第 14 页

despair, "we'll arrange it all."

However, at that moment a servant came in to say that M. Duthil was

downstairs and wished to speak to the Baron in the smoking-room.

Duvillard was astonished at this, for Duthil usually came up as though

the house were his own. Then he reflected that the deputy had doubtless

brought him some serious news from the Chamber which he wished to impart

to him confidentially at once. So he followed the servant, leaving Gerard

and Silviane together.

In the smoking-room, an apartment communicating with the hall by a wide

bay, the curtain of which was drawn up, Pierre stood with his companion,

waiting and glancing curiously around him. What particularly struck him

was the almost religious solemnness of the entrance, the heavy hangings,

the mystic gleams of the stained-glass, the old furniture steeped in

chapel-like gloom amidst scattered perfumes of myrrh and incense. Duthil,

who was still very gay, tapped a low divan with his cane and said: "She

has a nicely-furnished house, eh? Oh! she knows how to look after her

interests."

Then the Baron came in, still quite upset and anxious. And without even

perceiving the priest, desirous as he was of tidings, he began: "Well,

what did they do? Is there some very bad news, then?"

"Mege interpellated and applied for a declaration of urgency so as to

overthrow Barroux. You can imagine what his speech was."

"Yes, yes, against the _bourgeois_, against me, against you. It's always

the same thing--And then?"

"Then--well, urgency wasn't voted, but, in spite of a very fine defence,

Barroux only secured a majority of two votes."

"Two votes, the devil! Then he's down, and we shall have a Vignon

ministry next week."

"That's what everybody said in the lobbies."

The Baron frowned, as if he were estimating what good or evil might

result to the world from such a change. Then, with a gesture of

displeasure, he said: "A Vignon ministry! The devil! that would hardly be

any better. Those young democrats pretend to be virtuous, and a Vignon

ministry wouldn't admit Silviane to the Comedie."

This, at first, was his only thought in presence of the crisis which made

the political world tremble. And so the deputy could not refrain from

referring to his own anxiety. "Well, and we others, what is our position

in it all?"

This brought Duvillard back to the situation. With a fresh gesture, this

time a superbly proud one, he expressed his full and impudent confidence.

"We others, why we remain as we are; we've never been in peril, I

imagine. Oh! I am quite at ease. Sagnier can publish his famous list if

it amuses him to do so. If we haven't long since bought Sagnier and his

list, it's because Barroux is a thoroughly honest man, and for my part I

don't care to throw money out of the window--I repeat to you that we fear

nothing."

Then, as he at last recognised Abbe Froment, who had remained in the

shade, Duthil explained what service the priest desired of him. And

Duvillard, in his state of emotion, his heart still rent by Silviane's

sternness, must have felt a covert hope that a good action might bring

him luck; so he at once consented to intervene in favour of Laveuve's

admission. Taking a card and a pencil from his pocket-book he drew near

to the window. "Oh! whatever you desire, Monsieur l'Abbe," he said, "I

shall be very happy to participate in this good work. Here, this is what

I have written: 'My dear, please do what M. l'Abbe Froment solicits in

favour of this unfortunate man, since our friend Fonsegue only awaits a

word from you to take proper steps.'"

At this moment through the open bay Pierre caught sight of Gerard, whom

Silviane, calm once more, and inquisitive no doubt to know why Duthil had

called, was escorting into the hall. And the sight of the young woman

filled him with astonishment, so simple and gentle did she seem to him,

full of the immaculate candour of a virgin. Never had he dreamt of a lily

of more unobtrusive yet delicious bloom in the whole garden of innocence.

"Now," continued Duvillard, "if you wish to hand this card to my wife at

once, you must go to the Princess de Harn's, where there is a

_matinee_--"

"I was going there, Monsieur le Baron."

"Very good. You will certainly find my wife there; she is to take the

children there." Then he paused, for he too had just seen Gerard; and he

called him: "I say, Gerard, my wife said that she was going to that

_matinee_, didn't she? You feel sure--don't you?--that Monsieur l'Abbe

will find her there?"

Although the young man was then going to the Rue Matignon, there to wait

for Eve, it was in the most natural manner possible that he replied: "If

Monsieur l'Abbe makes haste, I think he will find her there, for she was

certainly going there before trying on a corsage at Salmon's."

Then he kissed Silviane's hand, and went off with the air of a handsome,

indolent man, who knows no malice, and is even weary of pleasure.

Pierre, feeling rather embarrassed, was obliged to let Duvillard

introduce him to the mistress of the house. He bowed in silence, whilst

she, likewise silent, returned his bow with modest reserve, the tact

appropriate to the occasion, such as no _ingenue_, even at the Comedie,

was then capable of. And while the Baron accompanied the priest to the

door, she returned to the _salon_ with Duthil, who was scarcely screened

by the door-curtain before he passed his arm round her waist.

When Pierre, who at last felt confident of success, found himself, still

in his cab, in front of the Princess de Harn's mansion in the Avenue

Kleber, he suddenly relapsed into great embarrassment. The avenue was

crowded with carriages brought thither by the musical _matinee_, and such

a throng of arriving guests pressed round the entrance, decorated with a

kind of tent with scallopings of red velvet, that he deemed the house

unapproachable. How could he manage to get in? And how in his cassock

could he reach the Princess, and ask for a minute's conversation with

Baroness Duvillard? Amidst all his feverishness he had not thought of

these difficulties. However, he was approaching the door on foot, asking

himself how he might glide unperceived through the throng, when the sound

of a merry voice made him turn: "What, Monsieur l'Abbe! Is it possible!

So now I find you here!"

It was little Massot who spoke. He went everywhere, witnessed ten sights

a day,--a parliamentary sitting, a funeral, a wedding, any festive or

mourning scene,--when he wanted a good subject for an article. "What!

Monsieur l'Abbe," he resumed, "and so you have come to our amiable

Princess's to see the Mauritanians dance!"

He was jesting, for the so-called Mauritanians were simply six Spanish

dancing-girls, who by the sensuality of their performance were then

making all Paris rush to the Folies-Bergere. For drawing-room

entertainments these girls reserved yet more indecorous dances--dances of

such a character indeed that they would certainly not have been allowed

in a theatre. And the _beau monde_ rushed to see them at the houses of

the bolder lady-entertainers, the eccentric and foreign ones like the

Princess, who in order to draw society recoiled from no "attraction."

But when Pierre had explained to little Massot that he was still running

about on the same business, the journalist obligingly offered to pilot

him. He knew the house, obtained admittance by a back door, and brought

Pierre along a passage into a corner of the hall, near the very entrance

of the grand drawing-room. Lofty green plants decorated this hall, and in

the spot selected Pierre was virtually hidden. "Don't stir, my dear

Abbe," said Massot, "I will try to ferret out the Princess for you. And

you shall know if Baroness Duvillard has already arrived."

What surprised Pierre was that every window-shutter of the mansion was

closed, every chink stopped up so that daylight might not enter, and that

every room flared with electric lamps, an illumination of supernatural

intensity. The heat was already very great, the atmosphere heavy with a

violent perfume of flowers and _odore di femina_. And to Pierre, who felt

both blinded and stifled, it seemed as if he were entering one of those

luxurious, unearthly Dens of the Flesh such as the pleasure-world of

Paris conjures from dreamland. By rising on tiptoes, as the drawing-room

entrance was wide open, he could distinguish the backs of the women who

were already seated, rows of necks crowned with fair or dark hair. The

Mauritanians were doubtless executing their first dance. He did not see

them, but he could divine the lascivious passion of the dance from the

quiver of all those women's necks, which swayed as beneath a great gust

of wind. Then laughter arose and a tempest of bravos, quite a tumult of

enjoyment.

"I can't put my hand on the Princess; you must wait a little," Massot

returned to say. "I met Janzen and he promised to bring her to me. Don't

you know Janzen?"

Then, in part because his profession willed it, and in part for

pleasure's sake, he began to gossip. The Princess was a good friend of

his. He had described her first _soiree_ during the previous year, when

she had made her _debut_ at that mansion on her arrival in Paris. He knew

the real truth about her so far as it could be known. Rich? yes, perhaps

she was, for she spent enormous sums. Married she must have been, and to

a real prince, too; no doubt she was still married to him, in spite of

her story of widowhood. Indeed, it seemed certain that her husband, who

was as handsome as an archangel, was travelling about with a vocalist. As

for having a bee in her bonnet that was beyond discussion, as clear as

noonday. Whilst showing much intelligence, she constantly and suddenly

shifted. Incapable of any prolonged effort, she went from one thing that

had awakened her curiosity to another, never attaching herself anywhere.

After ardently busying herself with painting, she had lately become

impassioned for chemistry, and was now letting poetry master her.

"And so you don't know Janzen," continued Massot. "It was he who threw

her into chemistry, into the study of explosives especially, for, as you

may imagine, the only interest in chemistry for her is its connection

with Anarchism. She, I think, is really an Austrian, though one must

always doubt anything she herself says. As for Janzen, he calls himself a

Russian, but he's probably German. Oh! he's the most unobtrusive,

enigmatical man in the world, without a home, perhaps without a name--a

terrible fellow with an unknown past. I myself hold proofs which make me

think that he took part in that frightful crime at Barcelona. At all

events, for nearly a year now I've been meeting him in Paris, where the

police no doubt are watching him. And nothing can rid me of the idea that

he merely consented to become our lunatic Princess's lover in order to

throw the detectives off the scent. He affects to live in the midst of

_fetes_, and he has introduced to the house some extraordinary people,

Anarchists of all nationalities and all colours--for instance, one

Raphanel, that fat, jovial little man yonder, a Frenchman he is, and his

companions would do well to mistrust him. Then there's a Bergaz, a

Spaniard, I think, an obscure jobber at the Bourse, whose sensual,

blobber-lipped mouth is so disquieting. And there are others and others,

adventurers and bandits from the four corners of the earth!... Ah! the

foreign colonies of our Parisian pleasure-world! There are a few spotless

fine names, a few real great fortunes among them, but as for the rest,

ah! what a herd!"

Rosemonde's own drawing-room was summed up in those words: resounding

titles, real millionaires, then, down below, the most extravagant medley

of international imposture and turpitude. And Pierre thought of that

internationalism, that cosmopolitanism, that flight of foreigners which,

ever denser and denser, swooped down upon Paris. Most certainly it came

thither to enjoy it, as to a city of adventure and delight, and it helped

to rot it a little more. Was it then a necessary thing, that

decomposition of the great cities which have governed the world, that

affluxion of every passion, every desire, every gratification, that

accumulation of reeking soil from all parts of the world, there where, in

beauty and intelligence, blooms the flower of civilisation?

However, Janzen appeared, a tall, thin fellow of about thirty, very fair

with grey, pale, harsh eyes, and a pointed beard and flowing curly hair

which elongated his livid, cloudy face. He spoke indifferent French in a

low voice and without a gesture. And he declared that the Princess could

not be found; he had looked for her everywhere. Possibly, if somebody had

displeased her, she had shut herself up in her room and gone to bed,

leaving her guests to amuse themselves in all freedom in whatever way

they might choose.

"Why, but here she is!" suddenly said Massot.

Rosemonde was indeed there, in the vestibule, watching the door as if she

expected somebody. Short, slight, and strange rather than pretty, with

her delicate face, her sea-green eyes, her small quivering nose, her

rather large and over-ruddy mouth, which was parted so that one could see

her superb teeth, she that day wore a sky-blue gown spangled with silver;

and she had silver bracelets on her arms and a silver circlet in her pale

brown hair, which rained down in curls and frizzy, straggling locks as

though waving in a perpetual breeze.

"Oh! whatever you desire, Monsieur l'Abbe," she said to Pierre as soon as

she knew his business. "If they don't take your old man in at our asylum,

send him to me, I'll take him, I will; I will sleep him somewhere here."