Chapter XII: The Baronne De Grangeville

The Baronne de Grangeville, the latest arrival at Monsieur Glumeau’s, was a lady who had once been exceedingly pretty, and who was still rather attractive; by artificial light she appeared no more than thirty-six years old; by daylight, about thirty-nine; we are not certain how she appeared by twilight.

It might be that Madame de Grangeville had not passed her fortieth birthday, but it would have been dangerous to make that assertion, because she was always so carefully gotten up, even in the most trivial details of her toilet, because she was always dressed in such perfect taste, made use of such delicious perfumery, and carried herself so gracefully, that she would inevitably be always young.

The baroness’s arrival created a sensation in Monsieur Glumeau’s salon, for it should be said that none of the guests there assembled had previously met that lady, to whom the Glumeaus had been introduced at a third house, where, delighted with her affability, they had invited her to dine with them.

The master of the house, despite his interesting situation, could not do otherwise than offer the lady his hand to escort her to his wife, who received the baroness with an effusion of cordiality and satisfaction which seemed overdone to some of the guests.

“She is very good-looking,” said Monsieur Dufournelle to his wife, who whispered:

“No! you should say, she has been.”

“But I say yes, she is now; she is a person who still makes conquests, I am sure.”

“Ah! I am glad to hear that, my dear; it makes me think that I shall continue to be attractive for a long time to come.”

“A lovely dress, a very distinguished bearing!” said Monsieur Camuzard to his daughter.

Mademoiselle Polymnie scrutinized it all without winking, and replied simply:

“Her dress is too long-waisted.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the facetious Chambourdin, tapping Monsieur Mangeot on the shoulder, “that’s rather a dainty bit still, eh? What do we think of it, friend Mangeot?”

“I think that it’s almost six o’clock, and that I am starving to death!”

“As the baroness has arrived, dinner will probably be served.”

“Why, no--look--there’s Glumeau running away now! Do you see how he slinks off? Where in the devil can he be going?”

“We must keep him here.”

But the gentlemen were too late that time; Monsieur Glumeau finally succeeded in leaving the salon; he would have left one of his coat tails there rather than not go.

Amid all the reflections and comments to which Madame de Grangeville’s entrance had given rise, a single person had said not a word--that person was Monsieur de Merval. However, he had scrutinized the baroness no less closely, perhaps even more closely, than the others had done, and his expression, as he looked at her, seemed to indicate that it was not the first time that he had seen her; being a man of the world, however, he was able to conceal his sensations.

As for her who was at that moment the cynosure of every eye, she was not embarrassed for an instant by all the glances that were bent upon her; smiling at one and all most graciously, acknowledging Madame Glumeau’s curtsies, addressing a pleasant word to Mademoiselle Eolinde, she displayed as much ease of manner as if she were in her own house until the moment that her eyes met Monsieur de Merval’s. Then a surprised expression, a faint suggestion of dismay, blended with the smile that played constantly about her lips; but, like Monsieur de Merval, she speedily recovered her self-possession; her emotion was only momentary.

Young Astianax reappeared in other clothes and was greeted with cheers by Chambourdin and Dufournelle, who told him that all the ladies had looked at his trousers.

The little fellow lost no time in presenting his respects to the Baronne de Grangeville, to whom he delivered a complimentary address that lasted a long time, while Monsieur Mangeot persisted in whispering to his neighbors:

“I say, are we never going to dine? It’s after six; I was very hungry, but you will see that my appetite will have vanished when we sit down at the table.”

“Where is the famous bouquet you were going to present to your father, young hidalgo?” Chambourdin asked the son of the house.

“The bouquet? Oh! don’t mention it, my dear Chambourdin! It was that infernal bouquet that caused the accident to my trousers.”

“Did you undertake to pick the flowers yourself, pray? Have you been flitting about the fields, my little shepherd?”

“No; it’s a long story! There’s a flower girl--who is very pretty--oh! I tell you she’s a beauty!”

“Enough, enough, you scamp! I don’t wish to know any more;--but you may give me the flower girl’s address.”

Madame de Grangeville continued to talk with Madame Glumeau and Mademoiselle Eolinde; but the rest of the guests assumed that morose and surly air which always invades a salon when dinner is delayed too long. Some looked at the ceiling, others walked about the room, concealing their yawns; this one consulted the clock at every instant, another stretched himself out in an easy-chair and tapped the floor impatiently. But at last the door of the salon opened, and a servant appeared and said:

“Madame is served.”

Instantly the scene changed; faces became amiable once more, lips smiled; there was a general movement, a murmur of satisfaction passed about the room, and stout Dufournelle ran to offer his hand to the mistress of the house, eager to escort her to the dining-room. But, while accepting his proffered hand, Madame Glumeau still hesitated; she wondered whether they ought to sit down without her husband.--At that moment he appeared; he walked proudly and quickly; he carried his nose in the air and his foot gracefully arched; he was not the same man who was squirming and making wry faces a short time before. Madame Glumeau drew a long breath and said to herself:

“It seems that it did him good.”

Glumeau shot through his guests like an arrow and offered his arm to the baroness, who accepted it. They adjourned to the dining-room and took their seats at the table in the order established by the cards. Madame de Grangeville naturally was seated beside the host, and Monsieur Camuzard was on her other side. Madame Glumeau had seated Monsieur de Merval beside herself, so that that gentleman was at some distance from the baroness; not so far, however, that his eyes did not meet hers from time to time; and, strange to say, at such times Monsieur de Merval always lowered his first.

When their appetites were appeased sufficiently to permit the guests to be agreeable, or at least to try to appear so, the conversation became animated, and they turned at last to the subject which had led to that festivity--the performance to be given on Monsieur Glumeau’s little stage in the country, and the distribution of parts.

“Unless something better is suggested, we propose to give _La Forêt Périlleuse_,” said Madame Glumeau.

“Very good,” said Chambourdin; “but in addition to the speaking parts, we must have robbers, a band of robbers.”

“We will find some,” said Glumeau; “robbers are not what we lack.”

“The deuce! are they abundant in the neighborhood of your country house?”

“Don’t joke, Chambourdin; if you do, nothing will ever be decided, and we must arrange everything to-day; we go into the country next week, and we must give the play at the end of June, no later.”

“Of course, with a theatre in the woods, we mustn’t wait until the bad weather begins.”

“Well then, we will say _La Forêt Périlleuse_; my servants and my gardener will be the robbers.”

“Oh! very good! excellent!”

“I will p--p--play the fair Ca--Ca--the fair Ca--Ca--Camille.”

“You are entitled to.”

“And my b--b--brother the robber chief.”

“Better and better--just as it used to be at Nicolet’s!”

“I say, I really believe Chambourdin is laughing at us! What do the company think?”

“No indeed! but it’s lawful to laugh, isn’t it?” said Chambourdin; “I don’t imagine that you are going to act with sober faces all the time. Besides, am I not one of your troupe? I will take whatever part you wish--a robber, a tyrant, a victim. But allow me to make one suggestion; instead of your _Forêt Périlleuse_, which is not wonderfully clever, and in which there is only one female part--and that one doesn’t come on in the first act--why don’t you give _Roderic et Cunégonde_? That’s a splendid parody on the fashionable melodrama, and full of wit from end to end; indeed, it’s by the late Martainville, who had wit to sell, so I have been told; for I never knew him.”

Chambourdin’s suggestion was generally approved, except by Mademoiselle Eolinde, who regretted the fair Camille; but they gave her the part of Cunégonde, which was more in her line, because there are no long speeches in it.

“But there’s a child in _Roderic et Cunégonde_,” said Monsieur Mangeot.

“That’s all right! we’ll make one.”

“What do you say? you’ll make one?”

“To be sure, of pasteboard; with a doll; that’s simple enough.”

“But the child has something to say.”

“That makes a difference; we will have one that can talk; at a pinch I will play the child myself.”

“No, no,” said Monsieur Glumeau, “we’ll have my gardener’s little one; he’s a very smart child.”

“Are there any other female parts?”

“There’s a peasant--little Colas; we’ll turn him into a girl--little Colette.”

“That’s right; and Mademoiselle Polymnie will take the part.”

“She would have made a little Colas quite as well!” whispered Madame Dufournelle to Chambourdin, who replied:

“Such things are thought, not said.”

“There’s one piece chosen,” said Mangeot, “so far so good; but you are going to give something besides that, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course; we must have a very lively farce.”

“Have you made your selection? If not, I suggest _Il y a plus d’un Ane à la Foire_.”

“Yes,” said Dufournelle, “that’s very amusing; we saw it, didn’t we, Eléonore?--She laughed so much that we came near having to leave the theatre.”

“I don’t know that play,” said Monsieur Camuzard. “Are there actually any asses in it?”

“There are three--but they’re dressed as men.”

“Ah! very good!”

And the old gentleman turned to the baroness and said: “I don’t understand, do you, madame?”

The baroness looked at her neighbor with an ironical expression, and replied:

“Have you never seen any, monsieur?”

“Any what, madame?”

“Asses dressed as men.”

“I don’t think so--that is to say--Ah! I see, it’s a metaphor!--That’s a very unkind thing to say.”

“Do you think so, monsieur? I don’t.”

The play suggested was adopted; then they desired a third, to begin the performance.

“Yes,” said Chambourdin, “when you take so much trouble to put yourselves in training, you must give full measure--a performance _complet_, like an omnibus. I am going to propose a jolly farce, a little one-act affair with three characters: _Œil et Nez_.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Dufournelle; “do you remember, Eléonore? when we saw it, you laughed so hard that--really you laughed too heartily.”

“I had already suggested that,” said little Astianax; “I know the part of Tityrus.”

“And I will be the Eye, if you choose,” laughed Madame Dufournelle.

“And I the Nose,” said Chambourdin.

“But what on earth can this play be in which there’s an Eye and a Nose?” queried Monsieur Camuzard, appealing once more to his neighbor. “I can’t imagine, can you, madame?”

“I, monsieur? Why I am accustomed to seeing them in all the plays that are acted, and it doesn’t seem at all strange to me.”

Far from satisfied with this reply, Monsieur Camuzard dropped his chin on his cravat and his nose beneath his spectacles.

The choice of plays being made, they sent out for books, in order to distribute the rôles during the evening. Then they left the table and returned to the salon, where other guests, invited for the evening, were already assembled.

In the confusion that takes place when a number of people pass from one room to another, it is very easy to approach a person to whom one has something to say. A lover never lets that opportunity escape him, when he has not been seated beside the lady of his thoughts at dinner.

On this occasion it was a lady, who, as if without design, seated herself in a corner of the salon where a gentleman was already standing. The lady was the Baronne de Grangeville, and she said to Monsieur de Merval in an undertone:

“Have I changed so very much, pray, that Monsieur de Merval does not recognize me?”

“Pardon me, madame--I recognized you perfectly the instant that you arrived.”

“In that case, why did you not speak to me?”

“You have changed your name and I supposed that you did not wish to be recognized; I respected your incognito.”

“If I have changed my name, you must be well aware of the--the reason; you must have learned of what--of what happened to me.”

“People say so many things in society, madame, that one never knows what to believe, and in my opinion the man who believes nothing is wisest.”

“Ah! monsieur, if one could foresee--could conceive what would happen!”

“Why, there are some things that one can easily foresee.”

The baroness cast a penetrating glance at Monsieur de Merval, then rejoined:

“You are not married?”

“No, madame.”

“Faith, I am inclined to think that you have done as well to abstain!--Will you not do me the pleasure to come to see me?”

“You do me much honor, madame; and if it will not be indiscreet----”

“Oh! not in the least; I am absolutely my own mistress. We will talk of the past; that will not rejuvenate me, but it will give me pleasure. You will come, won’t you?”

“I shall take advantage of your permission, madame.”

“Here is my card.”

Madame Dufournelle, who always knew what was taking place in the salon, no matter where she happened to be, whispered to her husband:

“The baroness seems to be talking with Monsieur de Merval a great deal.”

“What of that? isn’t everybody here talking?”

“Yes, those who know one another.”

“Perhaps they know each other.”

“It looks to me very much that way; she just put something in his hand--something like a small piece of paper. What can it be?”

“Instead of worrying about that, go and select a part; they are just bringing the books.”

“A part. Oh! I mean to have a good one; I don’t propose that they shall make me play a supernumerary, or Monsieur Camuzard’s sweetheart--it’s so agreeable when he speaks to you; he would kill a fly on the wing! And it’s of no use to try to get away from it, for he has a mania for talking into your face.”

“What do you expect, my dear love? everybody hasn’t a perfumed breath.”

“No, indeed! I should think not! in fact, it’s a sad thing to see how rapidly mankind is degenerating! But there are people who seem to take pleasure in poisoning one. Nowadays, three-fourths of the young men carry about an odor of tobacco, of pipes, of the barracks, that turns the stomach of a person who doesn’t smoke; and women, as a general rule, haven’t adopted that habit.”

“And then,” said Chambourdin, who had overheard their conversation, “we have people with poor digestions--it’s dangerous to speak to them after dinner. And there are some too with decayed teeth; I can’t forgive them, for they might go to a dentist, who would make them inodorous. We also have ladies who lace too tight and ruin their stomachs in that way.”

“Oh! really, monsieur, I don’t believe that!”

“I will procure you the testimony of physicians, madame, to the effect that many ladies, married and unmarried, have attempted to make their waists so slender, have so squeezed their poor bodies, that the internal organs have suffered, and foul breath has arrived after some time. What madness! what idiocy! Ah! mesdames, the most willowy, the most slender waist will never be worth a fresh, pure breath, which is an indispensable accompaniment of beauty!--Dufournelle, I trust that we are going to have a little one?”

“A little what?”

“Parbleu! a little game of bouillotte--you and I and Monsieur de Merval, and that little villain of a Miaulard, who has just arrived sneezing; he always has a cold in his head.”

“Oh! messieurs, you think of nothing in the world but your cards; how nice it is of you, instead of playing with us!”

“Playing what?”

“Why, little games.”

“More or less innocent.--I’ll do it, on condition that I am allowed to play blindman’s-buff sitting down, and that the ladies guess who I am.--Ah! good! if that unlucky Kingerie hasn’t upset a Carcel lamp, and Mademoiselle Glumeau’s dress is covered with oil! That youth is really very dangerous in company!”

“Oho! there’s a different sort of thing over yonder! Just look at Mademoiselle Polymnie and Monsieur Astianax playing battledore and shuttlecock, and seated, at that!”

“Why, no, they’re going to play cup and ball; they both have pointed sticks in their hands.”

“It’s a new kind of shuttlecock, monsieur: instead of hitting it with a racquet, somebody, not long ago, invented cornets to catch it in; but it’s a much prettier way that they do it now: the shuttlecock has a hole at the end, and you have to catch it by sticking the point into the hole.”

“That’s a game that the ladies enjoy greatly; it is immensely popular in salons.”

“But it must be rather hard.”

“Mademoiselle Polymnie is very strong at it, they say; she has asked young Kingerie to come to count the strokes.”

“Thus far I haven’t seen him do anything but pick up the shuttlecock, which the players don’t seem to catch on their sticks.”

And Chambourdin walked toward them, saying:

“Oh! what a pretty game! I am sorry that I didn’t see the beginning. How many times have they caught it in succession, Monsieur Kingerie?”

“Once!” the young man replied, as he stooped again to pick up the shuttlecock.

Many more guests arrived, and as the salon was crowded, Mademoiselle Polymnie and her adversary were obliged to abandon their game, evidently to the intense dissatisfaction of the young lady.

“It’s a pity,” she said; “we were beginning to play so well!”

“How does she succeed, I wonder, when she plays badly!” said Madame Dufournelle laughingly.

But the master of the house, having no pain in his stomach, insisted that they must dance. The bouillotte players were removed to an adjoining room, and an amateur took his place at the piano and played a polka, then a redowa, then a mazurka; for the quadrille is sadly neglected now; it is abandoned for new-fangled dances, which the dancers do not know in most cases, and which, consequently, they dance very poorly. The old-fashioned quadrille ventures to show its head only at long intervals nowadays, and it is treated with a discourtesy which will end by banishing it altogether.

Monsieur Glumeau took possession of a young lady of fourteen, with whom he danced the polka, redowa and mazurka without removing his eyes for a moment from his feet, which, however, was not likely to distress his partner. And Madame Glumeau, proud of the agility displayed by her husband, exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm:

“Ah! what a good thing it was that he took it!”

“What? a dancing-master?” queried Monsieur Camuzard. But Madame Glumeau turned away without replying and requested Monsieur Kingerie to leave the piano, as he had already broken several strings.

About eleven o’clock Madame de Grangeville vanished from the salon, after looking about in vain for Monsieur de Merval. But he had departed some time before, and the elegant baroness, who had counted upon a gentleman to escort her home, entered her cab all alone, frowning and muttering:

“Ah! men aren’t so agreeable as they used to be!”