CHAPTER XIII.
I MAKE MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY.
At ten o'clock on Monday evening, Dalrymple called for me, and by teno'clock, thanks to the great Michaud and other men of genius, Ipresented a faultless exterior. My friend walked round me with a candle,and then sat down and examined me critically.
"By Jove!" said he, "I don't believe I should have known you! You are aliving testimony to the science of tailoring. I shall call on Michaud,to-morrow, and pay my tribute of admiration."
"I am very uncomfortable," said I, ruefully.
"Uncomfortable! nonsense--Michaud's customers don't know the meaning ofthe word."
"But he has not made me a single pocket!"
"And what of that? Do you suppose the great Michaud would spoil the fitof a masterpiece for your convenience?"
"What am I to do with my pocket-handkerchief?"
"Michaud's customers never need pocket-handkerchiefs."
"And then my trousers..."
"Unreasonable Juvenile, what of the trousers?"
"They are so tight that I dare not sit down in them."
"Barbarian! Michaud's customers never sit down in society."
"And my boots are so small that I can hardly endure them."
"Very becoming to the foot," said Dalyrmple, with exasperatingindifference.
"And my collar is so stiff that it almost cuts my throat."
"Makes you hold your head up," said Dalrymple, "and leaves you noinducement to commit suicide."
I could not help laughing, despite my discomfort.
"Job himself never had such a comforter!" I exclaimed.
"It would be a downright pleasure to quarrel with you."
"Put on your hat instead, and let us delay no longer," replied myfriend. "My cab is waiting."
So we went down, and in another moment were driving through the lightedstreets. I should hardly have chosen to confess how my heart beat when,on turning an angle of the Rue Trudon, our cab fell into the rear ofthree or four other carriages, passed into a courtyard crowded witharriving and departing vehicles, and drew up before an open door, whencea broad stream of light flowed out to meet us. A couple of footmenreceived us in a hall lighted by torches and decorated with stands ofantique armor. From the centre of this hall sprang a Gothic staircase,so light, so richly sculptured, so full of niches and statues, slendercolumns, foliated capitals, and delicate ornamentation of every kind,that it looked a very blossoming of the stone. Following Dalrymple upthis superb staircase and through a vestibule of carved oak, I nextfound myself in a room that might have been the scene of Plato'ssymposium. Here were walls painted in classic fresco; windows curtainedwith draperies of chocolate and amber; chairs and couches of ebony,carved in antique fashion; Etruscan amphorae; vases and paterae ofterracotta; exquisite lamps, statuettes and candelabra in rare greenbronze; and curious parti-colored busts of philosophers and heroes, inall kinds of variegated marbles. Powdered footmen serving modern coffeeseemed here like anachronisms in livery. In such a room one should havebeen waited on by boys crowned with roses, and have partaken only ofclassic dishes--of Venafran olives or oysters from the Lucrine lake,washed down with Massic, or Chian, or honeyed Falernian.
Some half-dozen gentlemen, chatting over their coffee, bowed toDalrymple when we came in. They were talking of the war in Algiers, andespecially of the gallantry of a certain Vicomte de Caylus, in whosedeeds they seemed to take a more than ordinary interest.
"Rode single-handed right through the enemy's camp," said a bronzed,elderly man, with a short, gray beard.
"And escaped without a scratch," added another, with a tiny red ribbonat his button-hole.
"He comes of a gallant stock," said a third. "I remember his father atAusterlitz--literally cut to pieces at the head of his squadron."
"You are speaking of de Caylus," said Dalrymple. "What news of him fromAlgiers?"
"This--that having volunteered to carry some important despatches tohead-quarters, he preferred riding by night through Abd-el-Kader's camp,to taking a _detour_ by the mountains," replied the first speaker.
"A wild piece of boyish daring," said Dalrymple, somewhat drily. "Ipresume he did not return by the same road?"
"I should think not. It would have been certain death a second time!"
"And this happened how long since?"
"About a fortnight ago. But we shall soon know all particulars fromhimself."
"From himself?"
"Yes, he has obtained leave of absence--is, perhaps, by this time inParis."
Dalrymple set down his cup untasted, and turned away.
"Come, Arbuthnot," he said, hastily, "I must introduce you to MadameRachel."
We passed through a small antechamber, and into a brilliant _salon_, thevery reverse of antique. Here all was light and color. Here werehangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of everyconceivable shape and hue; great Indian jars; richly framed drawings;stands of exotic plants; Chinese cages, filled with valuable birds fromdistant climes; folios of engravings; and, above all, a large cabinet inmarqueterie, crowded with bronzes, Chinese carvings, pastille burners,fans, medals, Dresden groups, Sevres vases, Venetian glass, Asiaticidols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise-shall, mothero'-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic. Inthis room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped hereand there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirtygentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation. Saluting some of these bya passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this _salon_ andinto a larger one immediately beyond it.
"This," he said, "is one of the most beautiful rooms in Paris. Lookround and tell me if you recognise, among all her votaries, thedivinity herself."
I looked round, bewildered.
"Recognise!" I echoed. "I should not recognise my own father at thismoment. I feel like Abou Hassan in the palace of the Caliph."
"Or like Christopher Sly, when he wakes in the nobleman's bedchamber,"said Dalrymple; "though I should ask your pardon for the comparison. Butsee what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salaryper week. See these panels painted by Muller--this chandelier byDeniere, of which no copy exists--this bust of Napoleon by Canova--thesehangings of purple and gold--this ceiling all carved and gilded, thanwhich Versailles contains nothing more elaborate. _Allons donc_! haveyou nothing to say in admiration of so much splendor?"
I shook my head.
"What can I say? Is this the house of an actress, or the palace of aprince? But stay--that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plaingold circlet on her head--who is she?"
"Phedre herself," replied Dalrymple. "Follow me, and be introduced."
She was sitting in a large fauteuil of purple velvet. One foot rested ona stool richly carved and gilt; one arm rested negligently on a tablecovered with curious foreign weapons. In her right hand she held asingular poignard, the blade of which was damascened with gold, whilethe handle, made of bronze and exquisitely modelled, represented a tinyhuman skeleton. With this ghastly toy she kept playing as she spoke,apparently unconscious of its grim significance. She was surrounded bysome ten or a dozen distinguished-looking men, most of whom wereprofusely _decore_. They made way courteously at our approach. Dalrymplethen presented me. I made my bow, was graciously received, and droppedmodestly into the rear.
"I began to think that Captain Dalrymple had forsworn Paris," saidRachel, still toying with the skeleton dagger. "It is surely a yearsince I last had this pleasure?"
"Nay, Madame, you flatter me," said Dalrymple. "I have been absent onlyfive months."
"Then, you see, I have measured your absence by my loss."
Dalrymple bowed profoundly.
Rachel turned to a young man behind her chair.
"Monsieur le Prince," said she, "do you know what is rumored in the_foyer_ of the Francais? That you have offered me your hand!"
"I offer you both my hands, in applause, Madame, every night of yourperformance," repli
ed the gentleman so addressed.
She smiled and made a feint at him with the dagger.
"Excellent!" said she. "One is not enough for a tragedian But where isAlphonse Karr?"
"I have been looking for him all the evening," said a tall man, with aniron-gray beard. "He told me he was coming; but authors are capriciousbeings--the slaves of the pen."
"True; he lives by his pen--others die by it," said Rachel bitterly. "Bythe way, has any one seen Scribe's new Vaudeville?"
"I have," replied a bald little gentleman with a red and green ribbon inhis button-hole.
"And your verdict?"
"The plot is not ill-conceived; but Scribe is only godfather to thepiece. It is almost entirely written by Duverger, his _collaborateur_."
"The life of a _collaborateur_," said Rachel, "is one long act ofself-abnegation. Another takes all the honor--he all the labor. Thussoldiers fall, and their generals reap the glory."
"A _collaborateur_," said a cynical-looking man who had not yet spoken,"is a hackney vehicle which one hires on the road to fame, and dismissesat the end of the journey."
"Sometimes without paying the fare," added a gentleman who had till nowbeen examining, weapon by weapon, all the curious poignards and pistolson the table. "But what is this singular ornament?"
And he held up what appeared to be a large bone, perforated in severalplaces.
The bald little man with the red and green ribbon uttered an exclamationof surprise.
"It is a tibia!" said he, examining it through his double eye-glass.
"And what of that?" laughed Rachel. "Is it so wonderful to find one legin a collection of arms? However, not to puzzle you, I may as wellacknowledge that it was brought to me from Rome by a learned Italian,and is a curious antique. The Romans made flutes of the leg-bones oftheir enemies, and this is one of them."
"A melodious barbarism!" exclaimed one.
"Puts a 'stop,' at all events, to the enemy's flight!" said another.
"Almost as good as drinking out of his skull," added a third.
"Or as eating him, _tout de bon_," said Rachel.
"There must be a certain satisfaction in cannibalism," observed thecynic who had spoken before. "There are people upon whom one would supwillingly."
"As, for instance, critics, who are our natural enemies," said Rachel."_C'est a dire_, if critics were not too sour to be eaten."
"Nay, with the sweet sauce of vengeance!"
"You speak feelingly, Monsieur de Musset. I am almost sorry, for yoursake, that cannibalism is out of fashion!"
"It is one of the penalties of civilization," replied de Musset, with ashrug. "Besides, one would not wish to be an epicure."
Dalrymple, who had been listening somewhat disdainfully to this skirmishof words, here touched me on the arm and turned away.
"Don't you hate this sort of high-pressure talk?" he said, impatiently.
"I was just thinking it so brilliant."
"Pshaw!--conversational fireworks--every speaker bent on eclipsing everyother speaker. It's an artificial atmosphere, my dear Damon--a sort offorcing-house for good things; and I hate forced witticisms, as I hateforced peas. But have you had enough of it? Or has this feast of reasontaken away your appetite for simpler fare?"
"If you mean, am I ready to go with you to Madame de Courcelles'--yes."
"_A la bonne heure_!"
"But you are not going away without taking leave of Madame Rachel?"
"Unquestionably. Leave-taking is a custom more honored in the breachthan the observance."
"But isn't that very impolite?"
"_Ingenu!_ Do you know that society ignores everything disagreeable? Aleave-taker sets an unpleasant example, disturbs the harmony of things,and reminds others of their watches. Besides, he suggests unwelcomepossibilities. Perhaps he finds the party dull; or, worse still, he maybe going to one that is pleasanter."
By this time we were again rattling along the Boulevard. The theatreswere ablaze with lights. The road was full of carriages. The _trottoir_was almost as populous as at noon. The idlers outside the _cafes_ werestill eating their ices and sipping their _eau-sucre_ as though, insteadof being past eleven at night, it was scarcely eleven in the morning. Ina few minutes, we had once more turned aside out of the greatthoroughfare, and stopped at a private house in a quiet street. Acarriage driving off, a cab drawing up behind our own, open windows withdrawn blinds, upon which were profiled passing shadows of the guestswithin, and the ringing tones of a soprano voice, accompanied by apiano, gave sufficient indication of a party, and had served to attracta little crowd of soldiers and _gamins_ about the doorway.
Having left our over-coats with a servant, we were ushered upstairs,and, as the song was not yet ended, slipped in unannounced and stationedourselves just between two crowded drawing-rooms, where, sheltered bythe folds of a muslin curtain, we could see all that was going on inboth. I observed, at a glance, that I was now in a society altogetherunlike that which I had just left.
At Rachel's there were present only two ladies besides herself, andthose were members of her own family. Here I found at least an equalproportion of both sexes. At Rachel's a princely magnificence reigned.Here the rooms were elegant, but simple; the paintings choice but few;the ornaments costly, but in no unnecessary profusion.
"It is just the difference between taste and display," said Dalrymple."Rachel is an actress, and Madame de Courcelles is a lady. Rachelexhibits her riches as an Indian chief exhibits the scalps of hisvictims--Madame de Courcelles adorns her house with no other view thanto make it attractive to her friends."
"As a Greek girl covers her head with sequins to show the amount of herfortune, and an English girl puts a rose in her hair for grace andbeauty only," said I, fancying that I had made rather a cleverobservation. I was therefore considerably disappointed when Dalrymplemerely said, "just so."
The lady in the larger room here finished her song and returned to herseat, amid a shower of _bravas_.
"She sings exquisitely," said I, following her with my eyes.
"And so she ought," replied my friend. "She is the Countess Rossi, whomyou may have heard of as Mademoiselle Sontag."
"What! the celebrated Sontag?" I exclaimed.
"The same. And the gentleman to whom she is now speaking is no lessfamous a person than the author of _Pelham_."
I was as much delighted as a rustic at a menagerie, and Dalrymple,seeing this, continued to point out one celebrity after another till Ibegan no longer to remember which was which. Thus Lamartine, HoraceVernet, Scribe, Baron Humboldt, Miss Bremer, Arago, Auber, and Sir EdwinLandseer, were successively indicated, and I thought myself one of themost fortunate fellows in Paris, only to be allowed to look upon them.
"I suppose the spirit of lion-hunting is an original instinct," I said,presently. "Call it vulgar excitement, if you will; but I must confessthat to see these people, and to be able to write about them to myfather, is just the most delightful thing that has happened to me sinceI left home."
"Call things by their right names, Damon," said Dalrymple,good-naturedly. "If you were a _parvenu_ giving a party, and wanted allthese fine folks to be seen at your house, that would be lion-hunting;but being whom and what you are, it is hero-worship--a disease peculiarto the young; wholesome and inevitable, like the measles."
"What have I done," said a charming voice close by, "that CaptainDalrymple will not even deign to look upon me?"
The charming voice proceeded from the still more charming lips of anexceedingly pretty brunette in a dress of light green silk, fastenedhere and there with bouquets of rosebuds. Plump, rosy, black-haired,bright-eyed, bewilderingly coquettish, this lady might have been aboutthirty years of age, and seemed by no means unconscious of her powers offascination.
"I implore a thousand pardons, Madame...." began my friend.
"_Comment_! A thousand pardons for a single offence!" exclaimed thelady. "What an unreasonable culprit!"
To which she added, quite audibly, tho
ugh behind the temporary shelterof her fan:--
"Who is this _beau garcon_ whom you seem to have brought with you?"
I turned aside, affecting not to hear the question; but could not helplistening, nevertheless. Of Dalrymple's reply, however, I caught butmy own name.
"So much the better," observed the lady. "I delight in civilizinghandsome boys. Introduce him."
Dalrymple tapped me on the arm.
"Madame de Marignan permits me to introduce you, _mon ami_," said he."Mr. Basil Arbuthnot--Madame de Marignan."
I bowed profoundly--all the more profoundly because I felt myselfblushing to the eyes, and would not for the universe have been suspectedof overhearing the preceding conversation; nor was my timidityalleviated when Dalrymple announced his intention of going in search ofMadame de Courcelles, and of leaving me in the care of Madamede Marignan.
"Now, Damon, make the most of your opportunities," whispered he, as hepassed by. "_Vogue la galere_!"
_Vogue la galere_, indeed! As if I had anything to do with the _galere_,except to sit down in it, the most helpless of galley-slaves, andblindly submit to the gyves and chains of Madame de Marignan, who,regarding me as the lawful captive of her bow and spear, carried me offat once to a vacant _causeuse_ in a distant corner.
To send me in search of a footstool, to make me hold her fan, tooverwhelm me with questions and bewilder me with a thousand coquetries,were the immediate proceedings of Madame de Marignan. A consummatetactician, she succeeded, before a quarter of an hour had gone by, inputting me at my ease, and in drawing from me everything that I had totell--all my past; all my prospects for the future; the name andcondition of my father; a description of Saxonholme, and the very dateof my birth. Then she criticized all the ladies in the room, which onlydrew my attention more admiringly upon herself; and she quizzed all theyoung men, whereby I felt indirectly flattered, without exactly knowingwhy; and she praised Dalrymple in terms for which I could have embracedher on the spot had she been ten times less pretty, and ten times lessfascinating.
I was an easy victim, after all, and scarcely worth the powder and shotof an experienced _franc-tireur;_ but Madame de Marignan, according toher own confession, had a taste for civilizing "handsome boys," and as Imay, perhaps, have come under that category a good many years ago, thelittle victory amused her! By the time, at all events, that Dalrymplereturned to tell me it was past one o'clock in the morning, and I mustbe introduced to the mistress of the house before leaving, my head wasas completely turned as that of old Time himself.
"Past one!" I exclaimed. "Impossible! We cannot have been here half-anhour."
At which neither Dalrymple nor Madame de Marignan could forbear smiling.
"I hope our acquaintance is not to end here, monsieur," said Madame deMarignan. "I live in the Rue Castellane, and am at home to my friendsevery Wednesday evening."
I bowed almost to my boots.
"And to my intimates, every morning from twelve to two," she added verysoftly, with a dimpled smile that went straight to my heart, and set itbeating like the paddle-wheels of a steamer.
I stammered some incoherent thanks, bowed again, nearly upset a servantwith a tray of ices, and, covered with confusion, followed Dalrympleinto the farther room. Here I was introduced to Madame de Courcelles, apale, aristocratic woman some few years younger than Madame de Marignan,and received a gracious invitation to all her Monday receptions. But Iwas much less interested in Madame de Courcelles than I should have beena couple of hours before. I scarcely looked at her, and five minutesafter I was out of her presence, could not have told whether she wasfair or dark, if my life had depended on it!
"What say you to walking home?" said Dalrymple, as we went down stairs."It is a superb night, and the fresh air would be delightful after thesehot rooms."
I assented gladly; so we dismissed the cab, and went out, arm-in-arm,along a labyrinth of quiet streets lighted by gas-lamps few and farbetween, and traversed only by a few homeward-bound pedestrians.Emerging presently at the back of the Madeleine, we paused for a momentto admire the noble building by moonlight; then struck across the Marcheaux Fleurs and took our way along the Boulevard.
"Are you tired, Damon?" said Dalrymple presently.
"Not in the least," I replied, with my head full of Madame de Marignan.
"Would you like to look in at an artists' club close by here, where Ihave the _entree?_--queer place enough, but amusing to a stranger."
"Yes, very much."
"Come along, then; but first button up your overcoat to the throat, andtie this colored scarf round your neck. See, I do the same. Now take offyour gloves--that's it. And give your hat the least possible inclinationto the left ear. You may turn up the bottoms of your trousers, if youlike--anything to look a little slangy."
"Is that necessary?"
"Indispensable--at all events in the honorable society of _LesChicards."_
"_Les Chicards_!" I repeated. "What are they?"
"It is the name of the club, and means--Heaven only knows what! forGreek or Latin root it has none, and record of it there exists not,unless in the dictionary of Argot. And yet if you were an old Parisianand had matriculated for the last dozen years at the Bal de l'Opera, youwould know the illustrious Chicard by sight as familiarly as Punch, orPaul Pry, or Pierrot. He is a gravely comic personage with a bandageover one eye, a battered hat considerably inclining to the back of hishead, a coat with a high collar and long tails, and a _tout ensemble_indescribably seedy--something between a street preacher and atravelling showman. But here we are. Take care how you come down, andmind your head."
Having turned aside some few minutes before into the Rue St. Honore, wehad thence diverged down a narrow street with a gutter running along themiddle and no foot-pavements on either side. The houses seemed to benearly all shops, some few of which, for the retailing of_charbonnerie_, stale vegetables, uninviting cooked meats, and so forth,were still open; but that before which we halted was closely shutteredup, with only a private door open at the side, lighted by a singleoil-lamp. Following my friend for a couple of yards along the dimpassage within, I became aware of strange sounds, proceeding apparentlyfrom the bowels of the earth, and found myself at the head of a steepstaircase, down which it was necessary to proceed with my body bentalmost double, in consequence of the close proximity of the ceiling andthe steps. At the foot of this staircase came another dim passage andanother oil-lamp over a low door, at which Dalrymple paused a momentbefore entering. The sounds which I had heard above now resolvedthemselves into their component parts, consisting of roars of laughter,snatches of songs, clinkings of glasses, and thumpings of bottles upontables, to the accompaniment of a deep bass hum of conversation, all ofwhich prepared me to find a very merry company within.
In the Days of My Youth: A Novel Page 9
