GOSSIP AND COUNSEL.
My eventful journey was over, at last. I sat in my hotel window
looking out upon brilliant Paris, which had, in a moment,
recovered all its gaiety, and more than its accustomed bustle.
Every one has read of the kind of excitement that followed the
catastrophe of Napoleon, and the second restoration of the
Bourbons. I need not, therefore, even if, at this distance, I
could, recall and describe my experiences and impressions of the
peculiar aspect of Paris, in those strange times. It was, to be
sure, my first visit. But, often as I have seen it since, I don't
think I ever saw that delightful capital in a state, pleasurably,
so excited and exciting.
I had been two days in Paris, and had seen all sorts of sights,
and experienced none of that rudeness and insolence of which
others complained, from the exasperated officers of the defeated
French army.
I must say this, also. My romance had taken complete possession
of me; and the chance of seeing the object of my dream, gave a
secret and delightful interest to my rambles and drives in the
streets and environs, and my visits to the galleries and other
sights of the metropolis.
I had neither seen nor heard of Count or Countess, nor had the
Marquis d'Harmonville made any sign. I had quite recovered the
strange indisposition under which I had suffered during my night
journey.
It was now evening, and I was beginning to fear that my patrician
acquaintance had quite forgotten me, when the waiter presented me
the card of 'Monsieur Droqville;' and, with no small elation and
hurry, I desired him to show the gentleman up.
In came the Marquis d'Harmonville, kind and gracious as ever.
"I am a night-bird at present," said he, so soon as we had
exchanged the little speeches which are usual. "I keep in the
shade, during the daytime, and even now I hardly ventured to come
in a close carriage. The friends for whom I have undertaken a
rather critical service, have so ordained it. They think all is
lost, if I am known to be in Paris. First let me present you with
these orders for my box. I am so vexed that I cannot command it
oftener during the next fortnight; during my absence, I had
directed my secretary to give it for any night to the first of my
friends who might apply, and the result is, that I find next to
nothing left at my disposal."
I thanked him very much.
"And now, a word, in my office of Mentor. You have not come here,
of course, without introductions?"
I produced half-a-dozen letters, the addresses of which he looked
at.
"Don't mind these letters," he said. "I will introduce you. I
will take you myself from house to house. One friend at your side
is worth many letters. Make no intimacies, no acquaintances,
until then. You young men like best to exhaust the public
amusements of a great city, before embarrassing yourself with the
engagements of society. Go to all these. It will occupy you, day
and night, for at least three weeks. When this is over, I shall
be at liberty, and will myself introduce you to the brilliant but
comparatively quiet routine of society. Place yourself in my
hands; and in Paris remember, when once in society, you are
always there."
I thanked him very much, and promised to follow his counsels
implicitly.
He seemed pleased, and said--
"I shall now tell you some of the places you ought to go to. Take
your map, and write letters or numbers upon the points I will
indicate, and we will make out a little list. All the places that
I shall mention to you are worth seeing."
In this methodical way, and with a great deal of amusing and scandalous
anecdote, he furnished me with a catalogue and a guide, which, to a
seeker of novelty and pleasure, was invaluable.
"In a fortnight, perhaps in a week," he said, "I shall be at
leisure to be of real use to you. In the meantime, be on your
guard. You must not play; you will be robbed if you do. Remember,
you are surrounded, here, by plausible swindlers and villains of
all kinds, who subsist by devouring strangers. Trust no one but
those you know."
I thanked him again, and promised to profit by his advice. But my
heart was too full of the beautiful lady of the Belle Etoile, to
allow our interview to close without an effort to learn something
about her. I therefore asked for the Count and Countess de St.
Alyre, whom I had had the good fortune to extricate from an
extremely unpleasant row in the hall of the inn.
Alas! he had not seen them since. He did not know where they were
staying. They had a fine old house only a few leagues from Paris;
but he thought it probable that they would remain, for a few days
at least, in the city, as preparations would, no doubt, be
necessary, after so long an absence, for their reception at home.
"How long have they been away?"
"About eight months, I think."
"They are poor, I think you said?"
"What _you_ would consider poor. But, Monsieur, the Count has an
income which affords them the comforts, and even the elegancies
of life, living as they do, in a very quiet and retired way, in
this cheap country."
"Then they are very happy?"
"One would say they _ought_ to be happy."
"And what prevents?"
"He is jealous."
"But his wife--she gives him no cause?"
"I am afraid she does."
"How, Monsieur?"
"I always thought she was a little too--a _great deal_ too--"
"Too _what_, Monsieur?"
"Too handsome. But although she has remarkably fine eyes,
exquisite features, and the most delicate complexion in the
world, I believe that she is a woman of probity. You have never
seen her?"
"There was a lady, muffled up in a cloak, with a very thick veil
on, the other night, in the hall of the Belle Etoile, when I
broke that fellow's head who was bullying the old Count. But her
veil was so thick I could not see a feature through it." My
answer was diplomatic, you observe. "She may have been the
Count's daughter. Do they quarrel?"
"Who, he and his wife?"
"Yes."
"A little."
"Oh! and what do they quarrel about?" "It is a long story; about
the lady's diamonds. They are valuable--they are worth, La
Perelleuse says, about a million of francs. The Count wishes them
sold and turned into revenue, which he offers to settle as she
pleases. The Countess, whose they are, resists, and for a reason
which, I rather think, she can't disclose to him."
"And pray what is that?" I asked, my curiosity a good deal
piqued.
"She is thinking, I conjecture, how well she will look in them
when she marries her second husband."
"Oh?--yes, to be sure. But the Count de St. Alyre is a good man?"
"Admirable, and extremely intelligent."
"I should wish so much to be presented to the Count: you tell me
he's so--"
"So agreeably married. But they are living quite out of the
world. He takes her now and then to the Opera, or to a public
entertainment; but that is all."
"And he must remember so much of the old _régime_, and so many
of the scenes of the revolution!"
"Yes, the very man for a philosopher, like you! And he falls
asleep after dinner; and his wife don't. But, seriously, he has
retired from the gay and the great world, and has grown
apathetic; and so has his wife; and nothing seems to interest her
now, not even--her husband!"
The Marquis stood up to take his leave.
"Don't risk your money," said he. "You will soon have an
opportunity of laying out some of it to great advantage. Several
collections of really good pictures, belonging to persons who
have mixed themselves up in this Bonapartist restoration, must
come within a few weeks to the hammer. You can do wonders when
these sales commence. There will be startling bargains! Reserve
yourself for them. I shall let you know all about it. By-the-by,"
he said, stopping short as he approached the door, "I was so
near forgetting. There is to be, next week, the very thing you
would enjoy so much, because you see so little of it in
England--I mean a _bal masqué_, conducted, it is said, with more
than usual splendour. It takes place at Versailles--all the world
will be there; there is such a rush for cards! But I think I may
promise you one. Good-night! Adieu!"