"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?"
The room was large and well lighted, the walls and ceiling hung with
admirable hangings of chintz that a friend of hers in the diplomatic
service had brought home and presented to her. The ground was yellow,
as if it had been dipped in golden cream, and the designs of all
colors, in which Persian green was predominant, represented fantastic
buildings with curving roofs, about which monstrosities in the shape of
beasts and birds were running and flying: lions wearing wigs, antelopes
with extravagant horns, and birds of paradise.
The furniture was scanty. Upon three long tables with tops of green
marble were arranged all the implements requisite for a pretty woman's
toilette. Upon one of them, the central one, were the great basins
of thick crystal; the second presented an array of bottles, boxes,
and vases of all sizes, surmounted by silver caps bearing her arms
and monogram; while on the third were displayed all the tools and
appliances of modern coquetry, countless in number, designed to serve
various complex and mysterious purposes. The room contained only two
reclining chairs and a few low, soft, and luxurious seats, calculated
to afford rest to weary limbs and to bodies relieved of the restraint
of clothing.
Covering one entire side of the apartment was an immense mirror,
composed of three panels. The two wings, playing on hinges, allowed
the young woman to view herself at the same time in front, rear, and
profile, to envelop herself in her own image. To the right, in a recess
that was generally concealed by hanging draperies, was the bath, or
rather a deep pool, reached by a descent of two steps. A bronze Love, a
charming conception of the sculptor Prédolé, poured hot and cold water
into it through the seashells with which he was playing. At the back
of this alcove a Venetian mirror, composed of smaller mirrors inclined
to each other at varying angles, ascended in a curved dome, shutting
in and protecting the bath and its occupant, and reflecting them in
each one of its many component parts. A little beyond the bath was her
writing-desk, a plain and handsome piece of furniture of modern English
manufacture, covered with a litter of papers, folded letters, little
torn envelopes on which glittered gilt initials, for it was in this
room that she passed her time and attended to her correspondence when
she was alone.
Stretched at full length upon her reclining-chair, enveloped in a
dressing-gown of Chinese silk, her bare arms--and beautiful, firm,
supple arms they were--issuing forth fearlessly from out the wide folds
of silk, her hair turned up and burdening the head with its masses of
blond coils, Mme. de Burne was indulging herself with a gentle reverie
after the bath. The chambermaid knocked, then entered, bringing a
letter. She took it, looked at the writing, tore it open, and read the
first lines; then calmly said to the servant: "I will ring for you in
an hour."
When she was alone she smiled with the delight of victory. The first
words had sufficed to let her understand that at last she had received
a declaration of love from Mariolle. He had held out much longer than
she had thought he was capable of doing, for during the last three
months she had been besieging him with such attentions, such display
of grace and efforts to charm, as she had never hitherto employed
for anyone. He had seemed to be distrustful and on his guard against
her, against the bait of insatiable coquetry that she was continually
dangling before his eyes.
It had required many a confidential conversation, into which she had
thrown all the physical seduction of her being and all the captivating
efforts of her mind, many an evening of music as well, when, seated
before the piano that was ringing still, before the leaves of the
scores that were full of the soul of the tuneful masters, they had
both thrilled with the same emotion, before she at last beheld in his
eyes that avowal of the vanquished man, the mendicant supplication of
a love that can no longer be concealed. She knew all this so well, the
_rouée!_ Many and many a time, with feline cunning and inexhaustible
curiosity, she had made this secret, torturing plea rise to the eyes of
the men whom she had succeeded in beguiling. It afforded her so much
amusement to feel that she was gaining them, little by little, that
they were conquered, subjugated by her invincible woman's might, that
she was for them the Only One, the sovereign Idol whose caprices must
be obeyed.
It had all grown up within her almost imperceptibly, like the
development of a hidden instinct, the instinct of war and conquest.
Perhaps it was that a desire of retaliation had germinated in her
heart during her years of married life, a dim longing to repay to men
generally that measure of ill which she had received from one of them,
to be in turn the strongest, to make stubborn wills bend before her, to
crush resistance and to make others, as well as she, feel the keen edge
of suffering. Above all else, however, she was a born coquette, and as
soon as her way in life was clear before her she applied herself to
pursuing and subjugating lovers, just as the hunter pursues the game,
with no other end in view than the pleasure of seeing them fall before
her.
And yet her heart was not eager for emotion, like that of a tender and
sentimental woman; she did not seek a man's undivided love, nor did
she look for happiness in passion. All that she needed was universal
admiration, homage, prostrations, an incense-offering of tenderness.
Whoever frequented her house had also to become the slave of her
beauty, and no consideration of mere intellect could attach her for any
length of time to those who would not yield to her coquetry, disdainful
of the anxieties of love, their affections, perhaps, being placed
elsewhere.
In order to retain her friendship it was indispensable to love her,
but that point once reached she was infinitely nice, with unimaginable
kindnesses and delightful attentions, designed to retain at her
side those whom she had captivated. Those who were once enlisted in
her regiment of adorers seemed to become her property by right of
conquest. She ruled them with great skill and wisdom, according to
their qualities and their defects and the nature of their jealousy.
Those who sought to obtain too much she expelled forthwith, taking them
back again afterward when they had become wiser, but imposing severe
conditions. And to such an extent did this game of bewitchment amuse
her, perverse woman that she was, that she found it as pleasurable to
befool steady old gentlemen as to turn the heads of the young.
It might even have been said that she regulated her affection by the
fervency of the ardor that she had inspired, and that big Fresnel, a
dull, heavy companion who was of no imaginable benefit to her, retained
her favor thanks to the mad passion by which she felt that he was
possessed. She was not entirely indifferent to men's merits, either,
and more than once had been conscious of the commencement of a liking
that no one divined except herself, and which she quickly ended the
moment it became dangerous.
Everyone who had approached her for the first time and warbled in
her ear the fresh notes of his hymn of gallantry, disclosing to her
the unknown quantity of his nature--artists more especially, who
seemed to her to possess more subtile and more delicate shades of
refined emotion--had for a time disquieted her, had awakened in her
the intermittent dream of a grand passion and a long _liaison_. But
swayed by prudent fears, irresolute, driven this way and that by her
distrustful nature, she had always kept a strict watch upon herself
until the moment she ceased to feel the influence of the latest lover.
And then she had the sceptical vision of the girl of the period, who
would strip the greatest man of his prestige in the course of a few
weeks. As soon as they were fully in her toils, and in the disorder
of their heart had thrown aside their theatrical posturings and their
parade manners, they were all alike in her eyes, poor creatures whom
she could tyrannize over with her seductive powers. Finally, for a
woman like her, perfect as she was, to attach herself to a man, what
inestimable merits he would have had to possess!
She suffered much from _ennui_, however, and was without fondness for
society, which she frequented for the sake of appearances, and the
long, tedious evenings of which she endured with heavy eyelids and
many a stifled yawn. She was amused only by its refined trivialities,
by her own caprices and by her quickly changing curiosity for certain
persons and certain things, attaching herself to it in such degree as
to realize that she had been appreciated or admired and not enough to
receive real pleasure from an affection or a liking--suffering from
her nerves and not from her desires. She was without the absorbing
preoccupations of ardent or simple souls, and passed her days in an
_ennui_ of gaieties, destitute of the simple faith that attends on
happiness, constantly on the lookout for something to make the slow
hours pass more quickly, and sinking with lassitude, while deeming
herself contented.
She thought that she was contented because she was the most seductive
and the most sought after of women. Proud of her attractiveness, the
power of which she often made trial, in love with her own irregular,
odd, and captivating beauty, convinced of the delicacy of her
perceptions, which allowed her to divine and understand a thousand
things that others were incapable of seeing, rejoicing in the wit that
had been appreciated by so many superior men, and totally ignoring the
limitations that bounded her intelligence, she looked upon herself as
an almost unique being, a rare pearl set in the midst of this common,
workaday world, which seemed to her slightly empty and monotonous
because she was too good for it.
Not for an instant would she have suspected that in her unconscious
self lay the cause of the melancholy from which she suffered so
continuously. She laid the blame upon others and held them responsible
for her _ennui_. If they were unable sufficiently to entertain and
amuse or even impassion her, the reason was that they were deficient
in agreeableness and possessed no real merit in her eyes. "Everyone,"
she would say with a little laugh, "is tiresome. The only endurable
people are those who afford me pleasure, and that solely because they
do afford me pleasure."
And the surest way of pleasing her was to tell her that there was no
one like her. She was well aware that no success is attained without
labor, and so she gave herself up, heart and soul, to her work of
enticement, and found nothing that gave her greater enjoyment than to
note the homage of the softening glance and of the heart, that unruly
organ which she could cause to beat violently by the utterance of a
word.
She had been greatly surprised by the trouble that she had had in
subjugating André Mariolle, for she had been well aware, from the
very first day, that she had found favor in his eyes. Then, little by
little, she had fathomed his suspicious, secretly envious, extremely
subtile, and concentrated disposition, and attacking him on his
weak side, she had shown him so many attentions, had manifested
such preference and natural sympathy for him, that he had finally
surrendered.
Especially in the last month had she felt that he was her captive; he
was agitated in her presence, now taciturn, now feverishly animated,
but would make no avowal. Oh, avowals! She really did not care very
much for them, for when they were too direct, too expressive, she found
herself obliged to resort to severe measures. Twice she had even had
to make a show of being angry and close her door to the offender. What
she adored were delicate manifestations, semi-confidences, discreet
allusions, a sort of moral getting-down-on-the-marrow-bones; and she
really showed exceptional tact and address in extorting from her
admirers this moderation in their expressions.
For a month past she had been watching and waiting to hear fall from
Mariolle's lips the words, distinct or veiled, according to the nature
of the man, which afford relief to the overburdened heart.
He had said nothing, but he had written. It was a long letter: four
pages! A thrill of satisfaction crept over her as she held it in her
hands. She stretched herself at length upon her lounge so as to be more
comfortable and kicked the little slippers from off her feet upon the
carpet; then she proceeded to read. She met with a surprise. In serious
terms he told her that he did not desire to suffer at her hands, and
that he already knew her too well to consent to be her victim. With
many compliments, in very polite words, which everywhere gave evidence
of his repressed love, he let her know that he was apprised of her
manner of treating men--that he, too, was in the toils, but that he
would release himself from the servitude by taking himself off. He
would just simply begin his vagabond life of other days over again.
He would leave the country. It was a farewell, an eloquent and firm
farewell.
Certainly it was a surprise as she read, re-read, and commenced to read
again these four pages of prose that were so full of tender irritation
and passion. She arose, put on her slippers, and began to walk up and
down the room, her bare arms out of her turned-back sleeves, her hands
thrust halfway into the little pockets of her dressing-gown, one of
them holding the crumpled letter.
Taken all aback by this unforeseen declaration, she said to herself:
"He writes very well, very well indeed; he is sincere, feeling,
touching. He writes better than Lamarthe; there is nothing of the novel
sticking out of his letter."
She felt like smoking, went to the table where the perfumes were and
took a cigarette from a box of Dresden china; then, having lighted it,
she approached the great mirror in which she saw three young women
coming toward her in the three diversely inclined panels. When she was
quite near she halted, made herself a little bow with a little smile,
a friendly little nod of the head, as if to say: "Very pretty, very
pretty." She inspected her eyes, looked at her teeth, raised her arms,
placed her hands on her hips and turned her profile so as to behold her
entire person in the three mirrors, bending her head slightly forward.
She stood there amorously facing herself surrounded by the threefold
reflection of her own being, which she thought was charming, filled
with delight at sight of herself, engrossed by an egotistical and
physical pleasure in presence of her own beauty, and enjoying it with a
keen satisfaction that was almost as sensual as a man's.
Every day she surveyed herself in this manner, and her maid, who had
often caught her at it, used to say, spitefully:
"Madame looks at herself so much that she will end up by wearing out
all the looking-glasses in the house."
In this love of herself, however, lay all the secret of her charm and
the influence that she exerted over men. Through admiring herself and
tenderly loving the delicacy of her features and the elegance of her
form, by constantly seeking for and finding means of showing them to
the greatest advantage, through discovering imperceptible ways of
rendering her gracefulness more graceful and her eyes more fascinating,
through pursuing all the artifices that embellished her to her own
vision, she had as a matter of course hit upon that which would most
please others. Had she been more beautiful and careless of her beauty,
she would not have possessed that attractiveness which drew to her
everyone who had not from the beginning shown himself unassailable.
Wearying soon a little of standing thus, she spoke to her image that
was smiling to her still, and her image in the threefold mirror moved
its lips as if to echo: "We will see about it." Then she crossed the
room and seated herself at her desk. Here is what she wrote:
"DEAR MONSIEUR MARIOLLE: Come to see me to-morrow at four
o'clock. I shall be alone, and hope to be able to reassure
you as to the imaginary danger that alarms you.
"I subscribe myself your friend, and will prove to you that
I am..... MICHÈLE DE BURNE."
How plainly she dressed next day to receive André Mariolle's visit! A
little gray dress, of a light gray bordering on lilac, melancholy as
the dying day and quite unornamented, with a collar fitting closely to
the neck, sleeves fitting closely to the arms, corsage fitting closely
to the waist and bust, and skirt fitting closely to the hips and legs.
When he made his appearance, wearing rather a solemn face, she came
forward to meet him, extending both her hands. He kissed them, then
they seated themselves, and she allowed the silence to last a few
moments in order to assure herself of his embarrassment.
He did not know what to say, and was waiting for her to speak. She made
up her mind to do so.
"Well! let us come at once to the main question. What is the matter?
Are you aware that you wrote me a very insolent letter?"
"I am very well aware of it, and I render my most sincere apology. I
am, I have always been with everyone, excessively, brutally frank. I
might have gone away without the unnecessary and insulting explanations
that I addressed to you. I considered it more loyal to act in
accordance with my nature and trust to your understanding, with which I
am acquainted."
She resumed with an expression of pitying satisfaction:
"Come, come! What does all this folly mean?"
He interrupted her: "I would prefer not to speak of it."
She answered warmly, without allowing him to proceed further:
"I invited you here to discuss it, and we will discuss it until you are
quite convinced that you are not exposing yourself to any danger." She
laughed like a little girl, and her dress, so closely resembling that
of a boarding-school miss, gave her laughter a character of childish
youth.
He hesitatingly said: "What I wrote you was the truth, the sincere
truth, the terrifying truth."
Resuming her seriousness, she rejoined: "I do not doubt you: all my
friends travel that road. You also wrote that I am a fearful coquette.
I admit it, but then no one ever dies of it; I do not even believe that
they suffer a great deal. There is, indeed, what Lamarthe calls the
crisis. You are in that stage now, but that passes over and subsides
into--what shall I call it?--into the state of chronic love, which does
no harm to a body, and which I keep simmering over a slow fire in all
my friends, so that they may be very much attached, very devoted, very
faithful to me. Am not I, also, sincere and frank and nice with you?
Eh? Have you known many women who would dare to talk as I have talked
to you?"
She had an air of such drollness, coupled with such decision, she was
so unaffected and at the same time so alluring, that he could not help
smiling in turn. "All your friends," he said, "are men who have often
had their fingers burned in that fire, even before it was done at your
hearth. Toasted and roasted already, it is easy for them to endure the
oven in which you keep them; but for my part, I, Madame, have never
passed through that experience, and I have felt for some time past that
it would be a dreadful thing for me to give way to the sentiment that
is growing and waxing in my heart."
Suddenly she became familiar, and bending a little toward him, her
hands clasped over her knees: "Listen to me," she said, "I am in
earnest. I hate to lose a friend for the sake of a fear that I regard
as chimerical. You will be in love with me, perhaps, but the men of
this generation do not love the women of to-day so violently as to do
themselves any actual injury. You may believe me; I know them both."
She was silent; then with the singular smile of a woman who utters a
truth while she thinks she is telling a fib, she added: "Besides, I
have not the necessary qualifications to make men love me madly; I
am too modern. Come, I will be a friend to you, a real nice friend,
for whom you will have affection, but nothing more, for I will see to
it." She went on in a more serious tone: "In any case I give you fair
warning that I am incapable of feeling a real passion for anyone, let
him be who he may; you shall receive the same treatment as the others,
you shall stand on an equal footing with the most favored, but never
on any better; I abominate despotism and jealousy. I have had to endure
everything from a husband, but from a friend, a simple friend, I do not
choose to accept affectionate tyrannizings, which are the bane of all
cordial relations. You see that I am just as nice as nice can be, that
I talk to you like a comrade, that I conceal nothing from you. Are you
willing loyally to accept the trial that I propose? If it does not work
well, there will still be time enough for you to go away if the gravity
of the situation demands it. A lover absent is a lover cured."
He looked at her, already vanquished by her voice, her gestures, all
the intoxication of her person; and quite resigned to his fate, and
thrilling through every fiber at the consciousness that she was sitting
there beside him, he murmured:
"I accept, Madame, and if harm comes to me, so much the worse! I can
afford to endure a little suffering for your sake."
She stopped him.
"Now let us say nothing more about it," she said; "let us never speak
of it again." And she diverted the conversation to topics that might
calm his agitation.
In an hour's time he took his leave; in torments, for he loved her;
delighted, for she had asked and he had promised that he would not go
away.