not seen! Mein Gott! how you pe bretty mit tis oder way to do your hair!
I know not vy you like to blay all tese leedle dricks mit your head, als
if id haf not peen bretty enough pevore!"
"Herr von Brunzbrack is right," said I, looking at Frederique, to whom
the red silk handkerchief gave a saucy, wanton look that changed her
completely. "Do you know, my friend, that it is ungenerous to keep
changing your coiffure, and to invent such alluring ones? Do you want
the poor baron here to die of love?"
"Ha! ha! I'm not afraid of that. I have put on my nightcap; isn't a
body at liberty to put on her nightcap? But I don't want you to go to
sleep, baron! Come, let's sing and drink and laugh! Oh! I am in a
laughing mood to-night!"
"Ja! ja! let's trink und sing!"
"Do you begin, baron; but no love songs, and, above all things, no
languorous lamentations. What we want is something lively, a little
decollete even. Do men stand on ceremony with one another?"
She filled our glasses, then threw herself back in her chair, laughing
till the tears came, because the baron gazed at her with such a tender
expression, that his eyes were invisible and his face resembled an
egg-plant.
"Come, baron; we're waiting for you."
"Ach! I must sing te first; und so vill I. Vait, till I remember me some
bretty song; I know many--vait. Trum, trum, trum, trideri, tram, tram,
tram. _Sapremann!_ So many I know! Vait! Troum, troum, troum, tradera,
tradera. Id is sehr--how you say?--astonish! Ich kann nicht te peginning
remember. Vait--trim, trim, turlulu, traderi----"
"I'm afraid you are stuck fast, my poor Brunzbrack. While we are waiting
for your memory to come back, Rochebrune will sing us something."
"I?"
"To be sure. Well! has this one lost his memory, too? Why, what sort of
men are these two, that a glass of champagne puts their wits to flight?"
"I am perfectly willing to sing; but I know nothing but nonsensical
things."
"Sing us a nonsensical thing! I will allow anything that isn't downright
bad. Moreover, I am sure that my friend will not sing me anything
unseemly."
"On the contrary, I am very unseemly, sometimes."
"In that case, monsieur, keep quiet."
She assumed a pouting expression, and I hastened to hum a tune, saying:
"This is only a little free."
"Go on, then; I'll let it pass. Vade, Gallet, Favart. Clever things are
never indecent, because if they were they would not be clever."
"I am trying to remember the tune."
"Mon Dieu! how insufferable they are with their tunes! Here, how is
this: Tra la la la--tra la la; you can sing any song to that."
"You are right; it's from the _Famille de l'Apothicaire_."
"I don't know what family it's from, but if it's all right---- Begin,
monsieur."
"Here I go! I am going to sing _Le Vent_. Have I your permission?"
"_Le Vent_ it is!"
"I beg you to believe that it is not the _Vent_ which is the key to the
riddle in _Le Mercure Galant_."
"I trust not; it's the _vent_ [wind] that _blows through the mountains_;
the _vent de Gastibelza_."
"Just so. I am going to begin:
"'Quand on te propose----'
Ah! that won't go to the tune of the _Famille de l'Apothicaire_."
"That's strange; it ought to. Try some other tune."
"I think the _Baiser au Porteur_ will do the business."
"Oh! how long it takes you to get started, my dear fellow!"
"I begin:
"'Quand on t'offre une promenade----'"
"Trum, trum, trum, traderi dera, troum, troum, troum."
"Oh! please be kind enough to hold your tongue, baron, with your troum
troum!"
"I dry yet to find mein tune."
"You can find it later; listen now to Rochebrune, who is going to sing
us a _risque_ little chansonnette."
"Ach! gut, gut! _risque!_ tat must pe sehr amusing! _Risque!_ Vat is a
_risque_ chanson?"
"That means lively; but we may as well speak out, as we are all men: it
means naughty."
"Ach! id vill pe sehr bretty so! I loafe tat kind! Ve vill much laugh.
Let us hear te naughty song. Ha! ha! How id vill pe amusing! Ho! ho!"
The baron laughed so heartily in anticipation of the pleasure in store
for him, that Frederique had much difficulty in silencing him; he ceased
at last, and contented himself with muttering between his teeth:
"Naughty, _risque!_--_risque_, naughty!" while I sang to the tune of the
_Baiser au Porteur_:
"'Quand on t'offre une promenade,
Lisa, prends garde au temps qu'il fait!
S'il fait du vent, dis-toi malade,
Ou bien, l'on en profiterait
Pour te faire ce qu'on voudrait.
Va, je ne ris pas, sur mon ame!
Par ce temps-la je fus prise souvent!
Ma chere, il n'est pour une femme
Rien de plus traitre que le vent.'"[B]
I paused after the first verse and glanced at Frederique. She smiled;
that was a good sign. As for the baron, he repeated each line after me,
sometimes with variations, and with an accompaniment of loud guffaws. We
heard him mumbling:
"Noding so slyer als der vind! Ho! ho! ho! Gut, gut! Naughty!"
"Go on," said Frederique.
I cleared my throat, drank a glass of wine, and cried like Ravel in the
_Tourlourou_:
"Second verse, same tune:
"'Et puis, comment veux-tu qu'on fasse?
On s'habille quand il fait beau:
Le vent arrive, on s'embarrasse,
On ne peut tenir de niveau,
Le bas d'sa robe et son chapeau;
On a les yeux pleins de poussiere
Lorsque ca souffle par devant,
Mais c'est plus perfide, ma chere,
Quand on n'voit pas venir le vent.'"[C]
"My loafe! Ven she don't feel te vind plowing! Ho! ho! gut! gut! gut!
Troum! troum! troum!"
Frederique laughed outright.
"Oh! how insufferable he is with his repetitions! Next verse."
"'Si la pluie est desagreable
Et sur nous mouille nos jupons,
Le vent est libertin en diable!
Il dessin' ce que nous avons.
Il nous fait comm' des petits cal'cons;
Un homme, alors, garde moins de mesure,
Car ca le monte au ton du sentiment!
Et ce n'est pas notre figure
Qu'il regarde tant qu'il fait du vent.'"[D]
"Ho! ho! ho! gut! gut! Id is not te face. Ich nicht untershtand."
"So much the worse for you, baron; for I don't propose to have it
explained to you. It seems to me that it's plain enough. It's a little
free, but it's amusing. Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Only three verses! That's a pity!" And Frederique put her glass to her
lips, adding: "After all, where's the harm? In the old days, men sang
more and they weren't so ill-tempered as they are to-day. Poor French
gayety! what has become of thee? O merry meetings of the _Caveau_! In
truth, it was only to sing that men sought admission to thy meetings."
"Troum, troum, traderi dera. Ach! I remember me mein song now."
"Let's have it, baron; we are listening."
The baron opened his enormous mouth, and we supposed that a stentorian
voice would issue therefrom; but we were agreeably surprised. When he
sang, Herr von Brunzbrack had a shrill voice resembling that of a child
of two; it reminded me strongly of the voice of the _Man with the Doll_.
"'Moi, qui jadis ch'affre eu le gloire,
De chansonner bour Montemoiselle Iris,
Che vais avec votre bermission fous dire l'histoire
Du jeune perger Paris;
Sur le mirlidon.'"[E]
"Enough! enough!" cried Frederique; interrupting him without ceremony;
"we know that, my dear Brunzbrack. You needn't have taken so much pains
to remember that song."
"Vat! you know id?"
"Who doesn't know the _Judgment of Paris_; to the air of _mirliton_,
_mirlitaine_? I think Colle wrote it. Perhaps I ought not to have
admitted that I know it; but as I have told you that I am a man, that
shouldn't astonish you."
"Id is sehr bretty! Id ended alvays mit: Mirlidon, mirlidaine, mirlidon,
don, don."
"Yes. I advise you to think of something else, baron."
Frederique threw her red handkerchief on the table, then ran again to
the mirror, took a little comb from the pocket of her gown, and in an
instant entirely rearranged her coiffure. She selected a beautiful white
rose, put it in her hair, made curls much longer than before, and gave
herself the aspect of one of those charming English faces of Lawrence,
which have been freely reproduced in engravings, and which one cannot
look at without the reflection that one would be very fortunate to
possess the model.
A most extraordinary woman, this Madame Dauberny! How far I had been
from imagining her as she then was! What a captivating succession of
moods! First, a very madcap, laughing uproariously; then, of a sudden,
serious, almost melancholy, stern even; free in her actions, reserved in
her speech; one moment assuming the tone and manners of a man; then
abruptly recurring to the graces and dainty ways of a woman! I was still
uncertain what opinion to form of her; but the one thing of which I
could entertain no doubt was her perfect frankness; I was perfectly
certain that she never had any hesitation about saying exactly what she
thought.
"Mirlidon, don, don, mirlidaine!" hummed the baron, between his teeth.
Frederique resumed her place at the table, looked me squarely in the
eye, and said:
"Well, comrade, what do you think of this arrangement of the hair? But,
first of all, my dear fellow, be assured that there isn't the slightest
coquetry in all this! It amuses me to vary my headdress, to give myself
a serious, saucy, romantic, harum-scarum look, turn and turn about. I
would have liked to be an actress, so that I might have changed my role
constantly. Sometimes I am as much of a child as when I was twelve years
old; but, I repeat, I don't do all this to make myself attractive; it is
only to amuse myself."
"Suppose you were coquettish, where would be the harm? You are entitled
to be."
"I know it, and that's just why I am not. Still, perhaps I am,
unconsciously. They say one doesn't know one's self. Why don't you tell
me how I look?"
"Because I am at a loss what to say. You were more alluring a moment
ago. Now, your aspect inclines one more to reverie, which, I think, is
more dangerous."
"And you, baron--what do you think of my new coiffure?"
By dint of humming _Mirlidon, don, don, mirlidaine_, Herr von Brunzbrack
had fallen asleep; his only reply was a mumbled repetition of the
refrain.
"He is in some imaginary country," said Frederique, turning again to me.
"Let's let him sleep. For a German, he's a very poor drinker; I mean, he
drinks too much. But you are different; you don't show it. It's great
fun to get merry, but it's stupid to get tipsy and go to sleep. For my
part, I can drink all the champagne I choose, and it only makes me
talkative, expansive, don't you know, my friend, don't you know? Ah! I
have a strange fancy; if I don't yield to it, I shall stifle!"
"What is it, in heaven's name? Pray yield to it at once!"
"Well, I have a fancy to _tutoyer_[F] you; are you willing?"
I cannot describe the effect produced upon me by that: "Are you
willing?"--A sort of shiver passed through my body. I was moved to the
very depths of my being. For a man cannot, unmoved, hear a young and
attractive woman address him thus familiarly. It was of no use for me to
say to myself that with Frederique that meant nothing, that it was
simply one effect of her originality; I was perturbed, and I did not
know what to reply.
She saved me the trouble by going on:
"It's agreed; we will _tutoyer_ each other. I will be your confidant,
and you shall be mine. Like the intimate friends we are, we will have no
secrets from each other. Give me your hand. Your name is Charles, I
believe? Well, I will call you Charles; it's less ceremonious than
Rochebrune. Come, shake hands. Aren't you willing to address me as
_thou_?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! I am delighted! I will gladly address you--address
thee--_thou_."
"One would say that it came rather hard! For my part, I feel as if you
were my brother, and I had _thou'd_ thee all my life."
"Ah! you feel as if I were your brother, do you?"
I was not at all pleased to have her look upon me as her brother. Ah!
what conceited fools men are! I fancied that I had turned Frederique's
head! Her last words dispelled my illusion. I was silent for a moment,
but I soon recovered myself and shook her hand, saying:
"It's agreed, my dear friend: confidences and questions to the fore!
Tell me why your brow darkened just now when we were talking of
Monsieur Sordeville? Are you afraid that he doesn't make his wife
happy?"
Frederique resumed her grave--yes, sombre air; she lowered her eyes and
was silent for some time before she replied:
"You have made an unfortunate choice for your first question. I can't
answer it, my dear Charles; there are some things that one must keep
concealed in the depths of one's soul, that one cannot reveal--even to a
friend--especially when---- I did wrong to give way to thoughts that----
No, it's impossible! it cannot be! I say again: I ought not to have had
those thoughts that banished my cheerfulness for a moment. It is
altogether useless to mention that subject again."
"I see only one thing clearly, Frederique; and that is that you have a
secret that you won't trust to me. You may do as you please!"
"Now it's my turn to ask questions, monsieur. I have been told--by
someone I have talked with about you since that wedding; for I have made
some inquiries since then, otherwise you must not think, my dear friend,
that I would have asked you to sup with me; a lady in whom I have
perfect confidence, and whom you loved dearly once on a time--that ought
not to surprise you, you have loved so many! Have you kept notes of your
loves?"
"Go on, I beg! What did this lady say to you?"
"She said much that was flattering to you; that's a fine thing on the
part of a mistress one has left; but she expected it, she had served her
time. Moreover, it seems that you were very considerate in your
treatment of her, and that you remained good friends."
"Her name?"
"It's not worth while to tell you. This lady, then, spoke to me about
you; I led her on, for I was glad to be posted. You had pleased me at
the first glance; I had divined at once that we should be good friends
some day--good friends, do you understand? that's much better than lover
and mistress: it lasts longer."
"But, you see, I have continued to be that lady's friend, although she
was once my mistress."
"That's an exceptional case. Why do you say _you_?"
"I beg your pardon; I am not used to the other yet. You were saying?"
"I keep digressing, don't I? I prattle along, and say everything that
comes into my head. Ah! but it's so nice to be able to lay bare one's
thoughts! Don't be impatient; there's no hurry. You are comfortable,
aren't you? No woman is expecting you, eh? Let my words flow on at the
bidding of my imagination, which sometimes whisks me away from one
subject to another. You must be indulgent to your friends!"
As she said this, she passed an arm about my waist and leaned against my
shoulder; her head was close to my face; and when, as she talked, she
raised her eyes and fixed them on mine, our glances mingled. We were so
close together that I felt her breath on my cheek. "Ah!" I thought;
"this woman must be very cold, very indifferent, to treat me as if I
really were her father or her brother!"--But we were heated by the
champagne, and it seemed to affect us differently. Frederique saw in me
only a friend, to whom she could show herself as she really was;
whereas I saw in her a lovely woman. Certainly it did not occur to me to
make love to her; but the more freely she abandoned herself to her
natural unreserve, the more seductive she seemed to me; and I felt that
she was putting my friendship to a severe test by almost taking my
breast for a pillow.
"To return to this lady--your former friend--she told me that you were
engaged to be married some time ago, and that your engagement was
suddenly broken off for some reason unknown to her. She asked you the
reason, and you refused to tell her; and she has an impression that that
was the beginning of your rupture with her."
"That is possible."
"But some things that a man doesn't tell to his mistress, he may confide
to an intimate friend. What was it that broke off your marriage? Tell
me."
Frederique's last words suddenly dispelled my gayety; a painful memory
drove all before it. I sighed, and held my peace.
"Well! you don't answer?" cried Frederique, after a long silence.
"The fact is--I am terribly sorry, my charming friend, but you have made
an unfortunate choice for your first question, and I cannot tell you
what you wish to know."
"Ha! ha! ha! that's a good joke!"
"What are you laughing at?"
"Why, don't you see? here are two intimate friends who have sworn to
have no secrets from each other, and neither of us can--or chooses
to--answer the first question the other asks! It's almost always so, my
friend, with the plans we make. Let us never bind ourselves to
anything--that's the safest way; and then, no matter what happens----"
"Mirlidon, don, don--don, don!"
"Ah! mon Dieu! How that frightened me! I thought that the baron was
awake; and, frankly, I am quite willing that he should sleep."
"He is dreaming that he's singing, that's all."
"Look you, my little Charles, there's one thing I will tell you. You
think my behavior very strange, no doubt--perhaps very blameworthy?"
"Why, I pray to know?"
"Let me speak. I know very well that I offend the proprieties, that I
run counter to the prejudices of the common herd; that people indulge in
numberless comments upon me, which are rarely favorable; but I--snap my
fingers at them! Listen."
XXI
CONFIDENCES
"I was not twenty-one years old when I was married; but I had already
loved, or thought that I loved. I was impulsive and passionate. I come
from a region where women do not know how to conceal their sentiments,
where they sometimes anticipate a declaration; and in my case, 'the
accent of the province is in the heart as well as in the language,' as
La Rochefoucauld says. At eighteen, I fell in love with a very comely
youth--at eighteen, a girl thinks a good deal of physical beauty; and
that is natural enough, for we pass judgment first of all on what we
see. My rosy-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed young man was two years
older than I; but he had the manner of a sixteen-year-old schoolboy:
awkward, shy, embarrassed; he did not know what to say to me, and was
content to stare at me; but, as his eyes were fine, I considered myself
fortunate in having them always fastened on my face. 'He loves me,' I
said to myself; 'he must be very much in love with me, to stand in rapt
contemplation before me as he does.'--Still, I should not have been
sorry to hear a word or two of love from his lips. I tried to furnish
him with opportunities to be alone with me; I thought that he would
finally speak out. But Gabriel--his name was Gabriel--didn't know enough
to seize an opportunity. When he came, and I had a girl friend with me,
I would motion to her to leave us for a moment; young girls understand
each other very readily. But when she had invented some excuse for
leaving the room, Gabriel always felt called upon to take his hat and go
with her. You can judge whether I used to fret and fume. But one day,
when Gabriel started off on the heels of a peddler I had just dismissed,
I detained him by his coat tails, and he was compelled to remain; which
he did, blushing to the whites of his eyes, and saying:
"'Have I got anything on my back, mademoiselle?'
"'No, monsieur, there's nothing on your back, but I want to talk with
you; that's why I detained you. I was driven to resort to this method,
because you always run away as soon as I am alone.'
"Gabriel looked at the floor, playing with a little bamboo cane that he
usually carried. I invited him to sit down on a sofa beside me; he did
so, but moved as far away from me as possible, and continued to keep his
eyes averted, gazing sometimes at the ferrule and sometimes at the head
of his stick.
"'Monsieur Gabriel,' I cried at last, irritated by his silence, 'haven't
you anything to say to me? Do look at me, at least; before to-day, when
you were not speaking, you always had your eyes on me; why, pray, do you
gaze at your cane all the time to-day? Come, monsieur, look up, and tell
me just what you're thinking about; and come a little nearer; anybody
would think you were afraid of me, that I was scolding you.'
"Gabriel made up his mind at last to look at me and to move a little
nearer. He was as red as a cherry. He acted like a schoolboy who is
afraid of the birch; but he was such a handsome boy!
"'Monsieur,' I continued, 'I see that you don't dare to tell me what it
is that makes you sigh so when you are with me. But when a person
doesn't explain himself, he doesn't make any headway. As I am less
timid than you--as I like to know what to expect--I am going to help you
to speak out, for I believe that I have guessed the secret of your
heart. You--you--are in love with me, aren't you, Monsieur Gabriel?'
"My bashful suitor began anew to examine the two ends of his cane, which
annoyed me beyond words. At last, he stammered:
"'I--I don't know, mademoiselle.'
"'What, monsieur, you don't know? Then you must try to find out. Don't
you think me pretty?'
"'Oh, yes, mademoiselle!'
"'Don't you feel great pleasure in being with me?'
"'Yes, mademoiselle.'
"'Then, monsieur, of course you are in love with me.'
"'_Dame!_ it is very possible.'
"And he kept on playing with his stick. Unable to contain myself, I
snatched it out of his hands and threw it on the floor.
"'It seems to me, monsieur,' I cried, 'that, while I am speaking to you,
you might stop playing with your cane; it looks as if you weren't
listening to me, and that's very impolite!'
"The poor boy was thunderstruck by my action. He glanced at his cane out
of the corner of his eye, and murmured:
"'I wont do it any more, mademoiselle.'
"Somewhat mollified by his submissive air, I continued:
"'Well, Monsieur Gabriel, as you are in love with me, of course you want
to marry me; for my parents say that people ought not to love unless
they're going to be married. I don't know how true that is. Would you
like to marry me, Monsieur Gabriel?'
"'Why, certainly, mademoiselle, if you think it's possible.'
"'Why shouldn't it be, monsieur? Isn't it true that young men are
brought into the world to marry young women?'
"'I don't know, mademoiselle.'
"'What's that? you don't know? For heaven's sake, what did they teach
you at your school, monsieur?'
"'Latin, Greek, mathematics, geography, mademoiselle.'
"'And nothing at all about young ladies and love and marriage?'
"'Nothing at all!'
"'Much good it does to send boys to school! it's a funny kind of
education they get! However, Monsieur Gabriel, you're in love with me,
you love me, you want to marry me; and I ask nothing better than to be
your wife. Well, monsieur, you must go to my father and ask him for my
hand.'
"'You want me to go to monsieur your papa?'
"'Yes, monsieur, and right away; he's in his study now. Go and prefer
your suit.'
"'But--mademoiselle--you see--I don't think I'd dare say that to
monsieur your papa.'
"'My papa! my papa! Great heaven! can't you say my _father_, Monsieur
Gabriel? You talk like a little boy of six! This is no time to tremble
in your shoes and be afraid; if you don't go and make your request, some
other man will be bolder than you; he'll speak out, my father will
listen to him, I shall be bound to another, and I shan't be your wife.'
"Gabriel summoned all his courage, cast a glance at his costume, and
cried:
"'I will go and speak to monsieur your pap--your father, mademoiselle.'
"'Good! and you must come right back and tell me what answer he makes.'
"'Right away?'
"'Why, of course! Do you think that I am not interested in it?'
"'I will come back, mademoiselle.'
"He walked to the door of the salon, then retraced his steps and picked
up his stick, which lay where I had thrown it. I stamped the floor
angrily, and said:
"'What, monsieur! you have come back for that?'
"'Because I am used to having it in my hand, mademoiselle; it encourages
me. When I haven't it, I don't know what to do with my hands.'
"'When a person's mind is occupied, monsieur, he is never embarrassed by
his hands. But go, and hurry back!'
"When Gabriel had gone, I was anxious and impatient; I imagined that I
loved that young man with a very profound love. In girls of that age,
the slightest sentiment, the most trivial caprice, at once assumes the
form of a passion. A pleasing illusion! which lasts too short a time,
thanks to you, messieurs, who are so well skilled in opening our eyes to
the melancholy reality!"
"My dear Frederique, the illusions and disappointments are the same in
both sexes! You are more affectionate, perhaps, but you are more easily
fascinated, too. We change without reason, you change from pure
coquetry. There is no more fidelity on one side than on the other."