that made my heart beat fast; but I was profoundly moved. I tried to
forget the fascinating sleeper for a moment by glancing about the room;
but the oddity of my position, the place, the time, and everything
within my view, simply intensified the agitation that had taken
possession of me. Imagine yourself, in the middle of the night, in a
deliciously cosy retreat, near a table at which you have enjoyed a
dainty supper, and on which the decanters are still half full of
exquisite wines which you have not spared; the lamps diffusing only a
dim light; and beside you, seated, or rather reclining in an easy-chair,
a young, fascinating, original woman, a woman who addresses you _thou_
and who has confided to you the secrets of her heart; that woman in a
ravishing neglige which permits you to admire a portion of her charms
and to divine the rest. If all this does not give you a sort of vertigo,
upon my word I pity you! As for the third person who was with us, he did
not count. He was snoring like a bell ringer, with his head resting on
his hands, and his elbows on the table.
I moved nearer to Frederique, then drew back. I resumed my contemplation
of her; and suddenly, unable to resist the impulse that drove me on, I
put my lips to hers and stole a kiss in which there was nothing
fraternal.
Frederique woke instantly, pushed me away, and sprang to her feet; her
brow was clouded, her bosom rose and fell more quickly, and I thought
that her eyes, which she turned away from me, were wet with tears.
"Ah! so this is the way you treat me!" she cried, in a quivering voice.
"What do you take me for, monsieur, in heaven's name? I receive you in
my house, I look upon you as a friend; and you treat me like one of the
women with whom a man seeks to gratify a caprice! Do you suppose that I
asked you to my house to make you my lover? that I, the friend of
Armantine, whom you love to distraction, asked you to sup with me in
order to steal from her the heart of a man who is paying court to her?
Ah! you know me very little, monsieur. I do not love you, I shall never
love you! It was because I knew that you were in love with Armantine
that I invited you this evening and then offered you a brotherly
affection. You understand me now. Adieu, monsieur! It is not worth while
for you to come to my house again."
She took a lamp and vanished before I had recovered from the shock her
words had caused me, or had found anything to say in reply.
But in a few moments my excitement subsided, and I had no other
sentiment than irritation at having allowed myself to be so roughly
handled by the lady with whom I had supped. I said to myself that when
one is dealing with a _gaillarde_ of Frederique's stamp, it does not pay
to do things by halves. If, instead of kissing her so gently, I had been
more audacious, would she have shrieked louder? I could not say, but, at
all events, she would have had some excuse for shrieking. Oh! these
women! I utterly failed to understand that one. The idea of forbidding
me her house because I had kissed her! Could she not have scolded me
gently, instead of flying into a rage? I decided that I should be a
great fool to waste another thought on Madame Dauberny.
But as one should never forget to be polite or to keep one's promises, I
went to the Baron von Brunzbrack, whom none of these episodes had
aroused from his heavy sleep, and shook him violently.
"Wake up, monsieur le baron, it's time for us to go! Madame Dauberny has
gone to her room."
He raised his head at last, rubbed his eyes, and exclaimed:
"Vat! is id bossible? Haf I pin ashleep? _Sapremann!_ Nein, nein! I vas
not ashleep; you tought--you haf been mishtook."
"As you please; but let us go."
"Wo ist te bretty hostess--Montame Frederique?"
"She has gone to her room, I tell you, requesting us to go home."
"Ach Gott! is id tat she too tought tat I haf pin ashleep? I am fery
annoyed--I haf not shlept; I haf reflected; I haf pin shtill in loafe
mit te lady; and you, mein gut frent, you must not loafe her ein leedle
pit; you haf bromised."
"No, monsieur le baron, I am not at all in love with Madame Dauberny.
Make love to her, if you will; I shall not be your rival."
"Gif me your hand, mein frent."
"But it's very late; let us go."
"I vould vish to say gut night to te lady; to say to her tat I haf not
shleep."
"You can come another time and tell her that. She has gone to her room,
and to bed probably; she would not see you. Come!"
I succeeded at last, with much difficulty, in inducing the baron to
leave the place. When we reached the street, he himself asked me to get
into his carriage, and insisted on taking me home. But we were no sooner
seated than his head fell back heavily against the cushions and he slept
once more. I told the coachman to drive to his master's hotel, where he
and the footman undertook to take him up to his apartment.
I returned on foot to my lodgings. The fresh air always does one good
after a banquet at which one has not been abstemious; and then, too, I
have always loved to be out late in Paris. It is so easy to walk, and
the noisy, bustling city wears such a different aspect! Everything is
quiet and deserted. You may walk through the most frequented streets,
the most populous quarters, as if you were strolling on the outer
boulevards. No carriages to block your way; no itinerant hucksters to
deafen you with their yells; no passers-by to elbow you; no awnings, no
stands outside of shop doors for you to run into; no dogs to run between
your legs; no horses to splash mud on you; no concierges to sweep their
gutters onto your boots. Vive Paris at night! especially since the
streets have been lighted by gas, so that one can see as well as at
noonday.
XXIV
COQUETRY AND BACCARAT.--A FIASCO
A week had passed since the unique night I had spent at Madame
Dauberny's. I had respected that lady's orders and had made no attempt
to see her; I had simply left my card with her concierge.
When the image of _my friend Frederique_ presented itself to my mind, I
exerted myself to banish it without pity; it seemed to me that my supper
in her apartments was a dream, which it was not necessary that I should
remember.
For several days, too, I had felt strongly inclined not to call again on
Madame Sordeville. But, before renouncing my hopes in that direction
altogether, I determined to go to her house once more. If she received
me coldly a second time, I swore that I would not try to see her again.
One fine day, after making a careful toilet,--which always made my
servant Pomponne smile, for he was bent on considering himself very
sly,--I presented myself at the door of the pretty brunette, whose hair,
by the way, was not so beautiful as her friend Frederique's; but we
cannot have everything.
"Madame is at home," said the concierge.
I went upstairs, gave my name, and was admitted to madame's boudoir, a
charming sanctuary, the divinity of which was sure to attract many of
the faithful.
I was greeted with the most gracious smile imaginable; she reproached me
most kindly for having left her so long without a glimpse of me. Never
had Armantine looked lovelier to me, and her amiability was delightful.
I found once more my partner of the ball at Deffieux's.
I passed an hour at Madame Sordeville's, and at the end of the hour it
seemed to me that I had just arrived. What did I say to her? I have no
idea; but I think that I squeezed her hand more than once, and that it
did not seem to offend her. I went so far as to put her hand to my lips;
she withdrew it, and said in a tone in which there was no trace of
severity:
"Well, well! what are you doing? what are you thinking about?"
"You, nothing but you."
"Oh! pardon me if I do not believe you! When one thinks so much of
people, one doesn't go whole weeks without seeing them."
"When those people have received us with icy coldness, is it not natural
that we should hesitate before venturing to present ourselves again?"
"Coldness! Ought I to have taken your hand, made you sit down beside me,
and talked exclusively with you all the evening?"
"Oh! you are laughing at me, madame! You are well aware that, even in a
crowd, before witnesses, there are a thousand ways of pouring balm on a
suffering, anxious heart; a word, a glance, is enough."
"But, monsieur, such words and glances are almost signs of a mutual
understanding, and are only exchanged by persons who know each other
very well, who are sure of each other."
I kissed her hand. That time she made no objection and did not withdraw
it; but she faltered:
"You are so impulsive! I begin to think that a tete-a-tete with you is
very dangerous."
"And you will not receive me again?"
"I didn't say that."
"And you will permit me to love you?"
"If I should forbid you to, would you obey me?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then you see that I may as well permit it."
"And I may hope?"
"Ah! I didn't say that!"
"But you will not say anything!"
"I am not so quick as you.--By the way, I did have something to say to
you. The other evening, you went away with Madame Dauberny, I believe.
Did you escort her home? That would be very natural, as my friend was of
such great assistance to you at the Guillardin ball that you should be
polite to her."
I did not know what to say; I was uncertain whether Frederique wanted it
known that she had invited us to supper. In that uncertainty, it seemed
to me more becoming to say nothing about that episode; one never repents
having been discreet.
"I escorted Madame Dauberny to her door," I replied, after a moment,
"and left her there."
"Ah! that is strange! It took you a long time to tell me that!"
"Because--I had forgotten."
"Indeed! Frederique is so original--so disdainful of conventionalities
sometimes, that I had thought----"
"What, pray?"
"But, no, that would have been contrary to all the proprieties! To be
sure, she snaps her fingers at them."
"But what was it that you thought?"
"Nothing; or, rather, I don't choose to tell you."
"You must have seen your friend often since that evening?"
"Only once. I have no idea what she is doing now. She is hardly ever
seen in society. She probably has something to keep her busy.
Saint-Bergame must be replaced. For you know, I suppose, that they have
quarrelled? Frederique is not in the habit of remaining unengaged.
Before Saint-Bergame there was another, and before him another, and
another. She loves variety."
I admire the way women abuse their intimate friends! At that moment, I
wondered what they would say when they spoke of their enemies; the
difference could hardly be perceptible.--And so Madame Dauberny had had
a large number of weaknesses! She had never had a serious attachment!
That was a pity; and it surprised me; for it seemed to me that she was
just the woman to inspire one.
I do not know what I should have said in reply to Madame Sordeville's
remark, but a visitor arrived: a lady of uncertain age, almost lost in
gauze and lace and veils, which were heaped upon her head and hung down
about her body. I fancied that I had a cloud before me, or one of
Isabey's pictures, minus the beautiful coloring. I surrendered my place
to that atmospheric personage, and took my leave. Madame Sordeville made
me promise to attend her next reception, and honored me with a glance
that filled my soul with joy.
I left the house, as light as a feather. I did not walk, I fairly
bounded. Pleasure transformed me into a goat; I longed to dance. You
will consider, doubtless, that I was very childish, and that a man who
had had so many amorous adventures should have been more blase; you are
entirely wrong, for I was blase in no respect; my last _bonne fortune_
made me as happy as the first of all. That was a dispensation of
Providence in my favor, for blase people have two drawbacks: they do not
enjoy themselves, and they bore their friends.
Pomponne smiled again when I reached home; that fellow was not such a
fool as I supposed: he read my face very well indeed.
I waited impatiently for the Thursday which was to give me an
opportunity to see the charming Armantine once more. I had thought of
nothing else since my call upon her; she was so affable and expansive
that day, that I believed that the moment of my happiness could not be
very distant. She had received the avowal of my love without
indignation; nay, she had seemed to listen to it with pleasure; she had
abandoned her hand to me and let me put it to my lips; and, but for that
inopportune visitor, who could say that I should not have obtained more?
No matter! it seemed that I was fairly justified in hoping.
Thursday arrived in due course. Pomponne was ordered to surpass himself
in dressing my hair; I do not know whether he succeeded, but I do know
that he pulled my hair for half an hour; so that he made my head
extremely sore. But I did not scold him. I dressed with my eye on the
clock. I longed to be there, but I said to myself that it was more
adroit to make her wait a little--and I had no doubt that she was
waiting for me.
The moment came at last. I set out with my heart full of Armantine's
image. I arrived at her door. I remembered that in society one must wear
a mask, so that one's secret thoughts may not be divined. But that mask
embarrassed me; I could hardly endure it.
There were a good many people there before me. So much the better, I
thought. The more numerous the company, the greater one's freedom of
action. Monsieur Sordeville greeted me warmly, shook my hand, and
reproached me for not coming to their little receptions for several
weeks. His excessive amiability should have made me remorseful; but I
had never had the slightest liking for the man; and, in any event, why
did he neglect his wife?
I succeeded in approaching her for whose sake, and that alone, I had
come. She greeted me most graciously; but when I tried to exchange with
her one of those glances which are far more eloquent than empty words, I
could not meet her eye. She had turned to a young man who had just been
presented to her, and received his compliments with a profusion of
little smirks and grimaces, which were very pretty, perhaps, but which I
considered sadly out of place at that moment. I flattered myself,
however, that my turn would come; that she had not forgotten that I was
there, within a few feet. But lo! the fair-haired youth of the other
evening, Monsieur Mondival, came up and entered into conversation with
her; the fellow must have said something very amusing, to make her laugh
so heartily! But Madame Dauberny had assured me that the man was stupid,
and I relied upon her judgment. Next, a tall man, with black beard,
whiskers, and moustaches, came to pay his respects to the mistress of
the house. She greeted him with a smile, playing with her fan; their
conversation seemed likely to be protracted, and I began to grow weary
of waiting for my turn. I walked away, presumably with a very long face;
and to cap the climax of my woes, I almost ran into the arms of the
gentleman who kept his eyes almost closed, but who saw well enough to
recognize me, and entered into conversation with me.
I have no idea what answer I made. I turned my back on him, for he bored
me beyond words. I watched the whist players for a while, but soon
returned to the salon where Armantine was, saying to myself:
"It can't go on like this; if she laughs with others, there is no reason
why she shouldn't laugh with me; I am a fool not to stand my ground."
And I approached Madame Sordeville, who was talking with a lady.
Suddenly she turned toward me and burst out laughing.
"Mon Dieu! what on earth is the matter with you to-night, Monsieur
Rochebrune? What a horrible face you are making! Have you the
toothache?"
When one is already in an ill temper, and is trying to conceal it, there
is nothing more maddening than to have someone ask what the matter is;
the result is that, instead of simply looking unhappy, you make a
grimace; and that is probably what I did, for Armantine restrained with
difficulty a longing to laugh again, while I muttered, biting my lips:
"The matter, madame? Why, nothing. What do you suppose is the matter? I
have never had the toothache."
"Monsieur," said a tall, thin old woman, who was sitting beside Madame
Sordeville, and had, I suppose, heard my last words, "put in some cotton
soaked in eau de Cologne. Soak the cotton thoroughly and put it in the
tooth. It's an excellent remedy, I assure you! It doesn't take away the
pain at once, but, after a few days, you suffer much less."
"But, madame," I said to the old lady who insisted upon my having the
toothache, "I have not complained, I am not in pain! I don't know why
you insist that----"
"Then, monsieur," she continued, paying no heed to me, "you have another
remedy, bay salt. Two or three grains of it produce saliva; you spit,
and take more salt, and keep on till the pain is relieved."
I saw that Madame Sordeville was laughing heartily at the impatience
with which I listened to the old lady, who continued:
"Above all things, monsieur, don't have them extracted! Oh! keep your
teeth, monsieur! keep them, by all means! You no sooner have them taken
out than you regret them. I myself, monsieur, have lost fourteen, and I
am in despair to-day! I feel that something is lacking. Of course, I
know that one can----"
I had had enough. Something more was to be lacking to that lady; to wit,
myself as a listener for the entire evening. I had not come there to
attend a course of lectures on dentistry. It seemed to me that Armantine
was laughing at me while I was having that consultation about my teeth.
She had gone to the piano, meanwhile, and the concert began. If it was
to be as fine a performance as on the previous evening, the prospect was
captivating. I felt inclined to find fault with everything. Now that the
music was under way, it would be hard for me to talk to Armantine; she
either accompanied, or turned the pages for singers and players. In
short, she devoted herself to everybody, except myself. So I had
encouraged myself with a false hope! She did not love me--and yet, how
charming she was only three days before! Did she not let me squeeze her
hand and kiss it? Did she not smile at my declaration of love? Suppose
that she ostentatiously treated me coldly before the world, only to
conceal more effectually the sentiments I inspired? I grasped at that
idea, because it left me some hope. Moreover, if it were not so, Madame
Sordeville was a downright coquette, who had been making sport of me and
would do it again! I preferred to believe that she was dissembling her
love; if so, she dissembled perfectly.
The Baron von Brunzbrack entered the salon and came up to me:
"Ponshour, mein gut frent Rocheprune!"
"Good-evening, monsieur le baron!"
"Do you know if Montame Dauberny vill come to tis barty?"
"I have no idea; I have not seen her since we three were together."
"Ach! you haf not seen her."
And the baron pressed my hand with new warmth.
"So id is mit me. I haf pin often to bay mein resbects, put te lady, she
haf pin always oud. Haf you pin to see her?"
"No; I have left my card, nothing more."
"Ach! gut, gut! you pe not in loafe mit her shtill?"
"What, baron! are you still harping on that idea? How many times must I
tell you that I have never made love to Madame Dauberny, that I have
never thought of doing it?"
"Ach! ja! ja! You pe in loafe mit anoder. I haf forgot."
The baron could not understand how anybody could fail to make love to
Madame Dauberny, and I could not understand how Madame Sordeville could
allow everybody to make love to her; in love, each of us has his own way
of looking at things.
Suddenly Brunzbrack seized my arm as if he meant to tear it from its
socket. I thought that he had an attack of hysteria; but, as I saw
Madame Dauberny enter the salon at that moment, I understood what had
caused his convulsive movement.
Frederique wore an original costume, as indeed she generally did. A
black velvet gown, high in the neck, fitted closely to her figure, which
seemed more than ordinarily slender; her hair was dressed with sprays of
jet and black velvet bows, and that severe style gave to her face, which
was unusually pale, a serious expression. I did not know whether I ought
still to be angry with her; I remembered the decidedly brusque way in
which she had dismissed me, but in the next moment I remembered all the
confidence and friendship she had shown me. While I hesitated, trying to
make up my mind, Frederique passed us, and bowed coolly enough to us
both.
Brunzbrack left me, to dog the steps of the woman he adored, and I
continued to prowl about Armantine. We were both playing the same game.
Should we have luck? Up to that time, I had seen no prospect of it.
Monsieur Mondival sang several ballads; he sang them precisely as a
schoolboy repeats his lessons; but as the ballads themselves were
amusing, the company laughed heartily, and the singer attributed it to
his own performance, whereas his only merit was his skilful choice of
songs.
After he had finished, the black-bearded man, who had talked a long
while with Armantine, seated himself at the piano, and sang a grand aria
with infinitely more assurance than voice. But assurance is a great
thing in society. He was loudly applauded, and when he left the piano I
was certain that Madame Sordeville complimented him. If I chose--one
thing was certain, that I had a better voice than that man.
All this irritated me; I was intensely annoyed to find that she paid no
attention to me, and I went to the piano and began to turn over the
music. But she observed my movements sufficiently to see that I was
there, for she came to me and said:
"It's a great pity that you sing only when you are alone; for I should
have been delighted to hear you, monsieur."
"Mon Dieu! if it will give you any pleasure, madame----"
"You will sing? How good of you!"
"I will try to sing something. I don't know whether I can manage it."
"Oh! that is an amateur's modesty! I am sure that you sing beautifully."
She walked quickly to a seat, saying:
"Monsieur Rochebrune is going to sing. Silence, if you please!"
Everyone ceased talking, and the room became perfectly still. I began to
be afraid that I had gone too fast. To be sure, I sing rather well, but
it so rarely happens that I sing before strangers. However, I realized
that I must do my best; it was impossible to back out.
I sat down at the piano. My fingers refused to move. What was I to sing?
I must make up my mind, for everybody was waiting. I settled upon a
romanza by Massini; as is usually the case when one is afraid, I
selected the most difficult piece I knew and the one that I sang least
well.
At the outset, I forgot the accompaniment and struck two or three
discordant notes in the bass--something that had never happened to me
before. That was calculated to give my hearers rather a sorry idea of my
musical organization.
When I came to the second verse, I forgot the words. I stopped, and
began again; but it was of no use, and I mumbled between my teeth:
"Tradera, deri, dera!"
The words of the third verse came to me all right, and I determined to
be revenged for the mess I had made of the other two. I attacked it with
confidence, and when I came to an _ad libitum_ passage I risked a note
which I had taken a hundred times without any trouble. But I had
something in my throat that night. Was it fear? was it ill humor? This
much is certain, that I made a vile fiasco, and that I ended my song
coughing as if I had swallowed something the wrong way.
I left the piano, purple with chagrin, and still coughing. Somebody was
malicious enough to applaud me; but I saw in the eyes of the guests that
malignant joy which people always feel in society when they have a fair
opportunity to laugh at somebody. What distressed me most of all was
that I had made an ass of myself before Armantine, who was much given to
raillery, and who could hardly restrain her laughter; while Herr von
Brunzbrack said to me with the utmost good faith:
"Vat a bity tat you haf ein cold! Id vas going so vell!"
I made no reply; I would have liked to crawl under a sofa. I slunk away
to a corner of the salon, where I heard a voice in my ear:
"That false note puts you back at least three months!"
Frederique was behind me. I understood her meaning perfectly. In truth,
in the eyes of a vain, coquettish woman like Madame Sordeville, to make
one's self ridiculous before witnesses is a great crime! There are so
few women who love us for ourselves! With the great majority we owe our
success solely to all the previous successes we have had.