CHAPTER XI
PORTRAITS
A year after my arrival in Paris, the peaceful days that I had passed with Hélène at Serval seemed like a beautiful dream, so much in contrast with my new sensations that I hardly cared to recall it. From that time I was convinced that the pretended "pleasures of memory" are all falsehoods, for from the moment we begin to regret the past, memory is only a bitterness, and, by comparison, the present becomes distasteful.
The publicity of Hélène's refusal had deeply wounded both my love and my vanity. I was too proud to admit that I was unhappy, and so I succeeded in forgetting my imagined wrongs. I soon became transported with delight at finding myself so completely my own master, and in musing on the employment of my newly found liberty. Then I readily found a way to excuse myself for my ungrateful neglect of my father's memory. I told myself that it was in pious obedience to his counsels that I had brought to naught the mercenary projects of Hélène, for I still sometimes found a miserable consolation, or, rather, a base excuse, for my behaviour in devising new and unworthy motives for the conduct of that good girl, who had now left her native province to travel in Germany with her mother.
However, as formerly, in spite of my regret for the past, its remembrance soon became dim, and then was entirely obliterated from my mind.
It was most probably the excitement of the Parisian life which brought about this forgetfulness of those happy days which were so dear to my heart.
I had not come to Paris as an unsophisticated provincial. I had spent two brilliant seasons in London, and, thanks to the long and intimate relations of my uncle with our ambassador, an intimacy which my father and my aunt had reminded him of in introducing me to him when I was on my voyage, I had been presented to the best and most aristocratic society in England.
Now the English aristocracy, proud, overbearing, and justly vain of its incontestable superiority in wealth and influence to all the other aristocracies of Europe, is excessively reserved towards strangers who seek to enter its charmed circle; but when one has gone through this ordeal, nowhere is one treated with more perfect cordiality or put more at one's ease.
Nevertheless, in the "vie Parisienne," which cannot in any way pretend to rival or approach that splendid existence that one leads in London, there is to be found that which must be sought vainly in London or elsewhere; it is a fascinating charm not to be explained, which even the most calm and stolid natures seldom escape.
Parisian society, in its real acceptation and perfect flower, is limited to the elegant and refined existence led by the élite of five or six salons, in the one or two quarters of the city that are the rendezvous of all pleasure-seekers of the upper class.
On my arrival in Paris, I fortunately did not have to undergo that apprenticeship to material life which generally costs strangers so much money and so many disappointments. My father had lived there such a long time that, being well informed as to the most comfortable mode of existence, I was able to avoid mistakes. Thus, instead of housing myself at a high price and with very little space in one of those swarming and noisy apartment-houses five or six stories high, which begin on the ground floor in a magnificent store, and end in a miserable garret, I rented a little house near the Champs Élysées, brought my horses and servants from Serval, and started my establishment in a proper way.
I called on several relatives or distant connections of my family, who received me with great cordiality, some on account of my name and the respect they bore to my father, others because they had daughters to marry, and I was doubtless in their eyes what is called a "great catch;" while some were polite because idle people are always delighted to have one more visitor on their list, and thus to be able to pass one more of their unoccupied hours.
Among these last was to be found M. le Comte Alfred de Cernay; one of my former London friends who knew him intimately had given me letters to him, and had given me very credible information about him, whose character I found had been truthfully described.
I may as well describe him here, for, though not an eminently distinguished man, M. de Cernay was the very type of a "man of fashion," in the best and least vulgar acceptance of the word. Now, a man of fashion of our day is a person of a well-recognised type. M. de Cernay was about thirty years old, of a very handsome face, and not wanting in ready wit of a certain kind. He was subtle, something of a scoffer, though at the same time he affected a high-toned good nature which gave him the reputation of being a "good fellow," though people said that he had to reproach himself with some perfidious actions and several mischievous falsehoods. He was very elegant in his dress, though, with some attempt at originality of appearance, he tried to look unlike other men; however, he always looked extremely well dressed. He was a good judge and very fond of horses, had the handsomest turnouts you could wish to see, and posed for as distinguished a sportsman as a man of fashion.
M. de Cernay was very rich, very selfish, and uncommonly well versed as to business, which latter quality is particularly noticeable among men of our epoch, and which seems to exclude all ideas of beauty or display. M. de Cernay denied himself nothing; he lived luxuriously, but he paid his servants himself, and settled all accounts, being inexorable for every outlay that did not pay, at least in outward show, for what it was worth. He was a wily speculator, and had no scruples about serving a notice on any one of his farmers who was behind with his rent. He made out his leases himself, for (must the enormity be made public?) he had studied law in the most profound secrecy, under the direction of an old attorney. But it must be admitted that no glimpse of this legal knowledge was visible in the count's behaviour. His manners were perfect; he came of an ancient and noble race, and was as much of the "grand seigneur" as one can be in these days; and his sense of saving in superfluities and economy in luxuries was only known to the few people who had to ask some favour of him, and those are the last ones to tell of having been refused such a service.
Nothing can be wiser nor more praiseworthy than to live with so much prudence and foresight. I insist on this significative peculiarity because it belongs to our epoch, which is becoming so strictly material and positive. Nowadays nobody ruins himself. It is considered very bad form to be in debt, and nothing appears more ridiculous and shameful than that wild and disorderly existence (sometimes even indelicate and dishonourable), which was for a long time tolerated as a type of what was called "delightful French gaiety," of the vagabond life of those "harebrained but good-hearted" fellows, who, on the contrary, had very cool heads and very bad hearts, and were generally the greatest villains in the world.
Now, on the contrary, nothing is considered better form than to talk of one's property, of your lands, the improvements you mean to make, your agricultural experiments, the care of your forests and woodlands, and the beauty of the cattle that you raise in your fields. Every one nowadays talks like an overseer, and every one is right, because these last named personages are the only ones who are living like masters in the few magnificent old residences that yet remain in France. The time that is spent at the country place is prolonged every year, and there is an evident reaction towards the life at the château for eight months of the year, and life at the clubs in Paris during the winter months.
But to return to M. de Cernay, he was a very great, and, above all, a very intelligent gambler. This seems in contradiction of those principles of order and economy of which I have just spoken? Not at all. For most men of the world, play is only a frightful challenge that is thrown to fate, a means of burning excitement and terrible emotions; it is more of a necessity than an amusement.
Men have their money for play, which is a given sum that they never exceed. It is a capital which they try to render as profitable as possible by good management, by running no great risks, and by studying the chances and combinations of the game with an incredible ardour; in comprehending its every detail, and in playing constantly, so as to keep in good practice; also by experimenting with the deepest attention in order to make new discoveries; so that in this way the capital brings in, if the season has been a good one, from fifteen to twenty per cent, to a cool, prudent, and skilful player.
And, besides this, play having become an affair of exact science, of interest, and generally of perfect honesty, the forces of the players are generally so equally matched that one can allow himself the excitement of a stake of twelve or fifteen hundred louis, because it is well known that at the end of a bad season the losses and gains are about equal.
Nothing is more curious in our epoch than this strange struggle between a wise and cool forethought which looks to the future, and the ardent passions natural to men; which they find in this way the means of satisfying to a certain degree, by a sort of insurance against bad luck.[1]
M. de Cernay, they say, has been very successful with women; but in growing old, as he said, he had found it more satisfactory, as it gave him more liberty and saved him from worry, besides giving him more chances for display (this was one of his salient points), to put to one side a certain sum of money annually, for his favourite of the season. This amount, which he never went beyond, he laid regularly at the feet of one of the theatrical beauties most in vogue.
I had sent my card with the letters of our mutual friend to M. de Cernay. Two days after he came to see me, but I was out; a few days later I called on him one morning. He lived alone in a very pretty house, which seemed to be the very triumph of all that was comfortable, joined to an elegant simplicity. His valet de chambre begged me to wait an instant in a salon, where I noticed some beautiful hunting scenes by Géricault.
Five minutes after my arrival, M. de Cernay entered. He was tall, slender, and graceful, with a most agreeable face, and manners which were those of the most polished society.
The count received me charmingly, spoke to me of our mutual friend, and offered me his services in the most obliging way. I perceived that he was watching me closely. I had just arrived from the provinces, but I had travelled a great deal and had lived a long time in England; thus he was hesitating, I thought, to find out if he should treat me as a provincial, or as a man already in society. I believe what decided him to treat me as the latter was the vexation which I thought he felt at not seeing me more overpowered with his great elegance. Envied, imitated, flattered, he perhaps found me too much at my ease, too polite, and not sufficiently astonished.
Now I admit that this slight shade of vexation on M. de Cernay's face caused me to smile.
He asked me to have a cup of tea with two of his friends, and an Italian renegade who had taken service with Méhémet-Ali. This Italian, he said, was a man of great bravery, who had gone through the most extraordinary scenes and romantic adventures, been obliged, in fact, to assassinate two or three women and as many men, to save himself and escape from a delicate situation.
I was very little astonished at hearing about this peculiar person, for I had already been told that M. de Cernay had a perfect mania for celebrities of every kind; and that no sooner did an Arab, a Persian, an Indian, or any foreigner of distinction arrive in Paris, than M. de Cernay would fly to be presented to him. Was it by way of attracting attention to himself, that he liked to be surrounded with extraordinary acolytes, or had his reputation as a fashionable man reached beyond the shores of the Ganges and Nile? I can't say why, but the fact was so. "Will you stay and take tea with me?" said, therefore, M. de Cernay. "Leaving aside my renegade, you will meet one of the most eccentric and clever men that I know of, and one of the silliest and most ridiculous: the first one is Lord Falmouth, the other is M. du Pluvier."
"I have frequently heard Lord Falmouth spoken of," said I, "and I shall consider myself very fortunate in being able to meet him; but I thought he was in India?"
"He has only been back for the last month," said M. de Cernay; "but you must be aware of the way he decided on that voyage. You may perhaps know that Falmouth always goes to bed at six in the morning. Well, one day, about eighteen months ago, he waked up about four o'clock in the afternoon; he had slept very badly, was restless, excited, nervous; besides, he had just been winning enormous sums at play, and so was deprived of those feelings of interest which sometimes awaked him from the lethargy of his colourless life; the fact is, he was more than usually bored to death. He calls his valet de chambre and asks him what the weather is like. The weather was gloomy, dismal, foggy. 'Ah, this everlasting fog! Never a ray of sunshine!' says Falmouth, yawning fearfully; then in his coolest way he adds, 'Send for the horses.' The horses arrive, his travelling carriage is always in readiness; they harness the horses; his valet de chambre, who is accustomed to his master's ways, packs up the trunks, and two hours afterwards my lord came down-stairs and said to his hall porter, 'If any one asks for me you can say I have gone—'and he hesitated a moment between Constantinople and Calcutta. Finally deciding for the latter, he said, with a yawn, 'Gone to Calcutta.' In fact he had gone there, and there he remained for three months, and now he comes back as imperturbable as ever, as if he had simply gone off to Baden and back again."
"Lord Falmouth is an extremely distinguished man?" said I to the count.
"He has a great deal of esprit and of the best kind," he answered me, "a prodigious amount of learning, and a no less marvellous practical experience of men and things, having travelled in the four quarters of the globe, and seen all the courts of Europe as only an English peer can visit them. Son of one of the greatest lords in the three kingdoms, he possesses five or six hundred thousand francs of revenue in his own right; and yet, with all this, Falmouth is the only really blasé and bored man that I know of, he has exhausted everything, nothing amuses him any more."
"And M. du Pluvier," said I to M. de Cernay, "what is he like?"
"Oh, M. le Baron Sébastien du Pluvier," said the count, with a scornful and mocking air, "M. du Pluvier is I don't know who, and he comes from I don't know where; I was forced to be presented to him. He has disembarked from some old castle in Normandy, I believe, with his miserable twenty or thirty thousand francs income, which he is stupidly going to melt away in this hell of Paris, in two or three winters. He will be one of those numerous pale meteors which shine for an instant in the blazing sky of the great city, and suddenly disappear for ever, in darkness and forgetfulness, amidst the jeers of those they leave behind. But he is a good speaking-trumpet; as soon as I want to spread abroad any absurd rumour or any news from that other monde, I pick up M. du Pluvier, put him to my mouth, and—well, he does the rest! I don't mind making fun of him, because he is not contented with being a fool, but he must be conceited and vain as well. You should see the mysterious way in which he shows you the envelopes he receives that are sealed with coats of arms, all addressed to him, by the way; you should hear the tone in which he asks you, as he plumes himself with pride, 'Do you know the handwriting of the Countess of ——? of the Marquise of ——? of the Duchess of ——?' (Such an ordinary word as madame is beneath his notice.) And then the little man will show you such and such handwritings, which are letters from lady patronesses, enclosing tickets for charities, balls, lotteries, nobody knows what; for all the women of my acquaintance, to whom I introduce him, are sure to victimise him without the smallest scruple, so that he is the most ridiculously philanthropic fellow that I know of.
"But," said M. de Cernay, interrupting himself, "I hear a carriage, I would wager it was Du Pluvier; you shall see something that is worth admiring."
We then went to the window, and saw entering into the courtyard an open carriage drawn by two very handsome horses; but both carriage and harness were loaded down with ornaments in the worst possible taste. His men, dressed in liveries all covered with gold braid, looked like church beadles, and all this ridiculous and dazzling parade was to go and take lunch with a man in the morning.
Very soon M. du Pluvier entered noisily. He was a stout little man, short, puffy red as a cherry, fair, and, though he only looked to be about twenty-five, he was quite bald. His eyes were greenish and dull; he spoke loudly with a Norman accent; he was dressed with the most ridiculous show and pretension, wore jewels, a waistcoat with silver embroidery, and more than I can think of that was out of place. M. de Cernay presented us to one another, and as soon as he had spoken my name M. du Pluvier exclaimed: "Ah, parbleu, I have seen you some place."
This impoliteness shocked me, and I replied that I did not believe that I had ever had that pleasure, as I certainly should never have forgotten him.
A few moments after Lord Falmouth was announced.
He had come on foot, and was dressed with the most perfect simplicity.
I shall never forget the singular impression that he made on me. His face was pale, regular, white and expressionless as marble, and was illuminated, so to speak, by two brown eyes, which were placed very near to his nose; his slightly mocking smile also impressed me, and, without attaching any importance to the idea, the thought of a vampire came into my mind, for I could not have imagined a more suitable body had I been making a sketch of that fantastic creation.
M. de Cernay presented me to Lord Falmouth, and we exchanged the customary politenesses. We were only waiting now for the Italian renegade, that the count called his assassin, to sit down to the table.
At last the valet de chambre announced M. Ismaël; it was the renegade.
He was of medium height, brown, nervous, magnificently costumed as an Egyptian, and had a very handsome face, though its expression was sombre. Ismaël could not speak a word of French; his language was composed of vulgar Italian and some scraps of the Frankish tongue.
Very soon the maître d'hôtel of M. de Cernay opened the doors of the dining-room.
The lunch was served in the English style; the silver was from Mortimer's, the porcelain was old Sèvres, and the glassware from Venice and Bohemia.
Ismaël ate like an ogre and never uttered a word; but as there was nothing to drink on the table except tea, coffee, and chocolate, he bravely asked for wine, and drank it freely.
M. de Cernay seemed to be very much annoyed at the obstinate silence of his assassin, whom M. du Pluvier kept continually worrying with grotesque phrases, such as "mamamouchi," which he probably had borrowed from the reception of M. Jourdain.
Not responding to these advances, Ismaël, from time to time, would growl like a chained-up bear, and glance impatiently aside at Du Pluvier, who seemed to irritate him extremely.
All this time I was talking to Lord Falmouth, and I remember that our conversation was principally about a remark he had made me, and to which I assented, on the subject of the rococo style of luxury, almost feminine indeed, that many young men had begun to use in the interior decoration of their apartments. He laughed very heartily to think that all these mirrors, framed in gold and surrounded by cupids, doves, and garlands of flowers, would nevermore reflect any but masculine faces, looking innocently out from clouds of cigar smoke. While, by way of contrast, instead of making use of all this magnificence, instead of doubling the charm by surrounding it with mysterious luxury, instead of exposing all these beautiful creations of art to the vulgar gaze, if one of these young beaux had to wait, with amorous impatience, for one of those sweet and secret apparitions that deserve to be surrounded with all that is beautiful and luxurious, it is generally way off in some dirty part of the city, in some mean and out-of-the-way hole, that are passed those rare and enchanting hours, which stand out in glowing colours among the other pale souvenirs of our lives.
We concluded, then, with this aphorism, that for a man of tact, of taste, and of experience, the known and visible dwelling should be all that is comfortable and severely simple; but the unknown and invisible abode, the hidden diamond of our lives, should be a triumph of luxury, and all that was dazzlingly beautiful and rare.
After breakfast we went into the smoking-room (the universal use of tobacco makes this sort of subdivision of an apartment necessary), which was furnished with large armchairs and broad divans. It was ornamented with an admirable collection of pipes and tobacco of all kinds, from the East Indian hookah, glittering with gold and precious stones, to the vulgar clay pipe, the brûle-gueule of the Parisian workman; from the brown and perfumed leaf of the l'Atakia or Havana, with its pale amber shade, to the strong and black tobacco, called Régia, whose pungent and corrosive savour some palates are depraved enough to like.
There was to be that day a race of gentleman-riders in the Bois de Boulogne; M. de Cernay was one of the judges, and invited me to go. He was to take his lion, Ismaël, in his phaëton.
M. du Pluvier made me shudder by offering me a seat in his mountebank's chariot, but I escaped this man-trap, for I had fortunately ordered my cabriolet to wait for me. Then M. du Pluvier fell upon Lord Falmouth, who replied with his usual sang-froid, "I am sorry not to be able to accept, my dear M. du Pluvier, but I have to start immediately for the House of Parliament."
"To the House of Peers? Very well, I can take you there. What difference does it make? My horses are made for that."
"And they would do it beautifully," replied Lord Falmouth. "But unfortunately I am going to London; I wish to speak on the East Indian question, and as the discussion will open to-morrow night, I want to get there on time. I have found out at what hour the packet-boat leaves, and I expect to be in London to-morrow afternoon."
I was still smiling at such a singular excuse, when we heard the jingling bells of post-horses, and very soon Lord Falmouth's travelling coupé entered the courtyard. I looked at M. de Cernay with surprise, and, while Lord Falmouth was out of the room giving some directions to his man, I asked the count if it was true that Lord Falmouth was going to London.
"He is really going there," said M. de Cernay. "He often takes the notion of speaking on some political question which pleases him, and which he always treats with unquestionable authority; but he so detests both London and England that he leaves his carriage at Westminster, takes his seat, makes his speech, gets into his carriage, and returns to Paris."
Lord Falmouth just then returned. He was gracious enough to ask me to call on him at some future time. His courier started off, and he got up into his carriage.
"The race is to come off at two o'clock," said M. de Cernay. "The weather is superb. I have sent my horses around to the Porte Dauphine; if you would like to take a turn in the Bois, I have a horse that is at your service."
"Many thanks," said I, "I have sent my horses there, too. But will this race be an interesting one?"
"It is, unfortunately, only too interesting: two miles to run, three hedges four and a half feet high, and, to finish, a barrier fixed at five feet to leap over."
"That is impossible!" I cried out. "For finish a barrier five feet high! But there are not two horses out of a hundred that could take such a leap, with any degree of certainty, after such a race; and if the horse should fail to take the bar, the rider would be instantly killed."
"That is just it," said the count, with a sigh. "I am in despair at having been chosen judge, or rather witness, of this deadly challenge which may cost the life of one or both of these brave gentlemen, perhaps both, but it was absolutely impossible to refuse."
"What do you mean by that?" said I to M. de Cernay.
"Oh," replied he, "it is quite a romance and a secret as sad as it is incredible; but I can tell you about it now, for if for certain reasons no one has yet been told of it, in an hour from now, on beholding the last terrible obstacle in this race, which is undertaken through a pretext, every one will see what is really a duel between the two young riders, and will easily guess the cause and the object."
I tried to read in M. de Cernay's face whether or not he was speaking seriously; but if he were joking my penetration was at fault, so much in earnest did he seem to be.
"I will tell you," said he, "the real story about this race, which is quite extraordinary.
"One of the prettiest women in Paris, Madame la Marquise de Pënâfiel, has among the number of her adorers two who are rivals, and whose devotion to her is well known, or, rather, guessed at. Having one day exchanged some hasty words in regard to a mutual rival, who was each one's enemy without helping the cause of either, and being too well-bred to fight about a woman they both loved, and who would be seriously compromised by the scandal of a duel,—to avoid this inconvenience and gain the same object, they chose this deadly way of settling their quarrel.
"Their chances are equal, as they are both splendid riders and have magnificent horses, but the result is not to be doubted; because if there is any horse capable of running a race of two miles, and leaping over three hedges, and yet being equal to taking a jump over a fixed barrier five feet high, it is almost impossible that there should be two horses who would be so tremendously lucky. Thus, you see, there is no possible chance that this race can end in any other way than by a terrible accident. If they escape this time, they will try it again at some future day, as a duel is begun over again after the principals have vainly exchanged shots."
All this seemed to be so strange, so unusual,—though there was no reason why it should therefore be absolutely impossible,—that I was quite stupefied.
"And Madame de Pënâfiel," I asked M. de Cernay, "does she know anything of this fatal contest of which she is the cause?"
"Certainly she does; and to give you an idea of her character, it is not at all impossible that she may come to look on."
"If she should come," said I, this time with a very marked smile of incredulity, "Madame de Pënâfiel will find it quite as natural as to assist at the bloody fights of the toreadors of her own country; for, from her name and her ferocious disregard of our customs, I judge that this savage marquise is some Spanish amazon of the very bluest blood,—one of those black-eyed daughters of Xérès, or of Vejer, who to this day carry a knife in their garter!"
M. de Cernay could not refrain from a laugh, and said to me:
"You are not anywhere near the truth. Madame de Pënâfiel is a Frenchwoman, born in Paris, and a Parisienne in every sense of the word. Furthermore, she is a very distinguished person, and allied to some of the best families in France. She is a widow, and her late husband, the Marquis de Pënâfiel, was a Spaniard."
"Come, now," said I to the count, laughing in my turn, "I see how it is; you are trying to awaken an interest, a romantic and fantastic interest, about a race of which you are to be the judge. I wonder all Paris does not go to look on."
"I assure you I am speaking in all seriousness," said he, and he really looked solemn.
"But seriously, then, I might be made to believe that a woman could not help it if two crazy men wanted to break each other's necks, but I never will believe that any well-bred woman would go to look on at such a contest, when she knew that she was the cause. She would lay herself open to the greatest blame, and to universal contempt."
"In the first place, Madame de Pënâfiel cares very little about what people say; and, secondly, she is the only person who knows the real cause of this species of duel."
"But, even admitting that she has no fear of her secret being betrayed by this event, she shows herself to be abominably heartless and cruel."
"Oh, she has the hardest and coldest heart imaginable; think of it, when she is only twenty-five, and as beautiful as an angel!"
"And how comes it that you have not dissuaded these two intrepid young men from this foolish danger? For if, as you say, every one knows why they run this race, all their generous desire to shield the lady amounts to nothing."
"To tell you the truth," said the count, "they did not tell me their secret. I found it out by a strange accident, therefore could not allow myself to make the smallest observation on what I was presumed to know nothing about. I spoke seriously to them, but as to putting too much stress on the dangers of the race, it was almost as much as to doubt their courage, and thus it was impossible. If they had consulted me, I should have told them that they were behaving like two crazy men, because no one would ever be got to believe that for two hundred louis, which was announced as the stake, two men of their fortune and position would almost risk losing their lives; consequently, every one would be wild to discover the real motive of their duel, and that would cause a great scandal, and bring discredit on Madame de Pënâfiel."
"How do you know, then, that this race has anything to do with her?" I asked the count.
"How do I know it? Every one says so; and as for me, I have been acquainted with Madame de Pënâfiel for a long time, and my certainty on the subject is based on the pretended indifference with which she behaves to both of these young men, for on some occasions I have known her to show the deepest dissimulation."
There was, in all this story of M. de Cernay's, such a strange mixture of likelihood and improbability, that I found it hard to decide whether I believed it or not.
"I can scarcely believe," said I, "from what you have told me, that Madame de Pënâfiel can really be in good st