoisie, between etiquette and
license, there are the delightful circles, distinguished by amiable
freedom of manner, artless gayety, and a pleasant intimacy; these are
generally to be found among artists. The arts go hand in hand; genuine
talents are not jealous of one another; they esteem, seek out, and
appreciate one another; that is why we find among them wit without
malice, jesting without bitterness, rivalry without envy, merit without
arrogance, and wealth without display.
Next come the strange, abnormal parties, which are made up from all the
others. The people who give them do not know how to receive company; but
they insist upon having company all the time, because it is good form to
give soirées, and in these days no one is willing to lag behind his
neighbor. For my part, I am in the habit of going only where I am
invited by the host himself; I do not like to be introduced by another
guest, unless it be at one of those crushes to which one goes as one
would go to the theatre; and one may stay away from a second one without
being taxed with discourtesy, because there is no danger of having been
noticed at the first.
The function of Monsieur and Madame Vauvert may be placed in the last
category. The master of the house fancied that he was a musician, but he
had never in his life been able to beat a measure in three time, or to
observe a minim rest or a crotchet rest, although he used his feet, his
head, and his hands. He thrummed a little on the guitar; and when he had
succeeded in accompanying some little ballad, without falling in with a
minim rest or a crotchet one on the way, he was the happiest of men.
Add to this an enduring passion for the fair sex, to which he paid
assiduous court, despite his wife, a nose always smeared with snuff,
soiled clothes and frills, strong breath and shifty eyes, a figure of
medium height and a body that was always trembling, and you will have an
idea of Monsieur Vauvert, who was a very good fellow in spite of his
trifling faults, and whose greatest crime was not to be virtuous and
orderly at forty-five. Gayety is of all ages, but libertinage is a
different matter.
"If there's a time for folly,
So there's a time for sense."
And I trust that at forty I shall be as virtuous as I now am the
opposite. But let us come to Madame Vauvert.
She must once have been good-looking; the trouble was that she insisted
upon continuing to be so. Her complexion was still fresh and ruddy, even
when she was ill; which tempted unkind tongues to say that she made it
herself. She was not familiar with the manners of good society, but by
way of compensation she had a vast deal of curiosity and an
extraordinary talent for setting people by the ears, while seeming never
to speak ill of anyone; she also had a very pronounced penchant for
good-looking youths and for chocolate.
Still, Madame Vauvert's parties were very entertaining, because there
was not the slightest restraint, everyone did what he chose, and one was
certain of meeting a lot of original people and of seeing some new faces
at every party. Most of those who appeared there simply passed on and
off, as in a magic lantern; those whose only aim was to be amused went
again and again. I was one of the latter; so Vauvert had come to call me
his dear friend, while his charming spouse always greeted me with a
most gracious little smile.
As Monsieur Vauvert was only a government clerk, he did not live on the
first floor; but on his reception evenings he caused candle ends to be
placed along the staircase, so that the artists and amateurs might not
break their noses before reaching the third floor above the entresol. He
had no servant, but he had a nephew some fourteen or fifteen years old,
who was junior clerk to a notary; a sly, mischievous youngster, whom his
dear uncle tried to make useful on his festal days, which displeased the
young man, who on those occasions always returned home later than usual
from the notary's, in order not to be at the service of his uncle and
aunt. It was nearly ten o'clock when I arrived at Monsieur Vauvert's;
the company rarely assembled before that hour, for the petty bourgeois
try to mimic the nobility, and think it good form to arrive very late at
a party. Musicians, whether amateurs or professionals, love to keep
people waiting; and I believe that, in due time, evening parties will
not begin until the next morning.
I rang. The door was opened by Madame Vauvert; whence I concluded that
the young nephew had not yet returned.
"Ah! here you are, my little Dorsan; it's very good of you to come; we
shall have a lot of people to-night."
"You _will_ have? Do you mean to say that your guests haven't arrived
yet?"
"Some of them are late; but it's early yet."
"Not very."
"We have a tall young lady from the Conservatoire, who has a magnificent
voice."
"The deuce!"
"And a lady who plays the 'cello."
"Great heaven! why, here it's as it is at Nicolet's: always worse and
worse!"
"Ha! ha! what a funny fellow!"
"What music have you had already?"
"Nothing yet."
"What! nothing? and it's ten o'clock! For whom are you waiting to begin
your concert?"
"Little Martin hasn't come yet, to play the piano accompaniments."
"Isn't his sister here?"
"Yes, but she won't play to-night; she's sick; she's having one of her
nervous attacks."
"Ah, yes! that's quite natural. But where's your husband?"
"He's gone out to get a 'cello part and to borrow a second violin, so
that we can have a quartette."
"It seems to me that it would have been well to set about it a little
sooner."
"Why, the poor man's been running his legs off ever since dinner. He had
to fetch Madame Rosemonde and her daughter, then go to the musical
instrument maker's for a double bass, then send for Mademoiselle
Luquet's harp, then go to make sure that Monsieur Crachini could come;
in fact, there's no end to what he's had to do!"
"I can see that he has had his hands full."
"And that little rascal of a Friquet doesn't come home! I hope his uncle
will give him a good trouncing to-night. But come in, my dear fellow."
Our conversation was held in a narrow passage leading on one side to the
dining room, which did duty as bedroom and dressing room, and on the
other to the salon. I entered this last-named apartment, where the
regular habitués and the newcomers were assembled. Everyone was
wondering what the host and hostess could be doing, that no one had seen
them; everyone was calling for them, and asking why the music could not
begin; but not one of the singers was willing to sing first, and the
instrumentalists seemed no better disposed.
"It seems to me that things aren't likely to go very well to-night,"
said a short, pockmarked man, who waddled up to me, smiling maliciously,
whose nose was hidden by his bulging cheeks, and whose eyes one sought
in vain behind his spectacles. "Almost ten o'clock, and nothing doing;
you must agree that it's disrespectful to the company! Poor Vauvert!
passing his evening scouring the neighborhood for instruments and
scores! It's amusing enough! There are not two houses like this in
Paris."
"That is just why it's so priceless. But aren't you going to sing
to-night?"
"Yes; I've brought my song from _Jean de Paris_; it's called the
_Princesse de Navarre_."
"I seem to remember that you sang that to us at the last reception."
"So I did; but I haven't had time to learn anything else; and then, you
know, it's such a fine thing!--
"''Tis the Princesse de Navarre whom I annou--ou--ounce!'