PART II. LETTERS EXPLANATORY

I. THE COMTE DE L’ESTORADE TO MONSIEUR MARIE-GASTON

[See “The Memoirs of Two Young Married Women.”]

Dear Monsieur,--In accordance with your desire I have seen the prefect

of police, in order to ascertain if the pious intention of which you

wrote me in your letter, dated from Carrara, would meet with opposition

from the authorities.

The prefect informed me that the imperial decree of the 23rd Prairial,

year XII., by which the whole system of burials is still regulated,

establishes, in the most unequivocal manner, the right of all persons to

be interred on their own property. You have only to obtain a permit

from the prefecture of the Seine-et-Oise, and then, without further

formality, you can remove the remains of Madame Marie-Gaston to the

mausoleum you propose to erect in your park at Ville d’Avray.

But I shall venture myself to offer an objection. Are you quite sure

that you will not expose yourself to certain difficulties made by the

Chaulieus, with whom you are not on the best of terms?

Will they not, to a certain extent, be justified in complaining that the

removal from a public cemetery to private grounds of the body of one who

is dear to them as well as to you, would make their visits to her grave

entirely dependent on your good will and pleasure? For of course, and

this is evident, you will always have the right to forbid their entrance

to your property.

I know that, legally, the body of the wife, living or dead, belongs to

the husband, to the exclusion of her relations, even the nearest; but,

under the influence of the ill-will of which they have already given you

proof, the relations of Madame Marie-Gaston might have the distressing

idea of carrying the matter into court, and if so, how painful to you!

You would gain the suit, no doubt, for the Duc de Chaulieu’s influence

is not what it was under the Restoration; but have you reflected on the

venom which the speech of a lawyer might shed upon such a question? and

remember that he will speak as the echo of honorable affections--those

of a father, mother, and two brothers asking not to be deprived of the

sad happiness of praying at the grave of their lost one.

If you will let me express my thought, it is not without keen regret

that I see you engaged in creating fresh nourishment for your grief,

already so long inconsolable. We had hoped that, after passing two years

in Italy, you would return to us more resigned, and able to take up an

active life which might distract your mind. Evidently, this species of

temple which you propose, in the fervor of your recollections, to erect

in a spot where they are, alas! already too numerous, can only serve to

perpetuate their bitterness; and I cannot approve the revival you are

proposing to make of them.

Nevertheless, as we should always serve a friend according to his

wishes, not our own, I have done your commission relating to Monsieur

Dorlange, the sculptor, but I must tell you frankly that he showed no

eagerness to enter into your wishes. His first remark, when I announced

myself as coming from you, was that he did not know you; and this reply,

singular as it may seem to you, was made so naturally that at first I

thought there must be some mistake, the result, possibly, of confusion

of name. However, before long your oblivious friend was willing to agree

that he studied with you at the college of Tours and also that hew as

the same Monsieur Dorlange who, in 1831 and under quite exceptional

circumstances, carried off the grand prize for sculpture. No doubt

remained in my mind as to his identity. I attributed his want of

memory to the long interruption (of which you yourself told me) in your

intercourse. I think that that interruption wounded him more than you

are aware, and when he seemed to have forgotten your very name, it was

simply a revenge he could not help taking when the occasion offered.

But that was not the real obstacle. Remembering the fraternal intimacy

that once existed between Monsieur Dorlange and yourself, I could not

suppose his wounded feelings inexorable. So, after explaining to him the

nature of the work you wanted him to do, I was about to say a few words

as to the grievance he might have against you, when I suddenly found

myself face to face with an obstacle of a most unexpected nature.

“Monsieur,” he said to me, “the importance of the order you wish to give

me, the assurance that no expense should be spared for the grandeur and

perfection of the work, the invitation you convey to me to go to Carrara

and choose the marble and see it excavated, all that is truly a great

piece of good fortune for an artist, and at any other time I should

gladly have accepted it. But at the present moment, without having

actually decided to abandon the career of Art, I am on the point of

entering that of politics. My friends urge me to present myself at

the coming elections, and you will easily see that, if elected, my

parliamentary duties and my initiation into an absolutely new life

would, for a long time at least, preclude my entering with sufficient

absorption of mind into the work you propose to me.” And then, after

a pause, he added; “I should have to satisfy a great grief which seeks

consolation from this projected mausoleum. Such grief would, naturally,

be impatient; whereas I should be slow, preoccupied in mind, and

probably hindered. It is therefore better that the proposal should be

made elsewhere; but this will not prevent me from feeling, as I ought,

both gratified and honored by the confidence shown in me.”

I thought for a moment of asking him whether, in case his election

failed, I could then renew the proposal, but on the whole I contented

myself with expressing regret and saying that I would inform you of the

result of my mission. It is useless to add that I shall know in a few

days the upshot of this sudden parliamentary ambition which has, so

inopportunely, started up in your way.

I think myself that this candidacy may be only a blind. Had you not

better write yourself to Monsieur Dorlange? for his whole manner, though

perfectly polite and proper, seemed to show a keen remembrance of the

wrong you did him in renouncing his friendship, with that of your other

friends, at the time of your marriage. I know it may cost you some pain

to explain the really exceptional circumstances of your marriage; but

after what I have seen in the mind of your old friend, I think, if

you really wish for the assistance of his great talent, you should

personally take some steps to obtain it.

But if you feel that any such action is more than you have strength for,

I suggest another means. In all matters in which my wife has taken part

I have found her a most able negotiator; and in this particular case

I should feel the utmost confidence in her intervention. She herself

suffered from the exclusiveness of Madame Marie-Gaston’s love for you.

No one can explain to him better than she the absorbing conjugal life

which drew its folds so closely around you. And it seems to me that the

magnanimity and comprehension which she always showed to her “dear lost

treasure,” as she calls her, might be conveyed by her to your friend.

You have plenty of time to think over this suggestion, for Madame de

l’Estorade is, just now, still suffering from a serious illness, brought

on by maternal terror. A week ago our little Nais came near being

crushed to death before her eyes; and without the courageous assistance

of a stranger who sprang to the horses’ heads and stopped them short,

God knows what dreadful misfortune would have overtaken us. This cruel

emotion produced in Madame de l’Estorade a nervous condition which

seriously alarmed us for a time. Though she is now much better, it

will be several days before she could see Monsieur Dorlange in case her

feminine mediation may seem to you desirable.

But once more, in closing, my dear Monsieur Gaston, would it not be

better to abandon your idea? A vast expense, a painful quarrel with the

Chaulieus, and, for you, a renewal of your bitter sorrow--this is what

I fear. Nevertheless, I am, at all times and for all things, entirely at

your orders, as indeed my sentiments of esteem and gratitude command.

II. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, February, 1839.

Dear Madame de Camps,--Of all the proofs of sympathy which the accident

to my dear child has brought me, not one has touched me so much as your

excellent letter.

In reply to your affectionate solicitude I must tell you that in that

terrible moment Nais was marvellously calm and self-possessed. It could

not, I think, be possible to see death nearer; yet neither before nor

after the accident did my valiant little daughter even blench; her whole

behavior showed the utmost resolution, and, thank God! her health has

not suffered for a moment.

As for me, in consequence of such terror, I was seized with convulsive

spasms, and for several days, as I now hear, the doctors were very

uneasy, and even feared for my reason. But thanks to the strength of my

constitution, I am now almost myself again, and nothing would remain of

this cruel agitation if, by a singular fatality, it were not connected

with another unpleasant circumstance which has lately seen fit to fasten

upon my life.

Before receiving from your letter these fresh assurances of your regard,

I had thought of invoking the help of your friendship and advice; and

to-day, when you tell me that it would make you happy and proud to take

the place of my poor Louise de Chaulieu, the precious friend of whom

death has deprived me, can I hesitate for a moment?

I take you at your word, and that delightful cleverness with which you

foiled the fools who commented on your marriage to Monsieur de Camps

[see “Madame Firmiani”], that singular tact with which we saw you steer

your way through circumstances that were full of embarrassment and

danger, in short the wonderful art which enabled you to keep both

your secret and your dignity, I now ask you to put to the service of

assisting me in the dilemma I mentioned just now.

Unfortunately in consulting a physician we naturally want to see him and

tell him our symptoms _viva voce_, and it is here that Monsieur de Camps

with his industrial genius seems to me most aggravating. Thanks to those

villanous iron-works which he has taken it into his head to purchase,

you are almost lost to Paris and to society! Formerly when we had you

here, at hand, in ten minutes talk, without embarrassment, without

preparation, I could have told you everything; but now I am obliged to

think over what I have to say, to gather myself together, and pass into

the solemnity of a written statement.

But after all, perhaps it is better to plunge boldly in, and since, in

spite of circumlocutions and preambles, I shall have sooner or later

to come to the point, why not say at once that my trouble concerns the

stranger who saved my daughter’s life.

Stranger! yes, a stranger to Monsieur de l’Estorade and to all who have

told you about the accident, but not a stranger to me, whom, for the

last three months, this man has condescended to honor with the most

obstinate attention. That the mother of three children, one of them

a big boy of fifteen, should at thirty-three years of age become the

object of an ardent passion will seem to you, as it does to me, an

impossible fact; and that is the ridiculous misfortune about which I

want to consult you.

When I say that this stranger is known to me, I must correct myself; for

I know neither his name, nor his abode, nor anything about him. I have

never met him in society, and I may add that, although he wears

the ribbon of the Legion of honor, there is nothing in his air and

manner--which are totally devoid of elegance--to make me suppose I ever

shall meet him in our world.

It was at Saint-Thomas d’Aquin, where, as you know, I go to hear mass,

that this annoying obsession began. I used almost daily to take my

children to walk in the Tuileries, as the house we have hired here

has no garden. This habit being noticed by my persecutor, I found him

repeatedly there and wherever else I might be met outside of my own

home. Perfectly discreet, although so audacious, this singular follower

never accompanied me to my own door; he kept at a sufficient distance to

give me the comfort of feeling that his foolish assiduity would not be

observed by others.

Heaven only knows the sacrifices and annoyances I have borne to be rid

of him. I never go to church now except on Sundays; I often keep my dear

children at home to the injury of their health; or else I make excuses

not to accompany them, and against all the principles of my education

and prudence, I leave them to the care of the servants. Visits, shopping

I do only in a carriage, which did not prevent my _shadow_ from being

at hand when the accident happened to Nais, and saving her life, an act

that was brave and providential.

But it is precisely this great obligation I am now under which

makes--does it not, I appeal to you?--a most deplorable complication.

In the first place, about thanking him. If I do that, I encourage him,

and he would certainly take advantage of it to change the character of

our present intercourse. But if I pass him without notice--think of it!

a mother--a mother who owes him the life of her daughter, to pretend not

to see him! to pass him without a single word of gratitude!

That, however, is the intolerable alternative in which I find myself

placed, and you can now see how much I need the counsels of your

experience. What can I do to break the unpleasant habit this man has

taken of being my shadow? How shall I thank him without encouraging him?

or not thank him without incurring self-reproach?

Those are the problems submitted to your wisdom. If you will do me

the kindness to solve them--and I know no one so capable--I shall add

gratitude to all the other affectionate sentiments which, as you know, I

have so long felt for you.

III. THE COMTE DE L’ESTORADE TO MONSIEUR MARIE-GASTON

Paris, February, 1839.

Perhaps, my dear Monsieur Gaston, the public journals will have told you

before this letter can arrive of the duel fought yesterday between your

friend Monsieur Dorlange and the Duc de Rhetore. But the papers, while

announcing the fact as a piece of news, are debarred by custom and

propriety from inferring the motives of a quarrel, and therefore they

will only excite your curiosity without satisfying it.

I have, fortunately, heard from a very good source, all the details of

the affair, and I hasten to transmit them to you; they are, I think, of

a nature to interest you to the highest degree.

Three days ago, that is to say on the very evening of the day when I

paid my visit to Monsieur Dorlange, the Duc de Rhetore occupied a stall

at the Opera-house. Next to him sat Monsieur de Ronquerolles, who has

recently returned from a diplomatic mission which kept him out of France

for several years. During the entr’acte these gentlemen did not leave

their seats to walk about the foyer; but, as is often done, they stood

up, with their backs to the stage, facing the audience and consequently

Monsieur Dorlange, who was seated directly behind them, seeming to

be absorbed in an evening newspaper. There had been that day a very

scandalous, or what is called a very interesting, session of the Chamber

of deputies.

The conversation between the duke and the marquis having naturally

turned on the events of Parisian society which had taken place during

Monsieur de Ronquerolles’ absence, the latter made the following remark

which was of a nature to rouse the attention of Monsieur Dorlange.

“Your poor sister Madame de Macumer! what a sad end, after her singular

marriage!”

“Ah! you know,” replied Monsieur de Rhetore, in that high-pitched tone

of his, “my sister had too much imagination not to be romantic

and visionary. She loved her first husband, Monsieur de Macumer,

passionately, but after a time one gets tired of everything, even

widowhood. This Marie-Gaston crossed her path. He is agreeable in

person; my sister was rich; he was deeply in debt and behaved with

corresponding eagerness and devotion. The result was that the scoundrel

not only succeeded Monsieur de Macumer and killed his wife with

jealousy, but he got out of her every penny the law allowed the poor

foolish woman to dispose of. My sister’s property amounted to at

least twelve hundred thousand francs, not counting a delightful villa

splendidly furnished which she built at Ville d’Avray. Half of this that

man obtained, the other half went to the Duc and Duchesse de Chaulieu,

my father and mother, who were entitled to it by law as heirs ascendant.

As for my brother Lenoncourt and myself, we were simply disinherited.”

As soon as your name, my dear Monsieur Gaston, was uttered, Monsieur

Dorlange laid aside his newspaper, and then, as Monsieur de Rhetore

ended his remarks, he rose and said:--

“Pardon me, Monsieur le duc, if I venture to correct your statement;

but, as a matter of conscience, I ought to inform you that you are

totally misinformed.”

“What is that you say?” returned the duke, blinking his eyes and

speaking in that contemptuous tone we can all imagine.

“I say, Monsieur le duc, that Marie-Gaston is my friend from childhood;

he has never been thought a _scoundrel_; on the contrary, the world

knows him as a man of honor and talent. So far from killing his wife

with jealousy, he made her perfectly happy during the three years their

marriage lasted. As for the property--”

“Have you considered, monsieur,” said the Duc de Rhetore, interrupting

him, “the result of such language?”

“Thoroughly, monsieur; and I repeat that the property left to

Marie-Gaston by the will of his wife is so little desired by him that,

to my knowledge, he is about to spend a sum of two or three hundred

thousand francs in building a mausoleum for a wife whom he has never

ceased to mourn.”

“After all, monsieur, who are you?” said the Duc de Rhetore, again

interrupting him with ill-restrained impatience.

“Presently,” replied Monsieur Dorlange, “I shall have the honor to tell

you; you must now permit me to add that the property of which you say

you have been disinherited Madame Marie-Gaston had the right to dispose

of without any remorse of conscience. It came from her first husband,

the Baron de Macumer; and she had, previously to that marriage, given up

her own property in order to constitute a fortune for your brother,

the Duc de Lenoncourt-Givry, who, as younger son, had not, like you,

Monsieur le Duc, the advantages of an entail.”

So saying, Monsieur Dorlange felt in his pocket for his card-case.

“I have no cards with me,” he said at last, “but my name is Dorlange, a

theatrical name, easy to remember, and I live at No. 42 rue de l’Ouest.”

“Not a very central quarter,” remarked Monsieur de Rhetore, ironically.

Then turning to Monsieur de Ronquerolles, whom he thus constituted one

of his seconds, “I beg your pardon, my dear fellow,” he said, “for

the voyage of discovery you will have to undertake for me to-morrow

morning.” And then almost immediately he added: “Come to the foyer; we

can talk there with greater _safety_.”

By his manner of accenting the last word it was impossible to mistake

the insulting meaning he intended to attach to it.

The two gentlemen having left their seats, without this scene attracting

any notice, in consequence of the stalls being empty for the most

part during the entr’acte, Monsieur Dorlange saw at some distance the

celebrated sculptor Stidmann, and went up to him.

“Have you a note-book of any kind in your pocket?” he said.

“Yes, I always carry one.”

“Will you lend it to me and let me tear out a page? I have an idea in

my mind which I don’t want to lose. If I do not see you again after

the play to make restitution, I will send it to you to-morrow morning

without fail.”

Returning to his place, Monsieur Dorlange sketched something rapidly,

and when the curtain rose and the two gentlemen returned to their seats,

he touched the Duc de Rhetore lightly on the shoulder and said, giving

him the drawing:--

“My card, which I have the honor to present to you.”

This “card” was a charming sketch of an architectural design placed in a

landscape. Beneath it was written “Plan for a mausoleum to be erected to

the memory of Madame Marie-Gaston, _nee_ Chaulieu, by her husband; from

the designs of Charles Dorlange, sculptor, 42 rue de l’Ouest.”

It was impossible to let Monsieur de Rhetore know more delicately that

he had to do with a suitable adversary; and you will remark, my dear

Monsieur Gaston, that Monsieur Dorlange made this drawing the means of

enforcing his denial and giving proof of your disinterestedness and the

sincerity of your grief.

After the play was over, Monsieur de Rhetore parted from Monsieur

de Ronquerolles, and the latter went up to Monsieur Dorlange and

endeavored, very courteously, to bring about a reconciliation, remarking

to him that, while he was right in the subject-matter, his method of

proceeding was unusual and offensive; Monsieur de Rhetore, on the other

hand, had shown great moderation, and would now be satisfied with a mere

expression of regret; in short, Monsieur de Ronquerolles said all that

can be said on such an occasion.

Monsieur Dorlange would not listen to anything which seemed a submission

on his part, and the next day he received a visit from Monsieur de

Ronquerolles and General Montriveau on behalf of the Duc de Rhetore.

Again an effort was made to induce Monsieur Dorlange to give another

turn to his words. But your friend would not depart from this

ultimatum:--

“Will Monsieur de Rhetore withdraw the words I felt bound to notice; if

so, I will withdraw mine.”

“But that is impossible,” they said to him. “Monsieur de Rhetore has

been personally insulted; you, on the contrary, have not been. Right or

wrong, he has the conviction that Monsieur Marie-Gaston has done him

an injury. We must always make certain allowances for wounded

self-interests; you can never get absolute justice from them.”

“It comes to this, then,” replied Monsieur Dorlange, “that Monsieur de

Rhetore may continue to calumniate my friend at his ease; in the first

place, because he is in Italy; and secondly, because Marie-Gaston would

always feel extreme repugnance to come to certain extremities with the

brother of his wife. It is precisely that powerlessness, relatively

speaking, to defend himself, which constitutes my right--I will say

more--my duty to interfere. It was not without a special permission of

Providence that I was enabled to catch a few of the malicious words that

were said of him, and, as Monsieur de Rhetore declines to modify any of

them, we must, if it please you, continue this matter to the end.”

The duel then became inevitable; the terms were arranged in the course

of the day, and the meeting, with pistols, was appointed for the day

after. On the ground Monsieur Dorlange was perfectly cool. When the

first fire was exchanged without result, the seconds proposed to put an

end to the affair.

“No, one more shot!” he said gaily, as if he were shooting in a

pistol-gallery.

This time he was shot in the fleshy part of the thigh, not a dangerous

wound, but one which caused him to lose a great deal of blood. As they

carried him to the carriage which brought him, Monsieur de Rhetore, who

hastened to assist them, being close beside him, he said, aloud:--

“This does not prevent Marie-Gaston from being a man of honor and a

heart of gold.”

Then he fainted.

This duel, as you can well believe, has made a great commotion; Monsieur

Dorlange has been the hero of the hour for the last two days; it is

impossible to enter a single salon without finding him the one topic

of conversation. I heard more, perhaps, in the salon of Madame de

Montcornet than elsewhere. She receives, as you know, many artists and

men of letters, and to give you an idea of the manner in which your

friend is considered, I need only stenograph a conversation at which I

was present in the countess’s salon last evening.

The chief talkers were Emile Blondet of the “Debats,” and Monsieur

Bixiou, the caricaturist, one of the best-informed _ferrets_ of Paris.

They are both, I think, acquaintances of yours, but, at any rate, I

am certain of your intimacy with Joseph Bridau, our great painter, who

shared in the talk, for I well remember that he and Daniel d’Arthez were

the witnesses of your marriage.

“The first appearance of Dorlange in art,” Joseph Bridau was saying,

when I joined them, “was fine; the makings of a master were already so

apparent in the work he did for his examinations that the Academy, under

pressure of opinion, decided to crown him--though he laughed a good deal

at its programme.”

“True,” said Bixiou, “and that ‘Pandora’ he exhibited in 1837, after his

return from Rome, is also a very remarkable figure. But as she won him,

at once, the cross and any number of commissions from the government and

the municipality, together with scores of flourishing articles in

the newspapers, I don’t see how he can rise any higher after all that

success.”

“That,” said Blondet, “is a regular Bixiou opinion.”

“No doubt; and well-founded it is. Do you know the man?”

“No; he is never seen anywhere.”

“Exactly; he is a bear, but a premeditated bear; a reflecting and

determined bear.”

“I don’t see,” said Joseph Bridau, “why this savage inclination for

solitude should be so bad for an artist. What does a sculptor gain by

frequenting salons where gentlemen and ladies have taken to a habit of

wearing clothes?”

“Well, in the first place, a sculptor can amuse himself in a salon;

and that will keep him from taking up a mania, or becoming a visionary;

besides, he sees the world as it is, and learns that 1839 is not the

fifteenth nor the sixteenth century.”

“Has Dorlange any such delusions?” asked Emile Blondet.

“He? he will talk to you by the hour of returning to the life of the

great artists of the middle ages with the universality of their studies

and their knowledge, and that frightfully laborious life of theirs;

which may help us to understand the habits and ways of a semi-barbarous

society, but can never exist in ours. He does not see, the innocent

dreamer, that civilization, by strangely complicating all social

conditions, absorbs for business, for interests, for pleasures, thrice

as much time as a less advanced society required for the same purposes.

Look at the savage in his hut; he hasn’t anything to do. Whereas we,

with the Bourse, the opera, the newspapers, parliamentary discussions,

salons, elections, railways, the Cafe de Paris and the National

Guard--what time have we, if you please, to go to work?”

“Beautiful theory of a do-nothing!” cried Emile Blondet, laughing.

“No, my dear fellow, I am talking truth. The curfew no longer rings at

nine o’clock. Only last night my concierge Ravenouillet gave a party;

and I think I made a great mistake in not accepting the indirect

invitation he gave me to be present.”

“Nevertheless,” said Joseph Bridau, “it is certain that if a man doesn’t

mingle in the business, the interests, and the pleasures of our

epoch, he can make out of the time he thus saves a pretty capital.

Independently of his orders, Dorlange has, I think, a little competence;

so that nothing hinders him from arranging his life to suit himself.”

“But you see he goes to the opera; for it was there he found his duel.

Besides, you are all wrong in representing him as isolated from this

contemporaneous life, for I happen to know that he is just about to

harness himself to it by the most rattling and compelling chains of the

social system--I mean political interests.”

“Does he want to be a statesman?” asked Emile Blondet, sarcastically.

“Yes, no doubt that’s in his famous programme of universality; and you

ought to see the consistency and perseverance he puts into that idea!

Only last year two hundred and fifty thousand francs dropped into his

mouth as if from the skies, and he instantly bought a hovel in the rue

Saint-Martin to make himself eligible for the Chamber. Then--another

pretty speculation--with the rest of the money he bought stock in the

‘National,’ where I meet him every time I want to have a laugh over the

republican Utopia. He has his flatterers on the staff of that estimable

newspaper; they have persuaded him that he’s a born orator and can

cut the finest figure in the Chamber. They even talk of getting up a

candidacy for him; and on some of their enthusiastic days they go so far

as to assert that he bears a distant likeness to Danton.”

“But this is getting burlesque,” said Emile Blondet.

I don’t know if you have ever remarked, my dear Monsieur Gaston, that in

men of real talent there is always great leniency of judgment. In this,

Joseph Bridau is pre-eminent.

“I think with you,” he said, “that if Dorlange takes this step, and

enters politics, he will be lost to art. But, after all, why should he

not succeed in the Chamber? He expresses himself with great facility,

and seems to me to have ideas at his command. Look at Canalis when he

was made deputy! ‘What! a poet!’ everybody cried out,--which didn’t

prevent him from making himself a fine reputation as orator, and

becoming a minister.”

“But the first question is how to get into the Chamber,” said Emile

Blondet. “Where does Dorlange propose to stand?”

“Why, naturally, for one of the rotten boroughs of the ‘National.’ I

don’t know if it has yet been chosen.”

“General rule,” said the writer for the “Debats.” “To obtain your

election, even though you may have the support of an active and ardent

party, you must also have a somewhat extended political notoriety, or,

at any rate, some provincial backing of family or fortune. Has Dorlange

any of those elements of success?”

“As for the backing of a family, that element is particularly lacking,”

replied Bixiou; “in fact, in his case, it is conspicuously absent.”

“Really?” said Emile Blondet. “Is he a natural child?”

“Nothing could be more natural,--father and mother unknown. But I

believe, myself, that he can be elected. It is the ins and outs of his

political ideas that will be the wonder.”

“He is a republican, I suppose, if he is a friend of those ‘National’

gentlemen, and resembles Danton?”

“Yes, of course; but he despises his co-religionists, declaring they

are only good for carrying a point, and for violence and bullying.

Provisionally, he is satisfied with a monarchy hedged in by republican

institutions; but he insists that our civic royalty will infallibly be

lost through the abuse of influence, which he roughly calls corruption.

This will lead him towards the little Church of the Left-centre; but

there again--for there’s always a but--he finds only a collection

of ambitious minds and eunuchs unconsciously smoothing the way to a

revolution, which he, for his part, sees looming on the horizon with

great regret, because, he says, the masses are too little prepared,

and too little intelligent, not to let it slip through their fingers.

Legitimacy he simply laughs at; he doesn’t admit it to be a principle

in any way. To him it is simply the most fixed and consistent form of

monarchical heredity; he sees no other superiority in it than that of

old wine over new. But while he is neither legitimist, nor conservative,

nor Left-centre, and is republican without wanting a republic, he

proclaims himself a Catholic, and sits astride the hobby of that party,

namely,--liberty of education. But this man, who wants free education

for every one, is afraid of the Jesuits; and he is still, as in 1829,

uneasy about the encroachments of the clergy and the Congregation. Can

any of you guess the great party which he proposes to create in the

Chamber, and of which he intends to be the leader? That of the righteous

man, the impartial man, the honest man! as if any such thing could live

and breathe in the parliamentary cook-shops; and as if, moreover, all

opinions, to hide their ugly nothingness, had not, from time immemorial,

wrapped themselves in that banner.”

“Does he mean to renounce sculpture absolutely?” asked Joseph Bridau.

“Not yet; he is just finishing the statue of some saint, I don’t know

which; but he lets no one see it, and says he does not intend to send it

to the Exhibition this year--he has ideas about it.”

“What ideas?” asked Emile Blondet.

“Oh! that religious works ought not to be delivered over to the judgment

of critics, or to the gaze of a public rotten with scepticism; they

ought, he thinks, to go, without passing through the uproar of the

world, piously and modestly to the niches for which they are intended.”

“_Ah ca_!” exclaimed Emile Blondet, “and it is this fervent Catholic who

fights a duel!”

“Better or worse than that. This Catholic lives with a woman whom he

brought back from Italy,--a species of Goddess of Liberty, who serves

him as model and housekeeper.”

“What a tongue that Bixiou has; he keeps a regular intelligence office,”

said some of the little group as it broke up at the offer of tea from

Madame de Montcornet.

You see from this, my dear Monsieur Gaston, that the political

aspirations of Monsieur Dorlange are not regarded seriously by his

friends. I do not doubt that you will write to him soon to thank him

for the warmth with which he defended you from calumny. That courageous

devotion has given me a true sympathy for him, and I shall hope that

you will use the influence of early friendship to turn his mind from the

deplorable path he seems about to enter. I make no judgment on the other

peculiarities attributed to him by Monsieur Bixiou, who has a cutting

and a flippant tongue; I am more inclined to think, with Joseph Bridau,

that such mistakes are venial. But a fault to be forever regretted,

according to my ideas, will be that of abandoning his present career

to fling himself into the maelstrom of politics. You are yourself

interested in turning him from this idea, if you strongly desire to

entrust that work to his hands. Preach to him as strongly as you can the

wisdom of abiding by his art.

On the subject of the explanation I advised you to have with him, I must

tell you that your task is greatly simplified. You need not enter

into any of the details which would be to you so painful. Madame de

l’Estorade, to whom I spoke of the role of mediator which I wanted her

to play, accepted the part very willingly. She feels confident of being

able, after half an hour’s conversation, to remove the painful feeling

from your friend’s mind, and drive away the clouds between you.

While writing this long letter, I have sent for news of his condition.

He is going on favorably, and the physicians say that, barring all

unforeseen accidents, his friends need have no anxiety as to his state.

It seems he is an object of general interest, for, to use the expression

of my valet, people are “making cue” to leave their names at his door.

It must be added that the Duke de Rhetore is not liked, which may partly

account for this sympathy. The duke is stiff and haughty, but there is

little in him. What a contrast the brother is to her who lives in our

tenderest memory. She was simple and kind, yet she never derogated from

her dignity; nothing equalled the lovable qualities of her heart but the

charms of her mind.

IV. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORAADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, February, 1839.

Nothing could be more judicious than what you have written me, my dear

friend. It was certainly to have been expected that my “bore” would have

approached me on the occasion of our next meeting. His heroism gave him

the right to do so, and politeness made it a duty. Under pain of being

thought unmannerly he was bound to make inquiries as to the results

of the accident on my health and that of Nais. But if, contrary to all

these expectations, he did not descend from his cloud, my resolution,

under your judicious advice, was taken. If the mountain did not come

to me, I should go to the mountain; like Hippolyte in the tale of

Theramene, I would rush upon the monster and discharge my gratitude

upon him at short range. I have come to think with you that the really

dangerous side of this foolish obsession on his part is its duration and

the inevitable gossip in which, sooner or later, it would involve me.

Therefore, I not only accepted the necessity of speaking to my shadow

first, but under pretence that my husband wished to call upon him and

thank him in person, I determined to ask him his name and address, and

if I found him a suitable person I intended to ask him to dinner on the

following day; believing that if he had but a shadow of common-sense,

he would, when he saw the manner in which I live with my husband, my

frantic passion, as you call it, for my children, in short, the whole

atmosphere of my well-ordered home, he would, as I say, certainly see

the folly of persisting in his present course. At any rate half the

danger of his pursuit was over if it were carried on openly. If I was

still to be persecuted, it would be in my own home, where we are

all, more or less, exposed to such annoyances, which an honest woman

possessing some resources of mind can always escape with honor.

Well, all these fine schemes and all your excellent advice have come to

nothing. Since the accident, or rather since the day when my physician

first allowed me to go out, nothing, absolutely nothing have I seen

of my unknown lover. But, strange to say, although his presence was

intolerably annoying, I am conscious that he still exercises a sort

of magnetism over me. Without seeing him, I feel him near me; his eyes

weigh upon me, though I do not meet them. He is ugly, but his ugliness

has something energetic and powerfully marked, which makes one

remember him as a man of strong and energetic faculties. In fact, it

is impossible not to think about him; and now that he appears to have

relieved me of his presence, I an conscious of a void--that sort of void

the ear feels when a sharp and piercing noise which has long annoyed it

ceases. What I am going to add may seem to you great foolishness; but

are we always mistress of such mirages of the imagination?

I have often told you of my arguments with Louise de Chaulieu in

relation to the manner in which women ought to look at life. I used

to tell her that the passion with which she never ceased to pursue the

ideal was ill-regulated and fatal to happiness. To this she answered:

“You have never loved, my dearest; love has this rare phenomenon about

it: we may live all our lives without ever meeting the being to whom

nature has assigned the power of making us happy. But if the day of

splendor comes when that being unexpectedly awakes your heart from

sleep, what will you do then?” [See “Memoirs of Two Young Married

Women.”]

The words of those about to die are often prophetic. What if this man

were to be the tardy serpent with whom Louise threatened me? That he

could ever be really dangerous to me; that he could make me fail in my

duty, that is certainly not what I fear; I am strong against all such

extremes. But I did not, like you, my dear Madame de Camps, marry a

man whom my heart had chosen. It was only by dint of patience,

determination, and reason that I was able to build up the solid and

serious attachment which binds me to Monsieur de l’Estorade. Ought I

not, therefore, to be doubly cautious lest anything distract me from

that sentiment, be it only the diversion of my thoughts in this annoying

manner, to another man?

I shall say to you, as, MONSIEUR, Louis XIV.’s brother, said to his

wife, to whom he was in the habit of showing what he had written and

asking her to decipher it: See into my heart and mind, dear friend,

disperse the mists, quiet the worries, and the flux and reflux of will

which this affair stirs up in me. My poor Louise was mistaken, was she

not? I am not a woman, am I, on whom the passion of love could gain a

foothold? The man who, on some glorious day, will render me happy is

my Armand, my Rene, my Nais, three angels for whom I have hitherto

lived--there can never be for me, I feel it deeply, another passion!

V. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, March, 1839.

About the year 1820 in the course of the same week two _news_ (to use

the schoolboy phrase of my son Armand) entered the college of Tours. One

had a charming face, the other would have been thought ugly if health,

frankness, and intelligence beaming on his features had not compensated

for their irregularity and inelegance.

Here you will stop me, and ask whether I have come to the end of my own

adventure, that I should now be writing this feuilleton-story. No, this

tale is really a continuation of that adventure, though it seems little

like it; so, give it your best attention and do not interrupt me again.

One of these lads, the handsome one, was dreamy, contemplative, and a

trifle _elegaic_; the other, ardent, impetuous, and always in action.

They were two natures which completed each other; a priceless blessing

to every friendship that is destined to last. Both had the same

bar-sinister on them at their birth. The dreamer was the natural son of

the unfortunate Lady Brandon. His name was Marie-Gaston; which, indeed,

seems hardly an actual name. The other, born of wholly unknown parents,

was named Dorlange, which is certainly no name at all. Dorlange, Valmon,

Volmar, Melcourt, are heard upon the stage and nowhere else; already

they belong to a past style, and will soon rejoin Alceste, Arnolphe,

Clitandre, Damis, Eraste, Philinte, and Arsinoe.

Another reason why the poor ill-born lads should cling together was

the cruel abandonment to which they were consigned. For the seven years

their studies lasted there was not a day, even during the holidays, when

the door of their prison opened. Now and then Marie-Gaston received

a visit from an old woman who had served his mother; through her the

quarterly payment for his schooling was regularly made. That of Dorlange

was also made with great punctuality through a banker in Tours. A point

to be remarked is that the price paid for the schooling of the latter

was the highest which the rules of the establishment allowed; hence the

conclusion that his unknown parents were persons in easy circumstances.

Among his comrades, Dorlange attained to a certain respect which, had

it been withheld, he would very well have known how to enforce with his

fists. But under their breaths, his comrades remarked that he was never

sent for to see friends in the parlor, and that outside the college

walls no one appeared to take an interest in him.

The two lads, who were both destined to become distinguished men, were

poor scholars; though each had his own way of studying. By the time

he was fifteen Marie-Gaston had written a volume of verses, satires,

elegies, meditations, not to speak of two tragedies. The favorite

studies of Dorlange led him to steal logs of wood, out of which, with

his knife, he carved madonnas, grotesque figures, fencing-masters,

saints, grenadiers of the Old Guard, and, but this was secretly,

Napoleons.

In 1827, their school-days ended, the two friends left college together

and were sent to Paris. A place had been chosen for Dorlange in the

atelier of the sculptor Bosio, and from that moment a rather fantastic

course was pursued by an unseen protection that hovered over him. When

he reached the house in Paris to which the head-master of the school had

sent him, he found a dainty little apartment prepared for his reception.

Under the glass shade of the clock was a large envelope addressed to

him, so placed as to strike his eye the moment that he entered the

room. In that envelope was a note, written in pencil, containing these

words:--

The day after your arrival in Paris go at eight in the morning

punctually to the garden of the Luxembourg, Allee de

l’Observatoire, fourth bench to the right, starting from the gate.

This order is strict. Do not fail to obey it.

Punctual to the minute, Dorlange was not long at the place of rendezvous

before he was met by a very small man, whose enormous head, bearing an

immense shock of hair, together with a pointed nose, chin, and crooked

legs made him seem like a being escaped from one of Hoffman’s tales.

Without saying a word, for to his other physical advantages this weird

messenger added that of being deaf and dumb, he placed in the young

man’s hand a letter and a purse. The letter said that the family of

Dorlange were glad to see that he wished to devote himself to art. They

urged him to work bravely and to profit by the instructions of the great

master under whose direction he was placed. They hoped he would live

virtuously; and, in any case, an eye would be kept upon his conduct.

There was no desire, the letter went on to say, that he should be

deprived of the respectable amusements of his age. For his needs and

for his pleasures, he might count upon the sum of six hundred and fifty

francs every three months, which would be given to him in the same place

by the same man; but he was expressly forbidden to follow the messenger

after he had fulfilled his commission; if this injunction were directly

or indirectly disobeyed, the punishment would be severe; it would be

nothing less than the withdrawal of the stipend and, possibly, total

abandonment.

Do you remember, my dear Madame de Camps, that in 1831 you and I went

together to the Beaux-Arts to see the exhibition of works which were

competing for the Grand Prix in sculpture? The subject given out for

competition was Niobe weeping for her children. Do you also remember my

indignation at one of the competing works around which the crowd was so

compact that we could scarcely approach it? The insolent youth had dared

to turn that sacred subject into jest! His Niobe was infinitely touching

in her beauty and grief, but to represent her children, as he did,

by monkeys squirming on the ground in the most varied and grotesque

attitudes, what a deplorable abuse of talent--!

You tried in vain to make me see that the monkeys were enchantingly

graceful and clever, and that a mother’s blind idolatry could not be

more ingeniously ridiculed; I held to the opinion that the conception

was monstrous, and the indignation of the old academicians who demanded

the expulsion of this intolerable work, seemed to me most justifiable.

But the Academy, instigated by the public and by the newspapers, which

talked of opening a subscription to send the young sculptor to Rome,

were not of my opinion and that of their older members. The extreme

beauty of the Niobe atoned for all the rest and the defamer of mothers

saw his work crowned, in spite of an admonition given to him by the

venerable secretary on the day of the distribution of the prizes.

But, poor fellow! I excuse him, for I now learn that he never knew his

mother. It was Dorlange, the poor abandoned child at Tours, the friend

of Marie-Gaston.

From 1827 to 1831 the two friends were inseparable. Dorlange, regularly

supplied with means, was a sort of Marquis d’Aligre; Gaston, on the

contrary, was reduced to his own resources for a living, and would have

lived a life of extreme poverty had it not been for his friend. But

where friends love each other--and the situation is more rare

than people imagine--all on one side and nothing on the other is a

determining cause for association. So, without any reckoning between

them, our two pigeons held in common their purse, their earnings, their

pains, pleasures, hopes, in fact, they held all things in common, and

lived but one life between the two. This state of things lasted till

Dorlange had won the Grand Prix, and started for Rome. Henceforth

community of interests was no longer possible. But Dorlange, still

receiving an ample income through his mysterious dwarf, bethought

himself of making over to Gaston the fifteen hundred francs paid to him

by the government for the “prix de Rome.” But a good heart in receiving

is more rare than the good heart that gives. His mind being ulcerated

by constant misfortune Marie-Gaston refused, peremptorily, what pride

insisted on calling _alms_. Work, he said, had been provided for him by

Daniel d’Arthez, one of our greatest writers, and the payment for that,

added to his own small means, sufficed him. This proud rejection, not

properly understood by Dorlange, produced a slight coolness between

the two friends; nevertheless, until the year 1833, their intimacy

was maintained by a constant exchange of letters. But here, on

Marie-Gaston’s side, perfect confidence ceased, after a time, to exist.

He was hiding something; his proud determination to depend wholly on

himself was a sad mistake. Each day brought him nearer to penury. At

last, staking all upon one throw, he imprudently involved himself in

journalism. Assuming all the risks of an enterprise which amounted to

thirty thousand francs, a stroke of ill-fortune left him nothing to look

forward to but a debtor’s prison, which yawned before him.

It was at this moment that his meeting with Louise de Chaulieu

took place. During the nine months that preceded their marriage,

Marie-Gaston’s letters to his friend became fewer and far-between.

Dorlange ought surely to have been the first to know of this change in

the life of his friend, but not one word of it was confided to him.

This was exacted by the high and mighty lady of Gaston’s love, Louise de

Chaulieu, Baronne de Macumer.

When the time for the marriage came, Madame de Macumer pushed this mania

for secrecy to extremes. I, her nearest and dearest friend, was scarcely

informed of the event, and no one was admitted to the ceremony

except the witnesses required by law. Dorlange was still absent. The

correspondence between them ceased, and if Marie-Gaston had entered the

convent of La Trappe, he could not have been more completely lost to his

friend.

When Dorlange returned from Rome in 1836, the sequestration of

Marie-Gaston’s person and affection was more than ever close and

inexorable. Dorlange had too much self-respect to endeavor to pass the

barriers thus opposed to him, and the old friends not only never saw

each other, but no communication passed between them.

But when the news of Madame Marie-Gaston’s death reached him Dorlange

forgot all and hastened to Ville d’Avray to comfort his friend. Useless

eagerness! Two hours after that sad funeral was over, Marie-Gaston,

without a thought for his friends or for a sister-in-law and two nephews

who were dependent on him, flung himself into a post-chaise and started

for Italy. Dorlange felt that this egotism of sorrow filled the measure

of the wrong already done to him; and he endeavored to efface from

his heart even the recollection of a friendship which sympathy under

misfortune could not recall.

My husband and I loved Louise de Chaulieu too tenderly not to continue

our affection for the man who had been so much to her. Before leaving

France, Marie-Gaston had requested Monsieur de l’Estorade to take charge

of his affairs, and later he sent him a power-of-attorney to enable him

to do so properly.

Some weeks ago his grief, still living and active, suggested to him a

singular idea. In the midst of the beautiful park at Ville d’Avray is a

little lake, with an island upon it which Louise dearly loved. To that

island, a shady calm retreat, Marie-Gaston wished to remove the body of

his wife, after building a mausoleum of Carrara marble to receive it. He

wrote to us to communicate this idea, and, remembering Dorlange in this

connection, he requested my husband to see him and ask him to undertake

the work. At first Dorlange feigned not to remember even the name of

Marie-Gaston, and he made some civil pretext to decline the commission.

But see and admire the consistency of such determinations when people

love each other! That very evening, being at the opera, he heard the

Duc de Rhetore speak insultingly of his former friend, and he vehemently

resented the duke’s words. A duel followed in which he was wounded; the

news of this affair has probably already reached you. So here is a man

facing death at night for a friend whose very name he pretended not to

know in the morning!

You will ask, my dear Madame de Camps, what this long tale has to do

with my own ridiculous adventure. That is what I would tell you now if

my letter were not so immoderately long. I told you my tale would prove

to be a feuilleton-story, and I think the moment has come to make the

customary break in it. I hope I have not sufficiently exalted your

curiosity to have the right not to satisfy it. To be concluded,

therefore, whether you like it or not, in the following number.

VI. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, March, 1839.

The elements of the long biographical dissertation I lately sent you,

my dear friend, were taken chiefly from a recent letter from Monsieur

Marie-Gaston. On leaning of the brave devotion shown in his defence his

first impulse was to rush to Paris and press the hand of the friend who

avenged himself thus nobly for neglect and forgetfulness. Unfortunately

the evening before his departure he met with a dangerous fall at

Savarezza, one of the outlying quarries of Carrara, and dislocated

his ankle. Being obliged to postpone his journey, he wrote to Monsieur

Dorlange to express his gratitude; and, by the same courier, he sent

me a voluminous letter, relating the whole past of their lifelong

friendship and asking me to see Monsieur Dorlange and be the mediator

between them. He was not satisfied with the expression of his warm

gratitude, he wanted also to show him that in spite of contrary

appearances, he had never ceased to deserve the affection of his early

friend.

On receiving Monsieur Gaston’s letter, my first idea was to write to

the sculptor and ask him to come and see me, but finding that he was not

entirely recovered from his wound, I went, accompanied by my husband and

Nais, to the artist’s studio, which we found in a pleasant little house

in the rue de l’Ouest, behind the garden of the Luxembourg, one of the

most retired quarters of Paris. We were received in the vestibule by a

woman about whom Monsieur de l’Estorade had already said a word to

me. It appears that the _laureat_ of Rome did not leave Italy without

bringing away with him an agreeable souvenir in the form of a bourgeoise

Galatea, half housekeeper, half model; about whom certain indiscreet

rumors are current. But let me hasten to say that there was absolutely

nothing in her appearance or manner to lead me to credit them. In fact,

there was something cold and proud and almost savage about her,

which is, they tell me, a strong characteristic of the Transteverine

peasant-women. When she announced our names Monsieur Dorlange was

standing in a rather picturesque working costume with his back to us,

and I noticed that he hastily drew an ample curtain before the statue on

which he was engaged.

At the moment when he turned round, and before I had time to look

at him, imagine my astonishment when Nais ran forward and, with the

artlessness of a child, flung her arms about his neck crying out:--

“Are! here is my monsieur who saved me!”

What! the monsieur who saved her? Then Monsieur Dorlange must be the

famous Unknown?--Yes, my dear friend, I now recognized him. Chance, that

cleverest of romance-makers, willed that Monsieur Dorlange and my bore

were one. Happily, my husband had launched into the expression of his

feelings as a grateful father; I thus had time to recover myself, and

before it became my turn to say a word, I had installed upon my face

what you are pleased to call my grand l’Estorade air; under which, as

you know, I mark twenty-five degrees below zero, and can freeze the

words on the lips of any presuming person.

As for Monsieur Dorlange, he seemed to me less troubled than surprised

by the meeting. Then, as if he thought we kept him too long on the topic

of our gratitude, he abruptly changed the subject.

“Madame,” he said to me, “since we are, as it seems, more acquainted

than we thought, may I dare to gratify my curiosity?”--

I fancied I saw the claw of a cat preparing to play with its mouse, so I

answered, coldly:--

“Artists, I am told, are often indiscreet in their curiosity.”

I put a well-marked stiffness into my manner which completed the meaning

of the words. I could not see that it baffled him.

“I hope,” he replied, “that my question is not of that kind. I only

desire to ask if you have a sister.”

“No, monsieur,” I replied, “I have no sister--none, at least, that I

know of,” I added, jestingly.

“I thought it not unlikely, however,” continued Monsieur Dorlange, in

the most natural manner possible; “for the family in which I have met a

lady bearing the strongest resemblance to you is surrounded by a certain

mysterious atmosphere which renders all suppositions possible.”

“Is there any indiscretion in asking the name of that family?”

“Not the least; they are people whom you must have known in Paris in

1829-1830. They lived in great state and gave fine parties. I myself met

them in Italy.”

“But their name?” I said.

“De Lanty,” he replied, without embarrassment or hesitation.

And, in fact, my dear Madame de Camps, a family of that name did live

in Paris about that time, and you probably remember, as I do, that many

strange stories were told about them. As Monsieur Dorlange answered my

question he turned back towards his veiled statue.

“The sister whom you have not, madame,” he said to me abruptly, “I shall

permit myself to give you, and I venture to hope that you will see a

certain family likeness in her.”

So saying, he removed the cloth that concealed his work, and there _I_

stood, under the form of a saint, with a halo round my head. Could I be

angry at the liberty thus taken?

My husband and Nais gave a cry of admiration at the wonderful likeness

they had before their eyes. As for Monsieur Dorlange, he at once

explained the cause of his scenic effect.

“This statue,” he said, “is a Saint-Ursula, ordered by a convent in the

provinces. Under circumstances which it would take too long to relate,

the type of this saint, the person whom I mentioned just now, was firmly

fixed in my memory. I should vainly have attempted to create by my

imagination another type for that saint, it could not have been so

completely the expression of my thought. I therefore began to model this

figure which you see from memory, then one day, madame, at Saint-Thomas

d’Aquin, I saw you, and I had the superstition to believe that you were

sent to me by Providence. After that, I worked from you only, and as

I did not feel at liberty to ask you to come to my studio, the best I

could do was to study you when we met, and I multiplied my chances of

doing so. I carefully avoided knowing your name and social position, for

I feared to bring you down from the ideal and materialize you.”

“Oh! I have often seen you following us,” said Nais, with her clever

little air.

How little we know children, and their turn for observation! As for my

husband, it seemed to me that he ought to have pricked up his ears at

this tale of the daring manner in which his wife had been used as

a model. Monsieur de l’Estorade is certainly no fool; in all social

matters he has the highest sense of conventional propriety, and as for

jealousy, I think if I gave him the slightest occasion he would show

himself ridiculously jealous. But now, the sight of his “beautiful

Renee,” as he calls me, done into white marble in the form of a saint,

had evidently cast him into a state of admiring ecstasy. He, with Nais,

were taking an inventory to prove the fidelity of the likeness--yes, it

was really my attitude, really my eyes, really my mouth, really those

two little dimples in my cheeks!

I felt it my duty to take up the role that Monsieur de l’Estorade laid

aside, so I said, very gravely, to the presuming artist:--

“Do you not think, monsieur, that to appropriate without permission,

or--not to mince my words--steal a person’s likeness, may seem a very

strange proceeding?”

“For that reason, madame,” he replied, in a respectful tone, “I was

fully determined to abide by your wishes in the matter. Although my

statue is fated to be buried in the oratory of a distant convent,

I should not have sent it to its destination without obtaining your

permission to do so. I could have known your name whenever I wished;

I already knew your address; and I intended, when the time came, to

confess the liberty I had taken, and ask you to visit my studio. I

should then have said what I say now: if the likeness displeases you

I can, with a few strokes of my chisel, so change it as to make it

unrecognizable.”

My husband, who apparently thought the likeness not sufficiently close,

turned, at this moment, to Monsieur Dorlange, and said, with a delighted

air:--

“Do you not think, monsieur, that Madame de l’Estorade’s nose is rather

more delicate than you have made it?”

All this _unexpectedness_ so upset me that I felt unfitted to intervene

on behalf of Monsieur Marie-Gaston, and I should, I believe, have

pleaded his cause very ill if Monsieur Dorlange had not stopped me at

the first words I said about it.

“I know, madame,” he said, “all that you can possibly tell me about

my unfaithful friend. I do not forgive, but I forget my wrong. Things

having so come about that I have nearly lost my life for his sake, it

would certainly be very illogical to keep a grudge against him. Still,

as regards that mausoleum at Ville d’Avray, nothing would induce me to

undertake it. I have already mentioned to Monsieur de l’Estorade one

hindrance that is daily growing more imperative; but besides that, I

think it a great pity that Marie-Gaston should thus ruminate on his

grief; and I have written to tell him so. He ought to be more of a

man, and find in study and in work the consolations we can always find

there.”

The object of our visit being thus disposed of, I saw no hope of getting

to the bottom of the other mystery it had opened, so I rose to take

leave, and as I did so Monsieur Dorlange said to me:--

“May I hope that you will not exact the injury I spoke of to my statue?”

“It is for my husband and not for me to reply to that question,” I said;

“however, we can talk of it later, for Monsieur de l’Estorade hopes that

you will give us the honor of a visit.”

Monsieur bowed in respectful acquiescence, and we came away,--I, in

great ill-humor; I was angry with Nais, and also with my husband, and

felt much inclined to make him a scene, which he would certainly not

have understood.

Now what do you think of all this? Is the man a clever swindler, who

invented that fable for some purpose, or is he really an artist, who

took me in all simplicity of soul for the living realization of his

idea? That is what I intend to find out in the course of a few days, for

now I am committed to your programme, and to-morrow Monsieur and Madame

de l’Estorade will have the honor of inviting Monsieur Dorlange to

dinner.

VII. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, March, 1839.

My dear friend,--Monsieur Dorlange dined with us yesterday. My intention

was to invite him alone to a formal family dinner, so as to have him

more completely under my eye, and put him to the question at my ease.

But Monsieur de l’Estorade, to whom I had not explained my charitable

motives, showed me that such an invitation might wound the sensibilities

of our guest; it might seem to him that the Comte de l’Estorade thought

the sculptor Dorlange unfitted for the society of his friends.

“We can’t,” said my husband gaily, “treat him like the sons of our

farmers who come here with the epaulet of a lieutenant on their

shoulder, and whom we invite with closed doors because we can’t send

them to the servants’ hall.”

We therefore invited to meet him Monsieur Joseph Bridau, the painter,

the Chevalier d’Espard, Monsieur and Madame de la Bastie (formerly, you

remember, Mademoiselle Modeste Mignon) and the Marquis de Ronquerolles.

When my husband invited the latter, he asked him if he had any objection

to meeting the adversary of the Duc de Rhetore.

“So far from objecting,” replied Monsieur de Ronquerolles, “I am glad of

the opportunity to meet a man of talent, who in the affair you speak of

behaved admirably.” And he added, after my husband had told him of our

great obligation to Monsieur Dorlange, “Then he is a true hero, your

sculptor! if he goes on this way, we can’t hold a candle to him.”

In his studio, with a bare throat leaving his head, which is rather too

large for his body, free, and dressed in a sort of Oriental costume,

Monsieur Dorlange looked to me a great deal better than he does in

regular evening dress. Though I must say that when he grows animated in

speaking his face lights up, a sort of a magnetic essence flows from his

eyes which I had already noticed in our preceding encounters. Madame de

la Bastie was as much struck as I was by this peculiarity.

I don’t know if I told you that the ambition of Monsieur Dorlange is to

be returned to the Chamber at the coming elections. This was the reason

he gave for declining Monsieur Gaston’s commission. What Monsieur de

l’Estorade and I thought, at first, to be a mere excuse was an actual

reason. At table when Monsieur Joseph Bridau asked him point-blank what

belief was to be given to the report of his parliamentary intentions,

Monsieur Dorlange formally announced them; from that moment, throughout

the dinner, the talk was exclusively on politics.

When it comes to topics foreign to his studies, I expected to find our

artist, if not a novice, at least very slightly informed. Not at all.

On men, on things, on the past as on the future of parties, he had very

clear and really novel views, which were evidently not borrowed from the

newspapers; and he put them forth in lively, easy, and elegant language;

so that after his departure Monsieur de Ronquerolles and Monsieur de

l’Estorade declared themselves positively surprised at the strong and

powerful political attitude he had taken. This admission was all the

more remarkable because, as you know, the two gentlemen are zealous

conservatives, whereas Monsieur Dorlange inclines in a marked degree to

democratic principles.

This unexpected superiority in my problematical follower reassured

me not a little; still, I was resolved to get to the bottom of the

situation, and therefore, after dinner I drew him into one of those

tete-a-tetes which the mistress of a house can always bring about.

After talking awhile about Monsieur Marie-Gaston, our mutual friend, the

enthusiasms of my dear Louise and my efforts to moderate them, I asked

him how soon he intended to send his Saint-Ursula to her destination.

“Everything is ready for her departure,” he replied, “but I want your

_exeat_, madame; will you kindly tell me if you desire me to change her

expression?”

“One question in the first place,” I replied: “Will your work suffer by

such a change, supposing that I desire it?”

“Probably. If you cut the wings of a bird you hinder its flight.”

“Another question: Is it I, or the _other person_ whom the statue best

represents?”

“You, madame; that goes without saying, for you are the present, she the

past.”

“But, to desert the past for the present is a bad thing and goes by a

bad name, monsieur; and yet you proclaim it with a very easy air.”

“True,” said Monsieur Dorlange, laughing, “but art is ferocious;

wherever it sees material for its creations, it pounces upon it

desperately.”

“Art,” I replied, “is a great word under which a multitude of things

shelter themselves. The other day you told me that circumstances, too

long to relate at that moment, had contributed to fix the image of which

I was the reflection in your mind, where it has left a vivid memory; was

not that enough to excite my curiosity?”

“It was true, madame, that time did not allow of my making an

explanation of those circumstances; but, in any case, having the honor

of speaking to you for the first time, it would have been strange, would

it not, had I ventured to make you any confidences?”

“Well, but now?” I said, boldly.

“Now, unless I receive more express encouragement, I am still unable to

suppose that anything in my past can interest you.”

“Why not? Some acquaintances ripen fast. Your devotion to my Nais

has advanced our friendship rapidly. Besides,” I added, with affected

levity, “I am passionately fond of stories.”

“But mine has no conclusion to it; it is an enigma even to myself.”

“All the better; perhaps between us we might find the key to it.”

Monsieur Dorlange appeared to take counsel with himself; then, after a

short pause he said:--

“It is true that women are admirably fitted to seize the lighter shades

of meaning in acts and sentiments which we men are unable to decipher.

But this confidence does not concern myself alone; I should have to

request that it remain absolutely between ourselves, not even excepting

Monsieur de l’Estorade from this restriction. A secret is never safe

beyond the person who confides it, and the person who hears it.”

I was much puzzled, as you can well suppose, about what might follow;

still, continuing my explorations, I replied:--

“Monsieur de l’Estorade is so little in the habit of hearing everything

from me, that he never even read a line of my correspondence with Madame

Marie-Gaston.”

Until then, Monsieur Dorlange had stood before the fireplace, at one

corner of which I was seated; but he now took a chair beside me and

said, by way of preamble:--

“I mentioned to you, madame, the family of Lanty--”

At that instant--provoking as rain in the midst of a picnic--Madame de

la Bastie came up to ask me if I had been to see Nathan’s last drama.

Monsieur Dorlange was forced to give up his seat beside me, and no

further opportunity for renewing the conversation occurred during the

evening.

I have really, as you see now, no light upon the matter, and yet when

I recall the whole manner and behavior of Monsieur Dorlange, whom I

studied carefully, my opinion inclines to his perfect innocence. Nothing

proves that the love I suspected plays any part in this curious affair;

and I will allow you to think that I and my terrors, with which I

tormented you, were terribly absurd,--in short, that I have played the

part of Belise in the _Femmes Savantes_, who fancies that every man she

sees is fatally in love with her.

I therefore cheerfully abandon that stupid conclusion. Lover or not,

Monsieur Dorlange is a man of high character, with rare distinction of

mind; and if, as I believe now, he has no misplaced pretensions, it is

an honor and pleasure to count him among our friends. Nais is enchanted

with her preserver. After he left us that evening, she said to me, with

an amusing little air of approbation,--

“Mamma, how well Monsieur Dorlange talks.”

Apropos of Nais, here is one of her remarks:--

“When he stopped the horses, mamma, and you did not seem to notice him,

I thought he was only a man.”

“How do you mean,--only a man?”

“Well, yes! one of those persons to whom one pays no attention. But, oh!

I was so glad when I found out he was a monsieur. Didn’t you hear me cry

out, ‘Ah! you are the monsieur who saved me’?”

Though her innocence is perfect, there was such pride and vanity in this

little speech that I gave her, as you may well suppose, a lecture upon

it. This distinction of man and monsieur is dreadful; but, after all,

the child told the truth. She only said, with her blunt simplicity, what

our democratic customs still allow us to put in practice, though they

forbid us to put it into words. The Revolution of ‘89 has at least

introduced that virtuous hypocrisy into our social system.

But I refrain from politics.

VIII. THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

April, 1839.

For the last two weeks we have heard nothing more of Monsieur Dorlange.

Not only has he not seen fit to renew the conversation so provokingly

interrupted by Madame de la Bastie, but he has not even remembered that

it was proper to leave his card at the house after a dinner.

While we were breakfasting yesterday morning, I happened to make this

remark (though without any sharpness), and just then our Lucas, who, as

an old servant, sometimes allows himself a little familiarity, had the

door swung triumphantly open to admit him, bearing _something_, I knew

not what, wrapped in tissue paper, which he deposited with great care on

the table, giving a note to Monsieur de l’Estorade at the same time.

“What is that?” I said to Lucas, on whose face I detected the signs of

a “surprise,” at the same time putting out my hand to uncover the

mysterious article.

“Oh! madame must be careful!” cried Lucas; “it is fragile.”

During this time my husband had read the note, which he now passed to

me, saying:--

“Read it. Monsieur Dorlange sends us an excuse.”

The note said:--

Monsieur le Comte,--I think I observed that Madame la comtesse

granted me rather reluctantly her permission to profit by the

audacious larceny I committed at her expense. I have, therefore,

taken upon myself to change the character of my statue, and, at

the present moment, the _two sisters_ no longer resemble each

other. Nevertheless, as I did not wish that _all_ should be lost

to the world, I modelled the head of Saint-Ursula before

retouching it. From that model I have now made a reduction, which

I place upon the charming shoulders of a countess not yet

canonized, thank God! The mould was broken as soon as the one

cast, which I have now the honor of sending you, was made. This

fact may, perhaps, give some little additional value to the bust

in your eyes.

Accept, Monsieur le comte, etc., etc.

While I was reading the note, my husband, Lucas, Rene, and Nais had

eagerly extracted me from my swathings, and then, in truth, I appeared

no longer a saint, but a woman of the world. I really thought my husband

and children would go out of their minds with admiration and pleasure.

The news of this masterpiece spread about the house, and all our

servants, whom we rather spoil, came flocking, one after another, as

if sent for, crying out, “Oh, it is madame’s own self!” I alone did not

share in the general enthusiasm. As for Monsieur de l’Estorade, after

working for an hour to find a place in his study where the bust could be

seen in its best light, he came in to say to me:--

“On my way to the Treasury to-day I shall go and see Monsieur Dorlange,

and if he is at liberty this evening I shall ask him to dine with us.

To-day is Armand’s half-holiday, and I would like him to see the boy.

The assembled family can then thank him for his gift.”

Monsieur Dorlange accepted the invitation. At dinner Monsieur de

l’Estorade inquired further about his candidacy, giving it however, no

approval. This led straight to politics. Armand, whose mind is naturally

grave and reflective and who reads the newspapers, mingled in the

conversation. Against the practice of youths of the present day, he

thinks like his father; that is, he is very conservative; though perhaps

less just and wise, as might well be expected in a lad of fifteen. He

was consequently led to contradict Monsieur Dorlange, whose inclination

as I told you, is somewhat jacobin. And I must say I thought the

arguments of my little man neither bad nor ill-expressed. Without

ceasing to be polite, Monsieur Dorlange had an air of disdaining a

discussion with the poor boy, so much so that I saw Armand on the point

of losing patience and replying sharply. However, as he has been well

brought up, I had only to make him a sign and he controlled himself; but

seeing him turn scarlet and shut himself up in gloomy silence, I felt

that his pride had received a blow, and I thought it little generous in

Monsieur Dorlange to crush a young lad in that way.

I know very well that children in these days make the mistake of wishing

to be personages before their time, and that it often does them good

to suppress such conceit. But really, Armand has an intellectual

development and a power of reasoning beyond his age. Do you want a proof

of it? Until last year, I had never consented to part with him, and it

was only as a day scholar that he followed his course of study at the

College Henri IV. Well, he himself, for the sake of his studies, which

were hindered by going and coming to and fro, asked to be placed in

the regular manner in the school; and he employed more entreaties and

arguments with me to put him under that discipline than an ordinary boy

would have used to escape it. Therefore this manly air and manner, which

in most schoolboys would, of course, be intolerably ridiculous, seems in

him the result of his natural precocity; and this precocity ought to be

forgiven him, inasmuch as it comes to him from God.

In consequence of his unfortunate birth Monsieur Dorlange is less fitted

than most men to judge of children in their homes, and he therefore,

necessarily, shows a want of indulgence. But he had better take care; if

he wishes to pay court to me merely as a friend he has chosen a very bad

method of doing so.

Of course an evening in the midst of the family did not allow of his

returning to the subject of his private history; but I thought he did

not show any particular desire to do so. In fact, he occupied himself

much more with Nais than with me, cutting out silhouettes in black paper

for her during nearly the whole evening. I must also mention that Madame

de Rastignac came in and I, on my side, was obliged to give my company

to her. While we were conversing near the fire, Monsieur Dorlange at

the other end of the room was posing the two children Nais and Rene, who

presently brought me their likenesses snipped out with scissors, Nais

whispering triumphantly in my ear:--

“You don’t know; but Monsieur Dorlange is going to make my bust in

marble.”

Since this family dinner, civil war has been declared among my children.

Nais extols to the skies her “dear preserver,” as she calls him, and is

supported in her opinion by Rene, who is delivered over to the sculptor

body and soul in return for a superb lancer on horseback which Monsieur

Dorlange cut out for him. Armand, on the contrary, thinks him ugly,

which is undeniable; he says he resembles the portraits of Danton which

he has seen in the illustrated histories of the Revolution, in which

remark there is some truth. He says also that Monsieur Dorlange has

given me in my bust the air of a grisette, which is not true at all.

Hence, disputes among my darlings which are endless.

IX. DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON

Paris, April, 1839.

Why do I desert my art, and what do I intend to do in this cursed galley

of politics? This shows what it is, my dear romantic friend, to shut

one’s self up for years in a conjugal convent. During that time the

world has progressed. To friends forgotten at the gate life brings

new combinations; and the more they are ignored, the more disposed the

forgetter is to cast the blame upon those forgotten; it is so easy to

preach to others!

Learn, then, my dear inquisitor, that I do not enter politics of my own

volition. In pushing myself in this unexpected manner into the electoral

breach, I merely follow an inspiration that has been made to me. A

ray of light has come into my darkness; a father has partly revealed

himself, and, if I may believe appearances, he holds a place in

the world which ought to satisfy the most exacting ambition. This

revelation, considering the very ordinary course of my life, has come to

me surrounded by fantastic and romantic circumstances which served to be

related to you in some detail.

As you have lived in Italy, I think it useless to explain to you the

Cafe Greco, the usual rendezvous of the pupils of the Academy and

the artists of all countries who flock to Rome. In Paris, rue de

Coq-Saint-Honore, we have a distant counterpart of that institution in a

cafe long known as that of the Cafe des Arts. Two or three times a week

I spend an evening there, where I meet several of my contemporaries

in the French Academy in Rome. They have introduced me to a number of

journalists and men of letters, all of them amiable and distinguished

men, with whom there is both profit and pleasure in exchanging ideas.

In a certain corner, where we gather, many questions of a nature to

interest serious minds are debated; but the most eager interest, namely

politics, takes the lead in our discussions. In this little club the

prevailing opinion is democratic; it is represented under all its

aspects, the phalansterian Utopia not excepted. That’s enough to tell

you that before this tribunal the ways of the government are often

judged with severity, and that the utmost liberty of language reigns in

our discussions. The consequence is that about a year ago the waiter

who serves us habitually took me aside one day to give me, as he said, a

timely warning.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you are watched by the police; and you would do

well not to talk like Saint Paul, open-mouthed.”

“The police! my good friend,” I replied, “why the devil should the

police watch me? What I say, and a good deal else, is printed every

morning in the newspapers.”

“No matter for that, they _are_ watching you. I have seen it. There is

a little old man, who takes a great deal of snuff, who is always within

hearing distance of you; when you speak he seems to pay more attention

to your words than to those of the others; and once I saw him write

something down in a note-book in marks that were not writing.”

“Well, the next time he comes, point him out to me.”

The next time proved to be the next day. The person shown to me was a

short man with gray hair, a rather neglected person and a face deeply

pitted with the small-pox, which seemed to make him about fifty years of

age. He frequently dipped in a large snuffbox; and seemed to be giving

to my remarks an attention I might consider either flattering or

inquisitive, as I pleased; but a certain air of gentleness and integrity

in this supposed police-spy inclined me to the kinder interpretation. I

said so to the waiter, who had plumed himself on discovering a spy.

“_Parbleu_!” he replied, “they always put on that honeyed manner to hide

their game.”

Two days later, on a Sunday, at the hour of vespers, in one of my

rambles about old Paris--for which, as you know, I always had a taste--I

happened to enter the church of Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile, the parish church

of the remote quarter of the city which bears that name. This church

is a building of very little interest, no matter what historians and

certain “Guides to Paris” may say. I should therefore have passed

rapidly through it if the remarkable talent of the organist who was

performing part of the service had not induced me to remain.

To say that the playing of that man realized my ideal is giving it high

praise, for I dare say you will remember that I always distinguished

between organ-players and organists, a superior order of nobility the

title of which is not to be given unwittingly.

The service over, I had a curiosity to see the face of so eminent an

artist buried in that out-of-the-way place. Accordingly I posted myself

near the door of the organ loft, to see him as he left the church--a

thing I certainly would not have done for a crowned head; but great

artists, after all, are they not kings by divine right?

Imagine my amazement when, after waiting a few minutes, instead of

seeing a totally unknown face I saw that of a man in whom I recognized

my listener at the Cafe des Arts. But that is not all: behind him came

the semblance of a human being in whose crooked legs and bushy

tangled hair I recognized by old tri-monthly providence, my banker, my

_money-bringer_,--in a word my worthy friend, the mysterious dwarf.

I did not escape, myself, his vigilant eye, and I saw him point me out

to the organist with an eager gesture. The latter turned hastily to

look at me and then, without further demonstration, continued his way.

Meanwhile the bandy-legged creature went up familiarly to the giver of

holy-water and offered him a pinch of snuff; then without paying any

further attention to me, he limped to a low door at the side of the

church and disappeared. The evident pains this deformed being had taken

to fix the organist’s attention upon me seemed to me a revelation.

Evidently, the _maestro_ knew of the singular manner by which my

quarterly stipend had reached me; which stipend, I should tell you, had

been regularly continued until my orders for work so increased as to put

me beyond all necessity. It was not improbable therefore that this man,

who listened to me at the Cafe des Arts, was the repository of other

secrets relating to my early life; and I became most eager to obtain an

explanation from him; all the more because, as I was now living on

my own resources, my curiosity could not be punished, as formerly

threatened, by the withdrawal of my subsidy.

Making my decision quickly, I followed the organist at once; but by the

time I reached the door of the church he was out of sight. However, my

luck prompted me to follow the direction he had taken, and as I reached

the quai de Bethune I saw him to my great joy rapping at the door of

a house. Entering resolutely after him, I asked the porter for the

organist of Saint-Louis-de-l’Ile.

“Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau?”

“Yes; Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau; he lives here I believe.”

“Fourth floor above the entresol, door to the left. He has just come in,

and you can overtake him on the stairs.”

Rapidly as I ran up, my man had the key of his door already in the lock

when I reached him.

“Have I the honor of speaking to Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau?” I asked.

“Don’t know any such person,” he replied with effrontery, unlocking his

door.