CHAPTER XI.
PROS AND CONS.
The chevalier remained alone; but this time there was, in what had justpassed between himself and the captain, sufficient matter for reflectionto render it unnecessary for him to have recourse either to the poetryof the Abbe Chaulieu, his harpsichord, or his chalks. Indeed, untilnow, he had been only half engaged in the hazardous enterprise of whichthe Duchesse de Maine and the Prince de Cellamare had shown him thehappy ending, and of which the captain, in order to try his courage, hadso brutally exhibited to him the bloody catastrophe. As yet he had onlybeen the end of a chain, and, on breaking away from one side, he wouldhave been loose. Now he was become an intermediate ring, fastened atboth ends, and attached at the same time to people above and below himin society. In a word, from this hour he no longer belonged to himself,and he was like the Alpine traveler, who, having lost his way, stops inthe middle of an unknown road, and measures with his eye, for the firsttime, the mountain which rises above him and the gulf which yawnsbeneath his feet.
Luckily the chevalier had the calm, cold, and resolute courage of a manin whom fire and determination--those two opposite forces--instead ofneutralizing, stimulated each other. He engaged in danger with all therapidity of a sanguine man; he weighed it with all the consideration ofa phlegmatic one. Madame de Maine was right when she said to Madame deLaunay that she might put out her lantern, and that she believed she hadat last found a man.
But this man was young, twenty-six years of age, with a heart open toall the illusions and all the poetry of that first part of existence. Asa child he had laid down his playthings at the feet of his mother. As ayoung man he had come to exhibit his handsome uniform as colonel to theeyes of his mistress; indeed, in every enterprise of his life some lovedimage had gone before him, and he threw himself into danger with thecertainty that, if he succumbed, there would be some one surviving whowould mourn his fate.
But his mother was dead, the last woman by whom he had believed himselfloved had betrayed him, and he felt alone in the world--bound solely byinterest to men to whom he would become an obstacle as soon as he ceasedto be an instrument, and who, if he broke down, far from mourning hisloss, would only see in it a cause of satisfaction. But this isolatedposition, which ought to be the envy of all men in a great danger, isalmost always (such is the egotism of our nature) a cause of the mostprofound discouragement. Such is the horror of nothingness in man, thathe believes he still survives in the sentiments which he has inspired,and he in some measure consoles himself for leaving the world bythinking of the regrets which will accompany his memory, and of the pitywhich will visit his tomb. Thus, at this instant, the chevalier wouldhave given everything to be loved, if it was only by a dog.
He was plunged in the saddest of these reflections when, passing andrepassing before his window, he noticed that his neighbor's was open. Hestopped suddenly, and shook his head, as if to cast off the most somberof these thoughts; leaning his elbow on the table, and his head on hishand, he tried to give a different direction to his thoughts by lookingat exterior objects.
The young girl whom he had seen in the morning was seated near herwindow, in order to benefit by the last rays of daylight; she wasworking at some kind of embroidery. Behind her the harpsichord was open,and, on a stool at her feet, her greyhound slept the light sleep of ananimal destined by nature to be the guard of man, waking at every noisewhich arose from the street, raising its ears, and stretching out itselegant head over the window-sill; then it lay down again, placing oneof its little paws upon its mistress's knees. All this was deliciouslylighted up by the rays of the sinking sun, which penetrated into theroom, sparkling on the steel ornaments of the harpsichord and the goldbeading of the picture-frames. The rest was in twilight.
Then it seemed to the chevalier (doubtless on account of the dispositionof mind he was in when this picture had struck his eye) that this younggirl, with the calm and sweet face, entered into his life, like one ofthose personages who always remain behind a veil, and make theirentrance on a piece in the second or third act to take part in theaction, and, sometimes, to change the denouement.
Since the age when one sees angels in one's dreams, he had seen no onelike her. She was a mixture of beauty, candor, and simplicity, such asGreuze has copied, not from nature, but from the reflections in themirror of his imagination. Then, forgetting everything, the humblecondition in which without doubt she had been born, the street where hehad found her, the modest room which she had inhabited, seeing nothingin the woman except the woman herself, he attributed to her a heartcorresponding with her face, and thought what would be the happiness ofthe man who should first cause that heart to beat; who should be lookedupon with love by those beautiful eyes, and who, in the words, "I loveyou!" should gather from those lips, so fresh and so pure, that flowerof the soul--a first kiss.
Such are the different aspects which the same objects borrow from thesituation of him who looks at them. A week before, in the midst of hisgayety, in his life which no danger menaced, between a breakfast at thetavern and a stag-hunt, between a wager at tennis and a supper at LaFillon's, if D'Harmental had met this young girl, he would doubtlesshave seen in her nothing but a charming grisette, whom he would have hadfollowed by his valet-de-chambre, and to whom, the next day, he wouldhave outrageously offered a present of some twenty-five louis.
But the D'Harmental of a week ago existed no more. In the place of thehandsome seigneur--elegant, wild, dissipated, and certain of life--wasan insulated young man, walking in the shade, alone, and self-reliant,without a star to guide him, who might suddenly feel the earth openunder his feet, and the heavens burst above his head. He had need of asupport, so feeble was he; he had need of love, he had need of poetry.It was not then wonderful that, searching for a Madonna to whom toaddress his prayers, he raised in his imagination this young andbeautiful girl from the material and prosaic sphere in which he foundher, and that, drawing her into his own, he placed her, not such as shewas, doubtless, but such as he wished her to be, on the empty pedestalof his past adorations.
All at once the young girl raised her head, and happened to look in hisdirection, and saw the pensive figure of the chevalier through theglass. It appeared evident to her that the young man remained there forher, and that it was at her he was looking. Then a bright blush spreadover her face. Still she pretended she had seen nothing, and bent herhead once more over her embroidery. But a minute afterward she rose,took a few turns round her room; then, without affectation, withoutfalse prudery, but nevertheless with a certain embarrassment, shereturned and shut the window. D'Harmental remained where he was, and ashe was; continuing, in spite of the shutting of the window, to advanceinto the imaginary country where his thoughts were straying.
Once or twice he thought that he saw the curtain of his neighbor'swindow raised, as if she wished to know whether he whose indiscretionhad driven her from her place was still at his. At last a few masterlychords were heard; a sweet harmony followed; and it was then D'Harmentalwho opened his window in his turn.
He had not been mistaken, his neighbor was an admirable musician; sheexecuted two or three little pieces, but without blending her voice withthe sound of the instrument; and D'Harmental found almost as muchpleasure in listening to her as he had found in looking at her. Suddenlyshe stopped in the midst of a passage. D'Harmental supposed either thatshe had seen him at his window, and wished to punish him for hiscuriosity, or that some one had come in and interrupted her. He retiredinto his room, but so as not to lose sight of the window, and soondiscovered that his last supposition was the true one.
A man came to the window, raised the curtain, and pressed his fat,good-natured face against the glass, while with one hand he beat a marchagainst the panes. The chevalier recognized, in spite of a sensibledifference which there was in his toilet, the man of the water-jet whomhe had seen on the terrace in the morning, and who, with a perfect airof familiarity, had twice pronounced the name of "Bathilde."
This apparition, more
than prosaic, produced the effect which mightnaturally have been expected; that is to say, it brought D'Harmentalback from imaginary to real life. He had forgotten this man, who madesuch a strange and perfect contrast with the young girl, and who mustdoubtless be either her father, her lover, or her husband. But in eitherof these cases, what could there be in common between the daughter, thewife, or the mistress of such a man, and the noble and aristocraticchevalier? The wife! It is a misfortune of her dependent situation thatshe rises and falls according to the grandeur or vulgarity of him onwhose arm she leans; and it must be confessed that the gardener was notformed to maintain poor Bathilde at the height to which the chevalierhad raised her in his dreams.
Then he began to laugh at his own folly; and the night having arrived,and as he had not been outside the door since the day before, hedetermined to take a walk through the town, in order to assure himselfof the truth of the Prince de Cellamare's reports. He wrapped himself inhis cloak, descended the four stories, and bent his steps toward theLuxembourg, where the note which the Abbe Brigaud had brought him in themorning said that the regent was going to supper without guards.
Arrived opposite the palace of the Luxembourg, the chevalier saw none ofthose signs which should announce that the Duc d'Orleans was at hisdaughter's house: there was only one sentinel at the door, while fromthe moment that the regent entered a second was generally placed there.Besides, he saw no carriage waiting in the court, no footmen oroutriders; it was evident, then, that he had not come. The chevalierwaited to see him pass, for, as the regent never breakfasted, and tooknothing but a cup of chocolate at two o'clock in the afternoon, herarely supped later than six o'clock; but a quarter to six had struck atthe St. Surplice at the moment when the chevalier turned the corner ofthe Rue de Conde, and the Rue de Vaugirard.
The chevalier waited an hour and a half in the Rue de Tournon, goingfrom the Rue du Petit-Lion to the palace, without seeing what he hadcome to look for. At a quarter to eight he saw some movement in theLuxembourg. A carriage, with outriders armed with torches, came to thefoot of the steps. A minute after three women got in; he heard thecoachman call to the outriders, "To the Palais Royal;" and the outridersset off at a gallop, the carriage followed, the sentinel presented arms;and, quickly as the elegant equipage with the royal arms of Francepassed, the chevalier recognized the Duchesse de Berry, Madame deMouchy, her lady of honor, and Madame de Pons, her tire-woman.
There had been an important error in the report sent to the chevalier;it was the daughter who went to the father, not the father who came tothe daughter.
Nevertheless, the chevalier still waited, for some accident might havehappened to the regent, which detained him at home. An hour after he sawthe carriage repass. The Duchesse de Berry was laughing at a story whichBroglie was telling her. There had not then been any serious accident;it was the police of the Prince de Cellamare, then, that were at fault.
The chevalier returned home about ten o'clock without having been met orrecognized. He had some trouble to get the door opened, for, accordingto the patriarchal habits of Madame Denis's house, the porter had goneto bed, and came out grumbling to unfasten the bolts. D'Harmentalslipped a crown into his hand, saying to him, once for all, that heshould sometimes return late, but that each time that he did so he wouldgive him the same; upon which the porter thanked him, and assured himthat he was perfectly welcome to come home at any time he liked, or evennot to return at all.
On returning to his room, D'Harmental saw that his neighbor's waslighted up; he placed his candle behind a piece of furniture, andapproached the window, so that, as much as the muslin curtains allowed,he could see into her room, while she could not see into his.
She was seated near a table, drawing, probably, on a card which she heldon her knees, for he saw her profile standing out black against thelight behind her. Shortly another shadow, which the chevalier recognizedas that of the good man of the terrace, passed twice between the lightand the window. At last the shade approached the young girl, she offeredher forehead, the shadow imprinted a kiss on it, and went away, with hiscandle in his hand. Directly afterward the windows of the fifth storywere lighted up. All these little circumstances spoke a language whichit was impossible not to understand. The man of the terrace was not thehusband of Bathilde, he must be her father.
D'Harmental, without knowing why, felt overjoyed at this discovery; heopened his window as softly as he could, and leaned on the bar, whichserved him as a support, with his eyes fixed on the shadow. He fell intothe same reverie out of which he had been startled that morning by thegrotesque apparition of his neighbor. In about an hour the girl rose,put down her card and crayons on the table, advanced toward the alcove,knelt on a chair before the second window, and offered up her prayers.D'Harmental understood that her laborious watch was finished, butremembering the curiosity of his beautiful neighbor, when he had begunto play the first time, he wished to see if he could prolong that watch,and he sat down to his spinet. What he had foreseen happened; at thefirst notes which reached her, the young girl, not knowing that from theposition of the light he could see her shadow through the curtains,approached the window on tiptoe, and thinking herself hidden, shelistened to the melodious instrument, which, like the nightingale, awoketo sing in the middle of the night.
The concert would have probably continued thus for some hours, forD'Harmental, encouraged by the result produced, felt an energy and anease of execution such as he had never known before. Unluckily, theoccupier of the third floor was undoubtedly some clown, no lover ofmusic, for D'Harmental heard suddenly, just below his feet, the noise ofa stick knocking on the ceiling with such violence that he could notdoubt that it was a warning to him to put off his melodious occupationtill a more suitable period. Under other circumstances, D'Harmentalwould have sent the impertinent adviser to the devil, but reflectingthat any ill-feeling on the lodger's part would injure his ownreputation with Madame Denis, and that he was playing too heavy a gameto risk being recognized, and not to submit philosophically to all theinconveniences of the new position which he had adopted, instead ofsetting himself in opposition to the rules established without doubtbetween Madame Denis and her lodgers, he obeyed the intimation,forgetting in what manner that intimation had been given him.
On her part, as soon as she heard nothing more, the young girl left thewindow, and as she let the inner curtains fall behind her, shedisappeared from D'Harmental's eyes. For some time longer he could stillsee a light in her room; then the light was extinguished. As to thewindow on the fifth floor, for some time that had been in the mostperfect darkness. D'Harmental also went to bed, joyous to think thatthere existed a point of sympathy between himself and his neighbor.
The next day the Abbe Brigaud entered the room with his accustomedpunctuality. The chevalier had already been up more than an hour; he hadgone twenty times to his window, but without seeing his neighbor,although it was evident that she was up, even before himself; indeed, onwaking he had seen the large curtains put up in their bands. Thus he wasdisposed to let out his ill-humor on any one.
"Ah! pardieu! my dear abbe," said he, as soon as the door was shut;"congratulate the prince for me on his police; it is perfectlyarranged, on my honor!"
"What have you got against them?" asked the abbe, with the half-smilewhich was habitual to him.
"What have I! I have, that, wishing to judge for myself, last evening,of its truth, I went and hid myself in the Rue Tournon. I remained therefour hours, and it was not the regent who came to his daughter, butMadame de Berry who went to her father."
"Well, we know that."
"Ah! you know that!" said D'Harmental.
"Yes, and by this token, that she left the Luxembourg at five minutes toeight, with Madame de Mouchy and Madame de Pons, and that she returnedat half-past nine, bringing Broglie with her, who came to take theregent's place at table."
"And where was the regent?"
"The regent?"
"Yes."
"That is another story; yo
u shall learn. Listen, and do not lose a word;then we shall see if you will say that the prince's police is badlyarranged."
"I attend."
"Our report announced that at three o'clock the duke-regent would go toplay tennis in the Rue de Seine."
"Yes."
"He went. In about half an hour he left holding his handkerchief overhis eyes. He had hit himself on the brow with the racket, and with suchviolence that he had torn the skin of his forehead."
"Ah, this then was the accident!"
"Listen. Then the regent, instead of returning to the Palais Royal, wasdriven to the house of Madame de Sabran. You know where Madame de Sabranlives?"
"She lived in the Rue de Tournon, but since her husband has becomemaitre d'hotel to the regent, she lives in the Rue des Bons Enfants,near the Palais Royal."
"Exactly; but it seems that Madame de Sabran, who until now was faithfulto Richelieu, was touched by the pitiable state in which she saw theprince, and wished to justify the proverb, 'Unlucky at play, lucky atlove.' The prince, by a little note, dated half-past seven, from thedrawing-room of Madame de Sabran, with whom he supped, announced toBroglie that he should not go to the Luxembourg, and charged him to goin his stead, and make his excuses to the Duchesse de Berry."
"Ah, this then was the story which Broglie was telling, and at which theladies were laughing."
"It is probable; now do you understand?"
"Yes; I understand that the regent is not possessed of ubiquity, andcould not be at the house of Madame de Sabran and at his daughter's atthe same time."
"And you only understand that?"
"My dear abbe, you speak like an oracle; explain yourself."
"This evening, at eight o'clock, I will come for you; we will go to theRue des Bons Enfants together. To me the locality is eloquent."
"Ah! ah!" said D'Harmental, "I see; so near the Palais Royal, he will goon foot. The hotel which Madame de Sabran inhabits has an entrance fromthe Rue des Bons Enfants; after a certain hour they shut the passagefrom the Palais Royal, which opens on the Rue des Bons Enfants: and hewill be obliged, on his return, to follow either the Cour des Fontaines,or the Rue Neuve des Bons Enfants, and then we shall have him. Mordieu!you are a great man, and if Monsieur de Maine does not make youcardinal, or at least archbishop, there will be no justice done."
"I think, therefore, that now you must hold yourself in readiness."
"I am ready."
"Have you the means of execution prepared?"----"I have."
"Then you can correspond with your men?"
"By a sign."
"And that sign cannot betray you?"
"Impossible."
"Then all goes well, and we may have breakfast; for I was in such hasteto tell you the good news that I came out fasting."
"Breakfast, my dear abbe! you speak coolly; I have nothing to offer you,except the remains of the pate and two or three bottles of wine, which,I believe, survived the battle."
"Hum! hum," murmured the abbe; "we will do better than that, my dearchevalier."
"I am at your orders."
"Let us go down and breakfast with our good hostess, Madame Denis."
"And why do you want me to breakfast with her? Do I know her?"
"That concerns me. I shall present you as my pupil."
"But we shall get a detestable breakfast."
"Comfort yourself. I know her table."
"But this breakfast will be tiresome."
"But you will make a friend of a woman much known in the neighborhoodfor her good conduct, for her devotion to the government--a womanincapable of harboring a conspirator. Do you understand that?"
"If it be for the good of the cause, abbe, I sacrifice myself."
"Moreover, it is a very agreeable house, where there are two youngpeople who play--one on the spinet, and the other on the guitar--and ayoung man who is an attorney's clerk; a house where you may go down onSunday evenings to play lots."
"Go to the devil with your Madame Denis. Ah! pardon, abbe, perhaps youare her friend. In that case, imagine that I have said nothing."
"I am her confessor," replied the Abbe Brigaud, with a modest air.
"Then a thousand excuses, my dear abbe; but you are right indeed. MadameDenis is still a beautiful woman, perfectly well preserved, with superbhands and very pretty feet. Peste! I remember that. Go down first; Iwill follow."
"Why not together?"
"But my toilet, abbe. Would you have me appear before the DemoisellesDenis with my hair in its present state? One must try to look one'sbest--que diable! Besides, it is better that you should announce me: Ihave not a confessor's privilege."
"You are right. I will go down and announce you, and in ten minutes youwill arrive--will you not?"
"In ten minutes."
"Adieu!"----"Au revoir!"
The chevalier had only told half the truth. He might have remainedpartly to dress, but also in the hope of seeing his beautiful neighbor,of whom he had dreamed all the night, but in vain. He remained hiddenbehind the curtains of his window: those of the young girl with the fairhair and the beautiful black eyes remained closed. It is true that, inexchange, he could perceive his neighbor, who, opening his door, passedout, with the same precaution as the day before, first his hand, thenhis head; but this time his boldness went no further, for there was aslight fog, and fog is essentially contrary to the organization of theParisian bourgeois. Our friend coughed twice, and then, drawing in hishead and his arm, re-entered his room like a tortoise into his shell.D'Harmental saw with pleasure that he might dispense with buying abarometer, and that this neighbor would render him the same service asthe butterflies which come out in the sunshine, and remain obstinatelyshut up in their hermitages on the days when it rains.
The apparition had its ordinary effect, and reacted on poor Bathilde.Every time that D'Harmental perceived the young girl, there was in hersuch a sweet attraction that he saw nothing but the woman--young,beautiful, and graceful, a musician and painter--that is to say, themost delicious and complete creature he had ever met. But when, in histurn, the man of the terrace presented himself to the chevalier's gaze,with his common face, his insignificant figure--that indelible type ofvulgarity which attaches to certain individuals--directly a sort ofmiraculous transition took place in the chevalier's mind. All the poetrydisappeared, as a machinist's whistle causes the disappearance of afairy palace. Everything was seen by a different light. D'Harmental'snative aristocracy regained the ascendency. Bathilde was then nothingbut the daughter of this man--that is to say, a grisette: her beauty,her grace, her elegance, even her talents, were but an accident--anerror of nature--something like a rose flowering on a cabbage-stalk. Thechevalier shrugged his shoulders as he stood before the glass, began tolaugh, and to wonder at the impression which he had received. Heattributed it to the preoccupation of his mind, to the strange andsolitary situation, to everything, in fact, except its true cause--thesovereign and irresistible power of distinction and beauty. D'Harmentalwent down to his hostess disposed to find the Demoiselles Denischarming.