THE CRIMSON RIBBON.
What occupied the mind of the chevalier was neither the denouement of
the drama where he had chosen so important a part, nor the admirable
prudence of the Abbe Brigaud in placing him in a house which he
habitually visited almost daily, so that his visits, however frequent,
could not be remarkable. It was not the dignified speeches of Madame
Denis, nor the soprano of Mademoiselle Emilie. It was neither the
contralto of Mademoiselle Athenais, nor the tricks of M. Boniface. It
was simply poor Bathilde, whom he had heard so lightly spoken of; but
our reader would be mistaken if he supposed that M. Boniface's brutal
accusation had in the least degree altered the sentiments of the
chevalier for the young girl, for an instant's reflection showed him
that such an alliance was impossible.
Chance might give a charming daughter to an undistinguished father.
Necessity may unite a young and elegant woman to an old and vulgar
husband, but a liaison, such as that attributed to the young girl and
the bourgeois of the terrace, can only result from love or interest. Now
between these two there could be no love; and as to interest, the thing
was still less probable; for, if they were not in absolute poverty,
their situation was certainly not above mediocrity--not even that gilded
mediocrity of which Horace speaks, with a country house at Tibur and
Montmorency, and which results from a pension of thirty thousand
sestercia from the Augustan treasury, or a government annuity of six
thousand francs--but that poor and miserable mediocrity which only
provides from day to day, and which is only prevented from becoming real
poverty by incessant labor.
D'Harmental gathered from all this the certainty that Bathilde was
neither the daughter, wife, nor mistress of this terrible neighbor, the
sight of whom had sufficed to produce such a strange reaction on the
growing love of the chevalier. If she was neither the one nor the other,
there was a mystery about her birth; and if so, Bathilde was not what
she appeared to be. All was explained, her aristocratic beauty, her
finished education. Bathilde was above the position which she was
temporarily forced to occupy: there had been in the destiny of this
young girl one of those overthrows of fortune, which are for individuals
what earthquakes are for towns, and she had been forced to descend to
the inferior sphere where he found her.
The result of all this was, that the chevalier might, without losing
rank in his own estimation, allow himself to love Bathilde. When a man's
heart is at war with his pride, he seldom wants excuses to defeat his
haughty enemy. Bathilde had now neither name nor family, and nothing
prevented the imagination of the man who loved her from raising her to a
height even above his own; consequently, instead of following the
friendly advice of M. Boniface, the first thing D'Harmental did was to
go to his window and inspect that of his neighbor. It was wide open. If,
a week ago, any one had told the chevalier that such a simple thing as
an open window would have made his heart beat, he would have laughed at
the idea. However, so it was; and after drawing a long breath, he
settled himself in a corner, to watch at his ease the young girl in the
opposite room, without being seen by her, for he was afraid of
frightening her by that attention which she could only attribute to
curiosity, but he soon perceived that the room was deserted.
D'Harmental then opened his window, and at the noise he made in doing
so, he saw the elegant head of the greyhound, which, with his ears
always on the watch, and well worthy of the trust that her mistress had
reposed in her, in making her guardian of the house, was awake, and
looking to see who it was that thus disturbed her sleep.
Thanks to the indiscreet counter-tenor of the good man of the terrace
and the malice of M. Boniface, the chevalier already knew two things
very important to know--namely, that his neighbor was called Bathilde, a
sweet and euphonious appellation, suitable to a young, beautiful, and
graceful girl; and that the greyhound was called Mirza, a name which
seemed to indicate a no less distinguished rank in the canine
aristocracy. Now as nothing is to be disdained when we wish to conquer
a fortress, and the smallest intelligence from within is often more
efficacious than the most terrible machines of war, D'Harmental resolved
to commence opening communications with the greyhound; and with the most
caressing tone he could give to his voice, he called Mirza. Mirza, who
was indolently lying on the cushion, raised her head quickly, with an
expression of unmistakable astonishment; and, indeed, it must have
appeared strange to the intelligent little animal, that a man so
perfectly unknown to her as the chevalier should address her by her
Christian name. She contented herself with fixing on him her uneasy
eyes, which, in the half-light where she was placed, sparkled like two
carbuncles, and uttering a little dull sound which might pass for a
growl.
D'Harmental remembered that the Marquis d'Uxelle had tamed the spaniel
of Mademoiselle Choin, which was a much more peevish beast than any
greyhound in the world, with roast rabbits' heads; and that he had
received for this delicate attention the baton of Marechal de France;
and he did not despair of being able to soften by the same kind of
attention the surly reception which Mademoiselle Mirza had given to his
advances: so he went toward the sugar-basin; then returned to the
window, armed with two pieces of sugar, large enough to be divided ad
infinitum.
The chevalier was not mistaken; at the first piece of sugar which fell
near her, Mirza negligently advanced her head; then, being by the aid of
smell made aware of the nature of the temptation offered to her, she
extended her paw toward it, drew it toward her, took it in her teeth,
and began to eat it with that languid air peculiar to the race to which
she belonged. This operation finished, she passed over her mouth a
little red tongue, which showed, that in spite of her apparent
indifference, which was owing, no doubt, to her excellent education, she
was not insensible to the surprise her neighbor had prepared for her;
instead of lying down again on the cushion as she had done the first
time, she remained seated, yawning languidly, but wagging her tail, to
show that she would wake entirely, after two or three such little
attentions as she had just had paid to her.
D'Harmental, who was well acquainted with the habits of all the King
Charles' dogs of the pretty women of the day, understood the amiable
intentions of Mirza, and not wishing to give her time to change her
mind, threw a second piece of sugar, taking care that it should fall at
such a distance as to oblige her to leave her cushion to get it. This
test would decide whether she was most inclined to laziness or
greediness. Mirza remained an instant uncertain, but then greediness
carried the day, and she went across the room to fetch the piece of
sugar, which had rolled under the harpsichord. At this moment a third
piece fell near the window, and Mirza came toward it; but there the
liberality of the chevalier stopped; he thought that he had now given
enough to require some return, and he contented himself with calling
Mirza in a more imperative tone, and showing her the other pieces of
sugar which he held in his hand.
Mirza this time, instead of looking at the chevalier with uneasiness or
disdain, rested her paws on the window, and began to behave as she would
to an old acquaintance. It was finished; Mirza was tamed.
The chevalier remarked that it was now his turn to play the contemptuous
with Mirza, and to speak to her, in order to accustom her to his voice;
however, fearing a return of pride on the part of his interlocutor, who
sustained her part in the dialogue by little whines and grumblings, he
threw her a fourth piece of sugar, which she seized with greater avidity
from having been kept waiting. This time, without being called, she came
to take her place at the window. The chevalier's triumph was complete.
So complete, that Mirza, who the day before had given signs of so
superior an intelligence in discovering Bathilde's return, and in
running to the door as she descended the staircase, this time discovered
neither the one nor the other, so that her mistress, entering all at
once, surprised her in the midst of these coquetries with her neighbor.
It is but just to say, however, that at the noise the door made in
opening Mirza turned, and recognizing Bathilde, bounded toward her,
lavishing on her the most tender caresses; but we must add, to the shame
of the species, that this duty once accomplished, she hastened back to
the window. This unusual action on the part of the dog naturally guided
Bathilde's eyes toward the cause which occasioned it. Her eyes met those
of the chevalier.
Bathilde blushed: the chevalier bowed; and Bathilde, without knowing
what she was doing, returned the salute.
Her first impulse was to go and close the window, but an instinctive
feeling restrained her. She understood that this was giving importance
to a thing which had none, and that to put herself on the defensive was
to avow herself attacked. In consequence, she crossed to that part of
the room where her neighbor's glance could not reach. Then, at the end
of a few minutes, when she returned, she found that he had closed his
window. Bathilde understood that there was discretion in this action,
and she thanked him. Indeed, the chevalier had just made a masterstroke.
On the terms which he was on with his neighbor, it was impossible that
both windows should remain open at once; if the chevalier's window was
open, his neighbor's must be shut; and he knew that when that was
closed, there was not a chance of seeing even the tip of Mirza's nose
behind the curtain; while if, on the contrary, his window was closed,
hers might possibly remain open, and he could watch her passing to and
fro, or working, which was a great amusement for a poor devil condemned
to absolute seclusion; besides, he had made an immense step:--he had
saluted Bathilde, and she had returned it. They were no longer strangers
to each other, but, in order that their acquaintance might advance, he
must be careful not to be too brusk.
To risk speaking to her after the salute would have been risking too
much; it was better to allow Bathilde to believe that it was all the
effect of chance. Bathilde did not believe it, but she appeared to do
so. The result was that she left her window open, and, seeing her
neighbor's closed, sat down by her own with a book in her hand. As to
Mirza, she jumped on to the stool at her mistress's feet, but instead of
resting her head as usual on the knees of the young girl, she placed it
on the sill, of the window, so much was she occupied with the generous
unknown. The chevalier seated himself in the middle of his room, took
his pencils, and thanks to a corner of his curtain skillfully raised, he
sketched the delicious picture before him. Unfortunately the days were
short, and toward three o'clock the little light which the clouds and
rain had permitted to descend to the earth began to decline, and
Bathilde closed her window. Nevertheless, even in this short time the
chevalier had finished the young girl's head, and the likeness was
perfect. There was her waving hair, her fine transparent skin, the
graceful curve of her swan-like neck; in fact, all to which art can
attain with one of those inimitable models which are the despair of
artists.
When night closed in, the Abbe Brigaud arrived. The chevalier and he
wrapped themselves in their mantles, and went toward the Palais Royal;
they had, it will be remembered, to examine the ground. The house in
which Madame de Sabran lived, since her husband had been named maitre
d'hotel to the regent, was No. 22, between the Hotel de la Roche-Guyon
and the passage formerly called Passage du Palais Royal, because it was
the only one leading from the Rue des Bons Enfants to the Rue de Valois.
This passage, now called Passage du Lycee, was closed at the same time
as the other gates of the garden; that is to say, at eleven o'clock in
the evening; therefore, having once entered a house in the Rue des Bons
Enfants, unless it had a second door opening on the Rue de Valois, no
one could return to the Palais Royal after eleven o'clock without making
the round, either by the Rue Neuve des Petits-Champs, or by the Cour des
Fontaines.
Thus it was with Madame de Sabran's house; it was an exquisite little
hotel, built toward the end of the last century, some five-and-twenty
years before, by a merchant who wished to ape the great lords and have a
petite maison of his own. It was a one-storied house, with a stone
gallery, on which the servants' attics opened, and surmounted by a low
tilted roof. Under the first-floor windows was a large balcony which
jutted out three or four feet, and extended right across the house; but
some iron ornaments, similar to the balcony, and which reached to the
terrace, separated the two windows on each side from the three in the
center, as is often done when it is desired to interrupt exterior
communications. The two facades were exactly similar, only, as the Rue
de Valois was eight or ten feet lower than that of the Bons Enfants, the
ground-floor windows and door opened on a terrace, where was a little
garden, filled in spring with charming flowers, but which did not
communicate with the street, the only entrance being, as we have said,
in the Rue des Bons Enfants.
This was all our conspirators could wish; the regent, once entered into
Madame de Sabran's house, would--provided he stayed after eleven
o'clock, which was probable--be taken as in a trap, and nothing would be
easier than to carry out their plan in the Rue des Bons Enfants, one of
the most deserted and gloomy places in the neighborhood; moreover, as
this street was surrounded by very suspicious houses, and frequented by
very bad company, it was a hundred to one that they would not pay any
attention to cries which were too frequent in that street to cause any
uneasiness, and that if the watch arrived, it would be, according to the
custom of that estimable force, long after their intervention could be
of any avail. The inspection of the ground finished, the plans laid, and
the number of the house taken, they separated; the abbe to go to the
Arsenal to give Madame de Maine an account of the proceedings, and
D'Harmental to return to his attic.
As on the preceding night, Bathilde's room was lighted, but this time
the young girl was not drawing but working; her light was not put out
till one o'clock in the morning. As to the good man, he had retired long
before D'Harmental returned. The chevalier slept badly; between a love
at its commencement and a conspiracy at its height, he naturally
experienced some sensations little favorable to sleep; but toward
morning fatigue prevailed, and he only awoke on feeling himself
violently shaken by the arm. Without doubt the chevalier was at that
moment in some bad dream, of which this appeared to him the end, for,
still half asleep, he stretched out his hand toward the pistols which
were at his side.
"Ah, ah!" cried the abbe, "an instant, young man. What a hurry you are
in! Open your eyes wide--so. Do you not recognize me?"
"Ah!" said D'Harmental, laughing, "it is you, abbe. You did well to stop
me. I dreamed that I was arrested."
"A good sign," said the Abbe Brigaud: "you know that dreams always go by
contraries. All will go well."
"Is there anything new?" asked D'Harmental.
"And if there were, how would you receive it?"
"I should be enchanted. A thing of this kind once undertaken, the sooner
it is finished the better."
"Well, then," said Brigaud, drawing a paper from his pocket and
presenting it to the chevalier, "read, and glorify the name of the Lord,
for you have your wish."
D'Harmental took the paper, unfolded it as calmly as if it were a matter
of no moment, and read as follows:
"_Report of the 27th of March._
"Two in the Morning.
"To-night at ten o'clock the regent received a courier
from London, who announces for to-morrow the arrival of
the Abbe Dubois. As by chance the regent was supping
with madame, the dispatch was given to him in spite of
the late hour. Some minutes before, Mademoiselle de
Chartres had asked permission of her father to perform
her devotions at the Abbey of Chelles, and he had
promised to conduct her there; but on the receipt of
this letter his determination was changed and he has
ordered the council to meet at noon.
"At three o'clock the regent will pay his majesty a
visit at the Tuileries. He has asked for a tete-a-tete,
for he is beginning to be impatient at the obstinacy of
the Marechal de Villeroy, who will always be present at
the interviews between the regent and his majesty.
Report says that if this obstinacy continue, it will be
the worse for the marshal.
"At six o'clock, the regent, the Chevalier de Simiane,
and the Chevalier de Ravanne, will sup with Madame de
Sabran."
"Ah, ah!" said D'Harmental; and he read the last sentence, weighing
every word.
"Well, what do you think of this paragraph?" asked the abbe.
The chevalier jumped from his bed, put on his dressing-gown, took from
his drawer a crimson ribbon, a hammer and a nail, and having opened his
window (not without throwing a stolen glance at that of his neighbor),
he nailed the ribbon on to the outer wall.
"There is my answer," said he.
"What the devil does that mean?"
"That means," said D'Harmental, "that you may go and tell Madame de
Maine that I hope this evening to fulfill my promise to her. And now go
away, my dear abbe, and do not come back for two hours, for I expect
some one whom it would be better you should not meet."
The abbe, who was prudence itself, did not wait to be told twice, but
pressed the chevalier's hand and left him. Twenty minutes afterward
Captain Roquefinette entered.