XIV.
THE EXHIBITION.
"Superb!"
"A tremendous success. Barye never did anything as fine."
"And the bust of the Nabob! What a marvellous likeness! I tell you,Constance Crenmitz is happy. See her trotting about."
"What! is that La Crenmitz, that little old woman in a fur cape? Isupposed she was dead twenty years ago."
Oh! no; on the contrary, she is very much alive. Enchanted, rejuvenatedby the triumph of her goddaughter, who is decidedly _the_ success of theExhibition, she glides through the crowd of artists and people offashion grouped around the two points where Felicia's contributions areexhibited like two huge masses of black backs, variegated costumes,jostling and squeezing in their struggles to look. Constance, usually soretiring, makes her way into the front row, listens to the discussions,catches on the wing snatches of sentences, technical phrases which sheremembers, nods her head approvingly, smiles, shrugs her shoulders whenshe hears any slighting remark, longing to crush the first person whoshould fail to admire.
Whether it be the excellent Crenmitz or another, you always see, at theopening of the Salon, that shadow prowling furtively about where peopleare conversing, with ears on the alert and an anxious expression;sometimes it is an old father who thanks you with a glance for a kindlyword said in passing, or assumes a despairing expression at the epigramwhich you hurl at a work of art and which strikes a heart behind you. Aface not to be omitted surely, if ever some painter in love with thingsmodern should conceive the idea of reproducing on canvas that perfectlytypical manifestation of Parisian life, the opening of the Salon in thatvast hothouse of statuary, with the yellow gravelled paths and the greatglass ceiling, beneath which, half-way from the floor, the galleries ofthe first tier stand forth, lined with heads bending over to look, andwith extemporized waving draperies.
In a light that seems slightly cold and pale as it falls on the greendecorations of the walls, where the rays become rarefied, one would say,in order to afford the spectators an opportunity for concentration andaccuracy of vision, the crowd moves slowly back and forth, pauses,scatters over the benches, divided into groups, and yet mingling castesmore thoroughly than any other gathering, just as the fickle andchanging weather, at that time of year, brings together all sorts ofcostumes, so that the black lace and superb train of the great lady whohas come to observe the effect of her own portrait rub against theSiberian furs of the actress who has just returned from Russia andproposes that everybody shall know it.
Here there are no boxes, no reserved seats, and that is what gives suchabiding interest and charm to this first view in broad daylight. Thereal society women can pass judgment at close quarters on the paintedbeauties that excite so much applause by artificial light; the tiny hat,latest shape, of the Marquise de Bois-l'Hery and her like brushesagainst the more than modest costume of some artist's wife or daughter,while the model who has posed for that lovely Andromeda near theentrance struts triumphantly by, dressed in a too short skirt, inwretched clothes tossed upon her beauty with the utmost lack of taste.They scrutinize one another, admire or disparage one another, exchangecontemptuous, disdainful or inquisitive glances, which suddenly becomefixed as some celebrity passes, the illustrious critic, for instance,whom we seem to see at this moment, serene and majestic, his powerfulface framed in long hair, making the circuit of the exhibits ofsculpture, followed by half a score of young disciples who hangbreathlessly upon his kindly dicta. Although the sound of voices is lostin that immense vessel, which is resonant only under the two archeddoorways of entrance and exit, faces assume extraordinary intensitythere, a character of energy and animation especially noticeable in thevast, dark recess of the restaurant, overflowing with a gesticulatingmultitude, the light hats of the women and the waiters' white apronsstanding out in bold relief against the background of dark clothing, andin the broad aisle in the centre, where the swarm of promenaders _envignette_ forms a striking contrast to the immobility of the statues,the unconscious palpitation with which their chalky whiteness and theirglorified attitudes are encompassed.
There are gigantic wings spread for flight, a sphere upheld by fourallegorical figures, whose attitude, as if they were twirling theirburden, suggests a vague waltz measure, a marvel of equilibrium whichperfectly produces the illusion of the earth's revolution; and there arearms raised as a signal, bodies of heroic size, containing an allegory,a symbol that brings death and immortality upon them, gives them tohistory, to legend, to the ideal world of the museums which nationsvisit from curiosity or admiration.
Although Felicia's bronze group had not the proportions of thoseproductions, its exceptional merit had procured for it the honor of aposition at one of the points of intersection of the aisles in thecentre, from which the public was standing respectfully aloof at thatmoment, staring over the shoulders of the line of attendants and policeofficers at the Bey of Tunis and his suite, a group of long burnous,falling in sculptural folds, which made them seem like living statuesconfronting the dead ones. The bey, who had been in Paris for a fewdays, the lion of all the first nights, had expressed a desire to seethe opening of the Salon. He was "an enlightened prince, a friend ofthe arts," who possessed a gallery of amazing Turkish pictures on theBardo, and chromo-lithographic reproductions of all the battles of theFirst Empire. The great Arabian hound had caught his eye as soon as heentered the hall of sculpture. It was the _slougui_ to the life, thegenuine slender, nervous _slougui_ of his country, the companion of allhis hunts. He laughed in his black beard, felt the animal's loins,patted his muscles, seemed to be trying to rouse him, while, withdilated nostrils, protruding teeth, every limb outstretched andindefatigable in its strength and elasticity, the aristocratic beast,the beast of prey, ardent in love and in the chase, drunk with histwofold drunkenness, his eyes fixed on his victim, seemed to be alreadytasting the delights of his victory, with the end of his tongue hangingfrom his mouth, as he sharpened his teeth with a ferocious laugh. If youlooked only at him, you said to yourself: "He has him!" But a glance atthe fox reassured you at once. Under his lustrous, velvety coat,catlike, with his body almost touching the ground, skimming alongwithout effort, you felt that he was in truth a wizard, and his finehead with its pointed ears, which he turned toward the hound as he ran,had an ironical expression of security which clearly indicated the gifthe had received from the gods.
While an inspector of the Beaux-Arts, who had hurried to the spot, withhis uniform all awry, and bald to the middle of his back, explained toMohammed the apologue of "The Dog and the Fox," as told in thecatalogue, with this moral: "Suppose that they meet," and the note: "Theproperty of the Duc de Mora," the bulky Hemerlingue, puffing andperspiring beside his Highness, had great difficulty in persuading himthat that masterly production was the work of the lovely equestrian theyhad met in the Bois the day before. How could a woman with a woman'sweak hands so soften the hard bronze and give it the appearance offlesh? Of all the marvels of Paris that one caused the bey the mostprofound amazement. So he asked the official if there was nothing elseof the same artist's to see.
"Yes, indeed, Monseigneur, another _chef-d'oeuvre_. If your Highnesswill come this way I will take you to it."
The bey moved on with his suite. They were all fine specimens of theirrace, beautifully chiselled features and pure profiles, complexions of awarm pallor of which the snowy whiteness of the haik absorbed even thereflection. Magnificently draped, they contrasted strangely with thebusts which were ranged on both sides of the aisle they had taken, andwhich, perched on their high pedestals, exiled from their familiarsurroundings, from the environment in which they would doubtless haverecalled some engrossing toil, some deep affection, a busy andcourageous life, seemed very forlorn in the empty air about them andpresented the distressing aspect of people who had gone astray and werevery much ashamed to find themselves there. Aside from two or threefemale figures, well-rounded shoulders enveloped in petrified lace, hairreproduced in marble with the soft touch that gives the impression of apowd
ered head-dress, and a few profiles of children with simple lines,in which the polish of the stone seems like the moisture of life, therewere nothing but wrinkles, furrows, contortions and grimaces, our excessof toil and activity, our nervous paroxysms and our fevers contrastedwith that art of repose and noble serenity.
The Nabob's ugliness, at all events, had in its favor its energy, thepeculiar characteristics of the adventurer and the _proletaire_, andthat kindly expression so well rendered by the artist, who had takenpains to mix a supply of ochre with her plaster, thereby giving italmost the swarthy, sun-burned tone of the model. The Arabs, on seeingit, uttered a stifled exclamation: "Bon-Said!" (the father ofgood-luck). It was the Nabob's sobriquet at Tunis, the label of hisfortune, so to speak. The bey, for his part, thinking that someoneintended to make sport of him by bringing him thus face to face with thedetested _mercanti_, glanced suspiciously at the inspector.
"Jansoulet?" he said in his guttural voice.
"Yes, your Highness, Bernard Jansoulet, the new Deputy for Corsica."
At that the bey turned to Hemerlingue, with a frown on his face.
"Deputy?"
"Yes, Monseigneur, the news came this morning; but nothing is settledyet."
And the banker, ill at ease and lowering his voice, added: "No FrenchChamber would ever admit that adventurer."
No matter! the blow had been dealt at the bey's blind confidence in hisbaron-financier. Hemerlingue had declared so positively that the otherwould never be chosen, that they could act freely and without fear sofar as he was concerned. And lo! instead of the crushed, discreditedman, a representative of the nation towered before him, a deputy whosefigure in stone Parisians thronged to admire; for, from the Orientalsovereign's standpoint, as that public exhibition necessarily involvedthe idea of conferring honor upon the subject, that bust had all theprestige of a statue overlooking a public square. Hemerlingue, evenyellower than usual, inwardly accused himself of bungling andimprudence. But how could he have suspected such a thing? He had beenassured that the bust was not finished. And, indeed, it had arrived thatvery morning, and seemed overjoyed to be there, quivering with gratifiedpride, expressing contempt for its enemies with the good-natured smileof its curling lip. A veritable silent revenge for the disaster atSaint-Romans.
For several minutes the bey, as cold and impassive as the carved image,stared at it without speaking, his forehead divided by a straight foldwherein his courtiers alone could read his wrath; then, after a fewwords spoken rapidly in Arabic, to order his carriages and collect hisscattered suite, he strode gravely toward the exit, without deigning tolook at anything else. Who can say what takes place in those augustbrains, surfeited with power? Even our western monarchs haveincomprehensible whims; but they are as nothing beside Orientalcaprices. Monsieur l'Inspecteur des Beaux-Arts, who had confidentlyexpected to show his Highness all over the Exhibition, and to earnthereby the pretty little red and green ribbon of the Order ofNicham-Iftikhar, never knew the secret of that sudden flight.
Just as the white haiks disappeared under the porch, and just in time tocatch a glimpse of the fluttering of their last folds, the Nabob enteredthrough the centre door. That morning he had received the news: "Electedby an overwhelming majority;" and, after a sumptuous breakfast, at whichmany a toast had been drunk to the new Deputy for Corsica, he had comewith some of his guests, to show himself, to see himself as well, and toenjoy his new glory to the full.
The first person he saw when he arrived was Felicia Ruys, leaningagainst the pedestal of a statue, receiving compliments and homage withwhich he hastened to mingle his own. She was dressed simply, in a blackembroidered gown trimmed with jet, tempering the severe simplicity ofher costume by its scintillating reflections and by the brilliancy of afascinating little hat adorned with the feathers of the _lophophore_,whose changing colors her hair, tightly curled over the forehead andparted at the neck in broad waves, seemed to prolong and to soften.
A crowd of artists, of society folk hastened to pay their respects to sogreat genius allied to so great beauty; and Jenkins, bareheaded,swelling with effusive warmth, went about from one to another, extortingenthusiasm, but broadening the circle about that youthful renown, posingas both guardian and fugleman. Meanwhile, his wife was talking with theyoung woman. Poor Madame Jenkins! He had said to her in that brutalvoice which she alone knew: "You must go and speak to Felicia." And shehad obeyed, restraining her emotion; for she knew now what lay hiddenbeneath that fatherly affection, although she avoided any explanationwith the doctor as if she were apprehensive of the result.
After Madame Jenkins, the Nabob rushed to the artist's side, and takingher slender, neatly gloved hands in his two great paws expressed hisgratitude with a warmth that brought the tears to his own eyes.
"You have done me a very great honor, Mademoiselle, to associate my namewith yours, my humble self with your triumph, and to prove to all thesevermin who are digging their claws into me that you don't believe in allthe slanderous reports that are current about me. Really, it issomething I can never forget. I might cover this magnificent bust withgold and diamonds and I should still be in your debt."
Luckily for the good Nabob, who was more susceptible to emotion thaneloquent, he was obliged to make room for all those who were attractedby the refulgent talent, the artistic personality before their eyes:frantic enthusiasm which, for lack of words in which to express itself,disappears as it came; worldly admiration, inspired by kindly feeling,by an earnest desire to please, but whose every word is like a coldshower-bath; and then the hearty hand-clasps of rivals, of comrades,some very frank and cordial, others which communicate to you theinertness of their pressure; the tall, conceited zany whose absurdpraise ought to delight you beyond measure, and who, in order not tospoil you utterly, accompanies it with "a few trifling reservations;"and the man who, while overwhelming you with compliments, proves to youthat you do not know the first word of the trade; and the other goodfellow, full of business, who stops just long enough to whisper in yourear that "So-and-so, the famous critic, doesn't seem to be satisfied."Felicia listened to it all with the utmost tranquillity, being raised byher triumph above the petty slurs of envy, and glowed with pride when arenowned veteran, some old associate of her father's, tossed her a "Welldone, little one!" which carried her back to the past, to the littlecorner that was always reserved for her in the paternal studio in thedays when she was beginning to carve out a little glory for herself inthe renown of the great Ruys. But as a whole the congratulations lefther quite unmoved, because she missed one which was more desirable inher eyes than all the rest, and which she was surprised that she had notyet received. Clearly she thought of him more than she had ever thoughtof any man before. Was this love at last, the great love that is so rarein the heart of an artist, who is incapable of abandoning herselfunreservedly to a sentiment, or was it simply a dream of an honest,bourgeois life, well protected against ennui, that vile ennui, theprecursor of storms, which she had so much reason to dread? In anyevent, she suffered herself to be deceived and had been living forseveral days in a state of delicious unrest, for love is so strong, sobeautiful, that its semblance, its mirage, takes us captive and may moveus as deeply as love itself.
Has it ever happened to you, as you walked along the street, thinkingintently of some absent person very dear to your heart, to be warned ofhis approach by meeting one or more persons who bear a vague resemblanceto him, preparatory images, outline sketches of the face that is soon torise before you, which come forth from the crowd like successive appealsto your overstrained attention? These are magnetic, nervous phenomena atwhich we must not smile too broadly, because they constitute asusceptibility to suffering. Several times Felicia had fancied that sherecognized Paul de Gery's curly head in the ever-moving, ever-changingflow of visitors, when suddenly she uttered a cry of pleasure. It wasnot he, however, but some one who much resembled him, whose regular,tranquil face was always blended now in her thoughts with that of herfriend Paul, as the result of a resemblanc
e rather moral than physical,and of the mild influence they both exerted over her mind.
"Aline!"
"Felicia!"
Although nothing is more difficult of comprehension than the friendshipof two of society's queens, dividing salon royalty among themselves andlavishing flattering epithets, the petty graces of feminineeffusiveness, upon each other, the friendships of childhood retain inthe woman a frankness of demeanor which distinguishes them and makesthem recognizable among all other friendships; bonds woven in innocenceand woven firmly, like the pieces of needlework made by little girls,whereon an inexperienced hand has lavished thread and great knots;plants that have grown in virgin soil, past their bloom butdeeply-rooted and full of life and vigor. And what joy to turn back afew steps, hand in hand,--boarding-school Arguses, where are you?--withequal knowledge of the road and of its slightest windings, and with thesame wistful laugh. Standing a little apart, the two girls, who neededonly to stand face to face to forget five years of separation, talkedrapidly, recalling bygone days, while little Pere Joyeuse, his ruddyface set off by a new cravat, drew himself up to his full height, proudbeyond words that his daughter should be so warmly greeted by acelebrity. Proud he certainly had reason to be, for that littleParisian, even beside her resplendent friend, retained her full valuefor charm and youth and luminous innocence, beneath her twenty years,her rich, golden girlhood, which the joy of meeting caused to put forthfresh flowers.
"How happy you must be! I haven't seen anything; but I hear everybodysay that it is so beautiful."
"Happy above all things to find you again, little Aline. It is such along time--"
"I should say as much, you bad girl. Whose fault is it?"
In the saddest recess of her memory Felicia found the date of therupture between them, coincident in her mind with another date when heryouth died in a never-to-be-forgotten scene.
"What have you been doing all this time, my love?"
"Oh! always the same thing--nothing worth talking about."
"Yes, yes, we know what you call doing nothing, little brave heart. Itis giving your life to others, is it not?"
But Aline was no longer listening. She was smiling affectionately at apoint straight before her, and Felicia, turning to see to whom thatsmile was addressed, saw Paul de Gery replying to Mademoiselle Joyeuse'sshy and blushing salutation.
"Do you know each other, pray?"
"Do I know Monsieur Paul! I should think so. We talk of you oftenenough. Has he never told you?"
"Never. He is terribly sly--"
She stopped abruptly as a light flashed through her mind; and, paying noheed to de Gery, who came forward to do homage to her triumph, sheleaned hastily toward Aline and whispered to her. The other blushed,protested with smiles, with inaudible words: "How can you imagine such athing? At my age. A grandmamma!" And at last she grasped her father'sarm to escape that friendly raillery.
When Felicia saw the two young people walk away side by side, when sherealized--what they themselves did not yet know--that they loved eachother, she felt as if everything about her were crumbling. And when herdream lay at her feet, in a thousand fragments, she began to stamp uponit in a rage. After all, he was quite right to prefer that little Alineto her. Would a respectable man ever dare to marry Mademoiselle Ruys?She with a home of her own, a family, nonsense! You are a strumpet'sdaughter, my dear; you must be a strumpet yourself, if you wish to beanything.
The day was drawing near its close. The crowd, moving more rapidly thanbefore, with gaps here and there, was beginning to stream toward theexit, after eddying violently around the success of the year, surfeited,a little weary, but still excited by the artistic electricity with whichthe atmosphere was charged. A great ray of sunlight, the sunlight offour o'clock in the afternoon, illuminated the rosework of the windows,cast upon the gravelled paths rainbow-like beams that crept gently upthe bronze or marble of the statues, suffusing a lovely nude body withbright colors and giving to the vast museum something of the aspect of agarden. Felicia, absorbed in her profound, melancholy reverie, did notsee the man who came toward her, superb, refined, fascinating, throughthe throng of visitors, who respectfully opened a passage for him, whilethe name of "Mora" was whispered on every side.
"Well, well, Mademoiselle, this is a grand triumph. I regret only onething, that is the unpleasant symbolism that you have concealed in yourmasterpiece."
When she saw the duke standing before her, she shuddered.
"Ah! yes, the symbolism," she said, looking up at him with adisheartened smile; and, leaning against the pedestal of the great,voluptuous statue, near which they happened to be standing, with hereyes closed, like a woman who gives herself voluntarily or surrenders,she murmured in a low, very low voice:
"Rabelais lied, as all men lie. The real truth is that the fox can go nofarther, that he is at the end of his breath and his courage, ready tofall into the ditch, and if the hound persists in his pursuit--"
Mora started, became a little paler, as all the blood in his veinsrushed back to his heart. Two darkly flashing glances met, two wordswere swiftly exchanged with the ends of the lips; then the duke bowedlow and walked away with a step as brisk and light as if the gods werecarrying him.
There was only one man in the palace as happy as he at that moment, andthat was the Nabob. Escorted by his friends, he occupied, filled themain aisle all by himself, talking in a loud tone, gesticulating, soproud that he seemed almost handsome, as if, by dint of gazing long athis bust in artless admiration, he had caught a little of the splendididealization with which the artist had softened the vulgarity of thetype. The head at an elevation of three-fourths, free from the highrolling collar, gave rise to contradictory opinions from the spectatorsconcerning the resemblance; and Jansoulet's name, which had beenrepeated so many times by the electoral urns, was echoed by theprettiest lips in Paris, by its most influential voices. Any other thanthe Nabob would have been embarrassed by hearing as he passed theexclamations of these curious bystanders, who were not always insympathy with him. But the platform and the springboard were congenialto that nature, which was always braver under the fire of staring eyes,like those women who are beautiful and clever only in society, and whomthe slightest admiration transfigures and perfects.
When he felt that that delirious joy was subsiding, when he thought thathe had drained the cup of his proud intoxication, he had only to say tohimself: "Deputy! I am a deputy!" and the triumphal cup was brimmingfull once more. It meant the raising of the embargo from all hisproperty, the awakening from a nightmare of two months' duration, theblast of the mistral sweeping away all vexations, all anxieties, even tothe insult at Saint-Romans, heavily as it weighed on his memory.
Deputy!
He laughed all by himself as he thought of the baron's face when heheard the news, of the bey's stupefaction when he was taken to look athis bust; and suddenly, at the thought that he was no longer a mereadventurer gorged with gold, arousing the senseless admiration of thevulgar like an enormous nugget in a money-changer's window, but that hewas entitled to be looked upon as one of the chosen exponents of thenational will, his good-natured, mobile face assumed an expression ofponderous gravity suited to the occasion, his mind was filled with plansfor the future, for reform, and the longing to profit by the lessons hehad lately learned from destiny. Already, mindful of the promise he hadmade de Gery, he exhibited a certain contemptuous coldness for thehungry herd that fawned servilely about his heels, and seemed to haveadopted deliberately a system of peremptory contradiction. He called theMarquis de Bois-l'Hery "my good fellow," sharply imposed silence on theGovernor, whose enthusiasm was becoming scandalous, and was inwardlymaking a solemn vow that he would rid himself as speedily as possible ofall that begging, compromising horde of bohemians, when an excellentopportunity presented itself for him to begin to put his purpose inexecution. Moessard, the handsome Moessard, in a sky-blue cravat, paleand puffed-up like a white abscess, his bust confined in a tight frockcoat, seeing that the Nabob, after making
the circuit of the hall ofsculpture a score of times, was walking toward the exit, forced his waythrough the crowd, sprang to his side and said, as he passed his armthrough Jansoulet's:
"You are to take me with you, you know--"
Of late, especially during the period of the election, he had assumed anauthority on Place Vendome almost equal to Monpavon's, but moreimpudent; for, in respect of impudence, the queen's lover had not hisequal on the sidewalk that extends from Rue Drouot to the Madeleine. Buton this occasion he had a bad fall. The muscular arm that he graspedviolently shook itself free, and the Nabob answered him very shortly:
"I am very sorry, my dear fellow, but I have no seat to offer you."
No seat, in a carriage as big as a house, which had often held five ofthem!
Moessard gazed at him in utter stupefaction.
"But I had something very urgent to say to you. On the subject of mylittle note. You received it, did you not?"
"To be sure, and Monsieur de Gery should have answered it this morning.What you ask is impossible. Twenty thousand francs!--_tonnerre de Dieu!_how fast you go."
"It seems to me, however, that my services--" stammered the fop.
"Have been handsomely paid. So it seems to me too. Two hundred thousandfrancs in five months! We will stop at that, if you please. You havelong teeth, young man; we must file them a bit."
They exchanged these words as they walked along, pushed by the crowdwhich flocked like sheep through the door of exit. Moessard stopped:
"That is your last word?"
The Nabob hesitated a second, seized by a presentiment of evil at sightof that pale, wicked mouth; then he remembered the promise he had givenhis friend.
"That is my last word."
"Very well, we will see," said Beau Moessard, while his cane cleft theair with a noise like a snake's hiss; and, turning on his heel, hestrode rapidly away like a man who has very important business awaitinghim.
Jansoulet continued his triumphal march. On that day it would haverequired something much more serious to disturb the equilibrium of hishappiness; on the other hand he felt encouraged by the beginning sosuccessfully accomplished.
The great vestibule was filled with a compact crowd, whom the approachof the hour for closing impelled toward the outer world, but whom one ofthe sudden downpours which seem an essential part of the opening of theSalon detained under the porch with its floor of hard-trodden gravel,like the entrance to the Circus where the lady-killers disportthemselves. It was a curious, thoroughly Parisian spectacle.
Outside, the sunbeams shining through the rain, attaching to its limpidthreads those sharp, brilliant blades of light which justify the proverb"It rains halberds;" the young verdure of the Champs-Elysees, the clumpsof dripping, rustling rhododendrons, the carriages drawn up in line onthe avenue, the oilcloth capes of the coachmen, all the splendidaccoutrements of the horses to which the water and the sunbeams impartedvastly greater richness and effect, and everywhere a gleam of blue, theblue of the sky, smiling in the interval between two showers.
Within, laughter, idle chatter, salutations, impatience, skirts turnedup, satins puffing vaingloriously over the narrow pleats of petticoatsand delicately striped silk stockings, oceans of fringe, of lace, offlounces, held with one hand in too heavy bundles, and torn beyondrecognition. Then, to connect the two sides of the picture, theprisoners framed by the arched doorway and standing in its dark shadow,with the vast background of light behind them, footmen running aboutunder umbrellas, shouting names of coachmen and names of masters, andcoupes slowly approaching, into which terrified couples hastily jump.
"Monsieur Jansoulet's carriage!"
Everybody turned to look, but we know that that disturbed him butlittle. And while the honest Nabob posed for a moment, awaiting hispeople, amid those fashionable women, those famous men, that assortedgathering of all Paris which was present there with a name to fit eachof its figures, a slender, neatly-gloved hand was held out to him, andthe Duc de Mora, who was about to enter his coupe, said to him as hepassed, with the effusiveness that happiness gives to the most reservedof men:
"My congratulations, my dear deputy."
It was said aloud, and every one could hear,--"My dear deputy."
* * * * *
There is in the life of every man a golden hour, a luminous mountain-topwhere all that he can hope for of prosperity, of joy, of triumph, awaitshim and is showered upon him. The mountain is more or less high, more orless precipitous and difficult to climb; but it exists equally for all,for the most powerful and the humblest. But, like the longest day of theyear, when the sun has reached the end of his upward journey and thenext day seems a first step toward winter, that _summum bonum_ of humanexistence is but a moment to be enjoyed, after which we have no choicebut to descend. Poor man! you must remember that late afternoon in May,that time of alternating rain and sunshine, you must fix its changingsplendor forever in your memory. It was the hour of your midsummer, whenthe flowers were blooming, the branches bending beneath their weight ofgolden fruit, and the crops whose gleanings you so recklessly threwaside, were fully ripe. The star will fade now, gradually receding anddescending, and soon will be incapable of piercing the woeful darknesswherein your destiny is about to be fulfilled.