“If you can hear nothing this evening, at any rate you see everything, Monsieur le Baron,” said Madame de Vaudremont, with an air of vexation.
“That young man is displaying a very fine diamond,” the stranger remarked to the Colonel.
“Splendid,” he replied. “The man is the Baron Martial de la Roche-Hugon, one of my most intimate friends.”
“I have to thank you for telling me his name,” she went on; “he seems an agreeable man.”
“Yes, but he is rather fickle.”
“He seems to be on the best terms with the Comtesse de Vaudremont?” said the lady, with an inquiring look at the Colonel.
“On the very best.”
The unknown turned pale.
“Hallo!” thought the soldier, “she is in love with that lucky devil Martial.”
“I fancied that Madame de Vaudremont had long been devoted to M. de Soulanges,” said the lady, recovering a little from the suppressed grief which had clouded the fairness of her face.
“For a week past the Countess has been faithless,” replied the Colonel. “But you must have seen poor Soulanges when he came in; he is till trying to disbelieve in his disaster.”
“Yes, I saw him,” said the lady. Then she added, “Thank you very much, monsieur,” in a tone which signified a dismissal.
At this moment the quadrille was coming to an end. Montcornet had only time to withdraw, saying to himself by way of consolation, “She is married.”
“Well, valiant Cuirassier,” exclaimed the Baron, drawing the Colonel aside into a window-bay to breathe the fresh air from the garden, “how are you getting on?”
“She is a married woman, my dear fellow.”
“What does that matter?”
“Oh, deuce take it! I am a decent sort of man,” replied the Colonel. “I have no idea of paying my addresses to a woman I cannot marry. Besides, Martial, she expressly told me that she did not intend to dance.”
“Colonel, I will bet a hundred napoleons to your gray horse that she will dance with me this evening.”
“Done!” said the Colonel, putting his hand in the coxcomb’s. “Meanwhile I am going to look for Soulanges; he perhaps knows the lady, as she seems interested in him.”
“You have lost, my good fellow,” cried Martial, laughing. “My eyes have met hers, and I know what they mean. My dear friend, you owe me no grudge for dancing with her after she has refused you?”
“No, no. Those who laugh last, laugh longest. But I am an honest gambler and a generous enemy, Martial, and I warn you, she is fond of diamonds.”
With these words the friends parted; General Montcornet made his way to the cardroom, where he saw the Comte de Soulanges sitting at a bouillotte table. Though there was no friendship between the two soldiers, beyond the superficial comradeship arising from the perils of war and the duties of the service, the Colonel of Cuirassiers was painfully struck by seeing the Colonel of Artillery, whom he knew to be a prudent man, playing at a game which might bring him to ruin. The heaps of gold and notes piled on the fateful cards showed the frenzy of play. A circle of silent men stood round the players at the table. Now and then a few words were spoken — pass, play, I stop, a thousand Louis, taken — but, looking at the five motionless men, it seemed as though they talked only with their eyes. As the Colonel, alarmed by Soulanges’ pallor, went up to him, the Count was winning. Field-Marshal the Duc d’Isemberg, Keller, and a famous banker rose from the table completely cleaned out of considerable sums. Soulanges looked gloomier than ever as he swept up a quantity of gold and notes; he did not even count it; his lips curled with bitter scorn, he seemed to defy fortune rather than be grateful for her favors.
“Courage,” said the Colonel. “Courage, Soulanges!” Then, believing he would do him a service by dragging him from play, he added: “Come with me. I have some good news for you, but on one condition.”
“What is that?” asked Soulanges.
“That you will answer a question I will ask you.”
The Comte de Soulanges rose abruptly, placing his winnings with reckless indifference in his handkerchief, which he had been twisting with convulsive nervousness, and his expression was so savage that none of the players took exception to his walking off with their money. Indeed, every face seemed to dilate with relief when his morose and crabbed countenance was no longer to be seen under the circle of light which a shaded lamp casts on a gaming-table.
“Those fiends of soldiers are always as thick as thieves at a fair!” said a diplomate who had been looking on, as he took Soulanges’ place. One single pallid and fatigued face turned to the newcomer, and said with a glance that flashed and died out like the sparkle of a diamond: “When we say military men, we do not mean civil, Monsieur le Ministre.”
“My dear fellow,” said Montcornet to Soulanges, leading him into a corner, “the Emperor spoke warmly in your praise this morning, and your promotion to be field-marshal is a certainty.”
“The Master does not love the Artillery.”
“No, but he adores the nobility, and you are an aristocrat. The Master said,” added Montcornet, “that the men who had married in Paris during the campaign were not therefore to be considered in disgrace. Well then?”
The Comte de Soulanges looked as if he understood nothing of this speech.
“And now I hope,” the Colonel went on, “that you will tell me if you know a charming little woman who is sitting under a huge candelabrum — — ”
At these words the Count’s face lighted up; he violently seized the Colonel’s hand: “My dear General,” said he, in a perceptibly altered voice, “if any man but you had asked me such a question, I would have cracked his skull with this mass of gold. Leave me, I entreat you. I feel more like blowing out my brains this evening, I assure you, than — — I hate everything I see. And, in fact, I am going. This gaiety, this music, these stupid faces, all laughing, are killing me!”
“My poor friend!” replied Montcornet gently, and giving the Count’s hand a friendly pressure, “you are too vehement. What would you say if I told you that Martial is thinking so little of Madame de Vaudremont that he is quite smitten with that little lady?”
“If he says a word to her,” cried Soulanges, stammering with rage, “I will thrash him as flat as his own portfolio, even if the coxcomb were in the Emperor’s lap!”
And he sank quite overcome on an easy-chair to which Montcornet had led him. The colonel slowly went away, for he perceived that Soulanges was in a state of fury far too violent for the pleasantries or the attentions of superficial friendship to soothe him.
When Montcornet returned to the ballroom, Madame de Vaudremont was the first person on whom his eyes fell, and he observed on her face, usually so calm, some symptoms of ill-disguised agitation. A chair was vacant near hers, and the Colonel seated himself.
“I dare wager something has vexed you?” said he.
“A mere trifle, General. I want to be gone, for I have promised to go to a ball at the Grand Duchess of Berg’s, and I must look in first at the Princesse de Wagram’s. Monsieur de la Roche-Hugon, who knows this, is amusing himself by flirting with the dowagers.”
“That is not the whole secret of your disturbance, and I will bet a hundred louis that you will remain here the whole evening.”
“Impertinent man!”
“Then I have hit the truth?”
“Well, tell me, what am I thinking of?” said the Countess, tapping the Colonel’s fingers with her fan. “I might even reward you if you guess rightly.”
“I will not accept the challenge; I have too much the advantage of you.”
“You are presumptuous.”
“You are afraid of seeing Martial at the feet — — ”
“Of whom?” cried the Countess, affecting surprise.
“Of that candelabrum,” replied the Colonel, glancing at the fair stranger, and then looking at the Countess with embarrassing scrutiny.
“You have guessed it,” replied the coquette, hiding her fa
ce behind her fan, which she began to play with. “Old Madame de Lansac, who is, you know, as malicious as an old monkey,” she went on, after a pause, “has just told me that Monsieur de la Roche-Hugon is running into danger by flirting with that stranger, who sits here this evening like a skeleton at a feast. I would rather see a death’s head than that face, so cruelly beautiful, and as pale as a ghost. She is my evil genius. — Madame de Lansac,” she added, after a flash and gesture of annoyance, “who only goes to a ball to watch everything while pretending to sleep, has made me miserably anxious. Martial shall pay dearly for playing me such a trick. Urge him, meanwhile, since he is your friend, not to make me so unhappy.”
“I have just been with a man who promises to blow his brains out, and nothing less, if he speaks to that little lady. And he is a man, madame, to keep his word. But then I know Martial; such threats are to him an encouragement. And, besides, we have wagered — — ” Here the Colonel lowered his voice.
“Can it be true?” said the Countess.
“On my word of honor.”
“Thank you, my dear Colonel,” replied Madame de Vaudremont, with a glance full of invitation.
“Will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
“Yes; but the next quadrille. During this one I want to find out what will come of this little intrigue, and to ascertain who the little blue lady may be; she looks intelligent.”
The Colonel, understanding that Madame de Vaudremont wished to be alone, retired, well content to have begun his attack so well.
At most entertainments women are to be met who are there, like Madame de Lansac, as old sailors gather on the seashore to watch younger mariners struggling with the tempest. At this moment Madame de Lansac, who seemed to be interested in the personages of this drama, could easily guess the agitation which the Countess was going through. The lady might fan herself gracefully, smile on the young men who bowed to her, and bring into play all the arts by which a woman hides her emotion, — the Dowager, one of the most clear-sighted and mischief-loving duchesses bequeathed by the eighteenth century to the nineteenth, could read her heart and mind through it all.
The old lady seemed to detect the slightest movement that revealed the impressions of the soul. The imperceptible frown that furrowed that calm, pure forehead, the faintest quiver of the cheeks, the curve of the eyebrows, the least curl of the lips, whose living coral could conceal nothing from her, — all these were to the Duchess like the print of a book. From the depths of her large arm-chair, completely filled by the flow of her dress, the coquette of the past, while talking to a diplomate who had sought her out to hear the anecdotes she told so cleverly, was admiring herself in the younger coquette; she felt kindly to her, seeing how bravely she disguised her annoyance and grief of heart. Madame de Vaudremont, in fact, felt as much sorrow as she feigned cheerfulness; she had believed that she had found in Martial a man of talent on whose support she could count for adorning her life with all the enchantment of power; and at this moment she perceived her mistake, as injurious to her reputation as to her good opinion of herself. In her, as in other women of that time, the suddenness of their passions increased their vehemence. Souls which love much and love often, suffer no less than those which burn themselves out in one affection. Her liking for Martial was but of yesterday, it is true, but the least experienced surgeon knows that the pain caused by the amputation of a healthy limb is more acute than the removal of a diseased one. There was a future before Madame de Vaudremont’s passion for Martial, while her previous love had been hopeless, and poisoned by Soulanges’ remorse.
The old Duchess, who was watching for an opportunity of speaking to the Countess, hastened to dismiss her Ambassador; for in comparison with a lover’s quarrel every interest pales, even with an old woman. To engage battle, Madame de Lansac shot at the younger lady a sardonic glance which made the Countess fear lest her fate was in the dowager’s hands. There are looks between woman and woman which are like the torches brought on at the climax of a tragedy. No one who had not known that Duchess could appreciate the terror which the expression of her countenance inspired in the Countess.
Madame de Lansac was tall, and her features led people to say, “That must have been a handsome woman!” She coated her cheeks so thickly with rouge that the wrinkles were scarcely visible; but her eyes, far from gaining a factitious brilliancy from this strong carmine, looked all the more dim. She wore a vast quantity of diamonds, and dressed with sufficient taste not to make herself ridiculous. Her sharp nose promised epigram. A well-fitted set of teeth preserved a smile of such irony as recalled that of Voltaire. At the same time, the exquisite politeness of her manners so effectually softened the mischievous twist in her mind, that it was impossible to accuse her of spitefulness.
The old woman’s eyes lighted up, and a triumphant glance, seconded by a smile, which said, “I promised you as much!” shot across the room, and brought a blush of hope to the pale cheeks of the young creature languishing under the great chandelier. The alliance between Madame de Lansac and the stranger could not escape the practised eye of the Comtesse de Vaudremont, who scented a mystery, and was determined to penetrate it.
At this instant the Baron de la Roche-Hugon, after questioning all the dowagers without success as to the blue lady’s name, applied in despair to the Comtesse de Gondreville, from whom he reached only this unsatisfactory reply, “A lady whom the ‘ancient’ Duchesse de Lansac introduced to me.”
Turning by chance towards the armchair occupied by the old lady, the lawyer intercepted the glance of intelligence she sent to the stranger; and although he had for some time been on bad terms with her, he determined to speak to her. The “ancient” Duchess, seeing the jaunty Baron prowling round her chair, smiled with sardonic irony, and looked at Madame de Vaudremont with an expression that made Montcornet laugh.
“If the old witch affects to be friendly,” thought the Baron, “she is certainly going to play me some spiteful trick. — Madame,” he said, “you have, I am told, undertaken the charge of a very precious treasure.”
“Do you take me for a dragon?” said the old lady. “But of whom are you speaking?” she added, with a sweetness which revived Martial’s hopes.
“Of that little lady, unknown to all, whom the jealousy of all these coquettes has imprisoned in that corner. You, no doubt, know her family?”
“Yes,” said the Duchess. “But what concern have you with a provincial heiress, married some time since, a woman of good birth, whom you none of you know, you men; she goes nowhere.”
“Why does not she dance, she is such a pretty creature? — May we conclude a treaty of peace? If you will vouchsafe to tell me all I want to know, I promise you that a petition for the restitution of the woods of Navarreins by the Commissioners of Crown Lands shall be strongly urged on the Emperor.”
The younger branch of the house of Navarreins bears quarterly with the arms of Navarreins those of Lansac, namely, azure, and argent party per pale raguly, between six spear-heads in pale, and the old lady’s liaison with Louis XV. had earned her husband the title of duke by royal patent. Now, as the Navarreins had not yet resettled in France, it was sheer trickery that the young lawyer thus proposed to the old lady by suggesting to her that she should petition for an estate belonging to the elder branch of the family.
“Monsieur,” said the old woman with deceptive gravity, “bring the Comtesse de Vaudremont across to me. I promise you that I will reveal to her the mystery of the interesting unknown. You see, every man in the room has reached as great a curiosity as your own. All eyes are involuntarily turned towards the corner where my protegee has so modestly placed herself; she is reaping all the homage the women wished to deprive her of. Happy the man she chooses for her partner!” She interrupted herself, fixing her eyes on Madame de Vaudremont with one of those looks which plainly say, “We are talking of you.” — Then she added, “I imagine you would rather learn the stranger’s name from the lips of your handsome Countess than
from mine.”
There was such marked defiance in the Duchess’ attitude that Madame de Vaudremont rose, came up to her, and took the chair Martial placed for her; then without noticing him she said, “I can guess, madame, that you are talking of me; but I admit my want of perspicacity; I do not know whether it is for good or evil.”
Madame de Lansac pressed the young woman’s pretty hand in her own dry and wrinkled fingers, and answered in a low, compassionate tone, “Poor child!”
The women looked at each other. Madame de Vaudremont understood that Martial was in the way, and dismissed him, saying with an imperious expression, “Leave us.”
The Baron, ill-pleased at seeing the Countess under the spell of the dangerous sibyl who had drawn her to her side gave one of those looks which a man can give — potent over a blinded heart, but simply ridiculous in the eyes of a woman who is beginning to criticise the man who has attracted her.
“Do you think you can play the Emperor?” said Madame de Vaudremont, turning three-quarters of her face to fix an ironical sidelong gaze on the lawyer.
Martial was too much a man of the world, and had too much wit and acumen, to risk breaking with a woman who was in favor at Court, and whom the Emperor wished to see married. He counted, too, on the jealousy he intended to provoke in her as the surest means of discovering the secret of her coolness, and withdrew all the more willingly, because at this moment a new quadrille was putting everybody in motion.
With an air of making room for the dancing, the Baron leaned back against the marble slab of a console, folded his arms, and stood absorbed in watching the two ladies talking. From time to time he followed the glances which both frequently directed to the stranger. Then, comparing the Countess with the new beauty, made so attractive by a touch of mystery, the Baron fell a prey to the detestable self-interest common to adventurous lady-killers; he hesitated between a fortune within his grasp and the indulgence of his caprice. The blaze of light gave such strong relief to his anxious and sullen face, against the hangings of white silk moreen brushed by his black hair, that he might have been compared to an evil genius. Even from a distance more than one observer no doubt said to himself, “There is another poor wretch who seems to be enjoying himself!”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 121
