PRINCESS VOCQSAL
It was an accommodating _menage_, that of Prince and Princess Vocqsal,
and was carried on upon the same system, whether they were "immured," as
Madame la Princesse called it, in the old chateau near Sieberiburgen, or
disporting themselves, as now, in the sunshine and gaiety of _her_ dear
Paris, as the same volatile lady was pleased to term that very lively
resort of the gay, the idle, and the good-for-nothing. It was the sort
of _menage_ people do not understand in England quite so thoroughly as
abroad; the system was simple enough--"live and let live" being in
effect the motto of an ill-matched pair, who had better never have come
together, but who, having done so, resolved to make the best of that
which each found to be a bad bargain, and to see less of each other than
they could possibly have done had they remained as formerly, simply an
old cousin and a young one, instead of as now, husband and wife.
Prince Vocqsal was the best of fellows, and the most sporting of
Hungarians. Time was, "before the Revolution, _mon cher_"--a good while
before it, he might have added--that the Prince was the handsomest man
of his day, and not indisposed to use his personal advantages for the
captivation of the opposite sex. His conquests, as he called them, in
France, Spain, Italy, not to mention the Fatherland, were, by his own
account, second only to those of Don Juan in the charming opera which
bears the name of that libertine; but his greatest triumph was to
detail, in strict confidence, of course, how he had met with _un grand
succes_ amongst _ces belles blondes Anglaises_, whose characters he was
good enough to take away with a sweeping liberality calculated to alter
a Briton's preconceived notions as to the propriety of those prudish
dames whom he had hitherto been proud to call his countrywomen. I
cannot say I consider myself bound to believe all an old gentleman, or a
young one either, has to say on that score. Men are given to lying, and
woman is an enigma better let alone. The Prince, however, clung stoutly
to his fascinations, long after time, good living, and field-sports had
changed him from a slim, romantic swain to a jolly, roundabout old
gentleman. He dyed his moustaches and whiskers, wore a belt patented to
check corpulency, and made up for the ravages of decay by the artifices
of the toilet. He could ride extremely well (for a foreigner), not in
the break-neck style which hunting men in England call "going," and
which none except an Englishman ever succeeds in attaining; but
gracefully, and like a gentleman. He could shoot with the rifle or the
smooth-bore with an accuracy not to be surpassed, and was an
"ace-of-diamonds man" with the pistol. Notwithstanding the many times
his amours had brought him "on the ground," it was his chief boast that
he had never killed his man. "I am sure of my _coup_, my dear," he
would say, with an amiable smile, and holding you affectionately by the
arm, "and I always take my antagonist just below the knee-pan. I sight
a little over the ankle, and the rise of the ball at twelve paces hits
the exact spot. There is no occasion to repeat my fire, and he lives to
be my friend."
Added to this he was a thorough _bon vivant_, and an excellent linguist.
On all matters connected with field-sports he held forth in English,
swearing hideously, under the impression that on these topics the use of
frightful oaths was national and appropriate. He was past middle age,
healthy, good-humoured, full of fun, and he did not care a straw for
Princess Vocqsal.
Why did he marry her? The reason was simple enough. Hunting, shooting,
horse-racing, gaiety, hospitality, love, life, and libertinism, will
make a hole in the finest fortune that ever was inherited, even in
Hungary; and Prince Vocqsal found himself at middle age, or what he
called the prime of life, with all the tastes of his youth as strong as
ever, but none of its ready money left. He looked in the glass, and
felt that even he must at length succumb to fate.
"My cousin Rose is rich; she is moreover young and beautiful; _une femme
tres distinguee et tant soit peu coquette_. I must sacrifice myself,
and Comtesse Rose shall become Princess Vocqsal." Such was the fruit of
the Prince's reflections, and it is but justice to add he made a most
accommodating and good-humoured husband.
Comtesse Rose had no objection to being Princess Vocqsal. A thousand
flirtations and at least half-a-dozen _grandes passions_, had a little
tarnished the freshness of her youthful beauty; but what she had lost in
bloom she had gained in experience. Nobody had such a figure, so round,
so shapely, of such exquisite proportions; nobody knew so well how to
dress that figure to the greatest advantage. Her gloves were a study;
and as for her feet and ankles, their perfection was only equalled by
the generosity with which they were displayed. Then what
accomplishments, what talents! She could sing, she could ride, she
could waltz; she could play billiards, smoke cigarettes, drive four
horses, shoot with a pistol, and talk sentiment from the depths of a low
_fauteuil_ like a very Sappho. Her lovers had compared her at different
times to nearly all the heroines of antiquity, except Diana. She had
been painted in every costume, flattered in every language, and
slandered in every boudoir throughout Europe for a good many years; and
still she was bright, and fresh, and sparkling, as if Old Time too could
not resist her fascinations, but, like any other elderly gentleman, gave
her her own way, and waited patiently for his turn. Thrice happy
Princess Vocqsal!--can it be possible that you, too, are bored?
She sits in her own magnificent _salon_, where once every week she
"receives" all the most distinguished people in Paris. How blooming she
looks with her back to the light, and her little feet crossed upon that
low footstool. Last night she had "a reception," and it was gayer and
more crowded than usual. Why did she feel a little dull to-day? Pooh!
it was only a _migraine_, or the last French novel was so insufferably
stupid; or--no, it was the want of excitement. She could not live
without that stimulus--excitement she must and would have. She had
tried politics, but the strong immovable will at the head of the
Government had given her a hint that she must put a stop to _that_; and
she knew his inflexible character too well to venture on trifling with
_him_. She was tired of all her lovers, too; she began to think, if her
husband were only thirty years younger, and less good-humoured, he would
be worth a dozen of these modern adorers. _That_ Count de Rohan, to be
sure, was a good-looking boy, and seemed utterly fancy free.
By-the-bye, he was not at the "reception" last night, though she asked
him herself the previous evening at "the Tuileries." That was very
rude; positively she must teach him better manners. A countryman, too;
it was a duty to be civil to him. And a fresh character to study, it
would be good sport to subjugate him. Probably he would call to-day to
apologise for being so remiss. And she rose and looked in the glass at
those eyes whose power needed not to be enhanced by the dexterous touch
of rouge; at that long, glossy hair, and shapely neck and bosom, as a
sportsman examines the locks and barrels of the weapon on which he
depends for his success in the chase. The review was satisfactory, and
Princess Vocqsal did not look at all bored now. She had hardly settled
herself once more in a becoming attitude, ere Monsieur le Comte de Rohan
was announced, and marched in, hat in hand, with all the grace of his
natural demeanour, and the frank, happy air that so seldom survives
boyhood. Victor was handsomer than ever, brimful of life and spirits,
utterly devoid of all conceit or affectation; and moreover, since his
father's death, one of the first noblemen of Hungary. It was a conquest
worth making.
"I thought you would not go back without wishing me good-bye," said the
Princess, with her sweetest smile, and a blush through her rouge that
she could summon at command--indeed, this weapon had done more execution
than all the rest of her artillery put together. "I missed you last
night at my reception; why did you not come?"
Victor blushed too. How could he explain that a little supper-party at
which some very fascinating ladies who were not of the Princess's
acquaintance had _assisted_, prevented him. He stammered out some
excuse about leaving Paris immediately, and having to make preparations
for departure.
"And you are really going," said she, in a melancholy, pleading tone of
voice,--"going back to my dear Hungary. How I wish I could accompany
you."
"Nothing could be easier," answered Victor, laughing gaily; "if madame
would but condescend to accept my escort, I would wait her convenience.
Say, Princess, when shall it be?"
"Ah, now you are joking," she said, looking at him from under her long
eyelashes; "you know I cannot leave Paris, and you know that we poor
women cannot do what we like. It is all very well for you men; you get
your passports, and you are off to the end of the world, whilst we can
but sit over our work and think."
Here a deep sigh smote on Victor's ear. It began to strike him that he
had made an impression; the feeling is very pleasant at first, and the
young Hungarian was keenly alive to it. He spoke in a much softer tone
now, and drew his chair a little nearer that of the Princess.
"I need not go quite yet," he said, in an embarrassed tone, which
contrasted strongly with his frank manner a few minutes earlier: "Paris
is very pleasant, and--and--there are so many people here one likes."
"And that like you," she interrupted, with an arch smile, that made her
look more charming than ever. "One is so seldom happy," she added,
relapsing once more into her melancholy air; "one meets so seldom with
kindred spirits--people that understand one; it is like a dream to be
allowed to associate with those who are really pleasing to us. A happy,
happy dream; but then the waking is so bitter, perhaps it is wiser not
to dream at all. No! Monsieur de Rohan, you had better go back to
Hungary, as you proposed."
"Not if you tell me to stay," exclaimed Victor, his eyes brightening,
and his colour rising rapidly; "not if I can be of the slightest use or
interest to you. Only tell me what you wish me to do, madame; your word
shall be my law. Go or stay, I wait but for your commands."
He was getting on faster than she had calculated; it was time to damp
him a little now. She withdrew her chair a foot or so, and answered
coldly--
"Who--I, Monsieur le Comte? I cannot possibly give you any command,
except to ring that bell. The Prince would like to see you before you
go. Let the Prince know Monsieur de Rohan is here," she added, to the
servant who answered her summons. "You were always a great favourite of
his--of _ours_, I may say;" and she bade him adieu, and gave him her
soft white hand with all her former sweetness of manner; and told her
servant, loud enough for her victim to hear, "to order the carriage, for
she meant to drive in the Bois de Boulogne:" and finally shot a Parthian
glance at him over her shoulder as she left the room by one door, whilst
he proceeded by another towards the Prince's apartments.
No wonder Victor de Rohan quitted the house not so wise a man as he had
entered it; no wonder he was seen that same afternoon caracolling his
bay horse in the Bois de Boulogne; no wonder he went to dress moody and
out of humour, because, ride where he would, he had failed to catch a
single glimpse of the known carriage and liveries of Princess Vocqsal.
They met, however, the following evening at a concert at the Tuileries.
The day after--oh, what good luck!--he sat next her at dinner at the
English ambassador's, and put her into her carriage at night when she
went home. Poor Victor! he dreamed of her white dress and floating
hair, and the pressure of her gloved hand. Breakfast next morning was
not half so important a meal as it used to be, and he thought the
fencing-school would be a bore. She was rapidly getting the upper hand
of young Count de Rohan.
Six weeks afterwards he was still in Paris. The gardens of the
Tuileries were literally sparkling in the morning sun of a bright
Parisian day. The Zouaves on guard at the gate lounged over their
firelocks with their usual reckless brigand air, and leered under every
bonnet that passed them, as though the latter accomplishment were part
and parcel of a Zouave's duty. The Rue de Rivoli was alive with
carriages; the sky, the houses, the gilt-topped railings--everything
looked in full dress, as it does nowhere but in Paris; the very flowers
in the gardens were two shades brighter than in any other part of
France. All the children looked clean, all the women well dressed; even
the very trees had on their most becoming costume, and the long close
alleys smelt fresh and delicious as the gardens of Paradise. Why should
Victor de Rohan alone look gloomy and morose when all else is so bright
and fair? Why does he puff so savagely at his cigar, and glance so
restlessly under the stems of those thick-growing chestnuts? Why does
he mutter between his teeth, "False, unfeeling! the third time she has
played me this trick? No, it is not she. Oh! I should know her a mile
off. She will not come. She has no heart, no pity. She will _not_
come. _Sappramento!_ there she is!"
In the most becoming of morning toilettes, with the most killing little
bonnet at the back of her glossy head, the best-fitting of gloves, and
the tiniest of _chaussures_, without a lock out of its place or a fold
rumpled, cool, composed, and beautiful, leaving her maid to amuse
herself with a penny chair and a _feuilleton_, Princess Vocqsal walks up
to the agitated Hungarian, and placing her hand in his, says, in her
most bewitching accents, "Forgive me, my friend; I have risked so much
to come here; I could not get away a moment sooner. I have passed the
last hour in such agony of suspense!" The time to which the lady
alludes has been spent, and well spent, in preparing the brilliant and
effective appearance which she is now making.
"But you have come at last," exclaims Victor, breathlessly. "I may now
speak to you for the first time alone. Oh, what happiness to see you
again! All this week I have been so wretched without you; and why were
you never at home when I called?"
"_Les convenances_, my dear Count," answers the lady. "Everything I do
is watched and known. Only last night I was taxed by Madame d'Alencon
about you, and I could not help showing my confusion; and you--you are
so foolish. What must people think?"
"Let them think what they will," breaks in Victor, his honest truthful
face pale with excitement. "I am yours, and yours alone. Ever since I
have known you, Princess, I have felt that you might do with me what you
will. Now I am your slave. I offer you----"
What Victor was about to offer never came to light, for at that instant
the well-tutored "Jeannette" rose from her chair, and hurriedly
approaching her mistress, whispered to her a few agitated words. The
Princess dropped her veil, squeezed Victor's hand, and in another
instant disappeared amongst the trees, leaving the young Hungarian very
much in love, very much bewildered, and not a little disgusted.
One or two more such scenes, one or two more weeks of alternate delight,
suspense, and disappointment, made poor Victor half beside himself. He
had got into the hands of an accomplished flirt, and for nine men out of
ten there would have been no more chance of escape than there is for the
moth who has once fluttered within the magic ring of a ground-glass
lamp. He may buzz and flap and fume as he will, but the more he
flutters the more he singes his wings, the greater his struggles the
less his likelihood of liberty. But Victor was at that age when a man
most appreciates his own value: a few years earlier we want confidence,
a few years later we lack energy, but in the hey-day of youth we do not
easily surrender at discretion; besides, we have so many to console us,
and we are so easily consoled. De Rohan began to feel hurt, then angry,
lastly resolute. One night at the opera decided him. His box had a
mirror in it so disposed as to reflect the interior of the adjoining
one; a most unfair and reprehensible practice, by-the-bye, and one
calculated to lead to an immensity of discord. What he saw he never
proclaimed, but as Princess Vocqsal occupied the box adjoining his own,
it is fair to suppose that he watched the movements of his mistress.
She bit her lip, and drew her features together as if she had been
stung, when on the following afternoon, in the Bois de Boulogne, Vicomte
Lascar informed her, with his insipid smile, that he had that morning
met De Rohan at the railway station, evidently en route for Hungary,
adding, for the Princess was an excellent linguist, and Lascar prided
himself much on his English, "'Ome, sweet 'ome, no place like 'ome."