Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

My concierge, proud of her ambassadorship in a matter of such moment, made me the inevitable reverence and returned with my answer to Raymond, who was probably waiting in her lodge, swaggering gallantly before the gossips and housemaids, so that the whole household might know that he had an affair of honor on hand. I confess that I did not expect such a challenge from my neighbor. What weapons should I take? He did not mention the subject, and I had an idea that none would be needed; however, I concluded to put my pistols in my pocket. Who could say? perhaps I had judged Raymond ill. Moreover, madmen have their lucid moments, misers are sometimes extravagant, tyrants have paroxysms of kindliness, coquettes moments of sincerity, rascals gleams of honesty; and cowards, too, may have their days of valor.

XVII

MY DUEL WITH MY NEIGHBOR

I went to the rendezvous at the appointed hour. The weather was fine, delightful for walking, and everybody was out of doors. I could not avoid the reflection that my neighbor had selected for our duel an hour when it was very hard not to be seen; I knew that he was very fond of putting himself in evidence, but it seemed to me that that was not an opportune occasion for so doing; he was evidently quite capable of choosing his ground in front of a guardhouse. However, I concluded to be patient and to await events before judging him.

When I arrived at Porte Maillot I did not see Raymond. It was not yet one o'clock, so I strolled about in the neighborhood. Little did I think that morning that I should go to the Bois de Boulogne before night, and alone. Caroline, I thought, must be surprised at my non-appearance. In truth, it did imply rather a lack of warmth; and if she were exacting, she would be justified in scolding me. But I knew a sure way to make peace with her; it is easy enough to find a way when love still exists; only in old liaisons, or between those who have been long married, do quarrels destroy love, because in such cases the methods of reconciliation are no longer the same.

At half-past one, no one had appeared. Could it be that my neighbor had deliberately sent me on a fool's errand; I realized that he was likely to require a vast deal of preparation before fighting a duel; but it seemed to me that he had had plenty of time since eight o'clock in the morning to make his little arrangements, and to go about to tell all his acquaintances that he had an affair of honor on hand. Could he have gone to warn the police? Such things had been done; but, no, it was he who had sent the challenge; I was doing him an injustice. Poor Raymond! the dinner episode was terrific, beyond question, and he must have been terribly incensed at me, especially if he believed me to be the author also of the ingenious trick of pasting his picture on the wall on Rue Vivienne. But why that rhodomontade of sending me a challenge by the concierge? if he had no intention of fighting, he should have come to see me at my rooms; I would have confessed my faults, while laughing at the affair, for I am not one of those men who refuse to atone for the foolish pranks they have committed except by cutting the throats of the persons they have offended. I consider that there is more glory in avowing one's fault frankly, and fighting afterward if the avowal does not give satisfaction.

Almost two o'clock! I lost my patience; I was tired of walking; moreover, the weather had changed, and the sky was overcast; a storm seemed impending, and I had no desire to await it in the woods. The idlers had become fewer, the riders were digging their spurs into their horses' sides, the coachmen cracking their whips; everybody was hurrying back to the city. I determined to go with the rest. But who were the three men walking so fast toward the woods? I soon recognized the one who marched so proudly at their head: it was Raymond. He had brought two seconds, after telling me that he would come alone. But, no matter; doubtless he would be obliging enough to let me have one of them. I began to think that he had urged me not to bring one because he preferred to choose one for me.

As the three drew near, I recognized Raymond's seconds: one was Vauvert the melomaniac, the other Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche. Parbleu! thought I, there is sport ahead! I had a strong suspicion that my neighbor was preparing some trick he had conceived. What in the devil had induced him to choose such seconds? Friquet only was lacking; I should not have been surprised to find him standing guard a short distance away, ready to summon the police at the first signal from his uncle.

All three were drenched with perspiration; and yet, they had had time enough to make the trip. Apparently, they had postponed their decision long enough to be sure of warming themselves up on the road. Raymond was as red as a turkey cock, Vauvert pale as a bride, and the baron made such fiendish grimaces that I could not tell just the color of his face. They seemed more at ease when they saw that I was alone. I very much regretted that I had not brought a second; I had an idea that by doing so I should have disarranged Raymond's plan.

They saluted me as soon as they caught sight of me; I returned their salutation, then went back into the woods I had just left.

"Where are you going? Wait, wait!" cried Vauvert, stammering and hardly able to speak at all, he was so excited. I pretended not to hear, and went farther into the woods.

Vauvert started to run after me; he overtook me and seized my hand, and I felt that he was trembling like a rabbit.

"Where on earth are you going, my dear fellow? why do you go so far into the woods? Don't you see that we're going to have a storm?"

"It seems to me that the affair that brings us here can hardly be adjusted on the highroad; it would be as sensible to choose Boulevard Saint-Denis for the battlefield."

"My friend, I hope that--at all events----"

"As for the storm, that needn't disturb us; on the contrary, it will keep bystanders away."

While I was talking with Vauvert, I heard my neighbor shouting in the distance:

"No adjustment, Monsieur Vauvert, no adjustment! I don't propose to consent to any compromise; I am determined to fight!"

"You hear him!" said Vauvert; "he's crazy. Oh! he's a terrible fellow when he gets started. He has said everywhere that he proposed to have your life, or that you should have his."

I could not help laughing at Raymond's bluster; and I ventured to reassure poor Vauvert, who did not know which way to turn, having never been present at such a function. At last we were joined by my adversary and the Baron de Witcheritche, the latter of whom wore a three-cornered hat, eight inches high, cocked over his left ear, which gave him the aspect of a bully from the Rue Coquenard.

"Monsieur!" said Raymond, striding toward me with a warlike air, "I wrote you that I should come alone, and that was my intention; but, as I passed through the Palais-Royal, I met my friend Vauvert, who had come out to buy a roll for his second breakfast, and who, when he learned that I had an affair of honor with you, dropped everything to come with me, and----"

"That is to say," interrupted Vauvert, "that you didn't tell me that that was what was up, and that I didn't find it out till we got to the barrier; for, when you saw me, you grabbed my arm and didn't give me time to pay for my newspaper."

Raymond pretended not to hear what Vauvert said, and continued:

"So I yielded to his urgent entreaties. Besides, he is as much your friend as mine, and his presence cannot be disagreeable to you. As for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, we met him at the barrier, going out to dine in the country with his good wife. I thought it better to have two seconds than one, because then I could let you have one of them. Monsieur de Witcheritche consented to leave madame la baronne, who is waiting for him under the trees not far away. He will be my second then, and Monsieur Vauvert yours, if agreeable to you."

Monsieur le baron, who had bowed every time that his name was mentioned, took his place beside Raymond, and Vauvert stood behind me.

"Monsieur Raymond," said I, "it seems to me that we might very well settle this affair between ourselves, without troubling these gentlemen. I am afraid that madame la baronne may get wet during our engagement, and Vauvert would be better off at his desk than here."

"That is true enough," said Vauvert, who asked nothing better than to go away; "I have a great deal of work to do to-day, and I'm afraid I shall be reproved by my deputy chief clerk."

"Matame la paronne, she haf ov te shtorm no fear; she loaf mooch to see te lidening flashes," said Monsieur de Witcheritche, smiling so expansively that his mouth seemed to reach from ear to ear.

"Well, since these gentlemen have been good enough to come," said I, with a smile, "it must not be for nothing; so I accept Monsieur Vauvert for my second."

Vauvert fell back with an air of dismay.

"Don't be alarmed," I said to him; "seconds rarely fight; if, however, I should fall, and you should choose to avenge me, it will be in your power."

"I, my dear friend! I do not need to tell you how fond I am of you; and certainly--I wish the affair might be settled amicably. Friends ought not to fall out!--Monsieur de Witcheritche, we ought not to allow these gentlemen to fight."

The baron seemed much more deeply interested in something that he had in his pocket than in our combat, and to no purpose did Vauvert, with tears in his eyes, strive frantically to make him understand that it was their duty to reconcile Raymond and myself. But my neighbor was obstinate.

"I intend to fight," he said; "nobody shall insult me with impunity! I have seen Monsieur Gerville, and I know that he did not dine with you and Agathe; I need say no more! And my silhouette on the wall--that was a betrayal of confidence! You must give me satisfaction, Monsieur Dorsan; this affair will make a sensation."

"Oh! bless my soul, neighbor, I am at your service! Let us get through with it, for it is going to rain, and I shall be distressed to have these gentlemen get wet, and especially madame la baronne, who is under the trees."

"I am the insulted party; I have the choice of weapons."

"That is true."

"I am very skilful with the sword; I have taken lessons from the most expert teacher in Paris; but I will not fight with anything but pistols, because I don't wish to make an unfair use of my advantages."

"That is very generous on your part; I divined your purpose and brought some pistols along."

As I spoke, I took mine from my pocket; I saw that Raymond was disturbed and changed color; then he produced a pair of great holster pistols and showed them to me.

"That's all right," said I; "each of us will have his own pistols."

"No, no! put yours back in your pocket; we must use mine. You understand what an advantage I should have in using one of my pistols against one of yours, which are two inches shorter."

"Your behavior is truly noble. Very well, since you insist upon it."

"I do, monsieur; besides, I have the choice of weapons, and I fight with none but my own."

"Very well; let us call our friends to load them."

I turned to look for Vauvert, who, as soon as we produced our pistols, had walked away in the direction of the highroad and could with difficulty be induced to come near us.

"The pistols are loaded," said Raymond; "I always look after that in advance."

"Ordinarily, my dear neighbor, that is the duty of the seconds."

"Oh! but I don't trust anybody but myself with that. Besides, my friend Witcheritche has examined them;--isn't that so, monsieur le baron?"

The baron was busily engaged in wrapping in two thicknesses of paper some small Neufchâtel cheeses, which he seemed to fear would be dissolved in his pocket by the rain; so he replied to my adversary's question only by a smile of assent. Everything that I saw tended to confirm my suspicions: Raymond's valor was unnatural; his insistence upon using his own pistols, the pains he had taken to load them at home, certainly implied some trickery on his part, which I was determined. He handed me his pistols and asked me to choose one.

"How many paces apart shall we stand?" I asked.

"Why--about twenty-five."

"Great God!" cried Vauvert; "why, that's point-blank range. Forty paces, messieurs! that's quite near enough when you're hit!"

"No; let's call it thirty; that's the most I can consent to.--Monsieur de Witcheritche, come and measure the ground."

Monsieur le baron regretfully parted from his cheeses, which he laid on the grass, taking care to put his hat over them, for the rain was beginning to fall violently. He came toward us; I took my place, and he measured thirty gigantic paces, so that I could hardly see Raymond. As for my second, he was so afraid of being hit that he did not know where to go. He urged us to be very careful not to aim at the wrong man, and I reassured him. Monsieur de Witcheritche gave the signal by beating time, as if we were to play a Haydn quartette.

Raymond fired, and either the noise or downright terror felled Vauvert to the ground, where he lay with his face buried in the grass. I was not touched; I did not even hear the bullet whistle by my ears.

I suggested to my neighbor that we let it go at that.

"No, no, fire!" he cried.

"He is ein Zazar!" exclaimed the baron, in his admiration of Raymond's courage.

I was desirous to ascertain the truth. My second still lay at full length on the ground; Monsieur de Witcheritche had thought it better to retire to a considerable distance, behind a clump of trees; my adversary turned his head aside, waiting for me to take aim, which I had no purpose of doing, although convinced that his weapons were not dangerous; but the baron's cheeses were within two yards of me, and I discharged my pistol at them. The explosion blew the three-cornered hat away, and a multitude of scraps of paper adhered to the little Neufchâtels. While I was laughing over the end of my duel, Raymond came toward me with outstretched hand, shouting at a distance:

"It's all settled, my friend; I am satisfied, embrace me!"

"What!" said I; "you don't want another shot? I have pistols, too."

"No, my dear fellow, let's forget it all; embrace me, I beg you."

"So be it; I will do whatever is agreeable to you."

While my neighbor threw himself into my arms, the baron ran to his cheeses, and was like one turned to stone when he saw that they were all speckled with bits of paper.

"Mein jheese, tay shmell ov te bowder lige te teffel!" he said, putting his nose to them.

"A thousand pardons, monsieur le baron; but as I did not wish to fire at my friend Raymond, I aimed in this direction; the bullet must have gone through them."

Raymond flushed to his ears; my ironical manner led him to fear that I had detected his little fraud; but I did not care to deprive him of the pleasure of being able to say everywhere that he had fought a duel. I ran to my second, who was still on the ground, and urged him to rise; he did not stir, and I saw that the poor devil had swooned during our battle. I called Raymond to my assistance; he had a flask of strong aromatic vinegar in his pocket, with which we inundated Vauvert's face, and he finally came to himself. After feeling himself all over and making sure that he was not wounded, he tried to make us think that his swoon was caused by his affection for us both. We thanked him and set him on his legs; but we had to take an arm each to help him to walk; for he was in no condition to stand erect without our support.

Monsieur de Witcheritche put the remains of his cheeses in his pocket handkerchief, and we left the wood. The rain continued, but my second could not walk fast, so that we were compelled to endure it. Raymond was in the highest spirits; he was overjoyed by his day's experience. He knew Vauvert, and he was sure that his duel would soon be the absorbing topic of the whole company of amateur musicians, even if he himself should not take pains to spread it everywhere.

"You showed extraordinary courage, messieurs," said Vauvert, as we marched along; "such sang-froid! such calmness! that was true valor!"

"Oh! yez! yez! tese two chentlemens pe fery prave."

"Oh! my neighbor Raymond's not like other men; I am sure that he would fight the same way ten times a day."

Raymond bowed, but said nothing. I fancied that he realized that I knew how his pistols were loaded.

At last, we spied madame la baronne seated under a large tree; her husband ran to her and took her arm, and we walked toward the barrier.

"I haf mooch abbetide," said Madame de Witcheritche to her husband.

"Ve vill tine soon, matame."

The couple bowed to us and quickened their pace. I presumed that they were on the lookout for a restaurant; but I noticed that, all the way from the barrier, two huge dogs had been following monsieur le baron, who did all that he could to drive them away, but to no purpose.

"Do those two dogs belong to Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche?" I asked Vauvert.

"No, I don't think so; I never saw at his place anything but poodles."

"It's strange," said Raymond; "he must have something in his pocket that attracts them."

I looked for a cab, but the rain had caused them all to be taken up. We had lost sight of Monsieur de Witcheritche and his wife, when we heard loud cries, and soon saw the two dogs running for their lives, one with a bologna sausage, the other with a bit of salt pork in its mouth. The baron and baroness came running after them, crying:

"Shtop tief! shtop tief! Ach! te file peasts! tey haf shtole our tinner!"

Madame la baronne, being weaker than her husband, was obliged to stop, and told us how the two dogs had succeeded in extracting from monsieur le baron's pocket the dinner she and her dear spouse, who had been a long time arranging that little outing for her, expected to eat in the country.

While we were consoling the poor woman, Monsieur de Witcheritche, who was not the man to abandon his sausage and his pork, kept on in pursuit of the dogs, at which he threw all the stones he could find on the road. He had already wounded one and compelled it to slacken its pace. Hoping to hit the other, which was just passing the barrier, he threw a great stone at it with all his force. But the stone was ill-aimed, and, instead of striking the dog, struck the customs clerk in the eye, as he was looking up at the sky to see if the storm were passing away.

The poor man fell, crying:

"I am dead!"

His comrades ran to him. One of the dogs, which was then passing the city limits, ran among the clerks' legs and made them stagger. The second dog, trying to escape, was seized by monsieur le baron, who thought of nothing but his dinner and pursued his course, unmindful of anything else. He succeeded in catching the dog by the tail, and a battle ensued between him and the animal, which refused to give up the sausage. The soldiers from the neighboring post ran up in response to the outcries of the clerks. The vehicles of all kinds passing in or out were compelled to stop; the soldiers would allow no one to pass until they had found out what the matter was. A crowd gathered to see what was going on, and everyone put forward some conjecture.

"It's an important prisoner whom they arrested just as he was leaving the city," said one, "and it seems that he wounded the clerk who seized him."

"No; they've just discovered some contraband goods in one of those wagons; it was being smuggled in."

Amid the tumult, which was augmented by the barking of the dogs, the baron shouted triumphantly:

"I haf him! I haf him!" and he waved aloft the bologna sausage, which he had snatched from his enemy's jaws; then, before the poor devil whose eye he had put out had recovered consciousness, Monsieur de Witcheritche slipped into the crowd and returned to his wife, leaving the clerks, soldiers, and bystanders asking one another what it was all about. Madame la baronne had recovered her husband, Vauvert was in a condition to walk unaided, and Raymond began to play the dandy. I left the company and took a cab to return to Paris.

XVIII

A LITTLE DISSERTATION IN WHICH THERE IS NOTHING ENTERTAINING

When I arrived at Caroline's it was after five o'clock; my duel and its sequel had prolonged my absence, and she scolded me for going away without waking her, and said that she had been vexed at my delay. I would have preferred that she should have been bored, but I realized that she had had no leisure for that; there are so many thousand things to do in a new apartment, to say nothing of the indispensable purchases. She showed me a very modish bonnet that she had bought, and tried it on for me. It was a fascinating one; however, at twenty years, with a pretty face and a graceful figure, a woman might wear a sugar loaf on her head and she would still be good-looking. It seemed to me that I liked her better in her little cap than in a bonnet; but I concluded that I should get used to it.

The rest of the costume must necessarily correspond with the bonnet; that was in the regular order. I have always wondered at the importance which women attribute to all the gewgaws and trifles which are called dress! at the amount of thought and calculation they waste upon the best way of placing a flower or a ribbon! With what care they arrange a bit of trimming, a bouquet, a curl! All this is sometimes the result of several days' meditation! But let us not charge it to them as a crime: it is to seduce us that they array themselves; we should be very ungrateful to criticise what they do to please us.

Caroline had changed already; she wore her new garb with much ease of manner; she was no longer the grisette of Rue des Rosiers, but the _petite-maîtresse_ of the Chaussée d'Antin. Women form themselves in everything more rapidly than we do. Observe yonder villager: after three months in the city, he is still awkward, loutish, and embarrassed. But this little peasant girl left her home only a week ago, and already her parents would not recognize her; ere long she will not recognize her parents.

A fortnight had passed since Caroline's installation on Rue Caumartin. I saw her every day; I dare not say that it was love that I felt for her; certainly it was not a very impassioned love; but she still pleased me as much as ever. I believed that she loved me more than at the beginning of our liaison; at all events, she told me so.

Things had not turned out precisely as I had arranged, for she had ceased to go to her shop, and she could hardly be said to work in her room; but, by way of compensation, she had acquired the manners of good society, the tone of a lady, and the general aspect of an _élégante_. It is true that I refused her nothing, although I frequently considered the project of reducing my expenses. But how can you refuse anything to a pretty woman who entreats you with a melting voice, and, while entreating you, looks at you in a certain way? As for myself, I confess that I have never had the strength to resist. It has been my misfortune, perhaps.

I began to discover that what I called gewgaws formed a very important item in the keeping of a woman. I ruined myself in trifles: every day it was a dress, a neckerchief, a hat, or a shawl! I do not know how Caroline went about it, but she invariably proved to me that it was the fashion, and, therefore, that it was necessary; I am too just to refuse a woman what is necessary. But my income was insufficient; I had borrowed; I was running in debt. What in heaven's name would happen if she should take it into her head to want the superfluous!

Every other day I found a bouquet at my door when I went home. My little Nicette did not forget me, and I never went to see her; if I chanced to pass her stand, I never thought of her being there and never glanced in her direction! And yet, every time that I found a bouquet, I determined that I would go to thank her; but Caroline gave me so much occupation that I never had a free moment; every day there was some new pleasure party; I never had the courage to refuse her; she knew a way to make me approve all her plans. Her graceful ways charmed me, her wit fascinated me, her merriment amused me; the hussy was so adroit in making the most of all the gifts she had received from nature!

One morning I received a note written in an unfamiliar hand. It was from Madame de Marsan, who reproached me good-naturedly for not keeping the promise I had made to attend her musical evenings, and invited me to a small party she was giving at her country house. I had almost forgotten Madame de Marsan, for I often forget a person who has set me on fire the night before; a very lucky thing for one who takes fire so easily; it proves that the heart has no share in the nonsense we call love. I determined to go to the party in question, for I did not propose that Mademoiselle Caroline should make me lose sight of all my acquaintances; I ought not to abandon good society because she could not go thither with me. The girl had already led me into too much folly! And there was my sister, whose letter I had not answered, and who expected me from day to day! I was not at all content with myself. But the torrent bore me on; I closed my eyes and let myself go.

Someone entered my room: it was my neighbor, whom I had not seen since the day of our famous duel. He had a shrewd suspicion that I was not taken in by his false gallantry--I who had witnessed his abject terror on the day of the _partie fine_. I knew that he had made a great noise about his valor, prating of his duel to everybody he saw; but he had avoided meeting me in company; my presence would have embarrassed him in his narrative of our combat. I wondered what he wanted of me.

"Good-morning, my dear friend!" he began; "how goes the health this morning?"

"Why, I am inclined to think it goes too fast; I am going at a rapid pace."

"You must be prudent, neighbor."

"You're a good one to talk about prudence, Monsieur Raymond! What are you doing with Agathe?"

"Oh! I don't see her any more; that's all over, we are parted forever! I don't propose ever to be caught by one of those little hussies again; you spend an enormous amount of money, and sometimes you don't make your expenses. And they don't know how to appreciate a man; they don't know the difference between a poet and a gudgeon! So long as you have money in your pocket, and can stuff them from morning till night with bonbons, sweetmeats, ices, and syrups, and tell them they're adorable, take them to drive and to the theatre and to the country, and buy them all the fal-lals they happen to want, oh! bless my soul, then they're satisfied. You may be as stupid as a goose, as coarse as a street porter, as conceited as an Italian virtuoso, yet you're none the less delightful in the eyes of those girls."

"There's a great deal of truth in what you say, neighbor; but, as a general rule, it is adulation and flattery that spoil both men and women; if we didn't kneel at their feet, they wouldn't look down on us from such a height. Flatterers, courtiers, low-lived sycophants, creep in everywhere and sometimes corrupt the most happily endowed nature. Kings, unfortunately, are more encompassed than other men by this servile swarm, which constantly hums in their ears a concert of exaggerated and insipid praise; it is when men tremble that they stoop lower than at any other time. Louis XI had more courtiers than Louis XII, Charles IX more than Henri IV. Richelieu and Mazarin did not take a step without being surrounded by a multitude of courtiers; they were feared, people trembled before them, but humiliated themselves and scribbled verses in their honor. Sully and Colbert had their admirers, but they knew how to repel flattery; they were too great to surround themselves with people whom they despised. If too frequent adulation did not increase our vanity, if the familiar atmosphere of praise did not give us too great confidence in our own deserts, how many shortcomings would those heroes and great captains have escaped, who, under difficult circumstances, have rejected the counsels of wisdom because they were accustomed only to the language of flattery, and deemed themselves invincible because a thousand voices had declared that they were, and because the man who has been exalted to the rank of a demigod does not readily decide to take the advice of his creatures! The pernicious effects of adulation date from a very early period: the serpent seduced the first woman by flattery. Almost always by the same means have women since then been seduced. Flattery destroyed Antiochus and Nebuchadnezzar, Semiramis and Mary Stuart, Cinq-Mars, Monmouth, Cleopatra, and Marion Delorme; Samson allowed his hair to be cut off while listening to the compliments of Delilah; Holofernes lost his head while listening to Judith's soft voice; Charles XII of Sweden, blinded by his victories, buried his army in the plains of Pultowa; the Maréchal de Villeroi, relying always on luck, insisted on joining battle at Ramillies. Excessive praise, by blinding us to our faults, causes us to remain in the path of mediocrity, when nature has given us faculties calculated to raise us above the vulgar; by tempting us to close our ears to the harsh counsels of truth, it leads us to mistake self-esteem for genius, vanity for merit, facility for talent. How many artists, even when they seek advice, refuse to receive anything but compliments! But they have been persuaded that all their works are masterpieces, that no defect can be found in them! And people who have attained that end no longer take the pains to study; everything that comes from their hands must necessarily be perfect. But civility demands that we must not always say what we think. Suppose a poet reads us some of his verses: if they are bad, you must not tell him so unless you are his friend; for you do not desire to be looked upon in society as an Alcestis, forever growling about the vagaries and absurdities of everyone else; that rôle would raise up too many enemies to be endured, except on the stage. In society, we choose to overlook one another's failings rather than to set ourselves up as censors; mutual intercourse is pleasanter thus, and we find more pleasure in living for ourselves than in wasting our time trying to correct other people. But although courtesy may compel us to conceal what we think, it does not compel us to say what we do not think; when I listen to the reading of execrable poetry, I will hold my peace, but I won't say that it is charming; nay, more, I will try to summon courage to make some suggestions to the author. I can never make up my mind to say that a portrait resembles its subject, when I think it a wretched failure; I cannot tell a person that he sings true, when he has just been torturing my ears. With nascent talents, above all, we should be sparing of praise, even while we encourage them; flattery is responsible for very many such coming to naught, because it arrests the flight of a genius, which, deeming itself perfect already, no longer cares to take the trouble to acquire what it lacks. Doubtless a father is excusable for considering his son a prodigy of beauty, wit, and talent; paternal love naturally misleads us; but let us at least keep our conviction to ourselves; let us not force strangers to go into ecstasies over the story of a mischievous trick, to listen in religious silence to a fable often directly at variance with common sense, and to gaze in admiration at a flat nose, turned-up chin, and inflamed eyes, which can never delight any glance but a father's. If there were fewer flatterers, how many men, who are simply unendurable now because they have been spoiled, would be ornaments of society! Let us reserve our enthusiasm for those poets and artists whose talents exalt them above all praise. Doubtless the contemporaries of Molière and Voltaire rendered to those sublime geniuses the homage they deserved; but one does not display his admiration for such men by insipid compliments and empty praise: great talents are proud of the applause of people of taste; they despise the base fawning of which fools are so vain.

"When Voltaire lived at Ferney, those travellers who, by virtue of their rank or their merit, could hope to gain access to him, never failed, even though they were obliged to go far out of their way, to visit the philosopher's retreat. Everyone was curious to see that extraordinary man, who astounded the whole universe by his genius. Men of intellect and of taste thought only of the pleasure that was in store for them; but the fools--and they too were anxious to converse with Voltaire--gave all their attention to the posture and expression they proposed to assume at sight of the philosopher, the better to manifest their admiration of him. Voltaire was affable with the former; but when a lady, on catching sight of the great poet, deemed it advisable to shriek and to swoon, the philosopher shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel.

"Great geniuses are rare; great talents are affable and modest; they who might have acquired great talents but have failed inhale with delight the incense people are good enough to lavish on them. How can a young man whose voice is rather pleasant and nothing more fail to consider himself a Laïs or a Martin when people seem to be so infatuated with him? They urge him, entreat him, implore him to sing; all the women are in a flutter of excitement before hearing him; they belaud him to their neighbors in anticipation. 'Delicious!' 'Divine!' 'Charming!' are the only words that reach the ears of the virtuoso, who condescends at last to comply with the wishes of the assemblage, and, after all the inevitable monkey tricks, sings just passably a ballad of which it is well understood that he will not pronounce the words intelligibly; and he has hardly finished before the concert of praise begins anew, while the impartial auditor, who had been led to expect something very different, asks himself if he can believe his ears. Look you, my dear neighbor, I confess that I have never been able to persuade myself to increase the crowd that hovers about these social prodigies, in whom I find nothing except inordinate self-esteem; or to swell the number of adorers of a woman of fashion, whose coquetry is carried to such a point that I blush for her and for those who surround her. Unquestionably, I am as fond of a pretty woman as any other man; I will be the first to do homage to her charms; but does that necessitate my exalting her to the skies at all times and seasons, and overwhelming her with compliments which, even if they are not extravagant, must none the less be tiresome to the person to whom they are addressed? Must it be that she cannot take a step without my praising her dress, her figure, her gait, her foot, her grace? Can she not smile without my going into ecstasies over her teeth, her mouth, and the expression of her eyes? Can she not utter a word without my extolling her wit, her shrewdness, her tact, her penetration, and the sweet tones of her voice? I may think it all, but I won't say it; I should be afraid of bringing a blush to her cheek. I know that I am considered far from gallant; that may injure me with some ladies, but I have neither the power nor the desire to change. If everybody did as I do, perhaps we should see less self-conceit and arrogance in men, less coquetry and caprice in women; they would take more trouble to be affable and agreeable, and everybody would be the gainer.--What do you think about it, neighbor?"

I saw that Raymond was not listening; he was examining the bunches of orange blossoms that adorned my mantel, and seemed to be puzzled by the old bouquets which I had collected on my commode, after taking out the flowers that would not live.

"You seem to be very fond of orange blossoms?" he said at last.

"Very."

"They have a very pleasant odor.--You must have twenty bunches of them here."

"I haven't counted them.--But will you do me the favor to tell me what brings you to my rooms this morning? for I presume that you came for some purpose."

"True; I forgot it while looking at these bouquets. I have received an invitation from Madame de Marsan for a party she is giving at her country house the day after to-morrow; I suppose you are going, and I came to suggest that we go together."

"With pleasure; you know the way and you can be my guide."

"With the greatest pleasure. By the way, how shall we go?"

"We will hire a cabriolet, and keep it, so that we can return when we choose."

"That's the idea. I thought at first of going in the saddle--I am very fond of riding; I have a very fine seat."

"I have no doubt of your grace as a horseman; but we can't go to a party at Madame de Marsan's in top-boots, so we won't go in the saddle."

"True; I will undertake to provide a nice cabriolet; I know a liveryman. At what time shall we start?"

"At seven o'clock; we shall arrive at eight, which is the proper hour in the country."

"That's settled, then. I fancy we shall have some fun; I know the whole party, so I can tell you who's who."

"I thought you had been only twice to Madame de Marsan's."

"Oh! that doesn't make any difference! once is enough for me to know everybody; I have a certain amount of tact, of penetration--it's all a matter of habit. In case they should want to give a theatrical performance, I have an opera that I have just finished; I'll read it to you on the road."

"That will give me great pleasure."

"I must take a look over it. Until Thursday, neighbor!"

"Until Thursday!"

Raymond left me, and I went to see Caroline. I found her at the window. For several days past she had spent much time there, especially when she was alone. Doubtless it was so that she could watch for my coming. It seemed to me that she was gayer, more amiable, more fascinating, than usual; pleasure gleamed in her eyes.

"Ah! she loves me," I thought; "she loves me truly; she is grateful, she has a feeling heart; she is coquettish only to please me. Before forming a lasting attachment, she wanted to find someone worthy of her love; her heart chose me, and I am sure that she will be true to me. I knew that, with a little patience, I should find such a woman."

XIX

THE TRIP TO THE COUNTRY

The day came when I was to go to Madame de Marsan's. I had told Caroline that she would not see me that evening, and she had seemed greatly disappointed, although we had had a little dispute the night before concerning a certain cashmere shawl, which I saw that she ardently coveted, and which I did not propose to give her. I had given her to understand, in fact, that she did not need a cashmere shawl to be charming; that she was more attractive to me in a simple and refined costume; and we had parted on the most friendly terms.

The clock struck seven; my toilet was completed. The concierge came to inform me that the cabriolet had arrived and was waiting in the courtyard. When it suited Raymond's convenience, we might start; but what in the deuce was he still doing in his room? I concluded to investigate.

I found my neighbor just putting on his breeches.

"What, Monsieur Raymond! haven't you got any further than that?"

"Oh! I'll be ready in a moment, I assure you."

"I'll bet that you won't be ready in half an hour."

"Pshaw! you'll see how quick I am! While you are waiting, amuse yourself by looking over my little water colors--my sketches; there are some very good little things there, as you'll see. If I had more time to myself, I'd go into oils and exhibit at the Salon, but I am never at liberty."

"I advise you to stick to water colors; yours are quite remarkable."

"Aren't they? There's true burlesque, originality for you; the Calot sort of thing. Do you notice that _Suzanna at the Bath_?"

"I thought it was a _Temptation of Saint Anthony_."

"Oh! that's because it isn't finished. And that little _Hop-o'-my-Thumb_--what do you say to that?"

"I thought it was _Bluebeard_."

"That's because he has on his seven-league boots."

"Come, come, neighbor! You haven't got into your breeches yet!"

"Ah! they're a delicate part of the costume, you know."

"But nothing but long trousers are worn now, even at balls."

"When a fellow has, as I have, a fine leg and a calf fit for a model, he isn't sorry to show them.--Would you like to read my last verses, on the Marquise Désormeaux's favorite dog?"

"No, thanks, much obliged!"

"They have made quite a sensation. All the ladies are saying, in a joking way, that they must have me to write their husbands' epitaphs. The beginning is rather fine:

"'O dog of nature, faithful animal!'"

"I've heard of a man of nature; but I confess that this is the first time I ever knew the epithet to be applied to a beast. So you think, my dear Raymond, that animals may be moral perverts, do you?"

"What's that! why, don't you see it every day? Look at the poor creatures that have to dance and bow and caper and jump through rings to the notes of the flageolet! They have received an education. The marchioness's dog did everything she wanted him to; he snapped at everybody who went near his mistress, and he jumped on the table during dinner to eat out of the plates and dishes. That's the natural instinct, and I maintain that 'dog of nature' is a very happy expression."

"Come, come, Monsieur Raymond; drop your _dog_ and finish dressing. If you spend so much time over every part of your costume, we shall not arrive before midnight."

"I am at your service. I have got on my boots and breeches; but it seems to me there's a crease on the left-hand side behind."

"When you have your coat on, nobody will see it."

"True; but in walking or dancing, the coat tails spread."

"Well! what does this crease amount to? do you think that the company is going to keep its eye on your rump?"

"I tell you, a crease may make a great difference in a man's looks; women notice everything."

"The woman who takes any notice of such things must have her hands full at a large party!"

"It sets better now. Ah! my cravat."

"That will be a long job."

"Oh, no! I have made a study of that article of dress, and it goes all alone now. There! that's it. Ought I to turn the ends up or down?"

"Turn them either way you choose; but try to make up your mind."

"Well, I'll pull 'em out straight. What do you think of that knot?"

"Beautiful! you are stunning!"

"_Stunning_ is too strong a word; but I think that I look rather well; I've just got three pins to put in."

"Great God! we shan't get started at eight o'clock!"

"The devil! this is terribly embarrassing; I ought to have thought about it sooner."

"What's the matter? have you another engagement?"

"I don't know whether I ought to put this turquoise above or below my emerald."

"Morbleu! Monsieur Raymond, my patience is exhausted; I am going to start without you."

"Here I am! here I am, neighbor! Faith! I have put the turquoise above, no matter what happens."

"That's very fortunate."

"Now, the coat--the hat--the gloves--and I'm all ready, you see."

"Amazing! Let's be off."

"All right. Oh! I beg your pardon: I forgot a scented handkerchief."

We left the room at last. When Raymond had closed his door, he discovered that he had not put his diamond ring on his little finger, so he went back to repair that omission. We went downstairs; but on the second landing, he failed to find his opera in his pocket, and went back for that. When we arrived in the courtyard, he remembered that he had not brought his favorite songs; and as he might be asked to sing, I must wait while he went to fetch them. I registered a vow never to travel again with Monsieur Raymond. At last, about a quarter past eight, we entered the cabriolet; then he discovered that he had not his eyeglass; but I was inexorable: I lashed the horse and we started. It was dark, so that Raymond could not read me his opera; but to make up to me for the deprivation, he proposed to tell me the plot. For more than an hour he prosed away about a Spanish princess and an Arabian prince, her lover, while I thought of Madame de Marsan, whom I was not at all sorry to see again, and whom I was surprised that I had neglected so long. When we reached Saint-Denis it was half-past nine; and I swore at Raymond, whose dilatoriness and absurd affectations would make us arrive at Madame de Marsan's unconscionably late.

"Have we much farther to go?" I asked my neighbor, as we left Saint-Denis behind.

"Why, no; about three-fourths of a league only.--I was saying that my princess, having been rescued from the burning palace, swoons at the end of the second act.----"

"You know the way, don't you?"

"Yes, yes; drive on, I'll show you.--When the curtain rises for the third act, the princess is in her lover's camp, lying on a cannon.----"

"Have you been to this country house before?"

"Once; but that's enough for me; I have such an accurate memory!--The soldiers are resting on their pikes--or their muskets, for I am not quite sure whether pikes were in use under King Ferdinand; but it makes no difference. The prince, having no desire to sleep----"

"I should say that we were told to go to the left."

"No, no! straight ahead!--The prince, I say, is on his knees before the princess, who is still unconscious; and he sings her a superb air, _adagio_ in _D_ minor, to restore her.--I wrote the music, too. Can't you see the tableau in your mind's eye?"

"I see that if you don't drop your _prince_ and _princess_ soon, we shall be in Montmorency, and that certainly isn't on our road. I'm too good-natured, to sit here and listen to your nonsense. Here--as you are so certain we're on the right road, just take the reins and drive."

"Oh! I ask nothing better; I'll stake my head that we're not two hundred yards from Madame de Marsan's."

"But I don't see any light."

"Because it's too dark a night.--This infernal horse has a mouth like iron."

"You worry him too much."

"Ah! I see something.--Where are we, my man?"

"Montmorency, monsieur," replied our groom.

"Well! Monsieur Raymond, you want to see everything; you're a very clever man!"

"Don't be angry, my dear Dorsan; we'll take this road to the left; I remember now that it leads straight to Madame de Marsan's."

"I think we should do as well to return to Paris; it looks like a storm."

"What's the odds? then they'll have the party in the house."

"The party! Parbleu! we may be there by eleven o'clock!"

"We shall be there at ten; I must whip this infernal beast."

"Oh! I am beginning to be resigned; I am going to make the best of it."

"They are longing for us to come, I am sure!--Go on, you villain, go on!"

"Say rather that they have forgotten all about us."

"Oh! men like us aren't so easily forgotten.--Go on, you wretched nag!"

"Look out! you're whipping him too hard; he's running away now."

"Mon Dieu! that's so; he's got the bit in his teeth!"

"Hold him in! jerk the reins!"

"I can't hold him, my friend; I am pulling as hard as I can. Mon Dieu! he's turning into the fields; we are lost!"

"Oh! don't be frightened; he'll stop.--Get down, boy, and see if you can stop him."

Our groom had already alighted, but he did not follow us, which made me think that he was hurt. Our steed galloped on, across fields and plowed lands and lanes. I took the reins from my companion, who was no longer in a condition to see anything, but trembled in every limb and shouted for help at the top of his voice. To put the finishing touch to our misfortunes, the storm broke with great violence: the clouds burst, the rain fell in torrents, and the wind blew with hurricane force in our faces. Our horse did not stop; I began to apprehend some serious accident; we were on a very steep hillside, and I expected every moment to be overturned with the carriage. Luckily, our frantic animal's path was blocked by a mass of vines; he stopped short, but in struggling to extricate himself from the labyrinth of branches in which he was entangled he plunged about with such violence that he finally threw us out and fell with us.