Chapter X: Front Matter (10)

At length the same thing became evident to Nathalie. How the revelation was made to her I do not know; but sudden it must have been, for I met her one day in the poplar-field, walking hurriedly along with an extraordinary expression of despair in her countenance. I know not why, but the thought at once occurred to me that the Rhone ran rapid and deep not far off, and I threw myself across her path. She started like a guilty thing, but did not resist when I took her hand and led her back slowly towards the farmhouse. We had nearly reached it in silence when she suddenly stopped, and bursting into tears turned away into a by-lane where was a little bench under an elm. Here she sat down and sobbed for a long time, while I stood by. At length she raised her head and asked me: "Do morality and religion require self-sacrifice even to the end—even to making half a life a desert, even to heart-breaking, even unto death?"

"It scarcely belongs to a selfish mortal to counsel such virtue," I replied; "but it is because it is exercised here and there, now and then, once in a hundred years, that man can claim some affinity with the divine nature."

A smile of ineffable sweetness played about the poor old girl’s lips. She wiped her eyes, and began talking of the changing aspect of the season, and how the trees day by day more rapidly shed their leaves, and how the Rhone had swelled within its ample bed, and of various topics apparently unconnected with her frame of mind, but all indicating that she felt the winter was coming—a long and dreary winter for her. At this moment Fanfreluche, which had missed her, came down the lane, barking with fierce joy; and she took the poor little beast in her arms, and exhaled the last bitter feeling that tormented her in these words: "Thou at least lovest me—because I have fed thee!" In her humility she seemed now to believe that her only claim to love was her charity; and that even this claim was not recognized except by a dog!

I was not admitted to the secret of the family conclave that took place, but learned simply that Nathalie pleaded with feverish energy the love that had grown up between Marie and Claude as an insuperable bar to the proposed marriage between Paul Boneau and her niece. Matters were arranged by means of large sacrifices on the part of the heroic maid. Paul’s face ceased to beam over the garden-gate on a Sunday morning; and by degrees the news got abroad that Marie was betrothed to the young artist. One day a decent old woman in _sabots_ came to the farmhouse: it was Claude’s mother, who had walked from Aix to see him. It was arranged that Claude should pursue his studies a year longer, and then marry. Whether any explanation took place I do not know; but I observed that the young man sometimes looked with the same expression of wondering admiration I had observed in the diligence at the little Nathalie—more citron-hued than ever. At length she unhooked the cage of Coco, the parrot, took Faufreluche under one arm and her blue umbrella under the other, and went away in company with the whole family, myself included, every one carrying a parcel or a basket to the diligence office. What a party that was! Every one was in tears except Nathalie. She bore up manfully, if I may use the word; laughed, and actually joked; but just as I handed Coco in, her factitious courage yielded, and she burst into an agony of grief. With officious zeal I kept at the window until the diligence gave a lurch and started; and then turning round I looked at Claude and Marie, who were already mingling their eyes in selfish forgetfulness of their benefactress, and said solemnly: "There goes the best woman ever created for this unworthy earth." The artist, who, for an ordinary man, did not lack sentiment, took my hand and said: "Sir, I will quarrel with any man who says less of that angel than you have done."

The marriage was brought about in less time than had been agreed upon. Nathalie of course did not come; but she sent some presents and a pleasant letter of congratulation, in which she called herself "an inveterate old maid." About a year afterwards I passed through Lyon and saw her. She was still very yellow, and more than ever attentive to Fanfreluche and Coco. I even thought she devoted herself too much to the service of these two troublesome pets, to say nothing of a huge cat which she had added to her menagerie, as a kind of hieroglyphic of her condition. "How fare the married couple?" cried she, tossing up her cork-screw curls. "Still cooing and billing?"

"Mademoiselle," said I, "they are getting on pretty well. Claude, finding the historic pencil not lucrative, has taken to portrait-painting; and being no longer an enthusiastic artist, talks even of adopting the more expeditious method of the Daguerreotype. In the meantime, half the tradesmen of Avignon, to say nothing of Aix, have bespoken caricatures of themselves by his hand. Marie makes a tolerable wife, but has a terrible will of her own, and is feared as well as loved."

Nathalie tried to laugh; but the memory of her old illusions coming over her, she leaned down towards the cat she was nursing, and sparkling tears fell upon its glossy fur.

MADEMOISELLE DE CAMARGO.

From advance sheets of a capital book entitled "Men and Women of the XIXth
Century, by Argene Houssaye," in press by Redfield.

Mademoiselle de Camargo almost came into the world dancing. It is related that Gritry, when he was scarcely four years of age, had an idea of musical tunes. Mademoiselle de Camargo danced at a much earlier age. She was still in arms when the combined airs of a violin and a hautboy caught her ear. She jumped about full of life, and during the whole time that the music was playing, she danced, there is no other word for it, keeping time with great delight. It must be stated that she was of Spanish origin. She was born at Brussels, the 15th of April, 1710, of a noble family, that had supplied several cardinals to the sacred college, and is of considerable distinction in Spanish history, both ecclesiastical and national. Her name was Marianne. Her mother had danced, but with the ladies of the court, for her own pleasure, and not for that of others. Her father, Ferdinand de Cupis de Camargo, was a frank Spanish noble, that is to say he was poor; he lived at Brussels, upon the crumbs of the table of the Prince de Ligne, without counting the debts he made. His family, which was quite numerous, was brought up by the grace of God; the father frequented the tavern, trusting to the truth that there is a God that rules over children!

Marianne was so pretty that the Princess de Ligne used to call her her fairy daughter. Light as a bird, she used to spring into the elms, and jump from branch to branch. No fawn in its morning gayety had more capricious and easy movements; no deer wounded by the huntsman ever sprang with more force and grace. When she was ten years old, the Princess de Ligne thought that this pretty wonder belonged of right to Paris, the city of wonders, Paris, where the opera was then displaying its thousand and thousand enchantments. It was decided that Mademoiselle de Camargo should be a dancing-girl at the opera. Her father objected strenuously: "Dancing-girl! the daughter of a gentleman, a grandee of Spain!"—"Goddess of dance, if you please," said the Princess of Ligne, in order to quiet him. He resigned himself to taking a journey to Paris in the prince’s carriage. He arrived in the style of a lord at the house of Mademoiselle Prévost, whom the poets of the day celebrated under the name of Terpsichore. She consented to give lessons to Marianne de Camargo. Three months after his departure, M. de Camargo returned to Brussels, with the air of a conqueror. Mademoiselle de Prévost had predicted that his daughter would be his glory and his fortune.

After having danced at a fête given by the Prince de Ligne, Marianne de Camargo made her first appearance at the Brussels theatre, where she reigned for three years as first _danseuse_. Her true theatre was not there; in spite of her triumph at Brussels, her imagination always carried her to Paris; notwithstanding when she quitted Brussels she went to Rouen. Finally, after a long residence in that city, she was permitted to make her first appearance at the opera. It was on the 5th of May, 1726, for the famous day of her debût has not been forgotten, that she appeared with all the brilliancy of sixteen upon the first stage in the world. Mademoiselle Prévost, already jealous, from a presentiment perhaps, had advised her to make her first appearance in the _Characters of the Dance_, a step almost impossible, which the most celebrated dancers hardly had dared to attemp, at the height even of their reputation. Mademoiselle de Camargo, who danced like a fairy, surpassed all her predecessors; her triumph was so brilliant that on the next day all the fashions took their name after her: hair _à la Camargo_, dresses _à la Camargo_, sleeves _à la Camargo_. All the ladies of the court imitated her grace; there were not a few that would have liked to have copied her face!

I have not told all yet: Mademoiselle de Camargo was made by love and for love. She was beautiful and pretty at the same time. There could be nothing so sweet and impassioned as her dark eyes, nothing so enchanting as her sweet smile! Lancret, Pater, J. B. Vanloo, all the painters that were then celebrated, tried to portray her charming face.

On the second night of Mademoiselle de Camargo’s appearance on the stage, there were twenty duels and quarrels without end at the door of the opera; every one wanted to get in. Mademoiselle Prévost, alarmed at such a triumph, intrigued with such success that Mademoiselle de Camargo was soon forced to fall back to the position of a mere _figurante_. She and her admirers had reason to be indignant. She was obliged to resign herself to dancing unobserved with the company. But she was not long in avenging herself with effect. One day, while she was dancing with a group of demons, Demoulins, called the devil, did not make his appearance to dance his solo, when the musicians had struck up, expecting his entrance. A sudden inspiration seizes Mademoiselle de Camargo; she leaves the other _figurantes_, she springs forward to the middle of the stage, and improvises Demoulins’s _pas de seul_, but with more effect and capricious variety. Applause re-echoed throughout the theatre. Mademoiselle de Prévost swore that she would ruin her youthful rival; but it was too late. Terpsichore was dethroned. Mademoiselle de Camargo was crowned on that day queen of the opera, absolute queen, whose power was unlimited! She was the first who dared to make the discovery that her petticoats were too long. Here I will let Grimm have his say: "This useful invention, which puts the amateur in the way of forming an intelligent judgment of the legs of a dancing-girl, was thought at that time to be the cause of a dangerous schism. The Jansenists of the pit exclaimed heresy, scandal; and were opposed to the shortened petticoats. The Molinists, on the contrary, held that this innovation was in character with the spirit of the primitive church, which was opposed to the sight of pirouettes and pigeon-wings, embarrassed by the length of a petticoat. The Sorbonne of the opera had for a long time great trouble in establishing the wholesome doctrine on this point of discipline, which so much divided the faithful."

Monsieur Ferdinand de Camargo grew old with a severe anxiety about the virtue and the salary of his daughter: he only preserved the salary. Intoxicated with her triumph, Mademoiselle de Camargo listened too willingly to all the lords of the court that frequented the company of the actresses behind the scenes; it would have been necessary for the king to appoint an historiographer, in order to record all the passions of this _danseuse_. There was a time when all the world was in love with her. Every one swore by Camargo; every one sang of Camargo; every one dreamed about Camargo. The madrigals of Voltaire and of the gallant poets of that gallant era are not forgotten.

However, the glory of Mademoiselle de Camargo was extinguished by degrees. Like fashion that had patronized her, she passed away by degrees, never to return. When she insisted upon retiring, although she was only forty years of age, no one thought of preventing her: she was hardly regretted. There was no inquiry made as to whither she had gone; she was only spoken of at rare intervals, and then she was only alluded to as a memory of the past. She had become something of a devotee, and very charitable. She knew by name all the poor in her neighborhood. She occasionally was visited by some of the notabilities of a past day, forgotten like herself.

In the _Amusements of the Heart and Mind_, a collection designed, as is well known, to form the mind and the heart, Mademoiselle de Camargo is charged with having had a thousand and more lovers! Without giving the lie to this accusation, can I not prove it false by relating, in all its simplicity, a fact which proves a profound passion on her part? A pretty woman may dance at the opera, smile upon numberless admirers, live carelessly from day to day, in the noisy excitement of the world; still, there will be some blessed hours, when the heart, though often laid waste, will flourish again all of a sudden. Love is like the sky, which looks blue, even when reflected in the stream formed by the storm. It is thus that love is occasionally found pure in a troubled heart. But, moreover, this serious passion of Mademoiselle de Camargo was experienced by her in all the freshness of her youth.

One morning, Grimm, Pont-de-Veyle, Duclos, Helvetius, presented themselves in a gay mood, at the humble residence of the celebrated dancer. She was then living in an old house in the Rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre. An aged serving-woman opened the door.—"We wish to see Mademoiselle de Camargo," said Helvetius, who had great difficulty in keeping his countenance. The old woman led them into a parlor that was furnished with peculiar and grotesque-looking furniture. The wainscoting was covered with pastels representing Mademoiselle de Camargo in all her grace, and in her different characters. But the parlor was not adorned by her portraits only; there was a _Christ on_ _the Mount of Olives_, a _Magdalen at the Tomb_, a _Veiled Virgin_, a _Venus_, the _Three Graces_, some _Cupids_, half concealed beneath some rosaries and sacred relics, and _Madonnas_, covered with trophies from the opera!

The goddess of the place did not keep them a long time waiting; a door opened, half-a-dozen dogs of every variety of breed sprang into the parlor: it must be said, to the praise of Mademoiselle de Camargo, that these were not lap-dogs. She appeared behind them, carrying in her arms (looking like a fur muff) an Angora cat of fine growth. As she had not followed the fashion for ten years or more, she appeared to have come from the other world.—"You see, gentlemen," pointing to her dogs, "all the court I have at present, but in truth those courtiers there are well worth all others. Here, Marquis! down, Duke! lie down, Chevalier! Do not be offended, gentlemen, that I receive you in such company; but how was I to know?..."—Grimm first spoke.—"You will excuse, mademoiselle, this unannounced visit when you know the important object of it."—"I am as curious as if I were only twenty years old," said Mademoiselle de Camargo; "but, alas! when I was twenty, it was the heart that was curious; but now, in the winter of life, I am no longer troubled on that score."—"The heart never grows old," said Helvetius, bowing.—"That is a heresy, sir: those only dare to advance such maxims who have never been in love. It is love that never grows old, for it dies in childhood. But the heart—"—"You see, madame, that your heart is still young; what you have just said proves that you are still full of fire and inspiration."—"Yes, yes," said Mademoiselle de Camargo, "you are perhaps right; but when the hair is gray and the wrinkles are deep, the heart is a lost treasure; a coin that is no longer current."—While saying this, she lifted up Marquis by his two paws, and kissed him on the head: Marquis was a fine setter-dog, with a beautiful spotted skin.—"They, at least, will love me to the last. But it seems to me we are talking nonsense; have we nothing better to talk about? Come, gentlemen, I am all attention!"

The visitors looked at each other with some embarrassment; they seemed to be asking of each other who was to speak first. Pont-de-Veyle collected his thoughts, and spoke as follows: "Mademoiselle, we have been breakfasting together; we had a gay time of it, like men of spirit. Instead of bringing before us, as the Egyptians in olden times, mummies, in order to remind us that time is the most precious of all things, we called up all those gay phantoms which enchanted our youth: need I say that you were not the least charming of them? who did not love you? who did not desire to live with you one hour, even at the expense of a wound? Happiness never costs too much—" Mademoiselle Camargo interrupted the speaker: "O gentlemen, do not, I beg, blind me with the memory of the past; do not awaken a buried passion! Let me die in peace! See, the tears are in my eyes!"—The visitors, affected, looked with a certain degree of emotion at the poor old lady who had loved so much. "It is strange," said Helvetius to his neighbor, "we came here to laugh, but we are travelling quite another road; however, I must say, nothing could be more ludicrous than such a caricature, if it were not of a woman." "Proceed, sir," said Mademoiselle de Camargo to Pont-de-Veyle. "To tell you the truth, madame, the worst fellow in the company, or rather he who had drank the most, declared that he was, of all your lovers, the one you most loved. ’The mere talk of a man who has had too much wine,’ said one of us. But our impertinent emptied his glass, and backed his statement. The discussion became very lively. We talked, we drank, and we talked. When the last bottle was empty, and the dispute was likely to end in a duel, and we talked without knowing, probably, what we said, the most sober of the company proposed to go and ask you yourself which of your lovers you loved the most. Is it the Count de Melun? is it the Duke de Richelieu? is it the Marquis de Croismare? the Baron de Viomesnil? the Viscount de Jumilhac? is it Monsieur de Beaumont, or Monsieur d’Aubigny? is it a poet? is it a soldier? is it an abbé?" "Pshaw! pshaw!" said Mademoiselle de Camargo, smiling; "you had better refer to the _Court Calendar_!" "What we want to know is not the names of those who have loved you, but, I repeat, the name of him whom you loved the most." "You are fools," said Mademoiselle de Camargo, with an air of sadness and a voice that showed emotion; "I will not answer you. Let us leave our extinct passions in their tombs, in peace. Why unbury all those charming follies which have had their day?" "Come," says Grimm to Duclos, "do not let us grow sentimental; that would be too absurd. Mademoiselle de Camargo," said he, playing with the dogs at the same time, "which was the epoch of short petticoats? for that is one of the points of our philosophical dispute."

The aged _danseuse_ did not answer. Taking Pont-de-Veyle by the hand, all of a sudden, she said in rising: "Monsieur, follow me." He obeyed with some surprise. She conducted him to her bedchamber; it was like a basket of odds and ends; it looked like a linendraper’s shop in confusion; it was all disorder; it was quite evident that the dogs were at home there. Mademoiselle de Camargo went to a little rosewood chest of drawers, covered with specimens of Saxony porcelain, more or less chipped and broken. She opened a little ebony box, exposing its contents to the eyes of Pont-de-Veyle. "Do you see?" said she, with a sigh. Pont-de-Veyle saw a torn letter, the dry bouquet of half a century, the kind of flowers of which it was composed could hardly be recognized. "Well?" asked Pont-de-Veyle. "Well, do you understand?" "Not at all." "Look at that portrait." She pointed with her finger to a wretched portrait in oils, covered with dust and spider’s web. "I begin to understand." "Yes," said she, "that is his portrait. As for myself, I never look at it. The one here," striking her breast, "is more like. A portrait is a good thing for those who have no time for memory."

Pont-de-Veyle looked in turn with much interest at the letter, the faded bouquet, and the wretched portrait. "Have you ever met this person?" "Never." "Let us return, then." "No; I beg let me hear the story." "Is it not enough to have seen his portrait? You can now settle your dispute with a word, since you know whether he whom I loved the most resembles your friend who had taken so much wine." "He does not resemble him the least in the world." "Well, that is all: I forgive your visit. Farewell! When you breakfast with your friends, you can take up my defence somewhat. You can tell those libertines without pity, that I have saved myself by my heart, if we can be saved that way.... Yes, yes; it is my plank of safety, in the wreck!"

Saying these words, Mademoiselle de Camargo approached the door of the saloon. Pont-de-Veyle followed her, carrying the ebony-box. "Gentlemen," said he, to his merry friends, "our drunken toper was a coxcomb; I have seen the portrait of the best beloved of the goddess of this mansion; now, you must join your prayers to mine, to prevail upon Mademoiselle de Camargo to relate to us the romance of her heart; I only know the preface, which is melancholy and interesting; I have seen a letter, a bouquet, and a portrait." "I will not tell you a word," muttered she; "women are charged with not being able to keep a secret; there is, however, more than one that they never tell. A love-secret is a rose which embalms our hearts; if it is told, the rose loses its perfume. I who address you," said Mademoiselle de Camargo, in brightening up, "I have only kept my love in all its freshness by keeping it all to myself. There were only La Carton and that old rogue Fontenelle who ever got hold of my secret. Fontenelle was in the habit of dining frequently with me; one day, finding me in tears, he was so surprised, he who never wept himself, from philosophy, doubtless, that he tormented me for more than an hour for a solution of the enigma. He was almost like a woman; he drew from me, by his cat-like worrying, the history of my love. Would you believe it? I hoped to touch his heart, but it was like speaking to the deaf. After having listened to the end without saying a word, he muttered with his little weak voice, ’_It is pretty!_’ La Carton, however, wept with me. It is worth being a poet and a philosopher in order not to understand such histories."

Mademoiselle de Camargo was silent; a deep silence followed, and every look was upon her. "Speak, speak! we are all attention," said Helvetius, "we are more worthy of hearing your story than the old philosopher, who loved no one but himself." "After all," she replied, carried away by the delight of her remembrance, "it will be spending a happy hour; I speak of myself, and as for happy or unhappy hours, not many more are to pass during my life, for I feel that I am passing away. But I do not know how to begin; a fire flashes before my eyes; I cannot see, I am so overcome. To begin: I was twenty.... But I shall never have the courage to read my history aloud before so many people." "Fancy, Mademoiselle de Camargo," said Helvetius, "that you are reading a romance." "Well, then," said she, "I will begin without ceremony."

"I was twenty years old. You are all aware, for the adventure caused a great deal of scandal, you all know how the Count de Melun carried me off one morning along with my sister Sophy. This little mad-cap, who had a great deal of imagination, having discovered me reading a letter of the count’s, in which he spoke of his design, she swore upon her thirteen years that he must carry her off too. I was far from conceding any such claim. It was always taken for granted that children know nothing; but at the opera, and in love, there are no children. The Count de Melun, by means of a bribe, had gained over the chambermaid. I was very culpable; I knew all, and had not informed my father. But my father wearied me somewhat; he preached in the desert; that is to say he preached to me about virtue. He was always talking to me about our noble descent, of our cousin, who was a cardinal, of our uncle, who was a grand inquisitor of the Inquisition. Vanity of vanities! all was vanity with him, while with me all was love. I did not trouble myself about being of an illustrious family; I was handsome, I was worshipped, and, what was still better, I was young.

"In the middle of the night I heard my door open; it was the Count de Melun. I was not asleep, I was expecting him. It is not every woman who would like it that is run away with. I was going to be run away with.

"Love is not only charming in itself, it is so also from its romance. A passion without adventure is like a mistress without caprice. I was seated upon my bed. ’Is it you, Jacqueline?’ I said, affecting fright. ’It is I,’ said the count, falling upon his knees. ’You, sir! Your letter was not a joke then?’ ’My horses are at hand; there is no time to lose; leave this sad prison: my hotel, my fortune, my heart, all are at your service.’ At that moment a light appeared at the door. ’My father!’ I cried, with affright, as I concealed myself behind the bed curtains. ’All is lost,’ muttered the count. It was Sophy. I recognized her light step. She approached with the light in her hand, and in silence, toward the count. ’My sister,’ said she, with some degree of excitement, but without losing her presence of mind, ’here I am, all ready.’ I did not understand; I looked at her with surprise; she was all dressed, from head to foot. ’What are you saying? You are mad.’ ’Not by any means; I want to be run away with, like yourself.’ The Count de Melun could not help laughing. ’Mademoiselle,’ he said to her, ’you forget your dolls and toys. ’Sir,’ replied she, with dignity, ’I am thirteen years old. It was not yesterday that I made my _début_ at the opera; I take a part on the stage in the ravishment of Psyche.’ ’Good,’ says the count, ’we will carry you off too.’ ’It is as well,’ whispered the count in my ear; ’this is the only way of getting rid of her.’

"I was very much put out by this contretemps, which gave a new complication to our adventure. My father might forgive my being carried off, but Sophy! I tried to dissuade her from her mad enterprise. I offered her my ornaments; she would not listen to reason. She declared, that if she was not carried off with me she would inform against us, and thus prevent the adventure. ’Do not oppose her.’ said the count; ’with such a tendency she will be sure to be carried off sooner or later.’—’Well, let us depart together,’ The chambermaid, who had approached with the stealthy, quiet step of a cat, told us to hurry, for she was afraid that the noise of the horses, that were pawing the ground near by, would awaken Monsieur de Camargo. We were off; the carriage drove us to the count’s hotel, rue de la Culture-Saint-Gervais. Sophy laughed and sung. In the morning I wrote to the manager of the opera, that by the advice of my physician it was impossible for me to appear for three weeks. To tell you the truth, gentlemen, in a week’s time I went myself to inform the manager that I would dance that evening. This, you perceive, is not very flattering to the Count de Melun; but there are so few men in this world who are sufficiently interesting for a week together. I loved the count, doubtless, but I wanted to breathe a little without him. I desired the excitement of the theatre. I opened my window, constantly, as if I would fly out of it.

"As soon as I appeared at the opera my father followed my track, and discovered the retreat of his daughters. One evening behind the scenes, he went straight to the count and insulted him. The count answered him, with great deference, that he would avoid the chance of taking the life of a gallant gentleman who had given birth to such a daughter as I was. My father did his best to prove and establish his sixteen quarterings, the count was not willing to fight him. It was about that time that my father presented his famous petition to the Cardinal de Fleury: ’Your petitioner would state to the Lord Cardinal, that the Count de Melun, having carried off his two daughters in the night, between the 10th and 11th of the month of May, 1728, holds them imprisoned in his hotel, rue de la Culture-Saint-Gervais. Your petitioner having to do with a person of rank, is obliged to have recourse to his majesty’s ministers; he hopes, through the goodness of the king, justice will be done him, and that the Count de Melun will be commanded to espouse the elder daughter of your petitioner, and endow the younger.’

"A father could not have done better. The Cardinal de Fleury amused himself a good deal with the petition, and recommended me, one day that we were supping together, for full penance, to make over to my father my salary at the opera. But I find I am not getting on with my story. But what would you have? The beginning is always where we dwell with the greatest pleasure. I had been living in the count’s hotel a year; Sophy had returned to my father’s house, where she did not remain long; but it is not her history that I am relating. One morning a cousin of the count arrived at the hotel in a great bustle; he was about spending a season in Paris, in all the wildness of youth. He took us by surprise at breakfast; he took his seat at table, without ceremony, on the invitation of the count.

"In the beginning he did not strike my fancy; I thought him somewhat of a braggadocio. He cultivated his mustachios with, great care (the finest mustachios in the world), and spoke quite often enough of his prowess in battle. Some visitor interrupting us, the count went into his library, and left us together, _tête-à-tête_. Monsieur de Marteille’s voice, until then proud and haughty in its tone, softened a little. He had at first looked at me with the eye of a soldier; he now looked at me with the eye of a pupil.—’Excuse, madame,’ said he, with some emotion, ’my rude soldier-like bearing; I know nothing of fine manners; I have never passed through the school of gallantry. Do not be offended at any thing I may say.’—’Why, sir,’ said I, smiling, ’you do not say any thing at all.’—’Ah, if I knew how to speak! but, in truth, I would feel more at home before a whole army than I do before your beautiful eyes. The count is very happy in having such a beautiful enemy to contend with.’—While speaking thus, he looked at me with a supplicating tenderness which contrasted singularly with his look of the hero. I do not know what my eyes answered him. The count then came in, and the conversation took another turn.

"Monsieur de Marteille accepted the earnest invitation of his cousin to stay at his hotel. He went out; I did not see him again till evening. He did not know who I was; the count called me Marianne, and, unintentionally, perhaps, he had not spoken a word to his cousin about the opera, or my grace and skill as a dancer. At supper, Monsieur de Marteille had no longer the same frank gayety of the morning; a slight uneasiness passed like a cloud over his brow; more than once I caught his melancholy glance.—’Cheer up your cousin,’ I said to the count.—’I know what he wants,’ answered Monsieur de Melun; ’I will take him to-morrow to the opera. You will see that in that God-forsaken place he will find his good-humor again.’—I felt jealous, without asking myself why.

"Next day the _Triumph of Bacchus_ was played. I appeared as Ariadne, all covered with vine-leaves and flowers. I never danced so badly. I had recognized Monsieur de Marteille among the gentlemen of the court. He looked at me with a serious air. I had hoped to have had an opportunity to speak with him before the end of the ballet, but he had already gone. I was offended at his abrupt departure.—’How!’ said I to myself, ’he sees me dance, and this is the way he makes me his compliments.’—Next morning, he breakfasted with us; he did not say a word about the evening; finally, not being able to resist my impatience, ’Well, Monsieur de Marteille,’ said I to him, somewhat harshly, ’you left early last night; it was hardly polite of you.’—’Ah! when you were to dance no more!’ said he, with a sigh. This was the first time that I was ever spoken to thus. Fearing that he had said too much, and in order to divert Monsieur de Melun, who observed him with a look of surprise, he began to speak of a little singer of no great moment, who had a voice of some freshness.

"In the afternoon, the count detained at home for some reason or other, begged his cousin to accompany me in a ride to the woods. He was to join us on horseback. The idea of this ride made my heart beat violently. It was the first time that I had listened with pleasure to the beatings of my heart.

"We started on a fine summer’s day. Every thing was like a holyday: the sky, the houses, the trees, the horses, and the people. A veil had fallen from my eyes. For some minutes we remained in the deepest silence; not knowing what to do, I amused myself by making a diamond that I wore glisten in the rays of the sun that entered the carriage. Monsieur de Marteille caught hold of my hand. We both said not a word the whole time. I tried to disengage my hand; he held it the harder. I blushed; he turned pale. A jolt of the carriage occurred very opportunely to relieve us from our embarrassment; the jolt had lifted me from my seat; it made me fall upon his bosom.—’Monsieur,’ said I, starting. ’Ah, madame, if you knew how I love you!’—He said this with a tenderness beyond expression; it was love itself that spoke! I had no longer the strength to get angry. He took my hand again and devoured it with kisses. He did not say another word; I tried to speak, but did not know what to say myself. From time to time our looks met each other; it was then that we were eloquent. Such eternal pledges, such promises of happiness!

"Notwithstanding, we arrived at the woods. All of a sudden, as if seized with a new idea, he put his head out of the window, and said something to the coachman. I understood, by the answer of La Violette, the coachman, that he was not willing to obey; but Monsieur de Marteille having alluded to a caning and fifty pistoles, the coachman made no further objections. I did not understand very well what he was about. After an hour’s rapid travelling, as I was looking with some anxiety as to where we were, he tried to divert me by telling me some episodes of his life. Although I did not listen very intelligently to what he said, I heard enough to find out that I was the first woman he had ever loved. They all say so, but he told the truth, for he spoke with his eyes and his heart. I soon found out that we were no longer on our right road; but observe how far the feebleness of a woman in love will go: I hadn’t the courage to ask him why he had changed our route. We crossed the Seine in a boat, between Sèvres and St. Cloud; we regained the woods, and after an hour’s ride through them, we reached an iron park-gate, at the extremity of the village of Velaisy.

"Monsieur de Marteille had counted without his host. He expected not to have found a soul in his brother’s chateau, but, since the evening before, his brother had returned from a journey to the coast of France. Seeing that the chateau was inhabited, Monsieur de Marteille begged me to wait a little in the carriage. As soon as he had gone, the coachman came to the door.—’Well, madame, we breathe at last! my opinion is that we should make our escape. Depend upon the word of La Violette, we shall be in less than two hours at the hotel.’—’La Violette,’ said I, ’open the door.’—I ran a great risk. La Violette obeyed.—’Now,’ said I to him, when I had alighted upon the ground, ’you may go!’—He looked at me with the eye of an old philosopher, mounted his box, and snapped his whip; but he had hardly started, when he thought it better to return.—’I will not return without madame, for if I return alone, I shall be sure of a good heating, and of being discharged.’—’Indeed, La Violette! as you please.’ At that moment I saw the count returning.—’It is all for the best,’ he cried out, in the distance; ’my brother has only two days to spend in Paris: he has stopped here to give his orders; he wishes, at all hazards, to see Camargo dance! I told him that she was to appear this evening. He will leave in a moment. You must wait in the park till he is gone. I will return to him, for I must take my leave of him, and wish him a pleasant journey.

"An hour afterward we were installed in the chateau. La Violette remained, at our order, with his carriage and horses. In the evening there was great excitement at the opera. It was solemnly announced to the public that Mademoiselle de Camargo had been carried off! The Count de Melun surprised at not finding us in the woods, had gone to the theatre. He was hissed; he swore revenge. He sought every where; he found neither his horses, nor his carriage, nor his mistress. For three months the opera was in mourning! Thirty bailiffs were on my track; but we made so little noise in our little chateau, hid away in the woods, that we were never discovered."

Mademoiselle de Camargo became pale; she was silent, and looked at her listeners as if she would say by her looks that had been lighted up at that celestial flame which had passed over her life: "Oh, how we loved each other during those three months!"

She continued as follows: "That season has filled a greater space in my life than all the rest of my days. When I think of the past, it is there where my thoughts travel at once. How relate to you the particulars of our happiness? When destiny protects us, happiness is composed of a thousand charming nothings that the hearts of others cannot understand. During those three months I was entirely happy; I wished to live for ever in this charming retreat for him that I loved a thousand times more than myself. I wished to abandon the opera, that opera that the Count de Melun could not make me forget for a week!

"Monsieur de Marteille possessed all the attraction of a real passion; he loved me with a charming simplicity; he put in play, without designing it, all the seductions of love. What tender words! what impassioned looks! what enticing conversation! Each day was a holyday, each hour a rapture. I had no time to think of the morrow.

"Our days were spent in walks, in the shade of the woods, in the thousand windings of the park. In the evening I played the harpsichord, and I sang. It often occurred that I danced, danced for him. In the middle of a dance that would have excited a furor at the opera, I fell at his feet, completely overcome; he raised me up, pressed me to his heart and forgave me for having danced. I always hear his beautiful voice, which was like music, but such music as I dream of, and not such as Rameau has composed... But now I am speaking without knowing what I say."

Mademoiselle de Camargo turned toward Pont-de-Veyle. "Monsieur," said she, "open that box or rather hand it to me." She took the box, opened it, and took the bouquet from it. "But above all, gentlemen, I must explain to you why I have preserved this bouquet." While saying this she attempted to smell the vanished odor of the bouquet.

"One morning," she resumed, "Monsieur de Marteille awoke me early—’Farewell!’ he said, pale and trembling.—’What are you saying?’ cried I with affright.—’Alas,’ replied he, embracing me, I did not wish to tell you before, but for a fortnight I have had orders to leave. Hostilities are to be resumed in the Low Countries; I have no longer a single hour either for you or for me; I have over forty leagues to travel to-day.’—’Oh, my God, what will become of me?’ said I weeping. ’I will follow you.’—’But, my dear Marianne, I shall return.’—’You will return in an age! Go, cruel one, I shall be dead when you return.’

"An hour was spent in taking leave and in tears; he was obliged to go; he went.

"I returned to weep in that retreat, that was so delightful the evening before. Two days after his departure, he wrote me a very tender letter, in which he told me that on the next day, he would have the consolation of engaging in battle. ’I hope,’ added he, ’that the campaign will not be a long one; some days of hard fighting, and then I return to your feet.’ What more shall I tell you? He wrote me once again."

Mademoiselle de Camargo unfolded slowly the torn letter. "Here is the second letter:—

Oct 17.

"’No, I shall not return, my dear, I am going to die, but without
fear, without reproach. Oh! if you were here, Marianne! What
madness! in a hospital where, all of us, all, be we what we may,
are disfigured with wounds, and dying! What an idea to dash ahead
in the fight, when I only thought of seeing you again. As soon as
I was wounded, I asked the surgeon if I should live long enough to
reach Paris: "You have but an hour," he answered me pitilessly...
They brought me here with the others. In a word, we should learn
to resign ourselves to what comes from Heaven. I die content with
having loved you; console yourself; return to the opera. I am not
jealous of those who shall succeed me, for will they love you as I
have done? Farewell, Marianne, death approaches, and death never
waits; I thank it for having left me sufficient time to bid you
farewell. Now, it will be I who will wait for you.

"’Farewell, farewell, I press you to my heart, which ceases to
beat.’"

After having wiped her eyes, Mademoiselle de Camargo continued as follows: "Shall I describe to you all my sorrows, all my tears, all my anguish! Alas! as he had said, I returned to the opera. I did not forget Monsieur de Marteille, in the tempest of my folly. Others have loved me. I have loved no one but Monsieur de Marteille; his memory has beamed upon my life like a blessing from heaven. When I reappeared at the opera, I was seen attending mass; I was laughed at for my devotion. They did not understand, philosophers as they were, that I prayed to God, in consequence of those words of Monsieur de Martielle: ’Now it will be I who will wait for you.’

"When I left the chateau, I plucked a bouquet in the park, thinking that I was plucking the flowers that had bloomed for him; I brought away this bouquet, along with the portrait that you see there. I had vowed, in leaving our dear retreat, to go every year, at the same season, to gather a bouquet in the park. Will you believe it? I never went there again!"

Mademoiselle de Camargo thus finished her history. "Well, my dear philosopher," said Helvetius to Duclos, in descending the steps, "you have just read a book that is somewhat curious."—"A bad book," answered Duclos, "but such books are always interesting."

In April, 1770, the news spread that Mademoiselle de Camargo had just died a good catholic. "This created a great surprise," says a journal of the day, "in the republic of letters, for she was supposed to have been dead twenty years." Her last admirer and her last friend, to whom she had bequeathed her dogs and her cats, had caused her body to be interred with a magnificence unexampled at the opera. "All the world," says Grimm, "admired that white pall, the symbol of chastity, that all unmarried persons are entitled to in their funeral ceremony."

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.(7)

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.