[Illustration: Frontispiece; Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons]
_A PREMEDITATED COLLISION_
_Frédéric looked up and recognized Dubourg; he was on the point of
laughing outright, when his friend forestalled him by running
toward him, exclaiming:
"I cannot be mistaken! What a fortunate meeting! It surely is
Monsieur Frédéric de Montreville!"_
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME X
SISTER ANNE
PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
[Illustration: colophon]
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS
THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK
_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._
SISTER ANNE
I
A NOCTURNAL WALK.--MY AUNT'S FIVE HUNDRED FRANCS
The theatres had long since dismissed their audiences, the shops were
closed, and the cafés were closing. Passers-by were becoming more and
more infrequent, the cabs moved more rapidly, the street lights were
burning, and the gas in the houses was disappearing; the streets of
Paris, like the inhabitants thereof, were about to enjoy their brief
hour of repose.
But repose, like fine weather, is never universal: when we are enjoying
it in Paris, it may be that people are fighting in some other quarter of
the globe; and while we are revelling in mild and delicious weather,
within a hundred leagues of us a tornado may be destroying the crops, or
a tempest submerging ships. Since peace and fine weather cannot be
universal, let us try to make the most of them while they are in our
possession, and let us not worry as to what sort of weather our
neighbors are having.
A gentleman, who presumably had no desire to sleep, was walking through
the streets of Paris, which had become almost silent. For more than an
hour, he had been walking on the boulevards, from Rue du Temple to Rue
Poissonnière; occasionally, without any very clear idea as to where he
was going, he strayed into the faubourgs; but he soon stopped, looked
about him, muttered between his teeth: "What the devil am I doing here?"
and returned to the boulevards.
This gentleman seemed to be in the neighborhood of thirty years of age;
he was of medium height, and rather stout than thin. His face was
neither ugly nor handsome; his round eyes protruded overmuch, and his
nose, while not exactly flat, had neither the nobility of the Grecian
nor the charm of the aquiline type. By way of compensation, he had what
is called expression, and possessed the art of forcing his features to
depict the sentiment which he desired to seem to feel: an art no less
valuable in society than on the stage; for we are actors everywhere, and
there are at court, in the city, in palaces, in salons, in boudoirs, and
even in the servants' hall, people of unexcelled skill in the art of
counterfeiting what they do not feel.
Our promenader's costume was neither elegant nor shabby. He was dressed
like one who is in the habit of going into society, but not for the
purpose of exhibiting the cut of his coat or the color of his trousers.
His bearing corresponded with his dress; it was not at all pretentious.
You will say, perhaps, that a man does not select so late an hour of the
night to adopt a swagger or a mincing gait; I shall, in that case, have
the honor to reply that I am drawing the portrait of the man as he was
under ordinary circumstances, and that I had made his acquaintance prior
to the moment of his introduction to you.
Now that you have the means of forming an idea of this individual's
appearance, you will perhaps be curious to know what business detained
him on the boulevards, why he was walking there so late instead of
going home to bed. In order to find out, let us listen to him for a
moment talking to himself as he walks, with both hands in his pockets,
and as unconcernedly as if it were only eight o'clock in the evening.
"I had a presentiment of what would happen to me. I didn't want to go to
that little Delphine's. If I had stayed away, I should still have my
five hundred francs in my pocket. But little Delphine is such a dear
creature! she wrote me such a sweet little note! Am I still green enough
to fall into such a trap? I, who know the world so well, especially
women! If I had had sense enough to take only three hundred francs with
me, I should have something left; but, no! I must needs play the
millionaire! I played like a fool. That little man who won my money
turned the king very often. Hum! it looks a little shady. But one thing
is certain, and that is that I haven't a sou, and that my landlord
turned me out of his house yesterday because I didn't pay him. For four
paltry louis! the Arab! I was going to pay him yesterday, with the five
hundred francs my old aunt sent me, when little Delphine's invitation
came and upset all my virtuous plans. Poor Dubourg! you are
incorrigible, my friend; and yet, you are beginning to be old enough to
reform."
At this point, Dubourg--for now we know his name--took his snuff-box
from his pocket, and paused to take a pinch.
"O my only comfort! my trusty companion!" he continued, gazing at his
snuff-box with an expression that was almost sentimental; "it's very
lucky that you are made of nothing more valuable than horn; if you had
been, I should have parted with you long ago.--But let us reflect a
little. What in the devil am I going to do? I have no employment; they
are so ridiculous in these public offices! I earned only fifteen hundred
francs, so it seemed fair to me that I shouldn't work any more than the
deputy-chief who earned three thousand; strictly speaking, indeed, I
ought to have worked only half as much. Now, as my deputy-chief never
appeared till noon and went away at four o'clock, and passed that time
reading the newspapers, cutting quill pens, chatting with his back to
the stove in winter, and going out to take the air in summer, I saw no
reason why I shouldn't get to the office as late as he did and go away
as early; pass an hour reading the _Moniteur_, three-quarters of an hour
on the _Constitutionnel_, and an hour and a quarter on the _Débats_;
stare at my pen a long while before trimming the nib; look at the work
before me without touching it; turn over a file of papers for an hour,
and then put it back in its place, without the slightest intention of
writing anything on it; and take as much time to go out to buy a roll as
it would have taken me to go from Paris to Saint-Cloud. This conduct,
dictated by a sense of justice, was not to the liking of my superiors;
as they wanted to force me to work hard, so that they need do nothing,
they didn't like it because I presumed to imitate them; they reported me
to the minister, and I was kicked out. To be sure, they offered to take
me back a little later, as a substitute, but I felt that I was unworthy
of such an honor.
"Then I went into a banking-house. Gad! what a difference! There, my
superiors set the example of working hard. From the head clerk to the
office-boy, everyone came at eight o'clock and stayed till five, then
came back at seven and stayed till ten; and during all that time, not a
minute's rest; writing, or making figures all the time. If by chance a
fellow could venture to say a word, it was only while he was copying a
letter or opening an account. No holidays! Always a mail coming in or
going out. A man couldn't do too much; and if I happened to leave the
office a few minutes before ten, an infernal Dutchman, who had passed
forty-five years of his life over a ledger, would always take out his
watch and say: 'You're in a great hurry to-night!'
"Faith, I couldn't stand it! That animal life was ruining my health; and
one fine morning, when they lectured me because I went out to get a
glass of beer at a café near by, I took my hat and said good-bye to
banking-houses and business.
"I tried being a notary, but I was too absent-minded: I mistook a death
certificate for a marriage contract, and a power of attorney for a will;
so I was politely advised to abandon that profession.
"Then I went into an old solicitor's office. Ah! I was in clover there
for some little time. He had a wife who was past her prime; she was very
fond of walking and driving, and she chose me for her escort. The
husband, who was thus relieved of that duty, was very well pleased to
have me escort her everywhere; I think he would have made me his first
clerk, if I would have agreed to take madame to walk all my life. But I
got tired of having always on my arm a costume _à la_ Pompadour and the
face of a country magistrate. I ceased to be attentive to madame,
monsieur took offence and discharged me. _O tempora! O mores!_
"Thereupon I renounced the legal profession; I felt in my heart the
impulses of a noble independence, an intense love of liberty. So I began
to do nothing--a superb profession, within everybody's reach; and a
delightful one when it is supported by investments in the funds.
Unluckily, my name is not inscribed on the books of the State, but only
on those of my tailor, bootmaker, et cetera. I am an orphan; my parents
left me very little, and that little could not last long, especially
with me, who am neither miserly, nor economical, nor prudent, and who
have no desire for money except to have the pleasure of spending it. My
father, an estimable Breton, practised medicine; he ought to have made a
fortune! Probably in his day there weren't enough colds, fevers, and bad
air. He left me nothing but a most honorable name, which, for all my
follies, I shall never suffer to be disgraced, because a man can be a
reprobate and still be honest.
"When I had spent my modest inheritance, I began to philosophize; I was
tempted to write, as Seneca did, on contempt for wealth. But Seneca had
a fortune of forty millions when he wrote that; so that he was better
acquainted with his subject than I am, without a sou. So, as one should
try to talk of nothing except what one knows about, I concluded not to
talk about wealth, of which I know nothing.
"Luckily, I still have an old aunt, in the wilds of Bretagne, who has
never married. The dear woman has only a modest fortune, and yet she has
never deserted her nephew. To be sure, I have written her some very
affecting letters. Poor, dear soul! she thinks I am married! Faith! as I
couldn't think of any other possible way of getting money from her, in
my last letter I made myself out, at one stroke, a husband and father;
yes, and the father of triplets! That was what brought the
five-hundred-franc note that I have just lost at écarté. O cursed
écarté! I swore that I wouldn't gamble any more, as I am in hard luck
this month. But how could I resist? I went to little Delphine's, who,
since she left the stage, receives the best people in Paris: artists,
authors, journalists, English, Russian, and Tartar noblemen. Tartars,
yes! indeed, I fancy that little man I played with was something of a
Greek.[A] To pass eighteen times in succession is a little too much! And
that other idiot, who made a point of offering me punch every time I
lost! as if I could drink five hundred francs' worth of it! Ah! my poor
old aunt! if you knew what had become of your money! The worst of it all
is that she won't send me any more for a long time. I can't have the
wife I have taken to my bosom, to touch my aunt's heart, lie in every
month; I have said she was sick twice already; I have credited my
triplets with all the diseases children have, and have given myself
inflammation of the lungs and jaundice. But that sort of thing will be
played out sooner or later. No, my poor aunt, no, I won't pester you any
more. No, I don't propose that you shall deprive yourself any longer of
all the little comforts of life, for your scamp of a nephew. I have
abused your goodness of heart too much. I blush to think how often I
have appealed to it; I feel in my heart a noble pride; and when I think
of your last remittance of five hundred francs! gone in four games! Gad!
it's horrible!"
[A] Greek, _i.e._, "sharper."
Dubourg began to walk a little more rapidly; he took his hands from his
pockets, as if he were furious to find nothing in them; but in a moment
he became calm again, resumed his former gait, and once more exclaimed:
"But what in the deuce am I going to do?"
At that moment, he passed one of those individuals who wander about the
streets at night, with a bag on their back and a hooked stick in their
hand, and halt in front of places which we avoid during the day.
"That's a last resort, to be sure," said Dubourg, glancing at the man
with the lantern; "but I confess that I don't as yet feel courageous
enough to employ it; and although a famous author has said: 'It is not
the trade that honors the man, but the man should honor the trade,' I
doubt whether I should be held in high esteem if I should take to that
little hooked stick; even though I possessed with it the wisdom of Cato,
the clemency of Titus, and the virtues of Marcus Aurelius.
"However, I have some talents of my own, and I am not reduced to that
yet. I love the arts; ah! I adore them! I was born to be an artist. I
don't know how to draw, I cannot play on any instrument, I do not write
poetry with great facility; but, for all that, I love painting, music,
and poetry. If I should go on the stage, I believe I should make a
success of it. But to make one's début at thirty years--that's rather
late in life. And then, the idea of the son of a doctor at Rennes going
on the stage! But why not? Louis XIV did it; he acted before his court;
and if I had been in Racine's place, I certainly would have written some
splendid parts for him, instead of trying to turn aside his inclination.
Our present-day authors wouldn't be so stupid; consequently they are
rich, whereas in Racine's time they were not.
"But I can't begin to-morrow, and yet I must dine to-morrow: a desperate
plight to be in when one has neither money nor credit. Come, come,
Dubourg! come, my fine fellow, don't be downcast, retain that lightness
of heart, that sang-froid which has never failed you thus far. Remember
that it is a glorious thing to be able to endure misfortune; that it is
in disaster that a brave heart manifests its courage. Oh! yes; it's easy
enough for me to say all this now, while my stomach is still full of
Mademoiselle Delphine's cakes and sweetmeats and punch; but when I am
hungry, I am afraid I shall be a wretched philosopher.
"In misfortune, one has recourse to one's friends; but one has no
friends when one is unfortunate. But sometimes men aren't so selfish as
they are said to be. Let me think! Frédéric! yes, he alone can be useful
to me. Frédéric is only twenty; he still looks upon the world as a young
man is likely to do at that age, when he has been, up to eighteen, under
his father's eye and under the care of a tutor. Frédéric is
kind-hearted, generous, easily moved--too easily, indeed; but it is not
for me to blame him for following too readily the impulses of his heart.
He has accommodated me several times; but, no matter; I am sure that
he'll do it again, if he can. Let us go to see Frédéric."
Dubourg mechanically put his hand to his fob, to see what time it was;
then he sighed, and murmured:
"Unlucky dog that I am! I have never been able to keep one a week. Ah!
my poor aunt! If I only had your five hundred francs!"
The weather was becoming threatening, and a few drops of rain fell. The
cabs had ceased to break the silence of the night; the street lanterns
cast only a faint and flickering light.
"It must be very late," said Dubourg, glancing about. "Frédéric lives
with his father, Monsieur le Comte de Montreville. How can I venture to
go there at this time of night? The count is inclined to be strict; he's
not one of your stage fathers, with whom you can do whatever you
choose. On the contrary, they say that he demands the most absolute
obedience from his son, and that his son trembles before him. But I have
no doubt that his severity is exaggerated; at all events, he hardly
knows me. I have been to the house several times, but he has seen me
only once or twice. Frédéric's apartment is in a different wing from
his, so we will try our luck."
And Dubourg, leaving at last the circle to which he had confined his
steps for so long, walked rapidly toward Rue de Provence, where the
Comte de Montreville's mansion was situated.
As he drew nearer to Frédéric's abode, his hope of seeing him before the
next day became fainter and fainter. Ought he to turn the whole house
upside down in the middle of the night? If he woke the son, he would
wake the father too; and it was a decidedly ill-advised method of
improving his acquaintance with Monsieur de Montreville, to call at his
house between two and three o'clock in the morning.
But Dubourg walked on, even while he reflected thus; like a lover, who
has sworn never to see his faithless one again, but who prowls
constantly about her abode and always ends by going in, still repeating:
"I will never see her again!"--At such time, reason speaks, but passion
guides our footsteps. Poor mortals! is it your fault, pray, that passion
so often carries the day?
As he approached the house, Dubourg's eyes were agreeably surprised by
the appearance of a double row of private carriages, whose lanterns
lighted a large part of the street. He quickened his pace; the carriages
were most numerous in front of the Comte de Montreville's house, and the
courtyard was filled with coupés, landaus, and vis-à-vis. The coachmen
were talking together, the footmen swearing impatiently; servants
hurried to and fro across the courtyard. Lamps on the carriage-stones
and on the broad steps banished the darkness, and delicious strains of
music floated out through the windows of the beautiful salon,
brilliantly lighted by thousands of candles, forming a strong contrast
with the depressing silence that reigned a short distance away.
Dubourg no longer walked: he ran, he leaped, he flew. The sight of the
lanterns, the noise made by so numerous a company, and the strains of
the contra-dances within, drove from his mind the serious thoughts which
had begun to monopolize it.
"There's a party going on," he cried, "a ball! Idiot that I am! to
forget that this was Thursday, monsieur le comte's reception day; and
they say he gives delightful parties. Frédéric has invited me several
times; he said he wanted to introduce me to his father. Hum! it rested
only with me to go into the best society, to make acquaintances who
would have given me a boost in the world. But, no; it isn't in my power
to be sensible and leave those damned billiard-tables! Ah! I recognize
that tune; it's by Rossini; a three-step. I danced to it at Vauxhall,
with the stout blonde."
Dubourg was already in the courtyard, threading his way among carriages,
coachmen, and footmen. No one had paid any attention to him; and, if he
had been suitably dressed, he might have entered the salons, and,
perhaps, have played cards and danced, without attracting the notice of
the host; for at such large functions, it not infrequently happens that
the master of the house fails to see and speak with all of his guests.
But Dubourg stopped under the windows of the salon on the first floor,
where dancing was in progress. In order to keep in the background, he
had walked away from the brilliantly lighted steps and taken his stand
in the shadow of a huge berlin, whence he could see the ball and
distinguish the dancers.
He was tempted for a moment to enter the salon; but, upon glancing down
at his dress, he realized that it was not an opportune moment to appear
before monsieur le comte, who was a great stickler for etiquette. His
coat was blue, with metal buttons; he wore high boots and a black
cravat. That was a very suitable costume in which to play écarté and
talk nonsense at Mademoiselle Delphine's, but it would have been
exceedingly out of place at Monsieur de Montreville's reception.
"Ah! if I had kept my aunt's five hundred francs," he muttered again, as
he turned his eyes from his costume to the ballroom, "I should have
outshone all those fine clothes!"
As he watched the dancing and eyed the ladies through the windows, most
of which were open because of the heat, Dubourg spied a table with a
green cloth in a smaller salon, at which two middle-aged men had just
taken their seats. They were soon surrounded by onlookers, and the table
was covered with gold.
In order to obtain a better view of the small salon, Dubourg climbed up
behind the carriage by which he was standing; there he could watch the
game perfectly, and could see the hand of one of the players, who was
sitting with his back to the window.
"How lucky they are!" he thought; "they are playing écarté. The deuce!
it's a warm old game; at least thirty louis a side! If I still had my
aunt's money, I could bet from here. What am I saying? If I ever touch
cards again, may I be damned! Ah! there's the same hand that I lost my
last game on; and I ought to have won it; I played according to rule.
Well! what the devil is he doing? He's going to ask for cards!"
And Dubourg, oblivious of the fact that he was on top of a carriage in
the courtyard, shouted:
"Don't take any cards! Play your hand, play it, I tell you! I'll answer
for the point!"
The voice surprised the players beyond words. They turned and stared,
and questioned each other.
"Who was that who undertook to advise me?" demanded the old man whose
turn it was to play. "Has he got more at stake than I have, to give him
the right to talk like that? Why don't you answer, messieurs?"
"The voice came from the courtyard," said a young man near the window.
"From the courtyard! from the courtyard! Do you mean to say that those
rascally footmen presume to watch us play and to make remarks?"
And the old gentleman with the powdered head left his seat and looked
into the courtyard. Dubourg jumped down from the carriage, and the shock
woke the horses; whereupon they began to prance, and tried to run. The
drowsy coachmen rubbed their eyes, thinking that the ball was over;
those who were talking hurried to their seats, and those in the street,
observing the commotion in the courtyard, did the same; while the
coachman and footmen of the carriage on which Dubourg had perched
struggled to pacify the horses.
Meanwhile, Dubourg had slunk away by the side of the house.
"It seems that I must always put my foot in it!" he muttered. "Here are
thirty coachmen and as many footmen all stirred up, and a pair of horses
have nearly trampled on me, just because I attempted to advise that old
fellow who doesn't know how to play the game and was going to ask for
cards when he ought to take every trick! That's the last time I'll ever
meddle in other people's business."
As Dubourg crept along by the wall, he came to a door just as a servant
came out to ascertain the cause of the noise in the courtyard. Dubourg
recognized Frédéric's valet, and instantly accosted him.
"Where is your master, Germain?"
"Ah! is it you, monsieur?" said the servant, who had often seen Dubourg
with his young master. "Have you come to the ball?"
"No, no; I have no desire to dance. Where is your master, I ask you?"
"Oh! Monsieur Frédéric is dancing. There are some beautiful women
inside, and he's an amateur, you know."
"The deuce! I would like to speak with him; I have something very
important to say to him, but I don't want to disturb him, or to go into
the salon; I am not dressed."
"If you wish, monsieur, I will take you to Monsieur Frédéric's
apartment; you can wait there comfortably until he retires."
"That's a delightful idea of yours, Germain; take me to Frédéric's
apartment at once."
Germain took a candle and went before Dubourg, who was overjoyed to have
found a place to finish the night. The valet, who had seen his master
display great friendliness to Dubourg, was certain that he would not be
reproved for what he was doing.
In due time, they arrived at the young man's apartment, which was so far
from the ballroom that the music could barely be heard.
"Would you like me to tell my master that you are here?" inquired
Germain, as he placed the candle on a table.
"No, it isn't worth while; I'll read while I am waiting. I am in no
hurry at all now; let him dance as long as he pleases."
Germain left Dubourg alone; whereupon he stretched himself out in a
luxurious easy-chair and tossed away the book he had taken up.
"To the devil with reading!" he said, assuming the position best adapted
for a nap; "it's high time for me to rest; I have earned it. Dance,
dance away! How comfortable it is in this chair, especially when one has
been within an ace of sleeping in the street! Here am I installed under
the roof of Monsieur le Comte de Montreville, a most respectable
gentleman, who has at least thirty thousand francs a year, and just one
son, whose friend I am, and whose education I aspire to finish; for they
have stuffed a heap of rubbish into his head, and have neglected to
teach him the most essential thing of all--knowledge of the human heart,
and especially of the female heart. As I am decidedly well posted in
that branch of knowledge, I propose to make something of our dear
Frédéric, and to teach him to know the world; so that he may make his
way, like me."
While he thus communed with himself, Dubourg began to nod, and before he
had been in the easy-chair five minutes he was sleeping soundly.
II
THE COMTE DE MONTREVILLE.--AN EVENING PARTY IN SOCIETY
The Comte de Montreville was, at the time that we make his acquaintance,
about sixty years old. The scion of a noble and wealthy family, he had
served in the army, married, and retired from service, and had succeeded
in coming safely through the tempests of the Revolution.
He was a short, slender man, with a cold, stern face which commanded
respect. He did not lack intelligence, nor was he the slave of a mass of
absurd prejudices of the sort that some old men were trying to make
fashionable, like paniers and curly wigs. Monsieur de Montreville was
not one of those men who insist on retrograding while others go forward;
he followed the general current of the time, and, wise amid a multitude
of fools, he blamed only those who, from a proneness to exaggeration,
from selfishness, or from incapacity, muddied the waters of a stream
which all the efforts of all mankind could not prevent from flowing.
But the count had been brought up strictly by his father. Accustomed
early in life to unquestioning obedience, he desired his son to be no
less submissive to him. At the age of six, young Frédéric lost his
mother. The count did not choose to marry again; he had a son to inherit
his name, and that was enough for him. He placed Frédéric at one of the
best schools in Paris. At fourteen, the young count, who was endowed
with an unusually fine intellect, had carried off several prizes. His
education was not then completed; but his father, fearing that at that
age he might form some dangerous intimacy, and impelled by his longing
to have him always by his side, in order to accustom him to absolute
obedience, took him away from the school, and gave him a private tutor.
This tutor, in whose charge the count placed his son, and with whom we
shall soon become very well acquainted, was neither a scholar nor a man
of brains; far from it. But he was entirely at the orders of monsieur le
comte, and would not have taken his pupil out to walk without first
asking the father's permission; that was the reason for his selection,
despite his limited mental qualifications.
The count was very fond of his son, but he would have been very sorry to
allow the full depth of his affection to appear; he would have
considered that he had forfeited his dignity and his claim to Frédéric's
respect if he had spoken to him in the kindly tone of a dear friend. But
is not our father the first friend that nature gives us? and ought the
respect we owe him to banish confidence and intimacy?
Frédéric loved his father, but he trembled before him. Accustomed from
childhood never to reply to him, and to obey promptly his lightest word,
he had retained, as he grew to manhood, that habit of passive obedience
and that timidity which made it impossible for him to allow his heart to
speak freely in his father's presence.
But we must do the Comte de Montreville the justice to say that he did
not abuse his power over his son. When Frédéric was eighteen, and his
education was at an end, the count dismissed the tutor, and, having sent
for the young man to come to him, addressed him thus:
"I am content with you, Frédéric. You have responded to the pains I have
taken with your education, and I have no reason to complain of your
disposition. But you are approaching the age at which a young man should
study the world for himself. Henceforth, therefore, you are to enjoy
absolute liberty. You will continue to live in the same house with me;
but I will give you the apartment in the wing that looks on the street;
mine is at the end of the courtyard; thus you will be able to go in and
out at any hour without disturbing me. My steward has orders to supply
you with money whenever you ask for it. I know you, and I am sure that
you will not abuse this indulgence. You are at an age when young men are
eager for pleasure; enjoy yourself, indulge in the follies
characteristic of your years; I mean those that lead neither the heart
nor the mind astray. You are easily moved, you adore all women! but this
enthusiasm will vanish and never return. Be more particular about
forming intimacies with men of your age; do not make friends too
hurriedly: one should be more exacting in the choice of a friend than of
a mistress. However, I shall not lose sight of you altogether; I trust
that the principles I have instilled into you will keep you from any
reprehensible excess, and that I shall have no reason to repent of
having given you liberty of action."
Frédéric, deeply touched by this harangue, would have rushed into his
father's arms; but the count, repressing that affectionate impulse,
which his own heart shared, confined himself to giving him his hand to
press, and added in a voice that trembled slightly:
"In a few years, I will look to your future; I will see about finding a
suitable wife for you. But the time for that has not come yet; enjoy
your youth, and do not abuse it."
Having said this, the count hastily left the room, for the conversation
had moved him; he felt tears in his eyes, and it would have distressed
him to allow Frédéric to see them.
Two years had passed since this interview, during which Frédéric, now
his own master, had followed the first impulse of his heart. Endowed
with an ardent and sensitive nature, Frédéric was certain speedily to
feel the pangs of love. At eighteen, most young men say to themselves:
"I must fall in love," as they say: "I must dance, or gamble, or ride."
But the young count did not treat love so lightly: his inexperienced
heart loved or believed that it loved sincerely, and desired to be
repaid in kind; treachery broke his heart, and he wept bitterly over the
infidelity of a mistress.
Frédéric had a fine figure, and a most attractive face, dignified and
sweet; his eyes expressed all that his heart felt. But he had not yet
acquired the careless tone and the free and easy manners of the dandies
of the day; he did not sway back and forth as he talked, he did not
smile into mirrors, he did not deal in the airy nothings which are so
popular in salons, and had not the art of looking a woman in the eye to
tell her that she was adorable. And as such cavalierish manners are
fashionable, and as the ladies care for nothing except what is
consecrated by the goddess of fashion, they considered Frédéric rather
sentimental, awkward even, and said to one another:
"He's not very bad, but he needs to be trained."
A _petite-maîtresse_ can hardly attach herself to a novice; she may
indulge a fancy for him, but only a reprobate can inspire a _grande
passion_; that is why poor Frédéric was constantly deceived and thrown
over by his mistresses.
It was at Tortoni's that he had made the acquaintance of Dubourg. On
that day, the philosopher, being in funds, had created an uproar at that
café, where he was entertaining four of his friends. Several strangers,
annoyed by the noise they made, tried to impose silence on them;
Dubourg's only reply was to throw the remains of a bowl of punch at
their heads. They sprang to their feet, shouting and threatening, and
during the quarrel Dubourg's four friends deemed it prudent to disappear
in rapid succession. He, enraged by their cowardly conduct in abandoning
him, was still holding out against his adversaries, when Frédéric
espoused his quarrel and offered to act as his second. Dubourg accepted,
and a duel took place the next day. Dubourg's antagonist was slightly
wounded, and the affair had no more serious results; but it served to
cement the friendship thus formed between Dubourg and Frédéric. The
former, although nearly ten years the young count's senior, was far from
being as reasonable as he; but his unfailing gayety pleased Frédéric,
who often felt the need of his friend's merriment to help him to forget
the infidelities of his charmers.
Now that we know the Comte de Montreville and his son, let us enter the
salons, where the most brilliant society of the capital was assembled,
because, as Dubourg had said, it was the count's reception day.
The company was scattered through several rooms, all resplendent with
the light of innumerable candles; here there was dancing, there
card-playing; elsewhere, the guests were chatting, or strolling about,
or standing where they could get a breath of air; the heat was intense
in the cardroom, where it was almost impossible to force one's way
through the crowd of bettors.
The ladies were remarkable for the elegance, and in some cases for the
singularity, of their toilets. As a general rule, the costumes of the
mothers are even more elaborate than those of the unmarried women. Is it
because they think that their daughters stand less in need of external
attractions? or is it true that coquetry increases as natural charm
decreases? I do not presume to decide the question. It is different with
men: with them, the ball costume, when once established, is soon adopted
by all, and those who desire to distinguish themselves have no other
resource than to dress their hair in some original way, or to devote
their attention to the knot of their cravat; but this last-mentioned
portion of the costume is beginning to be no longer a matter of choice.
But it was nearly three o'clock, and the party was drawing to a close.
It was the best of all times for the observer to use his faculties;
there were fewer people dancing, the circulation was less impeded, and
the guests who remained ventured to talk and laugh a little. Toward the
close of a ball, informality takes the place of ceremony, and many women
do not begin to be charming until they cease to be affected. Some
persons who had not previously had an opportunity to speak together were
conversing in a corner of the salon. Young men chatted with the pretty
partners, whom they invited from choice rather than necessity. The
ladies smiled more sweetly upon their escorts; people drew nearer
together, they knew one another better.
Monsieur de Montreville walked about his salons with the amiable manner
of a host who excels in the art of doing the honors. He talked with an
elderly marchioness who was sitting alone on a sofa; he said a
courteous word to a lady who was not dancing; and, on his way to her,
found time to bestow a compliment or two on the young dancers; he saw to
it that the punch was passed around, and the ices; he spent a moment
looking over the écarté table, and if somebody was wanted to take a bet
he was always ready.
But what was Frédéric doing, leaning against that mantel-shelf? he
seemed to be devoting his whole attention to the dance; but was it
really the quadrille which interested him so deeply? and why, if he was
thinking of nothing but that pretty maiden's agile movements, did he
seem to be suffering? Yes, to the keen observer, his tranquillity was
assumed, the smile which passed over his lips when he was spoken to was
forced and unnatural. Frédéric was preoccupied, but not with the dance.
A few feet away from him a young woman was seated, a young woman not
more than twenty years old, although she had been three years married to
a sexagenarian notary, who was in the cardroom at that moment.
Madame Dernange was very pretty; her vivacity, the sparkle of her eyes,
her costume, her brilliant intellect, everything about her had a
dazzling effect: she attracted, subjugated, enslaved, with a glance;
but, as she knew the power of her charms, she sought constantly to add
to the number of her adorers. At sixteen, she married Monsieur Dernange,
without the slightest affection for him; but she married him joyfully.
She was impatient to be her own mistress, and to give a free rein to her
penchant for flirtation.
With a husband nearly sixty, she was very certain of being able to do
just what she chose; and, in fact, Monsieur Dernange left her perfectly
untrammelled. She was seen at all receptions, balls, festivities of
every description. Sometimes her husband escorted her, but generally he
went to bed about the time that his wife left the house; which did not
prevent them from leading a very peaceful life. It is a very simple
matter to live happily with your wife: all you have to do is just to
allow her to do whatever she desires.
Monsieur Dernange had an abundance of _savoir vivre_; he was enchanted
to have his wife enjoy herself. Many people declared that the young
woman did not abuse his confidence, and it is very possible: she was a
great flirt, but flirts love no one; however, it is not well to trust
them too far.
Frédéric had not been able to look upon the brilliant Madame Dernange
with an indifferent eye. She had had no difficulty in setting him on
fire with a glance, and with a glance she had realized her triumph. The
young Comte de Montreville was not a conquest to be disdained; Madame
Dernange resolved to fasten him to her chariot, and for that nothing
more was necessary than a glance or two, an occasional smile, a faint
pressure of the hand, and a veiled remark uttered in a voice that seemed
to tremble slightly. And the coquette used all her powers with such art!
She was not in love, and she knew so well how to win love! A person who
loves sincerely has much more difficulty in making an impression than
one who does not love at all; for the latter is able to avail herself of
all her advantages, while the other, striving to appear amiable, is
often only awkward and embarrassed. Ninon said that, and Ninon knew what
she was talking about.
Poor Frédéric very soon succumbed to that treatment; he believed that
she loved, yes, adored him! and for a few days he lost his head. But at
this party of his father's a young and gorgeous colonel had made his
appearance; he was a man notorious for his _bonnes fortunes_, his
amorous adventures; a man, in a word, whom any woman might be proud to
number among her captives, and Madame Dernange had at once determined to
achieve this new triumph.
Poor Frédéric! you were utterly forgotten: she no longer gave a thought
to you, but was engrossed by the handsome colonel. Now and again, she
deigned to smile sweetly upon you, it is true; but you were in love, you
were jealous, and you saw that the coquette instantly turned her eyes
upon the man she desired to enslave.
Several times the young man had approached the scintillating Dernange;
he wished to show her that he had detected her perfidy; but she
contented herself with smiling at him, and saying:
"What on earth is the matter with you to-night, Monsieur de Montreville?
You have a solemn air which is most amusing."
How comforting such words are to a jealous lover! Frédéric made no
reply, but walked away with rage in his heart, while the coquette
laughed long and loud at a bright remark made by the colonel, or by some
other of her adorers.
Frédéric was on pins and needles all the evening; and, toward the close
of the festivities, seeing Madame Dernange on a sofa, on which the
colonel also had taken his seat, he stationed himself a few steps away.
He leaned against a mantel, with his back turned to them, and pretended
to be engrossed by the dance; but he did not lose a word of what was
said on the sofa. The colonel was amiable and gallant; he strove to make
himself agreeable to Madame Dernange, and she put forth all her powers
and played with him with her usual grace. She laughed so heartily, she
was so pretty, so fascinating, when she desired to make a favorable
impression! There was a constant exchange of compliments and clever
retorts, during which poor Frédéric was all on fire. If he had not held
himself in check, he would have insulted the colonel and overwhelmed the
faithless one with reproaches. Luckily, he retained his senses
sufficiently to realize all the impropriety of such a scene, and all the
ridicule it would bring upon him; for in love intrigues the party who
complains, and who is betrayed, is always laughed at. It is said: the
_vanquished_ pay the fine; we might vary this proverb slightly, and thus
make it truer, except in England, where husbands are in the habit of
exacting compensation in money when they are in the position which I
understand by _vanquished_.
The colonel paid his court in military fashion--that is to say, he made
much progress in a short time. Unluckily, this method is often
successful. Unluckily for timid lovers, that is; or is not she the best
who makes us happy most promptly? Frédéric heard him ask Madame
Dernange's permission to call to pay his respects. The respects of a
colonel of hussars! Frédéric was bathed in cold perspiration at the
thought. The pretty woman made some resistance; she laughed and joked,
and said that he must ask her husband first; then added, with a rippling
laugh:
"But, no; no, you needn't! Monsieur Dernange will have no objection."
The colonel was urgent, and he received permission. Frédéric was choking
with rage; he walked hastily away, for he could stand it no longer. He
went into a room which was empty for the moment, a large number of the
guests having already taken their leave.
He threw himself into an easy-chair. The room was but dimly lighted by
the flickering candles in glass globes; he could abandon himself without
reserve to his feelings. He drew his handkerchief, he was choking; his
eyes were filled with tears. A young man almost always pays with tears
the fees of his apprenticeship in society. In two or three years, he
will laugh at the misfortune that now drives him to despair. After being
deceived, he will deceive in his turn; but he will never again be so
foolish as to fix his fancy on a coquette, and it may be that some
hearts that love him sincerely will be rejected by him, for the innocent
often have to pay for the guilty. But, let us wait: it is possible that
Frédéric will always retain that emotional nature, that constancy in
love, which now cause him to regret the loss of a heart that he never
possessed.
The words _faithless_, _fickle_, _traitress_, issued from his mouth,
followed by long sighs. For more than half an hour he had been buried in
his reflections. The candles had gone out, the music had ceased. Several
people passed him without attracting his attention, nor was he, sitting
in a dark corner, noticed by them. Some ladies came into the room to get
their shawls, which they had left on a couch not far from Frédéric. But
a familiar voice awoke the echoes in his heart: it was the voice of
Madame Dernange, talking with one of her friends. They seemed in
excellent spirits.
"What sport I have had!" said the notary's wife. "That colonel is really
very attractive!"
"But, my dear, did you see the wry face Frédéric made?"
"Yes, indeed I did, and I was strongly tempted to laugh!"
"You drove him to despair."
"What a calamity! That young man is romantic and sentimental enough to
give one the blues; he's an idiot!"
"Oh! he's a very pretty fellow, my dear; and when he has got rid of that
schoolboy air, and has acquired the tone of fashionable gallantry,
you'll see how popular he will be!"
"When I choose to amuse myself with him again, I have only to say a
word, to glance at him, and he will be at my feet. But give me my shawl,
which you have had in your hand an hour. The colonel is waiting to
escort me to my carriage."
When the ladies had gone, Frédéric rose. He found it difficult to
believe his ears. Shame, jealousy, anger, filled his heart, where love
had already ceased to fill any space; for his self-esteem had been
wounded, and wounded self-esteem soon triumphs over love.
In this frame of mind, Frédéric retired to his apartment; he slammed the
door as he entered, and thereby woke Dubourg with a start.
III
TRAVELLING PLANS.--MONSIEUR MÉNARD.--EN ROUTE.
"I count four!" cried Dubourg, springing to his feet; while Frédéric,
surprised to find him there, stared at him a moment in silence, then
abandoned himself unreservedly to the pleasure of pouring out his heart
and telling his sorrows to his friend.
"Ah! my dear Dubourg! it must have been heaven that sent you."
"No; it was my landlord, who has turned me out of the house."
"At last I have found a heart which understands mine, which will
appreciate my distress and pity my torments."
"Have you been betting on the wrong side, too?"
"The treacherous, fickle creature!"
"Luck is a woman, my friend; that tells the whole story."
"Yes, and a very heartless woman, too! If you knew what she dared to say
about me!"
"What's that! has luck been talking about you?"
"I am an idiot! Indeed, she is right; I was an idiot to love her! But
it's all over, yes, forever! She thinks that she can bring me to her
feet, enslave me again, with a word and a smile! But, no, I will not be
her dupe again; I know her now!"
Dubourg rubbed his eyes and looked at Frédéric, who was pacing the floor
with an air of desperation, sometimes stopping to beat his forehead,
sometimes smiling bitterly.
"Who in the devil are you talking about, my dear fellow?"
"Why, Madame Dernange, that woman whose heart is as false as her face is
pretty, that coquette whom I have adored for two months, and who, as I
believed, loved me. But, my dear Dubourg, she was making a fool of me."
"And that surprises you? Ah! my poor Frédéric, what a boy you still
are!"
"She made me believe that she reciprocated my love; and this evening, a
new-comer, a colonel, has stolen her heart from me, apparently without
much difficulty. I was strongly tempted to insult the fellow and kill
him."
"Would that have made your Madame Dernange less fickle?"
"No, of course not; that is what I said to myself."
"In making love to her, he did what any other man would have done in his
place. You ought not to bear him any grudge for it; on the contrary, you
ought to be grateful to him, for he has taught you to know a woman who
was making a fool of you."
"I believe you are right," said Frédéric sadly, seating himself in an
easy-chair, while Dubourg, now wide awake, thought it a fitting moment
to deliver a lecture to his friend.
"Listen to me, my dear Frédéric; I am older than you are, I have seen a
good deal of the world, and I have a large store of experience, although
I still do foolish things. Now, let me tell you that you have an
unfortunate tendency to indulge in sentimental and romantic passions,
which will do you a bad turn some day. You absolutely insist on being
loved, adored, if you will! Damnation! do you mean to pass your life
sighing? Is that the way a young man ought to make love? It isn't that
you are in reality more constant than other men, for this is your
seventh ill-fated passion in the year that I have known you. The great
trouble is that your seven passions have all left you first, whereas you
ought to have taken the initiative. However, you have always found
consolation thus far, and you will this time too, I promise you. But, my
friend, don't, I implore you, take on so seriously for what ought to be
simply a youthful folly. You must have a certain amount of sentiment, to
gratify the ladies, but you mustn't overdo it; because, you see, excess
of sentiment kills sentiment; and what I am saying to you is perfectly
reasonable; I am sure that your father, the count, would agree with me,
if he were here, and that he would be overjoyed to find that you have a
friend who gives you nothing but good advice, and who would give you a
lot more--if he had not lost last night the five hundred francs his poor
aunt sent him."
Frédéric had not listened very attentively to Dubourg's speech; but he
had grown calmer, because the most violent tempests are always of the
shortest duration, and the young man believed himself to be much more in
love than he really was.
"How does it happen that I find you here in the middle of the night?" he
asked Dubourg, at last.