Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE GREEN ALBUM.

  WHOEVER HAS BEEN in society must know that, without any self-glorification, it is not at all difficult for any man who is fairly well bred and properly presented to attract the attention of a fashionable woman, if he firmly wishes to do so.

  What a singular existence is that of a woman of fashion, a life made up of a series of efforts to charm the most selfish and ungrateful half of the human race. When once a woman is recognised as a leader of fashion, when it is admitted that she dresses well, and always in the latest and most becoming style, that she is charming or witty, the poor woman no longer belongs to herself. She is simply one of the stars of that brilliant crown that Paris wears on its forehead every evening.

  She is obliged to show herself at every fête; joyous or sad, she must be there, always there; her dress must be the most elegant, her hair must be dressed in the latest way, her face must wear its sweetest smile; she must be always gracious and accessible, polite to every one; the stupidest fool in the room has a right to expect to be received as though she were enchanted to meet him.

  There is a regular warfare between women of fashion, — a quiet but bitter warfare, in which flowers, ribbons, precious stones, and smiles are the weapons. It is a mute but terrible struggle, full of cruel suffering, unshed tears, unknown despair; a struggle that leaves deep and painful wounds, for wounded pride leaves incurable scars. But what does it matter? If one wishes to reign as sovereign over this society of the chosen few, she must be more charming than this one, more coquettish than this other one, more polite and suave than all the rest, but, above all, she must show no preference for any one, for, as she wishes to please all, she must permit every one to believe that he will be the favoured one.

  But you should hear him, this favoured one, the last favourite, the favourite of to-day, of to-night, of the last waltz, the last cotillon, the winner in that charming contest, in which flowers have battled with flowers, and graces with graces. You should see him in his ugly black coat, as he sits at supper, telling the other favourites (who tell him other tales in return) all the delightful things he has had said to him; how he only has to throw his handkerchief among so many eager beauties, who rival each other in their attentions to him; his disdain for them all.

  In listening to these mysterious and veracious confidences, one is sometimes tempted to ask, Where am I? and who are these men talking about? and to admire more than ever the self-abnegation of women, who give themselves body and soul to fashion, that cruel and brutal goddess, whose priests are these men, and who renders only indifference or scorn for all these years of youth spent in her service. But as I also wished to appear to profit by the abnegation of one of these charming victims, among all the beauties that were blooming at that time, I attached myself to a very pretty young woman. She was blonde, fresh, and rosy, too rosy almost, but she had beautiful large black eyes, that were both tender and bright; her lips were scarlet, and she had beautiful white teeth, real little pearls set in coral, and she showed them on all occasions, and was quite right.

  The only thing that I did not like was her adorer, a splendid young fellow, as handsome as possible, who, unfortunately for himself (and for her, poor woman, for it showed her bad taste), was called “Beau Sainville.” That epithet, “beau,” is fearfully ridiculous, and if one is ever unlucky enough to take it seriously, by attempting to live up to it, one is ruined for ever.

  Certainly, if I had had more leisure to choose, I should have selected a more worthy rival than Beau Sainville, but the lady was pretty and facile, and I had not much time to spare, so I was obliged to appear as his adversary in this contest for her heart. As I had supposed, he was a perfect fool, and when I was presented to the lady he honoured with his attentions, he began almost immediately to manifest every sort of ridiculous jealousy.

  Wishing to show what he probably considered his rights, he began to treat the poor young woman in the rudest and most compromising manner, which distressed me very much, for I could not offer her any compensation for her loss, neither did she desire any. But at last she became justly provoked at the brutal behaviour of her strange adorer, and, to avenge herself, flirted with me in an innocent sort of way. Very soon M. de Sainville did more for me than I had even hoped, for after two or three scenes, in which he gave vent to his wounded feelings, he passed from wounded dignity to cold irony and rude indifference; finally, he went and made love, with all his might, to another poor young thing, who didn’t know what to make of it.

  So that although it was almost entirely untrue, the world very soon gave me the credit and glory of being preferred to Beau Sainville. It served me right for my duplicity, but I had to stand it. As for the proofs the world had of my good fortune, they were of the most positive evidence, such as the world always can show on like occasions. First, I had once called for the carriage of the lady because there was no one else at hand; then she had offered me a place in her loge at one of the small theatres; I had hastened to offer her my arm, and we had made the tour of a crowded reception-room together in sight of all Paris; finally, last and flagrant proof, she had remained at home one evening, instead of going to a concert, and my carriage had been seen that same evening standing at her door. In the face of such convincing evidence, it was a duly established fact that I was the luckiest of mortals.

  In the midst of this felicity, I learned, through M. de Cernay, of Madame de Pënâfiel’s return. In order to win his wager, the count served my purposes uncommonly well, whether Madame de Pënâfiel had overheard my defence of her or not.

  As soon as she came back to Paris, therefore, M. de Cernay never saw her without commenting on my strange behaviour, in neglecting to ask for a presentation, especially as I moved in precisely the same circle, and could hardly help meeting her every evening, to say nothing of my knowing that the count was one of her intimate friends, and would gladly procure me this favour, which so many desired. But, said M. de Cernay, it was rumoured that I was seriously attached to a charming young woman, who, no doubt, had made me promise never to go near the Hôtel Pënâfiel, which was supposed to be a sort of palace of Alcina, from which no one came out except in a state of enchantment, and hopelessly in love.

  At last, by dint of heaping up so many silly stories, and constantly harping on this one subject, or from some unknown reason, Madame de Pënâfiel became either tired of hearing him, or provoked at my apparent indifference. As she was habitually sought after and flattered, she began to think my neglect was a want of respect to herself and to social customs.

  Finally, as M. de Cernay was one day discoursing as usual on my strange behaviour, she said to him, haughtily, and with some show of injured dignity, “That although she knew it was difficult to be admitted to her circle, it would have been a proof of respect worthy of a well-bred man, whom she met so frequently, to have at least manifested a desire to visit the Hôtel Pënâfiel.”

  I remained deaf to these insinuations of the count; and so Madame de Pënâfiel, like any woman who is seeing every one obedient to her slightest whim, became so irritated by my reserve, that one day, when I was conversing to a circle of her lady friends, she came and entered into the conversation, and did all in her power to cause it to become general. I said not a word to her, and as soon as I could do so with politeness I bowed, and retired from the circle. A few days afterwards she spoke of this to the count, and complained of my ill manners. He replied that, on the contrary, I was very formal, and had, probably, not thought it either polite or well-bred to address a lady to whom I had never had the honour of a presentation.

  Madame de Pënâfiel turned her back on him, and for the next fortnight I heard nothing more of her.

  Although my curiosity was extreme, I would not, for the reasons I have given, make any advances. I kept strictly to my rôle, and led the count to believe that I was happy in the possession of the fair blonde’s affections, and that through weakness, or to show the extent of my devotion, I had promised to t
ake no step towards a presentation to a woman who was known to be so dangerous and seductive as Madame de Pënâfiel. I feared, too, that I would meet with a refusal, as I had shown so little eagerness at first, and that now it was too late to alter my behaviour.

  About fifteen days after this last conversation with the count, Don Luiz de Cabrera, the relative of Madame de Pënâfiel, whom I had frequently met at the count’s and in general society, and with whom I had become quite intimate of late, wrote to tell me that a beautiful collection of intaglios he had bought in Naples, and which he had spoken to me about, had arrived, and if I would take breakfast with him some morning we could examine these antiquities at our leisure.

  The Chevalier Don Luiz lived in the entresol of the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, where he was almost constantly occupied in scientific research. He only went out occasionally to accompany his cousin, and then only when she desired him to do so.

  As the chevalier resided in the house of his cousin, I thought I saw in this invitation, which was, in reality, very natural and simple, a hidden meaning of which Madame de Pënâfiel was cognisant.

  The Chevalier de Cabrera gave me the impression of a sly, clever, secretive, and sensual old man, who, being only possessed of a moderate fortune of his own, found it suitable and convenient to purchase all the luxuries of a magnificent existence by performing the light duties of a chaperon to his cousin, for such seemed to be his vocation at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel. It is needless to say that this immense establishment contained everything one could imagine that was sumptuous and elegant.

  The chevalier was a great connoisseur, and his apartment was filled with every sort of curiosity. He showed me his intaglios, which were remarkably beautiful, and we talked of pictures and antiquities.

  It was nearly one o’clock, when there was a knock at the door, and the valet de chambre of Madame de Pënâfiel came from his mistress to ask the chevalier for the green album. Don Luiz opened his eyes very wide, and said that he had not the album, that he had given it back to madame la marquise a month ago. The servant went away, and we continued our conversation.

  Very soon there was another knock; the valet de chambre came back to say that madame la marquise wished to have the green album, the one that was ornamented with enamel, and which she was sure the chevalier had never returned to her.

  Don Luiz knew nothing about it, he wished himself with the devil. He took a pen, and, asking my pardon, wrote a few words to his cousin, then he gave the note to the lackey. Again we resumed our interrupted talk. But again we were disturbed for a third time. Now it was Don Luiz’s valet who opened the door, and announced “Madame la marquise!” Madame de Pënâfiel was dressed in a street costume, as if she were just going out. We rose, and I bowed respectfully.

  “Really, my dear cousin,” said she to the old chevalier, acknowledging my bow with a polite but very cold smile, “really I must want my album very badly to be willing to enter your alchemist’s den; but I am sure you must have those drawings, and I am going out and would like to take them to Madame de — , as I promised her I would, for I always try to keep my engagements.”

  There were new protestations on Don Luiz’s part. He was sure he had returned the book. New researches took place, which led to nothing except my presentation to Madame de Pënâfiel by the chevalier.

  It was impossible for me to say anything else but that I had long desired this honour, to which commonplace remark she answered, in a lofty way, that she received on Saturdays, but that she was always at home Wednesdays en prima-sera, and hoped I would not forget to come.

  To this I replied by another bow, and the usual phrase, that it was too great a favour to be forgotten.

  Then the chevalier offered her his arm to her carriage, which was waiting under the porte-cochère, and she drove off.

  I never knew whether the chevalier was her accomplice in that forced presentation.

  As I have said, Saturday was the day of general reception at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, but Wednesday was the marquise’s day of prima-sera. On these evenings she only received until ten or eleven o’clock the few friends who came to call before going to more formal entertainments elsewhere.

  The next day but one would be one of these Wednesdays; I awaited it impatiently.

  I forgot to say that I sent M. de Cernay the same day the two hundred louis that he had won.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  PRIMA-SERA.

  BEFORE STARTING FOR the Hôtel de Pënâfiel, I compared my present state of anxiety and distrust with the careless abandonment of my former life, and the days I spent with Hélène, when, no matter at what time I entered the old salon at Serval, I was sure of being received with pleasant smiles from every one.

  Without dreading this interview with Madame de Pënâfiel, I knew that, although by common consent she was abused and calumniated, her salon was held in high consideration. It had great importance in the fact that its judgment was not to be impeached; right or wrong, its stamp was the valuation that would henceforth be accepted by the world.

  The number of such salons, whose influence is so great that it irrevocably decides the rank of each individual in good society, is already restricted, and grows less every year. The reason is this, there are no longer any men who are willing to submit to its restrictions. The life of the club and the representative chamber, that other great political club, has swept away the life of the salon. Between to-day’s speech and that of yesterday, between a game of whist or a revenge of two or three thousand louis, the anxious and absorbing interest in a race in which a favourite horse is entered for an enormous sum, there remains very little time for that intimate, flowery, and elegant conversation, which has no “echo in the country,” as the monomaniacs of the tribune say, and helps you neither to win nor lose at whist or on the turf. And then the life of the salon is a constraint. You must appear in evening dress to go and smother in a heated reception, and then be frozen while waiting for your carriage; whereas it is so much easier and pleasanter to stretch out in a soft armchair at the club, where you take a comfortable nap after dinner, from which you awake refreshed, and ready for an exciting game of whist, with no interruption but that of your cigar.

  However, at the period of which I write, there were still a few houses where people conversed, and the Hôtel de Pënâfiel was one of these eccentricities.

  Madame de Pënâfiel, among all her defects, was not what was called a bluestocking, but she was something worse, for she was a woman of real erudition, and a linguist, speaking three or four languages well, and having high scientific attainments, they said. If I had no better ground for believing all this than the word of a savant such as De Cernay, I should have had my doubts as to its truth, but I recalled a strange circumstance which was a proof of Madame de Pënâfiel’s learning. Having been fortunate enough when in London to meet the celebrated Arthur Young, he had spoken to me with great admiration of a young compatriot of mine who was remarkably well read, although very pretty and in the best society. He said she had complimented him in the most intelligent and scientific manner on his famous theory of Interferences, but had attacked him on the subject of the syllabic or dissyllabic value he applied to hieroglyphics, in which his system was entirely at variance with that of Champollion.

  This had struck me as very singular, especially when told me by such a great savant, and I had even made a note of it in my diary.

  It was only on my return to Paris, and some time after having seen and heard of Madame de Pënâfiel, that I confusedly recalled the conversation of Arthur Young. I then got out my note-book, and found these details, as well as the name of the marquise.

  All that I had heard of Madame de Pënâfiel was far from creating a pleasant impression. Her strange caprices, her artistic and perpetual desire to attract attention, her poses, which they said were constantly studied to the end of making a beautiful portrait of herself, her fantastic disposition, her scientific studies, were all unbecoming in a woman of her standing, and were all tho
roughly distasteful to me.

  Women who are constantly talked about and discussed from various points of view are rarely influential; all they really care for is to exhibit their various qualities. A woman who is serious, dignified, and calm, of whom nobody says or knows anything, can have much more influence and be more imposing.

  And then a man who is naturally cold and reserved, even though he may not be a social success, will always be well received and perfectly on a level with the best company that he meets, for it is only the extremely agreeable or the very ridiculous who attract much attention.

  I repeat, then, that it was without any embarrassment, but with a great deal of rather ill-natured curiosity, that I presented myself at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel one Wednesday, after the opera.

  The house was kept up in a really princely way. In the vestibule, which was lofty and decorated with statues and immense marble vases filled with flowers, were several footmen, who wore powder and liveries of blue and orange, braided with silver.

  In a vast antechamber, where there were some fine paintings and magnificent Faience vases also filled with flowers, was another footman, whose livery was orange colour with a blue collar, and braided on all the seams with silk passementerie, and embroidered with the crest of De Pënâfiel. Finally, in a third waiting-room, were two valets de chambre who, instead of being clothed in funereal black, wore suits of light blue plush, lined with orange-coloured silk and ornamented with crested gilt buttons.

  When I was announced, there were with Madame de Pënâfiel five or six ladies and two or three men.