Parisian Points of View Part 7

While Mme. Caron was marvellously singing the marvellous phrase of Reyer, "_o mon sauveur silencieux la Valkyrie est ta conquete_," the prince strolled along the pa.s.sages of the opera. Who was that blonde? He wanted to know, and he would know.

And suddenly he remembered that good Mme. Picard was the box-opener of the Sainte Mesmes, and that he, Prince of Nerins, had had the honor of being for a long time a friend of that good Mme. Picard. It was she who in the last years of the Second Empire had taught him bezique in all its varieties--j.a.panese, Chinese, etc. He was then twenty, Mme. Picard was forty. She was not then box-opener of the National Academy of Music; she had in those times as office--and it was not a sinecure--the position of aunt to a nice young person who showed a very pretty face and a very pretty pair of legs in the chorus of the _revues_ of the Varietee. And the prince, while quite young, at the beginning of his life, had, for three or four years, led a peaceful, almost domestic life, with the aunt and niece. Then they went off one way and he another.

One evening at the opera, ten years later, in handing his overcoat to a venerable-looking old dame, Agenor heard himself saluted by the following little speech:

"Ah, how happy I am to see you again, prince! And not changed--not at all changed. Still the same, absolutely the same--still twenty."

It was Mme. Picard, who had been raised to the dignity of box-opener.

They chatted, talked of old times, and after that evening the prince never pa.s.sed Mme. Picard without greeting her. She responded with a little deferential courtesy. She was one of those people, becoming rarer and rarer nowadays, who have the exact feeling for distances and conventions. There was, however, a little remnant of familiarity, almost of affection, in the way in which she said "prince." This did not displease Agenor; he had a very good recollection of Mme. Picard.

"Ah, prince," said Mme. Picard on seeing Agenor, "there is no one for you to-night in _my_ boxes. Mme. de Simiane is not here, and Mme. de Sainte Mesme has rented her box."

"That's precisely it. Don't you know the people in Mme. de Sainte Mesme's box?"

"Not at all, prince. It's the first time I have seen them in the marquise's box--"

"Then you have no idea--"

"None, prince. Only to me they don't appear to be people of--"

She was going to say of _our_ set. A box-opener of the first tier of boxes at the opera, having generally only to do with absolutely high-born people, considers herself as being a little of their set, and shows extreme disdain for unimportant people; it displeases her to receive these unimportant people in _her_ boxes. Mme. Picard, however, had tact which rarely forsook her, and so stopped herself in time to say:

"People of _your_ set. They belong to the middle cla.s.s, to the wealthy middle cla.s.s; but still the middle cla.s.s. That doesn't satisfy you; you wish to know more on account of the blonde. Is it not so, prince?"

Those last words were spoken with rare delicacy; they were murmured more than spoken--box-opener to a prince! It would have been unacceptable without that perfect reserve in accent and tone; yes, it was a box-opener who spoke, but a box-opener who was a little bit the aunt of former times, the aunt _a la mode de Cythere_. Mme. Picard continued:

"Ah, she is a beauty! She came with a little dark man--her husband, I'm sure; for while she was taking off her cloak--it always takes some time--he didn't say a word to her. No eagerness, no little attentions.

Yes, he could only be a husband. I examined the cloak. People one doesn't know puzzle me and _my_ colleague. Mme. Flachet and I always amuse ourselves by trying to guess from appearances. Well, the cloak comes from a good dress-maker, but not from a great one. It is fine and well-made, but it has no style. I think they are middle-cla.s.s people, prince. But how stupid I am! You know M. Palmer--well, a little while ago he came to see the beautiful blonde!"

"M. Palmer?"

"Yes, and he can tell you."

"Thanks, Mme. Picard, thanks--"

"Good-bye, prince, good-bye," and Mme. Picard went back to her stool, near her colleague, Mme. Flachet, and said to her:

"Ah, my dear, what a charming man the prince is! True gentlefolks, there is nothing like them! But they are dying out, they are dying out; there are many less than formerly."

Prince Agenor was willing to do Palmer--big Palmer, rich Palmer, vain Palmer--the honor of being one of his friends; he deigned, and very frequently, to confide to Palmer his financial difficulties, and the banker was delighted to come to his aid. The prince had been obliged to resign himself to becoming a member of two boards of directors presided over by Palmer, who was much pleased at having under obligations to him the representative of one of the n.o.blest families in France. Besides, the prince proved himself to be a _good prince_, and publicly acknowledged Palmer, showing himself in his box, taking charge of his entertainments, and occupying himself with his racing-stable. He had even pushed his grat.i.tude to the point of compromising Mme. Palmer in the most showy way.

"I am removing her from the middle cla.s.s," he said; "I owe it to Palmer, who is one of the best fellows in the world."

The prince found the banker alone in a lower box.

"What is the name--the name of that blonde in the Sainte Mesme's box?"

"Mme. Derline."

"Is there a M. Derline?"

"Certainly, a lawyer--my lawyer; the Sainte Mesme's lawyer. And if you want to see Mme. Derline close to, come to my ball next Thursday. She will be there--"

The wife of a lawyer!. She was only the wife of a lawyer! The prince sat down in the front of the box, opposite Mme. Derline, and while looking at that lawyeress he was thinking. "Have I," he said to himself, "sufficient credit, sufficient power, to make of Mme. Derline the most beautiful woman in Paris?"

For there was always a _most beautiful woman in Paris_, and it was he, Prince Agenor, who flattered himself that he could discover, proclaim, crown, and consecrate that most beautiful woman in Paris. Launch Mme.

Derline in society! Why not? He had never launched any one from the middle cla.s.s. The enterprise would be new, amusing, and bold. He looked at Mme. Derline through his opera-gla.s.s, and discovered thousands of beauties and perfections in her delightful face.

After the opera, the prince, during the exit, placed himself at the bottom of the great staircase. He had enlisted two of his friends.

"Come," he had said to them, "I will show you the most beautiful woman in Paris." While he was speaking, two steps away from the prince was an alert young man who was attached to a morning paper, a very widely-read paper. The young man had sharp ears, he caught on the fly the phrase of the Prince Agenor, whose high social position he knew; he succeeded in keeping close to the prince, and when Mme. Derline pa.s.sed, the young reporter had the gift of hearing the conversation, without losing a word, of the three brilliant n.o.blemen. A quarter of an hour later he arrived at the office of the paper.

"Is there time," he asked, "to write a dozen lines in the _Society Note-book_?"

"Yes, but hurry."

The young man was a quick writer; the fifteen lines were done in the twinkling of an eye. They brought seven francs fifty to the reporter, but cost M. Derline a little more than that.

During this time Prince Agenor, seated in the club at the whist-table, was saying, while shuffling the cards:

"This evening at the opera there was a marvellous woman, a certain Mme.

Derline. She is the most beautiful woman in Paris!"

The following morning, in the gossip-corner of the Bois, in the spring suns.h.i.+ne, the prince, surrounded by a little group of respectful disciples, was solemnly delivering from the back of his roan mare the following opinion:

"Listen well to what I say. The most beautiful woman in Paris is a certain Mme. Derline. This star will be visible Thursday evening at the Palmer's. Go, and don't forget the name--Mme. Derline."

The disciples dispersed, and went abroad spreading the great news.

Mme. Derline had been admirably brought up by an irreproachable mother; she had been taught that she ought to get up in the morning, keep a strict account of her expenses, not go to a great dress-maker, believe in G.o.d, love her husband, visit the poor, and never spend but half her income in order to prepare dowries for her daughters. Mme. Derline performed all these duties. She led a peaceful and serene life in the old house (in the Rue Dragon) which had sheltered, since 1825, three generations of Derlines; the husbands had all three been lawyers, the wives had all three been virtuous. The three generations had pa.s.sed there a happy and moderate life, never having any great pleasures, but, also, never being very bored.

The next day at eight o'clock in the morning Mme. Derline awoke with an uneasy feeling. She had pa.s.sed a troubled night--she, who usually slept like a child. The evening before at the opera, in the box, Mme. Derline had vaguely felt that something was going on around her. And during the entire last act an opera-gla.s.s, obstinately fixed on her--the prince's opera-gla.s.s--had thrown her into a certain agitation, not disagreeable, however. She wore a low dress--too much so, in her mother's opinion--and two or three times, under the fixity of that opera-gla.s.s, she had raised the shoulder-straps of her dress.

So, after opening her eyes, Mme. Derline reclosed them lazily, indolently, with thoughts floating between dreamland and reality. She again saw the opera-house, and a hundred, two hundred, five hundred opera-gla.s.ses obstinately fixed on her--on her alone.

The maid entered, placed a tray on a little table, made up a big fire in the fire-place, and went away. There was a cup of chocolate and the morning paper on the tray, the same as every morning. Then Mme. Derline courageously got up, slipped her little bare feet into fur slippers, wrapped herself in a white cashmere dressing-gown, and crouched s.h.i.+vering in an arm-chair by the fire. She sipped the chocolate, and slightly burned herself; she must wait a little while. She put down the cup, took up the paper, unfolded it, and rapidly ran her eye over the six columns of the front page. At the bottom, quite at the bottom of the sixth column, were the following lines:

_Last evening at the opera there was a very brilliant performance of "Sigurd." Society was well represented there; the beautiful d.u.c.h.ess of Montaiglon, the pretty Countess Verdiniere of Lardac, the marvellous Marquise of Muriel, the lively Baroness of_--

To read the name of the baroness it was necessary to turn the page. Mme.

Derline did not turn it; she was thinking, reflecting. The evening before she had amused herself by having Palmer point out to her the social leaders in the house, and it so happened that the banker had pointed out to her the marvellous marquise. And Mme. Derline--who was twenty-two--raised herself a little to look in the gla.s.s. She exchanged a slight smile with a young blonde, who was very pink and white.

"Ah," she said to herself, "if I were a marquise the man who wrote this would perhaps have paid some attention to me, and my name would perhaps be there. I wonder if it's fun to see one's name printed in a paper?"

And while addressing this question to herself, she turned the page, and continued reading:

--_the lively Baroness of Myrvoix, etc. We have to announce the appearance of a new star which has abruptly burst forth in the Parisian constellation. The house was in ecstasy over a strange and disturbing blonde, whose dark steel eyes, and whose shoulders--ah, what shoulders! The shoulders were the event of the evening. From all quarters one heard asked, "Who is she?" "Who is she?" "To whom do those divine shoulders belong?" "To whom?" We know, and our readers will doubtless thank us for telling them the name of this ideal wonder. It is Mme. Derline._

Her name! She had read her name! She was dazzled. Her eyes clouded. All the letters in the alphabet began to dance wildly on the paper. Then they calmed down, stopped, and regained their places. She was able to find her name, and continue reading;