CHAPTER VI.
NEIGHBOURS.
“Chaque homme a trois caractères: celui qu’il a, celui qu’il montre, et celui qu’il croit avoir.”
By one of the strokes of good fortune which come but once to the mostardent student of fashion, the Baroness de Mélide had taken up horsinessat the very beginning of that estimable craze. It was, therefore, in meresequence to this pursuit that she fixed her abode on the south side ofthe Champs Elysées, and within a stone’s throw of the Avenue du Bois deBoulogne, before the world found out that it was quite impossible to liveelsewhere. It is so difficult, in truth, to foretell the course offashion, that one cannot help wondering why the modern soothsayers, whoeke out what appears to be a miserable existence in the smaller streetsof the Faubourg St. Honoré and in the neighbourhood of Bond Street, donot turn their second-sight to the contemplation of the future of streetsand districts, instead of telling the curious a number of vague factsrespecting their past and vaguer prophecies as to the future.
If, for instance, Cagliostro had foretold that to-day the Chauséed’Antin would be deserted; that the faubourg would have completely oustedthe Rue St. Honoré; that the Avenue de la Grande Armée should be,fashionably speaking, dead after a short and brilliant life; and thatthe little streets of the Faubourg St. Germain should be all that is most_chic_--what fortunes might have been made! Indeed, no one in a tranceor in his right mind can tell to-day why it is right to walk on theright-hand side of the Boulevard des Italiens and the Boulevard desCapucines, and heinously wrong to walk on the left; while, on thecontrary, no self-respecting Parisian would allow himself to be seen onthe right-hand pavement of the Boulevard de la Madeleine. Indeed, thesethings are a mystery, and the wise seek only to obey, and not to ask thereason why.
It would be difficult to lay before the English reader the precise socialposition of the Baroness de Mélide. For there are wheels within wheels,or, more properly perhaps, shades within shades, in the social world ofParis, which are quite unsuspected on this side of the Channel. Indeed,our ignorance of social France is only surpassed by the French ignoranceof social England. The Baroness de Mélide was rich, however, and therich, as we all know, have nothing to fear in this world. As a matter offact, Monsieur de Mélide dated his nobility from Napoleon’s creation, andmadame’s grandfather was of the Emigration. By conviction, they belongedto the Anglophile school, and theirs was one of the prettiest littlehouses between the Avenue Victor Hugo and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne,which is more important than ancestors.
It was to this miniature palace that Mademoiselle Brun and Denise werebidden, to the new function of afternoon tea, the day after the receiptof the lawyer’s letter. Madame de Mélide would take no denial.
“I have already heard of Denise’s good fortune; and from whom do youthink?” she wrote. “From my dear good cousin, Lory de Vasselot, who is,if you will believe it, a Corsican neighbour--the Vasselot and Peruccaestates actually adjoin. Both, I need hardly tell you, bristle withbandits, and are quite impossible. But I have quite decided that Loryshall marry Denise. Come, therefore, without fail. I need not tell you tosee that Denise looks pretty. The good God has seen to that for you. Andas for Lory, he is an angel. I cannot think why I did not marry himmyself--except that he did not ask me. And then there is my stupid, whomnobody else would have, and who now sends his dear love to his oldestfriend.--Your devoted JANE.”
The Baroness de Mélide was called Jeanne, but she had enthusiasticallychanged that name for its English version at the period when England was,as it were, first discovered by social France.
When Mademoiselle Brun and Denise arrived, they found the baronessbeautifully dressed as usual, and very French, for the empress was atthis time the leader of the world’s women, as the emperor--that clever_parvenu_--was undoubtedly the first monarch in Europe. It behoves not amasculine pen to attempt a description of Madame de Mélide’s costume,which, moreover, was of a bygone mode, and nothing is so unsightly indeath as a deceased fashion.
“How good of you to come!” she cried, embracing both ladies in turn, witha fervour which certainly seemed to imply that she had no other friendson earth.
In truth, she had, for the moment, none so dear; for there are certainwarm hearts that are happy in always loving, not the highest, but thenearest.
“Let me see, now,” she added, vigorously dragging forward chairs. “Iasked some one to meet you--some one I particularly wanted you to becomeacquainted with, but I cannot remember who it is.” As she spoke sheconsulted a little red morocco betting-book.
“Lory!” she cried, after a short search. “Yes, of course it was Lory deVasselot--my cousin. And--will you believe it?--he saved my life theother day, all in a moment! Yes! I saw death, quite close, before myeyes. Ugh! And I, who am so wicked! You do not know what it is to bewicked and to know it, Denise--you who are so young. But that dearMademoiselle Brun, she knows.”
“Thank you,” said mademoiselle.
“And Lory saved me, ah! so cleverly. There is no better horseman in thearmy, they say. Yes; he will certainly come this afternoon, unless thereis a race at Longchamps. Now, is there a race, I wonder?”
“For the moment,” said Mademoiselle Brun, very gravely, “I cannot tellyou.”
“She is laughing at me,” cried the baroness, shaking a vivaciousforefinger at Mademoiselle Brun. “But I do not mind; we cannot all bewise--eh?”
“And what a dull world for the rest of us if you were,” said MademoiselleBrun; and Lory de Vasselot, coming into the room at this moment, was metby her sour smile.
“Ah!” cried the baroness, “here he is. I present you, my dear Lory, toMademoiselle Brun, a terrible friend of mine, and to Mademoiselle Lange,who, as you know, has just inherited the other half of Corsica.”
“My congratulations,” answered Lory, shaking hands with Denise in theEnglish fashion. “An inheritance is so nice when it is quite new.”
“And figure to yourself that this dear child has no notion how it has allcome about! She only knows the bare fact that some one is dead, and shehas gained--well, a white elephant, one may suppose.”
De Vasselot’s quick face suddenly turned grave.
“Ah,” he said, “then I can tell you how it has all come about. Though Iconfess at once that I have never been to Corsica, and have never foundmyself a halfpenny the richer for owning land there.”
He paused for a moment, and glanced at Mademoiselle Brun.
“Unless,” he interpolated, “such personal matters will boremademoiselle.”
“But mademoiselle is the good angel of Mademoiselle Lange, my dear, dullLory,” explained the baroness; and the object of the elucidation lookedat him more keenly than so trifling an incident would seem to warrant.
“You will not be betraying secrets to the first-comer,” she said.
Still de Vasselot seemed to hesitate, as if choosing his words.
“And,” he said at length, “they shot your cousin’s agent in the back,almost in the streets of Olmeta, and Mattei Perucca himself diedsuddenly, presumably from apoplexy, brought on by a great anger atreceiving a letter threatening his life--that is how it has come about,mademoiselle.”
He broke off short, with a quick gesture and a flash of his eyes, usuallyso pleasant and smiling.
“I have that from a reliable source,” he went on, after a pause, duringwhich Mademoiselle Brun looked steadily at Denise and said nothing.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed the baroness, in a whisper; and for oncewas silenced.
“A faithful correspondent on the island,” explained de Vasselot. “Thoughwhy he is faithful I cannot tell you. Some family legend, perhaps--Icannot tell. It is the Abbé Susini of Olmeta who has told me this. He itwas who told me of your--well, I can only call it your misfortune,mademoiselle. For there is assuredly a curse upon Corsica as there isupon Ireland. It cannot govern itself, and no other can govern it. TheNapoleons have been the only men to make anything of the island, but aman who is driving a
pair of horses down the Champs Elysées cannot givemuch thought to his little dog that runs behind. And it is in theBonaparte blood to drive, not only a pair, but a four-in-hand in thethickest traffic of the world. The Abbé Susini tells me that when theemperor’s hand was firm, Corsica was almost orderly, justice was almostadministered, banditism was for the moment made to feel the hand of thelaw, and the authorities could count the number of outlaws evading theirgrip in the mountains. But since the emperor’s illness has taken adangerous turn things have gone back again. Corsica is, it seems, aweather-glass by which one may tell the state of the political weather inFrance; and now it is disturbed, mademoiselle.”
He had become graver as he spoke, and now found himself addressing Denisealmost as if she were a man. There is as much difference in listeners asthere is in talkers. And Lory de Vasselot, who belonged to the new schoolof Frenchmen--the open-air, the vigorous, the sportsmanlike--found hisinterlocutor listening with clear eyes fixed frankly on his face.Intelligence betrays itself in listening more than in talking, and deVasselot, with characteristic and an eminently national intuition,perceived that this girl from a covent school in the Rue du Cherche-Midiwas not a person to whom to address drawing-room generalities, and thoseinsults to the feminine comprehension which a bygone generation calledcompliments.
“But a woman need surely have nothing to fear,” said Denise, who had thehabit of carrying her head rather high, and now spoke as if this impliedmore than a mere trick of deportment.
“A woman! You are not going to Corsica, mademoiselle?”
“But I am,” she answered.
De Vasselot turned thoughtfully, and brought forward a chair. He sat downand gravely contemplated Mademoiselle Brun, whose attitude--upright in alow chair, with crossed hands and a compressed mouth--betrayed nothing. AFrenchman is not nearly so artificial as the shallow British observer hasbeen pleased to conclude. He is, in fact, much more a child of naturethan either an Englishman or a German. Lory de Vasselot’s expression saidas plainly as words to Mademoiselle Brun--
“And what have _you_ been about?”
It was so obvious that Mademoiselle Brun, almost imperceptibly, shruggedone shoulder. She was powerless, it appeared.
“But, if you will permit me to say so,” said Lory, sitting down anddrawing near to Denise in his earnestness, “that is impossible. I willnot trouble you with details, but it is an impossibility. I understandthat Mattei Perucca and his agent were the two strongest men in thenorthern district, and they only attempted to hold their own, nothingmore. With the result that you know.”
“But there are many ways of attempting to hold one’s own,” persistedDenise; and she shook her head with a wisdom which only belongs to youth.
De Vasselot spread out his hands in utter despair. The end of the world,it seemed, was at hand. And Denise only laughed.
“And when I have regulated my own affairs, I will undertake themanagement of your estate at a high salary,” she said.
“There is only one thing to do,” said Lory, gravely, “and I have done itmyself. I have abandoned the idea of ever receiving a halfpenny of rent.I have allowed the land to go out of cultivation. The vine-terraces arefalling, the olive trees are dying for want of cultivation. A fewpeasants graze their cattle in my garden, I understand. The house itselfis only saved from falling down by the fact that it is strongly built ofstone. I would sell for a mere song, if I could find a serious offer ofthat trifle; but nobody buys land in Corsica--for the peasants recognizeno title deeds and respect no rights of ownership. I had indeed an offerthe other day, but it was undoubtedly a joke, and I treated it as such.”
“Denise also has had an offer to buy the Perucca property,” saidMademoiselle Brun.
“Yes,” said Denise, seeing his surprise. “And you would advise me toaccept it?”
“If it is a serious one, most decidedly.”
“It is serious enough,” answered Denise. “It is from a Colonel Gilbert,an officer stationed at Bastia.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed; and at that moment another caller entered the room,and he rose with eager politeness.
So it happened that Mademoiselle Brun could not see his face, and wasleft wondering what the exclamation meant.
Several other callers now appeared--persons of the Baroness de Mélide’sown world, who had a hundred society tricks, and bowed or shook handsaccording to the latest mode. This was not Mademoiselle Brun’s world, andshe was not interested to hear the latest gossip from that hotbed ofscandal, the Tuileries, nor did the ever-changing face of the politicalworld command her attention. She therefore rose, and stiffly took herleave. De Vasselot accompanied them to the hall.
Denise paused in the entrance, and turned to him.
“Seriously,” she said, “do you advise me to accept this offer to sellPerucca?”
“I scarcely feel authorized to give you any advice upon the subject,” answered Lory, reluctantly. “Though, after all, we are neighbours.”
“Then--”
“Then, I should say not, mademoiselle. At all events, do nothing inhaste. And, if I may ask it, will you communicate with me before youfinally decide?”
They had come in an open cab, which was waiting on the shady side of thestreet.
“A young man who changes his mind very quickly,” commented MademoiselleBrun, as they drove away.