Formerly Paris belonged to the Parisians, and that at no very remote
period-thirty or forty years ago. At that epoch the French were
the masters of Paris, as the English are the masters of London, the
Spaniards of Madrid, and the Russians of St. Petersburg. Those times are
no more. Other countries still have their frontiers; there are now
none to France. Paris has become an immense Babel, a universal and
international city. Foreigners do not only come to visit Paris; they
come there to live. At the present day we have in Paris a Russian
colony, a Spanish colony, a Levantine colony, an American colony.
The foreigners have already conquered from us the greater part of the
Champs-Elysees and the Boulevard Malesherbes; they advance, they extend
their outworks; we retreat, pressed back by the invaders; we are obliged
to expatriate ourselves. We have begun to found Parisian colonies in
the plains of Passy, in the plain of Monceau, in quarters which formerly
were not Paris at all, and which are not quite even now. Among the
foreign colonies, the richest, the most populous, the most brilliant,
is the American colony. There is a moment when an American feels himself
rich enough, a Frenchman never. The American then stops, draws breath,
and while still husbanding the capital, no longer spares the income. He
knows how to spend, the Frenchman knows only how to save.
The Frenchman has only one real luxury--his revolutions. Prudently and
wisely he reserves himself for them, knowing well that they will
cost France dear, but that, at the same time, they will furnish the
opportunity for advantageous investments. The Frenchman says to himself:
“Let us hoard! let us hoard! let us hoard! Some of these mornings there
will be a revolution, which will make the 5 per cents. fall 50 or 60
francs. I will buy then. Since revolutions are inevitable, let us try at
least to make them profitable.”
They are always talking about the people who are ruined by revolutions,
but perhaps the number of those enriched by revolutions is still
greater.
The Americans experience the attraction of Paris very strongly. There
is no town in the world where it is easier or more agreeable to spend
a great dial of money. For many reasons, both of race and origin, this
attraction exercised over Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival a very remarkable
power.
The most French of our colonies is Canada, which is no longer ours.
The recollection of their first home has been preserved faithfully and
tenderly in the hearts of the emigrants to Montreal and Quebec. Susie
Percival had received from her mother an entirely French education, and
she had brought up her sister in the same love of our country. The two
sisters felt themselves Frenchwomen; still better, Parisians. As soon as
the avalanche of dollars had descended upon them, the same desire seized
them both--to come and live in Paris. They demanded France as if it had
been their fatherland. Mr. Scott made some opposition.
“If I go away from here,” he said, “your incomes will suffer.”
“What does that matter?” replied Susie. “We are rich--too rich. Do let
us go. We shall be so happy, so delighted!”
Mr. Scott allowed himself to be persuaded, and, at the beginning of
January, 1880, Susie wrote the following letter to her friend, Katie
Norton, who had lived in Paris for some years:
“Victory! It is decided! Richard has consented. I shall arrive in
April, and become a Frenchwoman again. You offered to undertake all the
preparations for our settlement in Paris. I am horribly presuming--I
accept! When I arrive in Paris, I should like to be able to enjoy Paris,
and not be obliged to lose my first month in running after upholsterers,
coach-builders, horse-dealers. I should like, on arriving at the railway
station, to find awaiting me my carriage, my coachman, my horses. That
very day I should like you to dine with me at my home. Hire or buy a
mansion, engage the servants, choose the horses, the carriages, the
liveries. I depend entirely upon you. As long as the liveries are blue,
that is the only point. This line is added at the request of Bettina.
“We shall bring only seven persons with us. Richard will have his valet,
Bettina and I two ladies’ maids; then there are the two governesses for
the children, and, besides these, two boys, Toby and Bobby, who ride to
perfection. We should never find in Paris such a perfect pair.
“Everything else, people and things, we shall leave in New York. No, not
quite everything; I had for gotten four little ponies, four little gems,
black as ink. We have not the heart to leave them; we shall drive them
in a phaeton; it is delightful. Both Bettina and I drive four-in-hand
very well. Ladies can drive four-in-hand in the Bois very early in
the morning; can’t they? Here it is quite possible. Above all, my dear
Katie, do not consider money. Be as extravagant as you like, that is all
I ask.” The same day that Mrs. Norton received this letter witnessed the
failure of a certain Garneville. He was a great speculator who had been
on a false scent. Stocks had fallen just when he had expected a rise.
This Garneville had, six weeks before, installed himself in a brand-new
house, which had no other fault than a too startling magnificence. Mrs.
Norton signed an agreement--100,000 francs a year, with the option
of buying house and furniture for 2,000,000 during the first year of
possession. A famous upholsterer undertook to correct and subdue the
exaggerated splendor of a loud and gorgeous luxury. That done, Mrs.
Scott’s friend had the good fortune to lay her hand on two of those
eminent artists without whom the routine of a great house can neither be
established nor carried on. The first, a chef of the first rank, who had
just left an ancient mansion of the Faubourg St. Germain, to his great
regret, for he had aristocratic inclinations.
“Never,” said he to Mrs. Norton, “never would I have left the service
of Madame la Duchesse if she had kept up her establishment on the same
footing as formerly; but Madame la Duchesse has four children--two sons
who have run through a good deal, and two daughters who will soon be
of an age to marry; they must have their dowries. Therefore, Madame
la Duchesse is obliged to draw in a little, and the house is no longer
important enough for me.”
This distinguished character, of course, made his conditions. Though
excessive, they did not alarm Mrs. Norton, who knew that he was a man
of the most serious merit; but he, before deciding, asked permission to
telegraph to New York. He wished to make certain inquiries. The reply
was favorable; he accepted.
The second great artist was a stud-groom of the rarest and highest
capacity, who was just about to retire after having made his fortune.
He consented, however, to organize the stables for Mrs. Scott. It was
thoroughly understood that he should have every liberty in purchasing
the horses, that he should wear no livery, that he should choose the
coachmen, the grooms, and everyone connected with the stables; that
he should never have less than fifteen horses in the stables, that no
bargain should be made with the coach-builder or saddler without his
intervention, and that he should never mount the box, except early in
the morning, in plain clothes, to give lessons in driving to the ladies
and children, if necessary.
The cook took possession of his stores, and the stud-groom of his
stables. Everything else was only a question of money, and with regard
to this Mrs. Norton made full use of her extensive powers. She acted in
conformity with the instructions she had received. In the short space of
two months she performed prodigies, and that is how, when, on the 15th
of April, 1880, Mr. Scott, Susie, and Bettina alighted from the mail
train from Havre, at half-past four in the afternoon, they found Mrs.
Norton at the station of St. Lazare, who said:
“Your caleche is there in the yard; behind it is a landau for the
children; and behind the landau is an omnibus for the servants. The
three carriages bear your monogram, are driven by your coachman, and
drawn by your horses. Your address is 24 Rue Murillo, and here is the
menu of your dinner to-night. You invited me two months ago; I accept,
and will even take the liberty of bringing a dozen friends with me. I
shall furnish everything, even the guests. But do not be alarmed; you
know them all; they are mutual friends, and this evening we shall be
able to judge of the merits of your cook.”
The first Parisian who had the honor and pleasure of paying homage to
the beauty of Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival was a little Marmiton fifteen
years old, who stood there in his white clothes, his wicker basket on
his head, at the moment when Mrs. Scott’s carriage, entangled in the
multitude of vehicles, slowly worked its way out of the station. The
little cook stopped short on the pavement, opened wide his eyes, looked
at the two sisters with amazement, and boldly cast full in their faces
the single word:
“Mazette!”
When Madame Recamier saw her first wrinkles, and first gray hairs, she
said to a friend:
“Ah! my dear, there are no more illusions left for me! From the day
when I saw that the little chimney-sweeps no longer turned round in the
street to look at me, I understood that all was over.”
The opinion of the confectioners’ boys is, in similar cases, of equal
value with the opinion of the little chimney-sweeps. All was not over
for Susie and Bettina; on the contrary, all was only beginning.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Scott’s carriage was ascending the Boulevard
Haussmann to the slow and measured trot of a pair of admirable horses.
Paris counted two Parisians the more.
The success of Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival was immediate, decisive,
like a flash of lightning. The beauties of Paris are not classed and
catalogued like the beauties of London; they do not publish their
portraits in the illustrated papers, or allow their photographs to
be sold at the stationers. However, there is always a little staff,
consisting of a score of women, who represent the grace, and charm, and
beauty of Paris, which women, after ten or twelve years’ service,
pass into the reserve, just like the old generals. Susie and Bettina
immediately became part of this little staff. It was an affair of
four-and-twenty hours--of less than four-and-twenty hours, for all
passed between eight in the morning and midnight, the day after their
arrival in Paris.
Imagine a sort of little ‘feerie’, in three acts, of which the success
increases from tableau to tableau:
1st. A ride at ten in the morning in the Bois, with the two marvellous
grooms imported from America.
2d. A walk at six o’clock in the Allee des Acacias.
3d. An appearance at the opera at ten in the evening in Mrs. Norton’s
box.
The two novelties were immediately remarked, and appreciated as they
deserved to be, by the thirty or forty persons who constitute a sort of
mysterious tribunal, and who, in the name of all Paris, pass sentence
beyond appeal. These thirty or forty persons have, from time to time,
the fancy to declare “delicious” some woman who is manifestly ugly. That
is enough; she is “delicious” from that moment.
The beauty of the two sisters was unquestionable. In the morning, it was
their grace, their elegance, their distinction that attracted universal
admiration; in the afternoon, it was declared that their walk had the
freedom and ease of two young goddesses; in the evening, there was but
one cry of rapture at the ideal perfection of their shoulders. From
that moment, all Paris had for the two sisters the eyes of the little
pastry-cook of the Rue d’Amsterdam; all Paris repeated his ‘Mazette’,
though naturally with the variations and developments imposed by the
usages of the world.
Mrs. Scott’s drawing-room immediately became the fashion. The habitues
of three or four great American houses transferred themselves to the
Scotts, who had three hundred persons at their first Wednesday. Their
circle increased; there was a little of everything to be found in their
set--Americans, Spaniards, Italians, Hungarians, Russians, and even
Parisians.
When she had related her history to the Abbe Constantin, Mrs. Scott had
not told all--one never does tell all. In a word, she was a coquette.
Mr. Scott had the most perfect confidence in his wife, and left her
entire liberty. He appeared very little; he was an honorable man, who
felt a vague embarrassment at having made such a marriage, at having
married so much money.
Having a taste for business, he had great pleasure in devoting himself
entirely to the administering of the two immense fortunes which were in
his hands, in continually increasing them, and in saying every year to
his wife and sister in-law:
“You are still richer than you were last year!”
Not content with watching with much prudence and ability over the
interests which he had left in America, he launched in France into large
speculations, and was as successful in Paris as he had been in New York.
In order to make money, the first thing is to have no need of it.
They made love to Mrs. Scott to an enormous extent; they made love to
her in French, in Italian, in English, in Spanish; for she knew those
four languages, and there is one advantage that foreigners have over our
poor Parisians, who usually know only their mother tongue, and have not
the resource of international passions.
Naturally, Mrs. Scott did not drive her adorers from her presence. She
had ten, twenty, thirty at a time.
No one could boast of any preference; to all she opposed the same
amiable, laughing, joyous resistance. It was clear to all that the game
amused her, and that she did not for a moment take it seriously. Mr.
Scott never felt a moment’s anxiety, and he was perfectly right. More,
he enjoyed his wife’s successes; he was happy in seeing her happy. He
loved her dearly--a little more than she loved him. She loved him very
much, and that was all. There is a great difference between dearly and
very much when these two adverbs are placed after the verb to love.
As to Bettina, around her was a maddening whirl, an orgy of adulation.
Such fortune! Such beauty! Miss Percival arrived in Paris on the 15th of
April; a fortnight had not passed before the offers of marriage began
to pour upon her. In the course of that first year, she might, had she
wished it, have been married thirty-four times, and to what a variety of
suitors!
They asked her hand for a young exile, who, under certain circumstances,
might be called to ascend a throne--a very small one, it is true, but a
throne nevertheless.
They asked her hand for a young duke, who would make a great figure at
Court when France--as was inevitable--should recognize her errors, and
bow down before her legitimate masters.
They asked her hand for a young prince, who would have a place on the
steps of the throne when France--as was inevitable--should again knit
together the chain of the Napoleonic traditions.
They asked her hand for a young Republican deputy, who had just made a
most brilliant debut in the Chamber, and for whom the future reserved
the most splendid destiny, for the Republic was now established in
France on the most indestructible basis.
They asked her hand for a young Spaniard of the purest lineage, and she
was given to understand that the ‘contrat’ would be signed in the palace
of a queen, who does not live far from the Arc de Triomphe. Besides, one
can find her address in the ‘Almanach Bottin’, for at the present day,
there are queens who have their address in Bottin between an attorney
and a druggist; it is only the kings of France who no longer live in
France.
They asked her hand for the son of a peer of England, and for the son of
a member of the highest Viennese aristocracy; for the son of a Parisian
banker, and for the son of a Russian ambassador; for a Hungarian count,
and for an Italian prince; and also for various excellent young men who
were nothing and had nothing--neither name nor fortune; but Bettina had
granted them a waltz, and, believing themselves irresistible, they hoped
that they had caused a flutter of that little heart.
But up to the present moment nothing had touched that little heart, and
the reply had been the same to all “No! no!” again “No!” always “No!”
Some days after that performance of Aida, the two sisters had a rather
long conversation on this great, this eternal question of marriage. A
certain name had been pronounced by Mrs. Scott which had provoked on the
part of Miss Percival the most decided and most energetic refusal, and
Susie had laughingly said to her sister:
“But, Bettina, you will be obliged to end by marrying.”
“Yes, certainly, but I should be so sorry to marry without love. It
seems to me that before I could resolve to do such a thing I must be in
danger of dying an old maid, and I am not yet that.”
“No, not yet.”
“Let us wait, let us wait.”
“Let us wait. But among all these lovers whom you have been dragging
after you for the last year, there have been some very nice, very
amiable, and it is really a little strange if none of them--”
“None, my Susie, none, absolutely none. Why should I not tell you the
truth? Is it their fault? Have they gone unskilfully to work? Could
they, in managing better, have found the way to my heart? or is the
fault in me? Is it perhaps, that the way to my heart is a steep, rocky,
inaccessible way, by which no one will ever pass? Am I a horrid little
creature, and, cold, and condemned never to love?”
“I do not think so.”
“Neither do I, but up to the present time that is my history. No, I have
never felt anything which resembled love. You are laughing, and I
can guess why. You are saying to yourself, ‘A little girl like that
pretending to know what love is!’ You are right; I do not know, but
I have a pretty good idea. To love--is it not to prefer to all in the
world one certain person?”
“Yes; it is really that.”
“Is it not never to weary of seeing that person, or of hearing him? Is
it not to cease to live when he is not there, and to immediately begin
to revive when he reappears?”
“Oh, but this is romantic love.”
“Well, that is the love of which I dream, and that is the love which
does not come--not at all till now; and yet that person preferred by me
to all and everything does exist. Do you know who it is?”
“No, I do not know; I do not know, but I have a little suspicion.”
“Yes, it is you, my dearest, and it is perhaps you, naughty sister, who
makes me so insensible and cruel on this point. I love you too much; you
fill my heart; you have occupied it entirely; there is no room for any
one else. Prefer any one to you! Love any one more than you! That will
never, never be!”
“Oh, yes, it will.”
“Oh, no. Love differently, perhaps, but more--no. He must not count upon
that, this gentleman whom I expect, and who does not arrive.”
“Do not be afraid, my Betty, there is room in your heart for all whom
you should love--for your husband, for your children, and that without
your old sister losing anything. The heart is very little, but it is
also very large.”
Bettina tenderly embraced her sister; then, resting her head coaxingly
on Susie’s shoulder, she said:
“If, however, you are tired of keeping me with you, if you are in a
hurry to get rid of me, do you know what I will do? I will put the names
of two of these gentlemen in a basket, and draw lots. There are two who
at the last extremity would not be absolutely disagreeable.”
“Which two?”
“Guess.”
“Prince Romanelli.”
“For one! And the other?”
“Monsieur de Montessan.”
“Those are the two! It is just that. Those two would be acceptable, but
only acceptable, and that is not enough.”
This is why Bettina awaited with extreme impatience the day when she
should leave Paris, and take up their abode in Longueval. She was a
little tired of so much pleasure, so much success, so many offers
of marriage. The whirlpool of Parisian gayety had seized her on her
arrival, and would not let her go, not for one hour of halt or rest. She
felt the need of being given up to herself for a few days, to herself
alone, to consult and question herself at her leisure, in the complete
solitude of the country-in a word, to belong to herself again.
Was not Bettina all sprightly and joyous when, on the 14th of June, they
took the train for Longueval? As soon as she was alone in a coupe with
her sister:
“Ah!” she cried, “how happy I am! Let us breathe a little, quite alone,
you and me, for a few days. The Nortons and Turners do not come till the
25th, do they?”
“No, not till the 25th.”
“We will pass our lives riding or driving in the woods, in the fields.
Ten days of liberty! And during those ten days no more lovers, no more
lovers! And all those lovers, with what are they in love, with me or my
money? That is the mystery, the unfathomable mystery.”
The engine whistled; the train put itself slowly into motion. A wild
idea entered Bettina’s head. She leaned out of the window and cried,
accompanying her words with a little wave of the hand:
“Good-by, my lovers, good-by.”
Then she threw herself suddenly into a corner of the coupe with a hearty
burst of laughter.
“Oh, Susie, Susie!”
“What is the matter?”
“A man with a red flag in his hand; he saw me, and he looked so
astonished.”
“You are so irrational!”
“Yes, it is true, to have called out of the window like that, but not to
be happy at thinking that we are going to live alone, ‘en garcons’.”
“Alone! alone! Not exactly that. To begin with, we shall have two people
to dinner to-night.”
“Ah! that is true. But those two people, I shall not be at all sorry to
see them again. Yes, I shall be well pleased to see the old Cure again,
but especially the young officer.”
“What! especially?”
“Certainly; because what the lawyer from Souvigny told us the other day
is so touching, and what that great artilleryman did when he was quite
little was so good, so good, that this evening I shall seek for an
opportunity of telling him what I think of it, and I shall find one.”
Then Bettina, abruptly changing the course of the conversation,
continued:
“Did they send the telegram yesterday to Edwards about the ponies?”
“Yes, yesterday before dinner.”
“Oh, you will let me drive them up to the house. It will be such fun
to go through the town, and to drive up at full speed into the court in
front of the entrance. Tell me, will you?”
“Yes, certainly, you shall drive the ponies.”
“Oh, how nice of you, Susie!”
Edwards was the stud-groom. He had arrived at Longueval three days
before. He deigned to come himself--to meet Mrs. Scott and Miss
Percival. He brought the phaeton drawn by the four black ponies. He was
waiting at the station. The passage of the ponies through the principal
street of the town had made a sensation. The population rushed out of
their houses, and asked eagerly:
“What is it? What can it be?”
Some ventured the opinion:
“It is, perhaps, a travelling circus.”
But exclamations arose on all sides:
“You did not notice the style of it--the carriage and the harness
shining like gold, and the little horses with their white rosettes on
each side of the head.”
The crowd collected around the station, and those who were curious
learned that they were going to witness the arrival of the new owners
of Longueval. They were slightly disenchanted when the two sisters
appeared, very pretty, but in very simple travelling costumes.
These good people had almost expected the apparition of two princesses
out of fairy tales, clad in silk and brocade, sparkling with rubies and
diamonds. But they opened wide their eyes when they saw Bettina walk
slowly round the four ponies, caressing one after another lightly with
her hand, and examining all the details of the team with the air of a
connoisseur.
Having made her inspection, Bettina, without the least hurry, drew off
her long Swedish gloves, and replaced them by a pair of dog-skin which
she took from the pocket of the carriage apron. Then she slipped on to
the box in the place of Edwards, receiving from him the reins and whip
with extreme dexterity, without allowing the already excited horses to
perceive that they had changed hands.
Mrs. Scott seated herself beside her sister. The ponies pranced,
curveted, and threatened to rear.
“Be very careful, miss,” said Edwards; “the ponies are very fresh
to-day.”
“Do not be afraid,” replied Bettina. “I know them.”
Miss Percival had a hand at once very firm, very light, and very just.
She held in the ponies for a few moments, forcing them to keep their own
places; then, waving the long thong of her whip round the leaders, she
started her little team at once, with incomparable skill, and left
the station with an air of triumph, in the midst of a long murmur of
astonishment and admiration.
The trot of the black ponies rang on the little oval paving-stones of
Souvigny. Bettina held them well together until she had left the
town, but as soon as she saw before her a clear mile and a half of
highroad-almost on a dead level-she let them gradually increase their
speed, till they went like the wind.
“Oh! how happy I am, Susie!” cried she; “and we shall trot and gallop
all alone on these roads. Susie, would you like to drive? It is such a
delight when one can let them go at full speed. They are so spirited and
so gentle. Come, take the reins.”
“No; keep them. It is a greater pleasure to me to see you happy.”
“Oh, as to that, I am perfectly happy. I do like so much to drive
four-in-hand with plenty of space before me. At Paris, even in the
morning, I did not dare to any longer. They looked at me so, it annoyed
me. But here--no one! no one! no one!”
At the moment when Bettina, already a little intoxicated with
the bracing air and liberty, gave forth triumphantly these three
exclamations, “No one! no one! no one!” a rider appeared, walking his
horse in the direction of the carriage. It was Paul de Lavardens. He
had been watching for more than an hour for the pleasure of seeing the
Americans pass.
“You are mistaken,” said Susie to Bettina; “there is some one.”
“A peasant; they don’t count; they won’t ask me to marry them.”
“It is not a peasant at all. Look!”
Paul de Lavardens, while passing the carriage, made the two sisters a
highly correct bow, from which one at once scented the Parisian.
The ponies were going at such a rate that the meeting was over like a
flash of lightning.
Bettina cried:
“Who is that gentleman who has just bowed to us?”
“I had scarcely time to see, but I seemed to recognize him.”
“You recognized him?”
“Yes, and I would wager that I have seen him at our house this winter.”
“Heavens! if it should be one of the thirty-four! Is all that going to
begin again?”