In the carriage we talked of Monsieur Vauvert's soirée musicale. Madame
de Marsan laughed about it a good deal; Monsieur de Marsan shrugged his
shoulders, and said that the mania for making a show was pervading all
classes of society; that it seemed to be no longer possible for people
to enjoy themselves _en famille_; that everybody was struggling to leave
the sphere in which destiny had placed him; that men were becoming more
eager for dissipation every day; that, to satisfy this imperious
craving, the mechanic sacrificed his week's wages, the workingman his
savings, the tradesman his stock in trade, the clerk three-fourths of
his salary; hence embarrassment, borrowing, debts, failures. His
conclusion was that a man should reckon up his income before giving
dinners, receptions, and balls.
"I should not suppose that Monsieur Vauvert's receptions were likely to
ruin him," said Madame de Marsan.
"It seems so to you, madame, because you have noticed simply the general
effect of the affair, which, I agree, was not very splendid at first
glance; but for an under clerk those lamps, the candles on the music
stands, the hired piano, the music and the instruments that they sent
out for, and, lastly, the modest refreshments--all those things, madame,
are as extravagant for a government clerk at eighteen hundred francs, as
a magnificent function, where everything is provided in profusion, is
for a wealthy banker. The difference between the banker and the clerk is
that people go about praising the former's party, which they are proud
of having attended, while they make fun of the clerk's soirée, to which
they go for the sole purpose of sneering at those who put themselves out
to make people laugh at their expense."
Monsieur de Marsan was right; there was a husband who spoke with
profound wisdom. I approved what he said: first, because I agreed with
him; secondly, because I had my reasons for always being of his opinion.
Monsieur de Marsan lived near the beginning of Faubourg Saint-Honoré; I
could not repress my desire to laugh when I learned his address, because
it reminded me of that infernal cabman who had taken me to the farther
end of Faubourg Montmartre on the night when I attempted to follow the
carriage; but I instantly attributed my merriment to a memory of the
concert, and, as we all retained some very comical ones, that seemed
perfectly natural. They set me down on Rue Saint-Florentin, after
inviting me to their house to listen, not to a concert, but to a little
music; there is a great difference between the two, for I had to admit
that I had heard no music at Monsieur Vauvert's concert of amateurs.
Standing at my door, I thought of my new acquaintance; I dared not as
yet say my conquest, but I secretly flattered myself that she soon would
be. Meanwhile, I had not forgotten the charming Caroline, who had given
me an appointment for the next day. My imagination had abundant food for
reverie: what a wellspring of pleasure the future had in store for me! I
could see nothing but roses, and my mind, enchanted, sought to
communicate its enthusiasm to my heart, which did what it could to find
something for itself in all that was going on. I went upstairs without a
light; for it was very late, and Madame Dupont extinguished her lamp at
midnight. I started to open my door; but as I was putting the key in the
lock, my hand came in contact with something--leaves--flowers--why,
someone had put a bouquet there! Ah! I knew who had done it!--I entered
my room; I soon procured a light and could look at my bouquet. It was
beautiful! orange blossoms, a rose or two, some carnations, and all
surrounded by pansies; the bouquet was tied with a small white
bow.--"Dear Nicette!" I thought; "so you still think of me! you are not
ungrateful! Ah, no! you have a warm heart and you are virtuous! What a
pity that, with those two priceless qualities, you were born in obscure
station! Not that I believe that your equals are incapable of
appreciating your virtues, but that I can do no more than admire them.
You will be a treasure to others, but you can be nothing to me; I must
seek such a treasure in high life; there are some there, no doubt, but
they are not all so seductive as you."
How had she succeeded in leaving that bouquet at my keyhole? If it had
not been so late, I should have gone down and questioned my concierge;
but I had no choice but to wait till morning. Raymond, who saw
everything, had undoubtedly seen the bouquet; but perhaps--he was so
engrossed by his aria from _Joconde_!
I longed for the morning to come, that I might question Madame Dupont. I
could not tire of smelling Nicette's bouquet and gazing at it in
admiration. I looked at the pansies.--"Ah!" I said to myself; "I
understand: it was gratitude that prompted the gift. Poor child! she
loves her benefactor; that is natural enough; but she is so pretty that
she will soon be besieged by lovers, her heart will speak, and she will
forget me. That is the way such affairs always end."--I carefully placed
my bouquet in water and went to bed. I passed in review the events of
the day. Madame de Marsan and Caroline played a large part therein; they
were both coquettes--in a different way, to be sure, but it was coquetry
all the same. Alas! all the women I had known were coquettes, and I did
not honestly believe that any one of them had loved me; at all events,
it had been only for a moment. What does a sentiment amount to that has
the duration of a mere caprice, and that does not resist the slightest
trial? And my sister insisted that I should marry! Why should I hope to
find in a wife what I had failed to find in a mistress? Of course, the
indissoluble bond, children, duties, the opinion of society, might
prevent my wife from being unfaithful to me; but all those things would
not revive her love when it was once extinct.
"I will not marry," said I to myself; "I will make the most of
life."--And yet it had seemed to me for some time, amid all my follies,
that I was not perfectly happy. Although fickle, I was sentimental; my
heart was constantly looking about for something to attach itself to;
it was not its fault that it did not find a heart to respond to it. Of
late, I had met none but perfidious, unfaithful women; I used always to
take the initiative in the inevitable separation, but the later ones had
not given me time; to be sure, I had been foolish enough to put them to
the test. I determined to be wiser in future, to take women for what
they were, and to thank fortune when I chanced to fall on my feet.
Who could say? Perhaps Caroline would love me; perhaps Madame de Marsan
would be less coquettish in due time; perhaps the young flowermaker was
really virtuous. As for the adventures which Raymond attributed to
Madame de Marsan, my neighbor was so evil-tongued that I could not place
any reliance on what he said.
I lulled myself to sleep with thoughts of my various inamoratas; but,
for some unknown reason, the memory of Nicette was always involved in my
schemes and my hopes. I concluded that it was the smell of her bouquet
that kept her so constantly in my thoughts; but the orange blossoms were
so sweet, that I was unwilling to take them out of my bedroom. What a
charming little attention, to bring me that bouquet and to place it so
that I could not enter my room without taking hold of it! Ah! if women
are coquettish and deceitful, they alone are capable of such
forethought, such amiable attentions, of that delicacy of feeling which
enables them to discover, even in the most trifling circumstance, a
means of giving an additional proof of their love or their friendship. I
went to sleep; but how did it happen that I dreamed neither of Caroline
nor of Madame de Marsan? It was Nicette whom I saw in my dreams, it was
she who engaged all my thoughts. Doubtless the odor of the orange
blossoms continued to remind me of her, even in my sleep.