FROM LEON VERDIER, IN PARIS, TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE.
September 28th.
My Dear Prosper--It is a long time since I have given you of my news, and
I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your
affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy the mind
reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our
exaltations and depressions, and _je t'eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps,
mon gros Prosper_, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with
your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel
that I can count upon your sympathy to-day. _Nous en sommes nous
flanquees des confidences_--in those happy days when my first thought in
seeing an adventure _poindre a l'horizon_ was of the pleasure I should
have in relating it to the great Prosper. As I tell thee, I am happy;
decidedly, I am happy, and from this affirmation I fancy you can
construct the rest. Shall I help thee a little? Take three adorable
girls . . . three, my good Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor
less. Take them and place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of
them! Is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the
motives of my felicity?
You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my
fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return into
the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee.
But I needn't remind you that women are always for something in the
happiness of him who writes to thee--for something in his happiness, and
for a good deal more in his misery. But don't let me talk of misery now;
time enough when it comes; _ces demoiselles_ have gone to join the
serried ranks of their amiable predecessors. Excuse me--I comprehend
your impatience. I will tell you of whom _ces demoiselles_ consist.
You have heard me speak of my _cousine_ de Maisonrouge, that grande
_belle femme_, who, after having married, _en secondes_ noces--there had
been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union--a
venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death of
her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an
income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little demons
of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. She managed to bring
them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. If you ask me how she
managed it, I can't tell you; it's no business of mine, and, _a fortiori_
none of yours. She is now fifty years old (she confesses to
thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry,
are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty
and to seventeen). Three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of
opening a sort of _pension_ for the entertainment and instruction of the
blundering barbarians who come to Paris in the hope of picking up a few
stray particles of the language of Voltaire--or of Zola. The idea _lui a
porte bonheur_; the shop does a very good business. Until within a few
months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of
a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt. My
cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to
come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye on the
grammatical eccentricities of her _pensionnaires_. I am the extension,
my good Prosper; I am the embellishment! I live for nothing, and I
straighten up the accent of the prettiest English lips. The English lips
are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a
gaining bargain for me.
Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three separate
pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra. My
cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but I make bold, nevertheless,
to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am well, very well, with
the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of them is a little
Anglaise, of about twenty--a little _figure de keepsake_; the most
adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I ever beheld. She is
decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions;
but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in
the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence--a
confidence that I really feel some compunction in betraying. She has a
tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each
cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid,
carmine. Occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her
face--by which I mean that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your
breath on the window-pane.
Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is
very easy to see that when no one is looking _elle ne demande qu'a se
laisser aller_! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I have
given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have reason to
believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am bound in honesty
to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than
with the others. _Que voulez-vous_? The English are heavy, and the
Anglaises move slowly, that's all. The movement, however, is
perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let the pottage
simmer. I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-well occupied with
her _concurrentes_. _Celles-ci_ don't keep me waiting, _par exemple_!
These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the national
character to move fast. "All right--go ahead!" (I am learning a great
deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of American.) They go ahead at
a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up. One of them
is prettier than the other; but this hatter (the one that takes the
private lessons) is really _une file prodigieuse_. _Ah, par exemple,
elle brule ses vais-seux cella-la_! She threw herself into my arms the
very first day, and I almost owed her a grudge for having deprived me of
that pleasure of gradation, of carrying the defences, one by one, which
is almost as great as that of entering the place.
Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave me a
rendezvous? It is true it was in the Galerie d'Apollon, at the Louvre;
but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we have had them
by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account. _Non, c'est une file
qui me depasse_.
The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in a
closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that account
_elle y met plus de facons_. She doesn't knock about Paris with me by
the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the _petit salon_,
with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o'clock, when
every one is _a la promenade_. She is admirable, this little one; a
little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the
whole, most satisfactory. And you can say anything to her. She takes
the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour
afterwards, reassures you completely--oh, completely!
However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is the
most remarkable. These private lessons, my good Prosper, are the most
brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on the part
of Miss Miranda! They also take place in the _petit salon_, but with the
doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one in the
house that we are not to be disturbed. And we are not, my good Prosper;
we are not! Not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity. My
_cousine_ is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed. Miss
Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn't the adorable
_rougeurs_ of the little Anglaise. But she has bright, keen, inquisitive
eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding
up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most finished
piece of impertinence I ever beheld. She is making the _tour du monde_
entirely alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the
purpose of seeing for herself _a quoi s'en tenir sur les hommes et les
choses--on les hommes_ particularly. _Dis donc_, Prosper, it must be a
_drole de pays_ over there, where young persons animated by this ardent
curiosity are manufactured! If we should turn the tables, some day, thou
and I, and go over and see it for ourselves. It is as well that we
should go and find them _chez elles_, as that they should come out here
after us. _Dis donc, mon gras Prosper_ . . .