The Paris house of the Boiscoran family, No. 216 University Street, is
a house of modest appearance. The yard in front is small; and the few
square yards of damp soil in the rear hardly deserve the name of a
garden. But appearances are deceptive. The inside is marvellously
comfortable; careful and painstaking hands have made every provision for
ease; and the rooms display that solid splendor for which our age has
lost the taste. The vestibule contains a superb mosaic, brought home
from Venice, in 1798, by one of the Boiscorans, who had degenerated, and
followed the fortunes of Napoleon. The balusters of the great staircase
are a masterpiece of iron work; and the wainscoting in the dining-room
has no rival in Paris.
All this, however, is a mere nothing in comparison with the marquis’s
cabinet of curiosities. It fills the whole depth, and half the width, of
the upper story; is lighted from above like a huge _atelier_; and would
fill the heart of an artist with delight. Immense glass cases,
which stand all around against the walls, hold the treasures of the
marquis,--priceless collections of enamels, ivories, bronzes, unique
manuscripts, matchless porcelains, and, above all, his _faiences_, his
dear _faiences_, the pride and the torment of his old age.
The owner was well worthy of such a setting.
Though sixty-one years old at that time, the marquis was as straight
as ever, and most aristocratically lean. He had a perfectly magnificent
nose, which absorbed immense quantities of snuff; his mouth was large,
but well furnished; and his brilliant eyes shone with that restless
cunning which betrayed the amateur, who has continually to deal with
sharp and eager dealers in curiosities and second-hand articles of
_vertu_.
In the year 1845 he had reached the summit of his renown by a great
speech on the question of public meetings; but at that hour his watch
seemed to have stopped. All his ideas were those of an Orleanist. His
appearance, his costume, his high cravat, his whiskers, and the way he
brushed his hair, all betrayed the admirer and friend of the citizen
king. But for all that, he did not trouble himself about politics; in
fact, he troubled himself about nothing at all. With the only condition
that his inoffensive passion should be respected, the marchioness was
allowed to rule supreme in the house, administering her large fortune,
ruling her only son, and deciding all questions without the right of
appeal. It was perfectly useless to ask the marquis any thing: his
answer was invariably,--
“Ask my wife.”
The good man had, the evening before, purchased a little at haphazard,
a large lot of _faiences_, representing scenes of the Revolution; and
at about three o’clock, he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand, examining
his dishes and plates, when the door was suddenly opened.
The marchioness came in, holding a blue paper in her hand. Six or seven
years younger than her husband, she was the very companion for such an
idle, indolent man. In her walk, in her manner, and in her voice,
she showed at once the woman who stands at the wheel, and means to be
obeyed. Her once celebrated beauty had left remarkable traces enough
to justify her pretensions. She denied having any claims to being
considered handsome, since it was impossible to deny or conceal the
ravages of time, and hence by far her best policy was to accept old age
with good grace. Still, if the marchioness did not grow younger, she
pretended to be older than she really was. She had her gray hair puffed
out with considerable affectation, so as to contrast all the more
forcibly with her ruddy, blooming cheeks, which a girl might have envied
and she often thought of powdering her hair.
She was so painfully excited, and almost undone, when she came into her
husband’s cabinet, that even he, who for many a year had made it a rule
of his life to show no emotion, was seriously troubled. Laying aside the
dish which he was examining, he said with an anxious voice,--
“What is the matter? What has happened?”
“A terrible misfortune.”
“Is Jacques dead?” cried the old collector.
The marchioness shook her head.
“No! It is something worse, perhaps”--
The old man, who has risen at the sight of his wife, sank slowly back
into his chair.
“Tell me,” he stammered out,--“tell me. I have courage.”
She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and said
slowly,--
“Here. A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son’s
valet.”