On the following afternoon, as Lord Barmouth had some business with the
Minister of Foreign Affairs over at the Quai d'Orsay, I accompanied Lady
Barmouth and Sibyl to a rather queer function. It was a unique
opportunity offered to visit in detail one of the most attractive
palaces in La Ville Lumiere; to while away a few hours very agreeably
with a well-chosen variety entertainment presented by some of the most
popular artists on the Paris stage; and to aid a philanthropic
enterprise, L'Oeuvre Sociale, conceived, I suppose, in a compassionate
love of humanity and carried on in a touching spirit of self-abnegation.
The palace was that of Prince Roland Bonaparte, in the Avenue d'Jena.
Through the galleries, salons, and magnificent library the crush was
enormous. The afternoon was hot and the atmosphere stifling;
nevertheless, in the cause of charity we of the diplomatic circle must
always be en evidence, even though we would rather be away from the
crowd in the country or by the sea.
It was evident when we arrived that the visit to the hotel was one of
the great attractions of the fete, for many lady visitors, especially
the American contingent, examined and admired the handsome staircase,
with its green marble columns, its vast collection of pictures,
sculpture, bronzes, tapestries, and curiosities, the salons filled with
souvenirs of the First Empire and of the Imperial family, and the
incomparable library--that of Louis XIV--in exquisitely carved wood.
We mounted to the vestibule on the first floor, where a concert-room had
been fitted up, and there with difficulty found seats among the crowded
audience.
Aristide Bruant himself was concluding one of his popular songs of the
street:
La moral' de c'tte oraison-la,
C'est qu' les p'tit's fill's qu'a pas d' papa,
Doiv'nt jamais aller a l'ecole,
A Batignolles,
and bowed himself off amid thunders of applause. As a Paris singer has
not to submit his lines to a paternal County Council, they are
frequently a trifle more free than those to which English audiences are
in the habit of listening. Nevertheless, it must be remembered that
this charity function was a very smart affair, all the best-known people
remaining in Paris being present. After Bruant, an outburst of applause
greeted the renowned Spanish dancer, La Belle Otero, who danced and
sang, followed by pastourelles of the eighteenth century, romances by
Florian and Marie Antoinette, and songs by Paulus. Lastly, there
bounded upon the stage Eugenie Buffet, the "chanteuse des rues,"
together with her troupe. She sang that weird song of Paris life so
popular at the cafes, called "A la Villette," commencing:
Il avait pas encor' vingt ans,
I' connaissait pas ses parents,
On l'app'lait Toto Laripette,
A la Villette.
Il etait un peu sans facon,
Mais c'etait un joli garcon:
C'etait l'pus beau, c'etait l'pus chouette,
A la Villette.
The audience had heard much of the song, but few of those present had
ever ventured into the insignificant cafe where she sang it nightly.
Consequently there was distinct novelty in it. She sang it through, to
the accompaniment of her street musicians, until she came to the final
verse:
La dernier' fois que je l'ai vu,
Il avait l'torse a moitie nu,
Et le cou pris dans la lunette,
A la Roquette.
Then, with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm, the whole audience threw
hundreds of sous and francs to the singer.
Sibyl, seated beside me, her ladyship having found a seat with the
Baronne de Chalencon some distance away, turned to me, saying:
"The air is simply suffocating here. Shall we go?"
"Certainly," I answered, glad myself to escape from the
semi-asphyxiation. We rose and passed out together. On the stairs we
met Prince Roland, delighted with the success of the entertainment,
ascending, with, as usual, hat on the back of his head and hands in
pockets.
"Ah, mon cher Ingram!" he cried, greeting us. "And you are here with
mademoiselle?"
Sibyl congratulated him upon his great success, whereupon he answered,
with a broad smile:
"It seems, mademoiselle, that my hotel is not large enough for charity."
And he passed on, leaving us to laugh at his rather witty mot. In Paris
everyone knows the Prince, for he is one of the central figures in
Society. Below we encountered the Baronne de Nouilles, who with Madame
Bornier was sharing the feminine literary honours of Paris at the
moment. The Baronne's poems were well known, especially "Il n'y a plus
d'iles bienheureuses." She greeted us merrily, for Sibyl was her
especial favourite. She was still quite young, dark, slim, and
distinguished-looking. In addition to much originality and charm in her
manner of writing, she possessed an insight into, and a power to judge,
human nature in its many varied aspects which had been pronounced by the
critics to be remarkable. She was very graceful, with auburn hair and a
face such as Burne-Jones loved to paint. Indeed, she had sat for the
faces of several of that artist's more recent pictures.
"What!" she cried, "you, too, find the crush too great? And I also. I
am returning home. Come with me, both of you, and have a quiet cup of
tea. I will explain to her ladyship;" and walking quickly across to
where Sibyl's mother was standing, she uttered a few words to the
Ambassador's wife. Then we all three entered her landau and drove to
her house.
The Baronne was, as all Paris knows, in every way an artist, wealthy,
chic, and philanthropic to a degree. Her house was, I found, a dream of
exquisite taste.
When we entered, Sibyl turned to me, saying:
"These white carpets and delicate hangings make one tremble at the
thought of dirty feet or smutty fingers!"
And they certainly did. The effects everywhere were highly artistic--
more striking, I think, than I had ever seen in any private house. Her
refined taste and rare turn of--mind were shown in every corner of that
delightful house, so delicate and restful in every detail. The salon in
which tea was served was all white--soft white velvet hangings, white
carpet, white wood furniture, and a little gallery also in white. Along
the dado-line, in white wood, were painted butterflies in pale opal
shades, frail symbols of the flitting gaieties of life.
We had been chatting some little time, and the conversation between the
Ambassador's daughter and the poetess had turned upon frocks, as it so
often does between women devoted to La mode. They were discussing the
toilette of Madame de Yturbe, one of the prettiest women in Paris, and
the tendency of late towards the Empire and Directoire periods in dress,
when I asked a question to which I had often failed to get a
satisfactory answer.
"Who is really the smartest--the Parisienne, or the American woman, in
Paris?"
"Ah, m'sieur!" cried the merry little Baronne, holding up her hands,
"the Americans run us so very close in the matter of dress nowadays that
I really do not know. Indeed, many Americans are in my opinion more
chic than the vraie Parisienne."
"Well," observed Sibyl rather philosophically, "there is, I think, more
independence and individuality in the American woman's manner of putting
on her clothes. The French woman--forgive me, Baronne--accepts her
frock just as it comes from the dressmaker, and looks more or less as
though she has just stepped out of a bandbox. But the American knows
better what suits her in the first place, and in putting on her clothes
adapts them, by a judicious touch here and there, to her own particular
style and taste."
"I thoroughly agree," observed the Baronne. "We have been actually
beaten on our own ground by the Americans. It is curious, but
nevertheless true, that we French women are being left behind in the
mode, as we have been left behind in the laws. Here, in France, we are
twenty years or so behind the age in regard to the laws affecting
women."
"I don't understand," observed Sibyl.
"Well, in brief, our modern intellectual young man in Paris is all for
woman's rights. In England you have long been aware that to educate and
gradually emancipate the women-folk is one of the most important points
in modern progress; but though the Feministe movement in France has been
actively pushed by a small minority during the last few years, we in
Paris have only just heard of your so-called New Woman."
"And do you believe, Baronne, that the movement will progress?" I
inquired.
"Ah! it is difficult to say, m'sieur," she answered, with a slight shrug
of her well-formed shoulders. "When the reformers' ideal has once been
placed in the category of practical politics it will probably be
accorded a welcome and given a deferential attention which has scarcely
been vouchsafed to it on your side of the Pas de Calais. At present, as
you know, a married woman in France has no right to her own earnings.
They belong to the husband. A man can actually imprison his wife for
two years if discovered with a lover; while a woman who has been wronged
is not allowed the recherche de la paternite. In short, you English
respect your womenkind, and are a free and enlightened people in
comparison with us. Here, `Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite,' are words
which apply solely to the masculine sex."
We both laughed, but the Baronne was quite serious, and from her
subsequent observations it was patent that I had accidentally touched
upon one of her pet subjects. To confess the truth, I became rather
bored by her violent arguments in favour of the emancipation of women,
for when a voluble Frenchwoman argues, it is difficult to get in a word
edgewise.
Presently she exclaimed:
"A couple of days ago I had a visit from an old friend who inquired
whether I knew you--the Comtesse de Foville. She has left Paris."
"Yes," I said, "I think she has. Her visit has been only a brief one.
They have gone for their cure at Marienbad, I believe."
"Very brief. She wrote telling me that she and Yolande would remain in
Paris at least a month, and yet they've not been here a week!"
"Is this the same Yolande whom you knew in Brussels?" asked Sibyl,
turning to me with a glance of surprise.
"Yes," I answered in a hard voice. Why, I wondered, had this woman
brought up a subject so distasteful to me?
"You were her cavalier in Brussels, so I've heard," observed the
Ambassador's daughter. "I was still at college in those days, I
suppose. But is it really true that your flirtations were something
dreadful?"
"Who told you so?" I inquired, in a tone which affected to scout such
an idea.
"Mother said so the other day. She told me that everyone in Brussels
knew you had fallen violently in love with her, and prophesied marriage,
until one day you suddenly applied for a change of post, and left her.
They whispered that it was owing to a quarrel."
"Well," I said with a sad smile, "you are really awfully frank."
"Just as you are with me. You're always chaffing me about my partners
at dances, and making all sorts of rude remarks. Now, when I have a
chance to retaliate, it isn't to be supposed that I shall let it slip."
"Certainly not," I laughed. "Now describe all my shortcomings, and make
a long list of them. It will be entertaining to the Baronne, who dearly
loves to hear a little private history."
"Now, m'sieur, that is really too bad," the other protested. "You
Englishmen are always so very cynical."
"We find it very necessary for our existence, I assure you, madame."
"Just as Yolande was once necessary for your existence--eh?" she added
mischievously, as they both laughed in chorus at my discomfiture.
"Well, and if I admit it?"
"If you admit it you will perhaps set our minds at rest as to the reason
of her sudden departure from Paris yesterday," exclaimed the Baronne,
with a strange expression upon her face, as though she knew more than
she would admit.
"I have no idea of the reason. They have gone for their cure at
Marienbad, I believe." Madame smiled, pushing a little tendril of her
auburn hair from off her brow.
"You believe!" she echoed. "Are you not certain?"
"No, I'm not certain. They left hurriedly. That is all I know."
"And all you care?" asked Sibyl, regarding me very gravely.
"And all I care," I added.
"What a courteous cavalier!" exclaimed madame, laughing. Then she
added: "I've known Yolande and her mother for quite a number of years.
Yolande is a most charming girl."
"I've heard that she is now engaged," I observed, resolved upon a ruse.
"Giraud, of the Belgian Embassy, told me the other day that she was to
marry some German--I think he is--named Wolf. Do you know him?"
"Wolf!" ejaculated the Baronne, her fine eyes fixed upon me with a
strange look, as though in a moment she had become paralysed by some
sudden fear. The next instant, however, with a woman's marvellous
self-possession, she made shift to answer:
"No, the name is quite unfamiliar to me."
"Why," cried Sibyl suddenly, "that was the name of the dark-bearded man
who was so charming to me at the de Chalencon's the other night. Is he
the same?"
"Yes," I said. "His character, however, is none of the best. I would
only warn you to have nothing whatever to do with him--that's all."
"He was awfully kind to me the other evening," she protested.
"Well," I replied earnestly, "but you and I are friends of old standing,
and I consider that I have a right to give you warning when it seems to
be necessary."
"And is one actually needed regarding Rodolphe Wolf?" asked the Baronne,
evidently much puzzled, for she undoubtedly knew him, even though she
had declared her ignorance of his existence.
"Yes," I said, "he is a person to be avoided. More, I cannot tell you."