第 39 页

And to the class of men with whom she consorted her great attraction, as

she was well aware, lay in the circumstance that with her virginal

countenance and her air of ideal purity was coupled the most monstrous

perversity ever displayed by any shameless woman. Despite her innocent

blue eyes and lily-like candour, she would give rein, particularly when

she was drunk, to the most diabolical of fancies.

Duvillard let her drink on, but she guessed his thoughts, like she

guessed those of the others, and simply smiled while concocting

impossible stories and descanting fantastically in the language of the

gutter. And seeing her there in her dazzling gown fit for a queenly

virgin, and hearing her pour forth the vilest words, they thought her

most wonderfully droll. However, when she had drunk as much champagne as

she cared for and was half crazy, a novel idea suddenly occurred to her.

"I say, my children," she exclaimed, "we are surely not going to stop

here. It's so precious slow! You shall take me to the Chamber of

Horrors--eh? just to finish the evening. I want to hear Legras sing 'La

Chemise,' that song which all Paris is running to hear him sing."

But Duvillard indignantly rebelled: "Oh! no," said he; "most certainly

not. It's a vile song and I'll never take you to such an abominable

place."

But she did not appear to hear him. She had already staggered to her feet

and was arranging her hair before a looking-glass. "I used to live at

Montmartre," she said, "and it'll amuse me to go back there. And,

besides, I want to know if this Legras is a Legras that I knew, oh! ever

so long ago! Come, up you get, and let us be off!"

"But, my dear girl," pleaded Duvillard, "we can't take you into that den

dressed as you are! Just fancy your entering that place in a low-necked

gown and covered with diamonds! Why everyone would jeer at us! Come,

Gerard, just tell her to be a little reasonable."

Gerard, equally offended by the idea of such a freak, was quite willing

to intervene. But she closed his mouth with her gloved hand and repeated

with the gay obstinacy of intoxication: "Pooh, it will be all the more

amusing if they do jeer at us! Come, let us be off, let us be off,

quick!"

Thereupon Duthil, who had been listening with a smile and the air of a

man of pleasure whom nothing astonishes or displeases, gallantly took her

part. "But, my dear Baron, everybody goes to the Chamber of Horrors,"

said he. "Why, I myself have taken the noblest ladies there, and

precisely to hear that song of Legras, which is no worse than anything

else."

"Ah! you hear what Duthil says!" cried Silviane. "He's a deputy, he is,

and he wouldn't go there if he thought it would compromise his

honorability!"

Then, as Duvillard still struggled on in despair at the idea of

exhibiting himself with her in such a scandalous place, she became all

the merrier: "Well, my dear fellow, please yourself. I don't need you.

You and Gerard can go home if you like. But I'm going to Montmartre with

Duthil. You'll take charge of me, won't you, Duthil, eh?"

Still, the Baron was in no wise disposed to let the evening finish in

that fashion. The mere idea of it gave him a shock, and he had to resign

himself to the girl's stubborn caprice. The only consolation he could

think of was to secure Gerard's presence, for the young man, with some

lingering sense of decorum, still obstinately refused to make one of the

party. So the Baron took his hands and detained him, repeating in urgent

tones that he begged him to come as an essential mark of friendship. And

at last the wife's lover and daughter's suitor had to give way to the man

who was the former's husband and the latter's father.

Silviane was immensely amused by it all, and, indiscreetly thee-ing and

thou-ing Gerard, suggested that he at least owed the Baron some little

compliance with his wishes.

Duvillard pretended not to hear her. He was listening to Duthil, who told

him that there was a sort of box in a corner of the Chamber of Horrors,

in which one could in some measure conceal oneself. And then, as

Silviane's carriage--a large closed landau, whose coachman, a sturdy,

handsome fellow, sat waiting impassively on his box--was down below, they

started off.

The Chamber of Horrors was installed in premises on the Boulevard de

Rochechouart, formerly occupied by a cafe whose proprietor had become

bankrupt.* It was a suffocating place, narrow, irregular, with all sorts

of twists, turns, and secluded nooks, and a low and smoky ceiling. And

nothing could have been more rudimentary than its decorations. The walls

had simply been placarded with posters of violent hues, some of the

crudest character, showing the barest of female figures. Behind a piano

at one end there was a little platform reached by a curtained doorway.

For the rest, one simply found a number of bare wooden forms set

alongside the veriest pot-house tables, on which the glasses containing

various beverages left round and sticky marks. There was no luxury, no

artistic feature, no cleanliness even. Globeless gas burners flared

freely, heating a dense mist compounded of tobacco smoke and human

breath. Perspiring, apoplectical faces could be perceived through this

veil, and an acrid odour increased the intoxication of the assembly,

which excited itself with louder and louder shouts at each fresh song. It

had been sufficient for an enterprising fellow to set up these boards,

bring out Legras, accompanied by two or three girls, make him sing his

frantic and abominable songs, and in two or three evenings overwhelming

success had come, all Paris being enticed and flocking to the place,

which for ten years or so had failed to pay as a mere cafe, where by way

of amusement petty cits had been simply allowed their daily games at

dominoes.

* Those who know Paris will identify the site selected by M. Zola

as that where 'Colonel' Lisbonne of the Commune installed his

den the 'Bagne' some years ago. Nevertheless, such places as the

'Chamber of Horrors' now abound in the neighbourhood of

Montmartre, and it must be admitted that whilst they are

frequented by certain classes of Frenchmen they owe much of

their success in a pecuniary sense to the patronage of

foreigners. Among the latter, Englishmen are particularly

conspicuous.--Trans.

And the change had been caused by the passion for filth, the irresistible

attraction exercised by all that brought opprobrium and disgust. The

Paris of enjoyment, the _bourgeoisie_ which held all wealth and power,

which would relinquish naught of either, though it was surfeited and

gradually wearying of both, simply hastened to the place in order that

obscenity and insult might be flung in its face. Hypnotised, as it were,

while staggering to its fall, it felt a need of being spat upon. And what

a frightful symptom there lay in it all: those condemned ones rushing

upon dirt of their own accord, voluntarily hastening their own

decomposition by that unquenchable thirst for the vile, which attracted

men, reputed to be grave and upright, and lovely women of the most

perfect grace and luxury, to all the beastliness of that low den!

At one of the tables nearest the stage sat little Princess Rosemonde de

Harn, with wild eyes and quivering nostrils, delighted as she felt at now

being able to satisfy her curiosity regarding the depths of Paris life.

Young Hyacinthe had resigned himself to the task of bringing her, and,

correctly buttoned up in his long frock-coat, he was indulgent enough to

refrain from any marked expression of boredom. At a neighbouring table

they had found a shadowy Spaniard of their acquaintance, a so-called

Bourse jobber, Bergaz, who had been introduced to the Princess by Janzen,

and usually attended her entertainments. They virtually knew nothing

about him, not even if he really earned at the Bourse all the money which

he sometimes spent so lavishly, and which enabled him to dress with

affected elegance. His slim, lofty figure was not without a certain air

of distinction, but his red lips spoke of strong passions and his bright

eyes were those of a beast of prey. That evening he had two young fellows

with him, one Rossi, a short, swarthy Italian, who had come to Paris as a

painter's model, and had soon glided into the lazy life of certain

disreputable callings, and the other, Sanfaute, a born Parisian

blackguard, a pale, beardless, vicious and impudent stripling of La

Chapelle, whose long curly hair fell down upon either side of his bony

cheeks.

"Oh! pray now!" feverishly said Rosemonde to Bergaz; "as you seem to know

all these horrid people, just show me some of the celebrities. Aren't

there some thieves and murderers among them?"

He laughed shrilly, and in a bantering way replied: "But you know these

people well enough, madame. That pretty, pink, delicate-looking woman

over yonder is an American lady, the wife of a consul, whom, I believe,

you receive at your house. That other on the right, that tall brunette

who shows such queenly dignity, is a Countess, whose carriage passes

yours every day in the Bois. And the thin one yonder, whose eyes glitter

like those of a she-wolf, is the particular friend of a high official,

who is well known for his reputation of austerity."

But she stopped him, in vexation: "I know, I know. But the others, those

of the lower classes, those whom one comes to see."

Then she went on asking questions, and seeking for terrifying and

mysterious countenances. At last, two men seated in a corner ended by

attracting her attention; one of them a very young fellow with a pale,

pinched face, and the other an ageless individual who, besides being

buttoned up to his neck in an old coat, had pulled his cap so low over

his eyes, that one saw little of his face beyond the beard which fringed

it. Before these two stood a couple of mugs of beer, which they drank

slowly and in silence.

"You are making a great mistake, my dear," said Hyacinthe with a frank

laugh, "if you are looking for brigands in disguise. That poor fellow

with the pale face, who surely doesn't have food to eat every day, was my

schoolfellow at Condorcet!"

Bergaz expressed his amazement. "What! you knew Mathis at Condorcet!

After all, though, you're right, he received a college education. Ah! and

so you knew him. A very remarkable young man he is, though want is

throttling him. But, I say, the other one, his companion, you don't know

him?"

Hyacinthe, after looking at the man with the cap-hidden face, was already

shaking his head, when Bergaz suddenly gave him a nudge as a signal to

keep quiet, and by way of explanation he muttered: "Hush! Here's

Raphanel. I've been distrusting him for some time past. Whenever he

appears anywhere, the police is not far off."

Raphanel was another of the vague, mysterious Anarchists whom Janzen had

presented to the Princess by way of satisfying her momentary passion for

revolutionism. This one, though he was a fat, gay, little man, with a

doll-like face and childish nose, which almost disappeared between his

puffy cheeks, had the reputation of being a thorough desperado; and at

public meetings he certainly shouted for fire and murder with all his

lungs. Still, although he had already been compromised in various

affairs, he had invariably managed to save his own bacon, whilst his

companions were kept under lock and key; and this they were now beginning

to think somewhat singular.

He at once shook hands with the Princess in a jovial way, took a seat

near her without being invited, and forthwith denounced the dirty

_bourgeoisie_ which came to wallow in places of ill fame. Rosemonde was

delighted, and encouraged him, but others near by began to get angry, and

Bergaz examined him with his piercing eyes, like a man of energy who

acts, and lets others talk. Now and then, too, he exchanged quick glances

of intelligence with his silent lieutenants, Sanfaute and Rossi, who

plainly belonged to him, both body and soul. They were the ones who found

their profit in Anarchy, practising it to its logical conclusions,

whether in crime or in vice.

Meantime, pending the arrival of Legras with his "Flowers of the

Pavement," two female vocalists had followed one another on the stage,

the first fat and the second thin, one chirruping some silly love songs

with an under-current of dirt, and the other shouting the coarsest of

refrains, in a most violent, fighting voice. She had just finished amidst

a storm of bravos, when the assembly, stirred to merriment and eager for

a laugh, suddenly exploded once more. Silviane was entering the little

box at one end of the hall. When she appeared erect in the full light,

with bare arms and shoulders, looking like a planet in her gown of yellow

satin and her blazing diamonds, there arose a formidable uproar, shouts,

jeers, hisses, laughing and growling, mingled with ferocious applause.

And the scandal increased, and the vilest expressions flew about as soon

as Duvillard, Gerard and Duthil also showed themselves, looking very

serious and dignified with their white ties and spreading shirt fronts.

"We told you so!" muttered Duvillard, who was much annoyed with the

affair, while Gerard tried to conceal himself in a dim corner.

She, however, smiling and enchanted, faced the public, accepting the

storm with the candid bearing of a foolish virgin, much as one inhales

the vivifying air of the open when it bears down upon one in a squall.

And, indeed, she herself had sprung from the sphere before her, its

atmosphere was her native air.

"Well, what of it?" she said replying to the Baron who wanted her to sit

down. "They are merry. It's very nice. Oh! I'm really amusing myself!"

"Why, yes, it's very nice," declared Duthil, who in like fashion set