excess, can produce mischief as great as do the worst vices. Bonaparte
was made Emperor for having fired on the people, at a stone's throw
from the spot where Louis XVI. lost his throne and his head because he
would not allow a certain Monsieur Sauce to be hurt.
On the following morning, Hortense, who had slept with the seal under
her pillow, so as to have it close to her all night, dressed very
early, and sent to beg her father to join her in the garden as soon as
he should be down.
By about half-past nine, the father, acceding to his daughter's
petition, gave her his arm for a walk, and they went along the quays
by the Pont Royal to the Place du Carrousel.
"Let us look into the shop windows, papa," said Hortense, as they went
through the little gate to cross the wide square.
"What--here?" said her father, laughing at her.
"We are supposed to have come to see the pictures, and over there"
--and she pointed to the stalls in front of the houses at a right
angle to the Rue du Doyenne--"look! there are dealers in curiosities
and pictures----"
"Your cousin lives there."
"I know it, but she must not see us."
"And what do you want to do?" said the Baron, who, finding himself
within thirty yards of Madame Marneffe's windows, suddenly remembered
her.
Hortense had dragged her father in front of one of the shops forming
the angle of a block of houses built along the front of the Old
Louvre, and facing the Hotel de Nantes. She went into this shop; her
father stood outside, absorbed in gazing at the windows of the pretty
little lady, who, the evening before, had left her image stamped on
the old beau's heart, as if to alleviate the wound he was so soon to
receive; and he could not help putting his wife's sage advice into
practice.
"I will fall back on a simple little citizen's wife," said he to
himself, recalling Madame Marneffe's adorable graces. "Such a woman as
that will soon make me forget that grasping Josepha."
Now, this was what was happening at the same moment outside and inside
the curiosity shop.
As he fixed his eyes on the windows of his new _belle_, the Baron saw
the husband, who, while brushing his coat with his own hands, was
apparently on the lookout, expecting to see some one on the square.
Fearing lest he should be seen, and subsequently recognized, the
amorous Baron turned his back on the Rue du Doyenne, or rather stood
at three-quarters' face, as it were, so as to be able to glance round
from time to time. This manoeuvre brought him face to face with Madame
Marneffe, who, coming up from the quay, was doubling the promontory of
houses to go home.
Valerie was evidently startled as she met the Baron's astonished eye,
and she responded with a prudish dropping of her eyelids.
"A pretty woman," exclaimed he, "for whom a man would do many foolish
things."
"Indeed, monsieur?" said she, turning suddenly, like a woman who has
just come to some vehement decision, "you are Monsieur le Baron Hulot,
I believe?"
The Baron, more and more bewildered, bowed assent.
"Then, as chance has twice made our eyes meet, and I am so fortunate
as to have interested or puzzled you, I may tell you that, instead of
doing anything foolish, you ought to do justice.--My husband's fate
rests with you."
"And how may that be?" asked the gallant Baron.
"He is employed in your department in the War Office, under Monsieur
Lebrun, in Monsieur Coquet's room," said she with a smile.
"I am quite disposed, Madame--Madame----?"
"Madame Marneffe."
"Dear little Madame Marneffe, to do injustice for your sake.--I have a
cousin living in your house; I will go to see her one day soon--as
soon as possible; bring your petition to me in her rooms."
"Pardon my boldness, Monsieur le Baron; you must understand that if I
dare to address you thus, it is because I have no friend to protect
me----"
"Ah, ha!"
"Monsieur, you misunderstand me," said she, lowering her eyelids.
Hulot felt as if the sun had disappeared.
"I am at my wits' end, but I am an honest woman!" she went on. "About
six months ago my only protector died, Marshal Montcornet--"
"Ah! You are his daughter?"
"Yes, monsieur; but he never acknowledged me."
"That was that he might leave you part of his fortune."
"He left me nothing; he made no will."
"Indeed! Poor little woman! The Marshal died suddenly of apoplexy.
But, come, madame, hope for the best. The State must do something for
the daughter of one of the Chevalier Bayards of the Empire."
Madame Marneffe bowed gracefully and went off, as proud of her success
as the Baron was of his.
"Where the devil has she been so early?" thought he watching the flow
of her skirts, to which she contrived to impart a somewhat exaggerated
grace. "She looks too tired to have just come from a bath, and her
husband is waiting for her. It is strange, and puzzles me altogether."
Madame Marneffe having vanished within, the Baron wondered what his
daughter was doing in the shop. As he went in, still staring at Madame
Marneffe's windows, he ran against a young man with a pale brow and
sparkling gray eyes, wearing a summer coat of black merino, coarse
drill trousers, and tan shoes, with gaiters, rushing away headlong; he
saw him run to the house in the Rue du Doyenne, into which he went.
Hortense, on going into the shop, had at once recognized the famous
group, conspicuously placed on a table in the middle and in front of
the door. Even without the circumstances to which she owed her
knowledge of this masterpiece, it would probably have struck her by
the peculiar power which we must call the _brio_--the _go_--of great
works; and the girl herself might in Italy have been taken as a model
for the personification of _Brio_.
Not every work by a man of genius has in the same degree that
brilliancy, that glory which is at once patent even to the most
ignoble beholder. Thus, certain pictures by Raphael, such as the
famous _Transfiguration_, the _Madonna di Foligno_, and the frescoes
of the _Stanze_ in the Vatican, do not at first captivate our
admiration, as do the _Violin-player_ in the Sciarra Palace, the
portraits of the Doria family, and the _Vision of Ezekiel_ in the
Pitti Gallery, the _Christ bearing His Cross_ in the Borghese
collection, and the _Marriage of the Virgin_ in the Brera at Milan.
The _Saint John the Baptist_ of the Tribuna, and _Saint Luke painting
the Virgin's portrait_ in the Accademia at Rome, have not the charm of
the _Portrait of Leo X._, and of the _Virgin_ at Dresden.
And yet they are all of equal merit. Nay, more. The _Stanze_, the
_Transfiguration_, the panels, and the three easel pictures in the
Vatican are in the highest degree perfect and sublime. But they demand
a stress of attention, even from the most accomplished beholder, and
serious study, to be fully understood; while the _Violin-player_, the
_Marriage of the Virgin_, and the _Vision of Ezekiel_ go straight to
the heart through the portal of sight, and make their home there. It
is a pleasure to receive them thus without an effort; if it is not the
highest phase of art, it is the happiest. This fact proves that, in
the begetting of works of art, there is as much chance in the
character of the offspring as there is in a family of children; that
some will be happily graced, born beautiful, and costing their mothers
little suffering, creatures on whom everything smiles, and with whom
everything succeeds; in short, genius, like love, has its fairer
blossoms.
This _brio_, an Italian word which the French have begun to use, is
characteristic of youthful work. It is the fruit of an impetus and
fire of early talent--an impetus which is met with again later in some
happy hours; but this particular _brio_ no longer comes from the
artist's heart; instead of his flinging it into his work as a volcano
flings up its fires, it comes to him from outside, inspired by
circumstances, by love, or rivalry, often by hatred, and more often
still by the imperious need of glory to be lived up to.
This group by Wenceslas was to his later works what the _Marriage of
the Virgin_ is to the great mass of Raphael's, the first step of a
gifted artist taken with the inimitable grace, the eagerness, and
delightful overflowingness of a child, whose strength is concealed
under the pink-and-white flesh full of dimples which seem to echo to a
mother's laughter. Prince Eugene is said to have paid four hundred
thousand francs for this picture, which would be worth a million to
any nation that owned no picture by Raphael, but no one would give
that sum for the finest of the frescoes, though their value is far
greater as works of art.
Hortense restrained her admiration, for she reflected on the amount of
her girlish savings; she assumed an air of indifference, and said to
the dealer:
"What is the price of that?"
"Fifteen hundred francs," replied the man, sending a glance of
intelligence to a young man seated on a stool in the corner.
The young man himself gazed in a stupefaction at Monsieur Hulot's
living masterpiece. Hortense, forewarned, at once identified him as
the artist, from the color that flushed a face pale with endurance;
she saw the spark lighted up in his gray eyes by her question; she
looked on the thin, drawn features, like those of a monk consumed by
asceticism; she loved the red, well-formed mouth, the delicate chin,
and the Pole's silky chestnut hair.
"If it were twelve hundred," said she, "I would beg you to send it to
me."
"It is antique, mademoiselle," the dealer remarked, thinking, like all
his fraternity, that, having uttered this _ne plus ultra_ of
bric-a-brac, there was no more to be said.
"Excuse me, monsieur," she replied very quietly, "it was made this
year; I came expressly to beg you, if my price is accepted, to send
the artist to see us, as it might be possible to procure him some
important commissions."
"And if he is to have the twelve hundred francs, what am I to
get? I am the dealer," said the man, with candid good-humor.
"To be sure!" replied the girl, with a slight curl of disdain.
"Oh! mademoiselle, take it; I will make terms with the dealer,"
cried the Livonian, beside himself.
Fascinated by Hortense's wonderful beauty and the love of art she
displayed, he added:
"I am the sculptor of the group, and for ten days I have come here
three times a day to see if anybody would recognize its merit and
bargain for it. You are my first admirer--take it!"
"Come, then, monsieur, with the dealer, an hour hence.--Here is my
father's card," replied Hortense.
Then, seeing the shopkeeper go into a back room to wrap the group in a
piece of linen rag, she added in a low voice, to the great
astonishment of the artist, who thought he must be dreaming:
"For the benefit of your future prospects, Monsieur Wenceslas, do not
mention the name of the purchaser to Mademoiselle Fischer, for she is
our cousin."
The word cousin dazzled the artist's mind; he had a glimpse of
Paradise whence this daughter of Eve had come to him. He had dreamed
of the beautiful girl of whom Lisbeth had told him, as Hortense had
dreamed of her cousin's lover; and, as she had entered the shop--
"Ah!" thought he, "if she could but be like this!"
The look that passed between the lovers may be imagined; it was a
flame, for virtuous lovers have no hypocrisies.
"Well, what the deuce are you doing here?" her father asked her.
"I have been spending twelve hundred francs that I had saved. Come."
And she took her father's arm.
"Twelve hundred francs?" he repeated.
"To be exact, thirteen hundred; you will lend me the odd hundred?"
"And on what, in such a place, could you spend so much?"
"Ah! that is the question!" replied the happy girl. "If I have got a
husband, he is not dear at the money."
"A husband! In that shop, my child?"
"Listen, dear little father; would you forbid my marrying a great
artist?"
"No, my dear. A great artist in these days is a prince without a title
--he has glory and fortune, the two chief social advantages--next to
virtue," he added, in a smug tone.
"Oh, of course!" said Hortense. "And what do you think of sculpture?"
"It is very poor business," replied Hulot, shaking his head. "It needs
high patronage as well as great talent, for Government is the only
purchaser. It is an art with no demand nowadays, where there are no
princely houses, no great fortunes, no entailed mansions, no
hereditary estates. Only small pictures and small figures can find a
place; the arts are endangered by this need of small things."
"But if a great artist could find a demand?" said Hortense.
"That indeed would solve the problem."
"Or had some one to back him?"
"That would be even better."
"If he were of noble birth?"
"Pooh!"
"A Count."
"And a sculptor?"
"He has no money."
"And so he counts on that of Mademoiselle Hortense Hulot?" said the
Baron ironically, with an inquisitorial look into his daughter's eyes.
"This great artist, a Count and a sculptor, has just seen your
daughter for the first time in his life, and for the space of five
minutes, Monsieur le Baron," Hortense calmly replied. "Yesterday, you
must know, dear little father, while you were at the Chamber, mamma
had a fainting fit. This, which she ascribed to a nervous attack, was
the result of some worry that had to do with the failure of my
marriage, for she told me that to get rid of me---"
"She is too fond of you to have used an expression----"
"So unparliamentary!" Hortense put in with a laugh. "No, she did not
use those words; but I know that a girl old enough to marry and who
does not find a husband is a heavy cross for respectable parents to
bear.--Well, she thinks that if a man of energy and talent could be
found, who would be satisfied with thirty thousand francs for my
marriage portion, we might all be happy. In fact, she thought it
advisable to prepare me for the modesty of my future lot, and to
hinder me from indulging in too fervid dreams.--Which evidently meant
an end to the intended marriage, and no settlements for me!"
"Your mother is a very good woman, noble, admirable!" replied the
father, deeply humiliated, though not sorry to hear this confession.
"She told me yesterday that she had your permission to sell her
diamonds so as to give me something to marry on; but I should like her
to keep her jewels, and to find a husband myself. I think I have found
the man, the possible husband, answering to mamma's prospectus----"
"There?--in the Place du Carrousel?--and in one morning?"
"Oh, papa, the mischief lies deeper!" said she archly.
"Well, come, my child, tell the whole story to your good old father,"
said he persuasively, and concealing his uneasiness.
Under promise of absolute secrecy, Hortense repeated the upshot of her
various conversations with her Cousin Betty. Then, when they got home,
she showed the much-talked-of-seal to her father in evidence of the
sagacity of her views. The father, in the depth of his heart, wondered
at the skill and acumen of girls who act on instinct, discerning the
simplicity of the scheme which her idealized love had suggested in the
course of a single night to his guileless daughter.
"You will see the masterpiece I have just bought; it is to be brought
home, and that dear Wenceslas is to come with the dealer.--The man who
made that group ought to make a fortune; only use your influence to
get him an order for a statue, and rooms at the Institut----"
"How you run on!" cried her father. "Why, if you had your own way, you
would be man and wife within the legal period--in eleven days----"
"Must we wait so long?" said she, laughing. "But I fell in love with
him in five minutes, as you fell in love with mamma at first sight.
And he loves me as if we had known each other for two years. Yes," she
said in reply to her father's look, "I read ten volumes of love in his
eyes. And will not you and mamma accept him as my husband when you see
that he is a man of genius? Sculpture is the greatest of the Arts,"
she cried, clapping her hands and jumping. "I will tell you
everything----"
"What, is there more to come?" asked her father, smiling.
The child's complete and effervescent innocence had restored her
father's peace of mind.
"A confession of the first importance," said she. "I loved him without
knowing him; and, for the last hour, since seeing him, I am crazy
about him."
"A little too crazy!" said the Baron, who was enjoying the sight of
this guileless passion.
"Do not punish me for confiding in you," replied she. "It is so
delightful to say to my father's heart, 'I love him! I am so happy in
loving him!'--You will see my Wenceslas! His brow is so sad. The sun
of genius shines in his gray eyes--and what an air he has! What do you
think of Livonia? Is it a fine country?--The idea of Cousin Betty's
marrying that young fellow! She might be his mother. It would be
murder! I am quite jealous of all she has ever done for him. But I
don't think my marriage will please her."
"See, my darling, we must hide nothing from your mother."
"I should have to show her the seal, and I promised not to betray
Cousin Lisbeth, who is afraid, she says, of mamma's laughing at her,"
said Hortense.
"You have scruples about the seal, and none about robbing your cousin
of her lover."
"I promised about the seal--I made no promise about the sculptor."
This adventure, patriarchal in its simplicity, came admirably _a
propos_ to the unconfessed poverty of the family; the Baron, while
praising his daughter for her candor, explained to her that she must
now leave matters to the discretion of her parents.
"You understand, my child, that it is not your part to ascertain
whether your cousin's lover is a Count, if he has all his papers
properly certified, and if his conduct is a guarantee for his
respectability.--As for your cousin, she refused five offers when she
was twenty years younger; that will prove no obstacle, I undertake to
say."
"Listen to me, papa; if you really wish to see me married, never say a
word to Lisbeth about it till just before the contract is signed. I
have been catechizing her about this business for the last six months!
Well, there is something about her quite inexplicable----"
"What?" said her father, puzzled.
"Well, she looks evil when I say too much, even in joke, about her
lover. Make inquiries, but leave me to row my own boat. My confidence
ought to reassure you."
"The Lord said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me.' You are one
of those who have come back again," replied the Baron with a touch of
irony.
After breakfast the dealer was announced, and the artist with his
group. The sudden flush that reddened her daughter's face at once made
the Baroness suspicious and then watchful, and the girl's confusion
and the light in her eyes soon betrayed the mystery so badly guarded
in her simple heart.
Count Steinbock, dressed in black, struck the Baron as a very
gentlemanly young man.
"Would you undertake a bronze statue?" he asked, as he held up the
group.
After admiring it on trust, he passed it on to his wife, who knew
nothing about sculpture.
"It is beautiful, isn't it, mamma?" said Hortense in her mother' ear.
"A statue! Monsieur, it is less difficult to execute a statue than to
make a clock like this, which my friend here has been kind enough to
bring," said the artist in reply.
The dealer was placing on the dining-room sideboard the wax model of
the twelve Hours that the Loves were trying to delay.
"Leave the clock with me," said the Baron, astounded at the beauty of
the sketch. "I should like to show it to the Ministers of the Interior
and of Commerce."
"Who is the young man in whom you take so much interest?" the Baroness
asked her daughter.
"An artist who could afford to execute this model could get a hundred
thousand francs for it," said the curiosity-dealer, putting on a
knowing and mysterious look as he saw that the artist and the girl
were interchanging glances. "He would only need to sell twenty copies
at eight thousand francs each--for the materials would cost about a
thousand crowns for each example. But if each copy were numbered and
the mould destroyed, it would certainly be possible to meet with
twenty amateurs only too glad to possess a replica of such a work."
"A hundred thousand francs!" cried Steinbock, looking from the dealer
to Hortense, the Baron, and the Baroness.
"Yes, a hundred thousand francs," repeated the dealer. "If I were rich
enough, I would buy it of you myself for twenty thousand francs; for
by destroying the mould it would become a valuable property. But one
of the princes ought to pay thirty or forty thousand francs for such a
work to ornament his drawing-room. No man has ever succeeded in making
a clock satisfactory alike to the vulgar and to the connoisseur, and
this one, sir, solves the difficulty."
"This is for yourself, monsieur," said Hortense, giving six gold
pieces to the dealer.
"Never breath a word of this visit to any one living," said the artist
to his friend, at the door. "If you should be asked where we sold the
group, mention the Duc d'Herouville, the famous collector in the Rue
de Varenne."
The dealer nodded assent.
"And your name?" said Hulot to the artist when he came back.
"Count Steinbock."
"Have you the papers that prove your identity?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Baron. They are in Russian and in German, but not
legalized."
"Do you feel equal to undertaking a statue nine feet high?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, then, if the persons whom I shall consult are satisfied with
your work, I can secure you the commission for the statue of Marshal
Montcornet, which is to be erected on his monument at Pere-Lachaise.
The Minister of War and the old officers of the Imperial Guard have
subscribed a sum large enough to enable us to select our artist."
"Oh, monsieur, it will make my fortune!" exclaimed Steinbock,
overpowered by so much happiness at once.
"Be easy," replied the Baron graciously. "If the two ministers to whom
I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are delighted with
these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good."
Hortense hugged her father's arm so tightly as to hurt him.
"Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to anybody, not
even to our old Cousin Betty."
"Lisbeth?" said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of all
this, though unable to guess the means.
"I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the Baroness,"
added Wenceslas.
The artist, struck by Madame Hulot's beauty, was comparing the mother
and daughter.
"Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you," said the Baron, quite
charmed by Count Steinbock's refined and elegant manner. "You will
find out that in Paris no man is clever for nothing, and that
persevering toil always finds its reward here."
Hortense, with a blush, held out to the young man a pretty Algerine
purse containing sixty gold pieces. The artist, with something still
of a gentleman's pride, responded with a mounting color easy enough to
interpret.
"This, perhaps, is the first money your works have brought you?" said
Adeline.
"Yes, madame--my works of art. It is not the first-fruits of my labor,
for I have been a workman."
"Well, we must hope my daughter's money will bring you good luck,"
said she.
"And take it without scruple," added the Baron, seeing that Wenceslas
held the purse in his hand instead of pocketing it. "The sum will be
repaid by some rich man, a prince perhaps, who will offer it with
interest to possess so fine a work."
"Oh, I want it too much myself, papa, to give it up to anybody in the
world, even a royal prince!"
"I can make a far prettier thing than that for you, mademoiselle."
"But it would not be this one," replied she; and then, as if ashamed
of having said too much, she ran out into the garden.
"Then I shall break the mould and the model as soon as I go home,"
said Steinbock.
"Fetch me your papers, and you will hear of me before long, if you are
equal to what I expect of you, monsieur."
The artist on this could but take leave. After bowing to Madame Hulot
and Hortense, who came in from the garden on purpose, he went off to
walk in the Tuileries, not bearing--not daring--to return to his
attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring his
secret from him.
Hortense's adorer conceived of groups and statues by the hundred; he
felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who was
also a feeble man, and nearly died of it. He was transfigured by
Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.
"Now then," said the Baroness to her daughter, "what does all this
mean?"