against the marble slab of a console, folded his arms, and stood
absorbed in watching the two ladies talking. From time to time he
followed the glances which both frequently directed to the stranger.
Then, comparing the Countess with the new beauty, made so attractive
by a touch of mystery, the Baron fell a prey to the detestable
self-interest common to adventurous lady-killers; he hesitated between a
fortune within his grasp and the indulgence of his caprice. The blaze
of light gave such strong relief to his anxious and sullen face, against
the hangings of white silk moreen brushed by his black hair, that he
might have been compared to an evil genius. Even from a distance more
than one observer no doubt said to himself, “There is another poor
wretch who seems to be enjoying himself!”
The Colonel, meanwhile, with one shoulder leaning lightly against the
side-post of the doorway between the ballroom and the cardroom, could
laugh undetected under his ample moustache; it amused him to look on at
the turmoil of the dance; he could see a hundred pretty heads turning
about in obedience to the figures; he could read in some faces, as
in those of the Countess and his friend Martial, the secrets of their
agitation; and then, looking round, he wondered what connection there
could be between the gloomy looks of the Comte de Soulanges, still
seated on the sofa, and the plaintive expression of the fair unknown,
on whose features the joys of hope and the anguish of involuntary dread
were alternately legible. Montcornet stood like the king of the feast.
In this moving picture he saw a complete presentment of the world, and
he laughed at it as he found himself the object of inviting smiles from
a hundred beautiful and elegant women. A Colonel of the Imperial Guard,
a position equal to that of a Brigadier-General, was undoubtedly one of
the best matches in the army.
It was now nearly midnight. The conversation, the gambling, the dancing,
the flirtations, interests, petty rivalries, and scheming had
all reached the pitch of ardor which makes a young man exclaim
involuntarily, “A fine ball!”
“My sweet little angel,” said Madame de Lansac to the Countess, “you are
now at an age when in my day I made many mistakes. Seeing you are just
now enduring a thousand deaths, it occurred to me that I might give you
some charitable advice. To go wrong at two-and-twenty means spoiling
your future; is it not tearing the gown you must wear? My dear, it is
not much later that we learn to go about in it without crumpling it. Go
on, sweetheart, making clever enemies, and friends who have no sense
of conduct, and you will see what a pleasant life you will some day be
leading!”
“Oh, madame, it is very hard for a woman to be happy, do not you think?”
the Countess eagerly exclaimed.
“My child, at your age you must learn to choose between pleasure and
happiness. You want to marry Martial, who is not fool enough to make a
good husband, nor passionate enough to remain a lover. He is in debt,
my dear; he is the man to run through your fortune; still, that would be
nothing if he could make you happy.--Do not you see how aged he is? The
man must have been ill; he is making the most of what is left him. In
three years he will be a wreck. Then he will be ambitious; perhaps he
may succeed. I do not think so.--What is he? A man of intrigue, who
may have the business faculty to perfection, and be able to gossip
agreeably; but he is too presumptuous to have any sterling merit; he
will not go far. Besides--only look at him. Is it not written on his
brow that, at this very moment, what he sees in you is not a young and
pretty woman, but the two million francs you possess? He does not love
you, my dear; he is reckoning you up as if you were an investment. If
you are bent on marrying, find an older man who has an assured position
and is half-way on his career. A widow’s marriage ought not to be a
trivial love affair. Is a mouse to be caught a second time in the same
trap? A new alliance ought now to be a good speculation on your part,
and in marrying again you ought at least to have a hope of being some
day addressed as Madame la Marechale!”
As she spoke, both women naturally fixed their eyes on Colonel
Montcornet’s handsome face.
“If you would rather play the delicate part of a flirt and not marry
again,” the Duchess went on, with blunt good-nature; “well! my
poor child, you, better than any woman, will know how to raise the
storm-clouds and disperse them again. But, I beseech you, never make it
your pleasure to disturb the peace of families, to destroy unions, and
ruin the happiness of happy wives. I, my dear, have played that perilous
game. Dear heaven! for a triumph of vanity some poor virtuous soul is
murdered--for there really are virtuous women, child,--and we may make
ourselves mortally hated. I learned, a little too late, that, as the
Duc d’Albe once said, one salmon is worth a thousand frogs! A genuine
affection certainly brings a thousand times more happiness than the
transient passions we may inspire.--Well, I came here on purpose to
preach to you; yes, you are the cause of my appearance in this house,
which stinks of the lower class. Have I not just seen actors here?
Formerly, my dear, we received them in our boudoir; but in the
drawing-room--never!--Why do you look at me with so much amazement?
Listen to me. If you want to play with men, do not try to wring the
hearts of any but those whose life is not yet settled, who have no
duties to fulfil; the others do not forgive us for the errors that
have made them happy. Profit by this maxim, founded on my long
experience.--That luckless Soulanges, for instance, whose head you have
turned, whom you have intoxicated for these fifteen months past, God
knows how! Do you know at what you have struck?--At his whole life. He
has been married these two years; he is worshiped by a charming wife,
whom he loves, but neglects; she lives in tears and embittered silence.
Soulanges has had hours of remorse more terrible than his pleasure has
been sweet. And you, you artful little thing, have deserted him.--Well,
come and see your work.”
The old lady took Madame de Vaudremont’s hand, and they rose.
“There,” said Madame de Lansac, and her eyes showed her the stranger,
sitting pale and tremulous under the glare of the candles, “that is my
grandniece, the Comtesse de Soulanges; to-day she yielded at last to my
persuasion, and consented to leave the sorrowful room, where the sight
of her child gives her but little consolation. You see her? You think
her charming? Then imagine, dear Beauty, what she must have been when
happiness and love shed their glory on that face now blighted.”
The Countess looked away in silence, and seemed lost in sad reflections.
The Duchess led her to the door into the card-room; then, after looking
round the room as if in search of some one--“And there is Soulanges!”
she said in deep tones.
The Countess shuddered as she saw, in the least brilliantly lighted
corner, the pale, set face of Soulanges stretched in an easy-chair. The
indifference of his attitude and the rigidity of his brow betrayed his
suffering. The players passed him to and fro, without paying any more
attention to him than if he had been dead. The picture of the wife in
tears, and the dejected, morose husband, separated in the midst of
this festivity like the two halves of a tree blasted by lightning, had
perhaps a prophetic significance for the Countess. She dreaded lest she
here saw an image of the revenges the future might have in store for
her. Her heart was not yet so dried up that the feeling and generosity
were entirely excluded, and she pressed the Duchess’ hand, while
thanking her by one of those smiles which have a certain childlike
grace.
“My dear child,” the old lady said in her ear, “remember henceforth that
we are just as capable of repelling a man’s attentions as of attracting
them.”
“She is yours if you are not a simpleton.” These words were whispered
into Colonel Montcornet’s ear by Madame de Lansac, while the handsome
Countess was still absorbed in compassion at the sight of Soulanges, for
she still loved him truly enough to wish to restore him to happiness,
and was promising herself in her own mind that she would exert the
irresistible power her charms still had over him to make him return to
his wife.
“Oh! I will talk to him!” said she to Madame de Lansac.
“Do nothing of the kind, my dear!” cried the old lady, as she went
back to her armchair. “Choose a good husband, and shut your door to my
nephew. Believe me, my child, a wife cannot accept her husband’s heart
as the gift of another woman; she is a hundred times happier in the
belief that she has reconquered it. By bringing my niece here I
believe I have given her an excellent chance of regaining her husband’s
affection. All the assistance I need of you is to play the Colonel.” She
pointed to the Baron’s friend, and the Countess smiled.
“Well, madame, do you at last know the name of the unknown?” asked
Martial, with an air of pique, to the Countess when he saw her alone.
“Yes,” said Madame de Vaudremont, looking him in the face.
Her features expressed as much roguery as fun. The smile which gave life
to her lips and cheeks, the liquid brightness of her eyes, were like
the will-o’-the-wisp which leads travelers astray. Martial, who believed
that she still loved him, assumed the coquetting graces in which a man
is so ready to lull himself in the presence of the woman he loves. He
said with a fatuous air:
“And will you be annoyed with me if I seem to attach great importance to
your telling me that name?”
“Will you be annoyed with me,” answered Madame de Vaudremont, “if a
remnant of affection prevents my telling you; and if I forbid you to
make the smallest advances to that young lady? It would be at the risk
of your life perhaps.”
“To lose your good graces, madame, would be worse than to lose my life.”
“Martial,” said the Countess severely, “she is Madame de Soulanges. Her
husband would blow your brains out--if, indeed, you have any----”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the coxcomb. “What! the Colonel can leave the man
in peace who has robbed him of your love, and then would fight for his
wife! What a subversion of principles!--I beg of you to allow me to
dance with the little lady. You will then be able to judge how
little love that heart of ice could feel for you; for, if the Colonel
disapproves of my dancing with his wife after allowing me to----”
“But she loves her husband.”
“A still further obstacle that I shall have the pleasure of conquering.”
“But she is married.”
“A whimsical objection!”
“Ah!” said the Countess, with a bitter smile, “you punish us alike for
our faults and our repentance!”
“Do not be angry!” exclaimed Martial eagerly. “Oh, forgive me, I beseech
you. There, I will think no more of Madame de Soulanges.”
“You deserve that I should send you to her.”
“I am off then,” said the Baron, laughing, “and I shall return more
devoted to you than ever. You will see that the prettiest woman in the
world cannot capture the heart that is yours.”
“That is to say, that you want to win Colonel Montcornet’s horse?”
“Ah! Traitor!” said he, threatening his friend with his finger. The
Colonel smiled and joined them; the Baron gave him the seat near the
Countess, saying to her with a sardonic accent:
“Here, madame, is a man who boasted that he could win your good graces
in one evening.”
He went away, thinking himself clever to have piqued the Countess’ pride
and done Montcornet an ill turn; but, in spite of his habitual keenness,
he had not appreciated the irony underlying Madame de Vaudremont’s
speech, and did not perceive that she had come as far to meet his friend
as his friend towards her, though both were unconscious of it.
At that moment when the lawyer went fluttering up to the candelabrum by
which Madame de Soulanges sat, pale, timid, and apparently alive only
in her eyes, her husband came to the door of the ballroom, his eyes
flashing with anger. The old Duchess, watchful of everything, flew
to her nephew, begged him to give her his arm and find her carriage,
affecting to be mortally bored, and hoping thus to prevent a vexatious
outbreak. Before going she fired a singular glance of intelligence at
her niece, indicating the enterprising knight who was about to address
her, and this signal seemed to say, “There he is, avenge yourself!”
Madame de Vaudremont caught these looks of the aunt and niece; a sudden
light dawned on her mind; she was frightened lest she was the dupe of
this old woman, so cunning and so practised in intrigue.
“That perfidious Duchess,” said she to herself, “has perhaps been
amusing herself by preaching morality to me while playing me some
spiteful trick of her own.”
At this thought Madame de Vaudremont’s pride was perhaps more roused
than her curiosity to disentangle the thread of this intrigue. In the
absorption of mind to which she was a prey she was no longer mistress
of herself. The Colonel, interpreting to his own advantage the
embarrassment evident in the Countess’ manner and speech, became more
ardent and pressing. The old blase diplomates, amusing themselves by
watching the play of faces, had never found so many intrigues at once
to watch or guess at. The passions agitating the two couples were to be
seen with variations at every step in the crowded rooms, and reflected
with different shades in other countenances. The spectacle of so many
vivid passions, of all these lovers’ quarrels, these pleasing revenges,
these cruel favors, these flaming glances, of all this ardent life
diffused around them, only made them feel their impotence more keenly.
At last the Baron had found a seat by Madame de Soulanges. His eyes
stole a long look at her neck, as fresh as dew and as fragrant as field
flowers. He admired close at hand the beauty which had amazed him from
afar. He could see a small, well-shod foot, and measure with his eye
a slender and graceful shape. At that time women wore their sash tied
close under the bosom, in imitation of Greek statues, a pitiless fashion
for those whose bust was faulty. As he cast furtive glances at the
Countess’ figure, Martial was enchanted with its perfection.
“You have not danced once this evening, madame,” said he in soft and
flattering tones. “Not, I should suppose, for lack of a partner?”
“I never go to parties; I am quite unknown,” replied Madame de Soulanges
coldly, not having understood the look by which her aunt had just
conveyed to her that she was to attract the Baron.
Martial, to give himself countenance, twisted the diamond he wore on his
left hand; the rainbow fires of the gem seemed to flash a sudden light
on the young Countess’ mind; she blushed and looked at the Baron with an
undefinable expression.
“Do you like dancing?” asked the Provencal, to reopen the conversation.
“Yes, very much, monsieur.”
At this strange reply their eyes met. The young man, surprised by the
earnest accent, which aroused a vague hope in his heart, had suddenly
questioned the lady’s eyes.
“Then, madame, am I not overbold in offering myself to be your partner
for the next quadrille?”
Artless confusion colored the Countess’ white cheeks.
“But, monsieur, I have already refused one partner--a military man----”
“Was it that tall cavalry colonel whom you see over there?”
“Precisely so.”
“Oh! he is a friend of mine; feel no alarm. Will you grant me the favor
I dare hope for?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
Her tone betrayed an emotion so new and so deep that the lawyer’s
world-worn soul was touched. He was overcome by shyness like a
schoolboy’s, lost his confidence, and his southern brain caught fire;
he tried to talk, but his phrases struck him as graceless in comparison
with Madame de Soulanges’ bright and subtle replies. It was lucky for
him that the quadrille was forming. Standing by his beautiful partner,
he felt more at ease. To many men dancing is a phase of being; they
think that they can more powerfully influence the heart of woman by
displaying the graces of their bodies than by their intellect. Martial
wished, no doubt, at this moment to put forth all his most effective
seductions, to judge by the pretentiousness of his movements and
gestures.
He led his conquest to the quadrille in which the most brilliant
women in the room made it a point of chimerical importance to dance in
preference to any other. While the orchestra played the introductory
bars to the first figure, the Baron felt it an incredible gratification
to his pride to perceive, as he reviewed the ladies forming the lines of
that formidable square, that Madame de Soulanges’ dress might challenge
that even of Madame de Vaudremont, who, by a chance not perhaps
unsought, was standing with Montcornet _vis-a-vis_ to himself and the
lady in blue. All eyes were for a moment turned on Madame de Soulanges;
a flattering murmur showed that she was the subject of every man’s
conversation with his partner. Looks of admiration and envy centered
on her, with so much eagerness that the young creature, abashed by a
triumph she seemed to disclaim, modestly looked down, blushed, and was
all the more charming. When she raised her white eyelids it was to look
at her ravished partner as though she wished to transfer the glory of
this admiration to him, and to say that she cared more for his than for
all the rest. She threw her innocence into her vanity; or rather she
seemed to give herself up to the guileless admiration which is the
beginning of love, with the good faith found only in youthful hearts. As
she danced, the lookers-on might easily believe that she displayed
her grace for Martial alone; and though she was modest, and new to the
trickery of the ballroom, she knew as well as the most accomplished
coquette how to raise her eyes to his at the right moment and drop their
lids with assumed modesty.
When the movement of a new figure, invented by a dancer named Trenis,
and named after him, brought Martial face to face with the Colonel--“I
have won your horse,” said he, laughing.
“Yes, but you have lost eighty thousand francs a year!” retorted
Montcornet, glancing at Madame de Vaudremont.
“What do I care?” replied Martial. “Madame de Soulanges is worth
millions!”
At the end of the quadrille more than one whisper was poured into
more than one ear. The less pretty women made moral speeches to their
partners, commenting on the budding liaison between Martial and the
Comtesse de Soulanges. The handsomest wondered at her easy surrender.
The men could not understand such luck as the Baron’s, not regarding him
as particularly fascinating. A few indulgent women said it was not
fair to judge the Countess too hastily; young wives would be in a very
hapless plight if an expressive look or a few graceful dancing steps
were enough to compromise a woman.
Martial alone knew the extent of his happiness. During the last figure,
when the ladies had to form the _moulinet_, his fingers clasped those of
the Countess, and he fancied that, through the thin perfumed kid of her
gloves, the young wife’s grasp responded to his amorous appeal.
“Madame,” said he, as the quadrille ended, “do not go back to the odious
corner where you have been burying your face and your dress until now.
Is admiration the only benefit you can obtain from the jewels that
adorn your white neck and beautifully dressed hair? Come and take a turn
through the rooms to enjoy the scene and yourself.”
Madame de Soulanges yielded to her seducer, who thought she would be
his all the more surely if he could only show her off. Side by side they
walked two or three times amid the groups who crowded the rooms. The
Comtesse de Soulanges, evidently uneasy, paused for an instant at each
door before entering, only doing so after stretching her neck to look at
all the men there. This alarm, which crowned the Baron’s satisfaction,
did not seem to be removed till he said to her, “Make yourself easy;
_he_ is not here.”
They thus made their way to an immense picture gallery in a wing of the
mansion, where their eyes could feast in anticipation on the splendid
display of a collation prepared for three hundred persons. As supper was
about to begin, Martial led the Countess to an oval boudoir looking on
to the garden, where the rarest flowers and a few shrubs made a scented
bower under bright blue hangings. The murmurs of the festivity here
died away. The Countess, at first startled, refused firmly to follow the
young man; but, glancing in a mirror, she no doubt assured herself that
they could be seen, for she seated herself on an ottoman with a fairly
good grace.
“This room is charming,” said she, admiring the sky-blue hangings looped
with pearls.
“All here is love and delight!” said the Baron, with deep emotion.
In the mysterious light which prevailed he looked at the Countess,
and detected on her gently agitated face an expression of uneasiness,
modesty, and eagerness which enchanted him. The young lady smiled, and
this smile seemed to put an end to the struggle of feeling surging in
her heart; in the most insinuating way she took her adorer’s left hand,
and drew from his finger the ring on which she had fixed her eyes.
“What a fine diamond!” she exclaimed in the artless tone of a young girl
betraying the incitement of a first temptation.
Martial, troubled by the Countess’ involuntary but intoxicating touch,
like a caress, as she drew off the ring, looked at her with eyes as
glittering as the gem.
“Wear it,” he said, “in memory of this hour, and for the love of----”
She was looking at him with such rapture that he did not end the
sentence; he kissed her hand.
“You give it me?” she said, looking much astonished.
“I wish I had the whole world to offer you!”
“You are not joking?” she went on, in a voice husky with too great
satisfaction.
“Will you accept only my diamond?”
“You will never take it back?” she insisted.
“Never.”
She put the ring on her finger. Martial, confident of coming happiness,
was about to put his hand round her waist, but she suddenly rose, and
said in a clear voice, without any agitation:
“I accept the diamond, monsieur, with the less scruple because it
belongs to me.”
The Baron was speechless.
“Monsieur de Soulanges took it lately from my dressing-table, and told
me he had lost it.”
“You are mistaken, madame,” said Martial, nettled. “It was given me by
Madame de Vaudremont.”
“Precisely so,” she said with a smile. “My husband borrowed this ring of
me, he gave it to her, she made it a present to you; my ring has made a
little journey, that is all. This ring will perhaps tell me all I do not
know, and teach me the secret of always pleasing.--Monsieur,” she went
on, “if it had not been my own, you may be sure I should not have risked
paying so dear for it; for a young woman, it is said, is in danger with
you. But, you see,” and she touched a spring within the ring, “here is
M. de Soulanges’ hair.”
She fled into the crowded rooms so swiftly, that it seemed useless to
try to follow her; besides, Martial, utterly confounded, was in no mood
to carry the adventure further. The Countess’ laugh found an echo in the
boudoir, where the young coxcomb now perceived, between two shrubs, the
Colonel and Madame de Vaudremont, both laughing heartily.
“Will you have my horse, to ride after your prize?” said the Colonel.
The Baron took the banter poured upon him by Madame de Vaudremont and
Montcornet with a good grace, which secured their silence as to the
events of the evening, when his friend exchanged his charger for a rich
and pretty young wife.
As the Comtesse de Soulanges drove across Paris from the Chausee d’Antin
to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where she lived, her soul was prey to
many alarms. Before leaving the Hotel Gondreville she went through all
the rooms, but found neither her aunt nor her husband, who had gone away
without her. Frightful suspicions then tortured her ingenuous mind. A
silent witness of her husbands’ torments since the day when Madame de
Vaudremont had chained him to her car, she had confidently hoped that
repentance would ere long restore her husband to her. It was with
unspeakable repugnance that she had consented to the scheme plotted by
her aunt, Madame de Lansac, and at this moment she feared she had made a
mistake.