and this uproar! It's scandalous!"
"Sabine's out of her senses," replied Mme du Joncquoy. "Did you see
her at the door? Look, you can catch sight of her here; she's
wearing all her diamonds."
For a moment or two they stood up in order to take a distant view of
the count and countess. Sabine was in a white dress trimmed with
marvelous English point lace. She was triumphant in beauty; she
looked young and gay, and there was a touch of intoxication in her
continual smile. Beside her stood Muffat, looking aged and a little
pale, but he, too, was smiling in his calm and worthy fashion.
"And just to think that he was once master," continued Mme
Chantereau, "and that not a single rout seat would have come in
without his permission! Ah well, she's changed all that; it's her
house now. D'you remember when she did not want to do her drawing
room up again? She's done up the entire house."
But the ladies grew silent, for Mme de Chezelles was entering the
room, followed by a band of young men. She was going into ecstasies
and marking her approval with a succession of little exclamations.
"Oh, it's delicious, exquisite! What taste!" And she shouted back
to her followers:
"Didn't I say so? There's nothing equal to these old places when
one takes them in hand. They become dazzling! It's quite in the
grand seventeenth-century style. Well, NOW she can receive."
The two old ladies had again sat down and with lowered tones began
talking about the marriage, which was causing astonishment to a good
many people. Estelle had just passed by them. She was in a pink
silk gown and was as pale, flat, silent and virginal as ever. She
had accepted Daguenet very quietly and now evinced neither joy nor
sadness, for she was still as cold and white as on those winter
evenings when she used to put logs on the fire. This whole fete
given in her honor, these lights and flowers and tunes, left her
quite unmoved.
"An adventurer," Mme du Joncquoy was saying. "For my part, I've
never seen him."
"Take care, here he is," whispered Mme Chantereau.
Daguenet, who had caught sight of Mme Hugon and her sons, had
eagerly offered her his arm. He laughed and was effusively
affectionate toward her, as though she had had a hand in his sudden
good fortune.
"Thank you," she said, sitting down near the fireplace. "You see,
it's my old corner."
"You know him?" queried Mme du Joncquoy, when Daguenet had gone.
"Certainly I do--a charming young man. Georges is very fond of him.
Oh, they're a most respected family."
And the good lady defended him against the mute hostility which was
apparent to her. His father, held in high esteem by Louis Philippe,
had been a PREFET up to the time of his death. The son had been a
little dissipated, perhaps; they said he was ruined, but in any
case, one of his uncles, who was a great landowner, was bound to
leave him his fortune. The ladies, however, shook their heads,
while Mme Hugon, herself somewhat embarrassed, kept harking back to
the extreme respectability of his family. She was very much
fatigued and complained of her feet. For some months she had been
occupying her house in the Rue Richelieu, having, as she said, a
whole lot of things on hand. A look of sorrow overshadowed her
smiling, motherly face.
"Never mind," Mme Chantereau concluded. "Estelle could have aimed
at something much better."
There was a flourish. A quadrille was about to begin, and the crowd
flowed back to the sides of the drawing room in order to leave the
floor clear. Bright dresses flitted by and mingled together amid
the dark evening coats, while the intense light set jewels flashing
and white plumes quivering and lilacs and roses gleaming and
flowering amid the sea of many heads. It was already very warm, and
a penetrating perfume was exhaled from light tulles and crumpled
silks and satins, from which bare shoulders glimmered white, while
the orchestra played its lively airs. Through open doors ranges of
seated ladies were visible in the background of adjoining rooms;
they flashed a discreet smile; their eyes glowed, and they made
pretty mouths as the breath of their fans caressed their faces. And
guests still kept arriving, and a footman announced their names
while gentlemen advanced slowly amid the surrounding groups,
striving to find places for ladies, who hung with difficulty on
their arms, and stretching forward in quest of some far-off vacant
armchair. The house kept filling, and crinolined skirts got jammed
together with a little rustling sound. There were corners where an
amalgam of laces, bunches and puffs would completely bar the way,
while all the other ladies stood waiting, politely resigned and
imperturbably graceful, as became people who were made to take part
in these dazzling crushes. Meanwhile across the garden couples, who
had been glad to escape from the close air of the great drawing
room, were wandering away under the roseate gleam of the Venetian
lamps, and shadowy dresses kept flitting along the edge of the lawn,
as though in rhythmic time to the music of the quadrille, which
sounded sweet and distant behind the trees.
Steiner had just met with Foucarmont and La Faloise, who were
drinking a glass of champagne in front of the buffet.
"It's beastly smart," said La Faloise as he took a survey of the
purple tent, which was supported by gilded lances. "You might fancy
yourself at the Gingerbread Fair. That's it--the Gingerbread Fair!"
In these days he continually affected a bantering tone, posing as
the young man who has abused every mortal thing and now finds
nothing worth taking seriously.
"How surprised poor Vandeuvres would be if he were to come back,"
murmured Foucarmont. "You remember how he simply nearly died of
boredom in front of the fire in there. Egad, it was no laughing
matter."
"Vandeuvres--oh, let him be. He's a gone coon!" La Faloise
disdainfully rejoined. "He jolly well choused himself, he did, if
he thought he could make us sit up with his roast-meat story! Not a
soul mentions it now. Blotted out, done for, buried--that's what's
the matter with Vandeuvres! Here's to the next man!"
Then as Steiner shook hands with him:
"You know Nana's just arrived. Oh, my boys, it was a state entry.
It was too brilliant for anything! First of all she kissed the
countess. Then when the children came up she gave them her blessing
and said to Daguenet, 'Listen, Paul, if you go running after the
girls you'll have to answer for it to me.' What, d'you mean to say
you didn't see that? Oh, it WAS smart. A success, if you like!"
The other two listened to him, openmouthed, and at last burst out
laughing. He was enchanted and thought himself in his best vein.
"You thought it had really happened, eh? Confound it, since Nana's
made the match! Anyway, she's one of the family."
The young Hugons were passing, and Philippe silenced him. And with
that they chatted about the marriage from the male point of view.
Georges was vexed with La Faloise for telling an anecdote.
Certainly Nana had fubbed off on Muffat one of her old flames as
son-in-law; only it was not true that she had been to bed with
Daguenet as lately as yesterday. Foucarmont made bold to shrug his
shoulders. Could anyone ever tell when Nana was in bed with anyone?
But Georges grew excited and answered with an "I can tell, sir!"
which set them all laughing. In a word, as Steiner put it, it was
all a very funny kettle of fish!
The buffet was gradually invaded by the crowd, and, still keeping
together, they vacated their positions there. La Faloise stared
brazenly at the women as though he believed himself to be Mabille.
At the end of a garden walk the little band was surprised to find M.
Venot busily conferring with Daguenet, and with that they indulged
in some facile pleasantries which made them very merry. He was
confessing him, giving him advice about the bridal night! Presently
they returned in front of one of the drawing-room doors, within
which a polka was sending the couples whirling to and fro till they
seemed to leave a wake behind them among the crowd of men who
remained standing about. In the slight puffs of air which came from
outside the tapers flared up brilliantly, and when a dress floated
by in time to the rat-tat of the measure, a little gust of wind
cooled the sparkling heat which streamed down from the lusters.
"Egad, they're not cold in there!" muttered La Faloise.
They blinked after emerging from the mysterious shadows of the
garden. Then they pointed out to one another the Marquis de Chouard
where he stood apart, his tall figure towering over the bare
shoulders which surrounded him. His face was pale and very stern,
and beneath its crown of scant white hair it wore an expression of
lofty dignity. Scandalized by Count Muffat's conduct, he had
publicly broken off all intercourse with him and was by way of never
again setting foot in the house. If he had consented to put in an
appearance that evening it was because his granddaughter had begged
him to. But he disapproved of her marriage and had inveighed
indignantly against the way in which the government classes were
being disorganized by the shameful compromises engendered by modern
debauchery.
"Ah, it's the end of all things," Mme du Joncquoy whispered in Mme
Chantereau's ear as she sat near the fireplace. "That bad woman has
bewitched the unfortunate man. And to think we once knew him such a
true believer, such a noblehearted gentleman!"
"It appears he is ruining himself," continued Mme Chantereau. "My
husband has had a bill of his in his hands. At present he's living
in that house in the Avenue de Villiers; all Paris is talking about
it. Good heavens! I don't make excuses for Sabine, but you must
admit that he gives her infinite cause of complaint, and, dear me,
if she throws money out of the window, too--"
"She does not only throw money," interrupted the other. "In fact,
between them, there's no knowing where they'll stop; they'll end in
the mire, my dear."
But just then a soft voice interrupted them. It was M. Venot, and
he had come and seated himself behind them, as though anxious to
disappear from view. Bending forward, he murmured:
"Why despair? God manifests Himself when all seems lost."
He was assisting peacefully at the downfall of the house which he
erewhile governed. Since his stay at Les Fondettes he had been
allowing the madness to increase, for he was very clearly aware of
his own powerlessness. He had, indeed, accepted the whole position--
the count's wild passion for Nana, Fauchery's presence, even
Estelle's marriage with Daguenet. What did these things matter? He
even became more supple and mysterious, for he nursed a hope of
being able to gain the same mastery over the young as over the
disunited couple, and he knew that great disorders lead to great
conversions. Providence would have its opportunity.
"Our friend," he continued in a low voice, "is always animated by
the best religious sentiments. He has given me the sweetest proofs
of this."
"Well," said Mme du Joncquoy, "he ought first to have made it up
with his wife."
"Doubtless. At this moment I have hopes that the reconciliation
will be shortly effected."
Whereupon the two old ladies questioned him.
But he grew very humble again. "Heaven," he said, "must be left to
act." His whole desire in bringing the count and the countess
together again was to avoid a public scandal, for religion tolerated
many faults when the proprieties were respected.
"In fact," resumed Mme du Joncquoy, "you ought to have prevented
this union with an adventurer."
The little old gentleman assumed an expression of profound
astonishment. "You deceive yourself. Monsieur Daguenet is a young
man of the greatest merit. I am acquainted with his thoughts; he is
anxious to live down the errors of his youth. Estelle will bring
him back to the path of virtue, be sure of that."
"Oh, Estelle!" Mme Chantereau murmured disdainfully. "I believe the
dear young thing to be incapable of willing anything; she is so
insignificant!"
This opinion caused M. Venot to smile. However, he went into no
explanations about the young bride and, shutting his eyes, as though
to avoid seeming to take any further interest in the matter, he once
more lost himself in his corner behind the petticoats. Mme Hugon,
though weary and absent-minded, had caught some phrases of the
conversation, and she now intervened and summed up in her tolerant
way by remarking to the Marquis de Chouard, who just then bowed to
her:
"These ladies are too severe. Existence is so bitter for every one
of us! Ought we not to forgive others much, my friend, if we wish
to merit forgiveness ourselves?"
For some seconds the marquis appeared embarrassed, for he was afraid
of allusions. But the good lady wore so sad a smile that he
recovered almost at once and remarked:
"No, there is no forgiveness for certain faults. It is by reason of
this kind of accommodating spirit that a society sinks into the
abyss of ruin."
The ball had grown still more animated. A fresh quadrille was
imparting a slight swaying motion to the drawing-room floor, as
though the old dwelling had been shaken by the impulse of the dance.
