Part 14

Raymond flushed to his ears; my ironical manner led him to fear that I had detected his little fraud; but I did not care to deprive him of the pleasure of being able to say everywhere that he had fought a duel. I ran to my second, who was still on the ground, and urged him to rise; he did not stir, and I saw that the poor devil had swooned during our battle. I called Raymond to my assistance; he had a flask of strong aromatic vinegar in his pocket, with which we inundated Vauvert's face, and he finally came to himself. After feeling himself all over and making sure that he was not wounded, he tried to make us think that his swoon was caused by his affection for us both. We thanked him and set him on his legs; but we had to take an arm each to help him to walk; for he was in no condition to stand erect without our support.

Monsieur de Witcheritche put the remains of his cheeses in his pocket handkerchief, and we left the wood. The rain continued, but my second could not walk fast, so that we were compelled to endure it. Raymond was in the highest spirits; he was overjoyed by his day's experience. He knew Vauvert, and he was sure that his duel would soon be the absorbing topic of the whole company of amateur musicians, even if he himself should not take pains to spread it everywhere.

"You showed extraordinary courage, messieurs," said Vauvert, as we marched along; "such sang-froid! such calmness! that was true valor!"

"Oh! yez! yez! tese two chentlemens pe fery prave."

"Oh! my neighbor Raymond's not like other men; I am sure that he would fight the same way ten times a day."

Raymond bowed, but said nothing. I fancied that he realized that I knew how his pistols were loaded.

At last, we spied madame la baronne seated under a large tree; her husband ran to her and took her arm, and we walked toward the barrier.

"I haf mooch abbetide," said Madame de Witcheritche to her husband.

"Ve vill tine soon, matame."

The couple bowed to us and quickened their pace. I presumed that they were on the lookout for a restaurant; but I noticed that, all the way from the barrier, two huge dogs had been following monsieur le baron, who did all that he could to drive them away, but to no purpose.

"Do those two dogs belong to Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche?" I asked Vauvert.

"No, I don't think so; I never saw at his place anything but poodles."

"It's strange," said Raymond; "he must have something in his pocket that attracts them."

I looked for a cab, but the rain had caused them all to be taken up. We had lost sight of Monsieur de Witcheritche and his wife, when we heard loud cries, and soon saw the two dogs running for their lives, one with a bologna sausage, the other with a bit of salt pork in its mouth. The baron and baroness came running after them, crying:

"Shtop tief! shtop tief! Ach! te file peasts! tey haf shtole our tinner!"

Madame la baronne, being weaker than her husband, was obliged to stop, and told us how the two dogs had succeeded in extracting from monsieur le baron's pocket the dinner she and her dear spouse, who had been a long time arranging that little outing for her, expected to eat in the country.

While we were consoling the poor woman, Monsieur de Witcheritche, who was not the man to abandon his sausage and his pork, kept on in pursuit of the dogs, at which he threw all the stones he could find on the road. He had already wounded one and compelled it to slacken its pace. Hoping to hit the other, which was just passing the barrier, he threw a great stone at it with all his force. But the stone was ill-aimed, and, instead of striking the dog, struck the customs clerk in the eye, as he was looking up at the sky to see if the storm were passing away.

The poor man fell, crying:

"I am dead!"

His comrades ran to him. One of the dogs, which was then passing the city limits, ran among the clerks' legs and made them stagger. The second dog, trying to escape, was seized by monsieur le baron, who thought of nothing but his dinner and pursued his course, unmindful of anything else. He succeeded in catching the dog by the tail, and a battle ensued between him and the animal, which refused to give up the sausage. The soldiers from the neighboring post ran up in response to the outcries of the clerks. The vehicles of all kinds passing in or out were compelled to stop; the soldiers would allow no one to pass until they had found out what the matter was. A crowd gathered to see what was going on, and everyone put forward some conjecture.

"It's an important prisoner whom they arrested just as he was leaving the city," said one, "and it seems that he wounded the clerk who seized him."

"No; they've just discovered some contraband goods in one of those wagons; it was being smuggled in."

Amid the tumult, which was augmented by the barking of the dogs, the baron shouted triumphantly:

"I haf him! I haf him!" and he waved aloft the bologna sausage, which he had snatched from his enemy's jaws; then, before the poor devil whose eye he had put out had recovered consciousness, Monsieur de Witcheritche slipped into the crowd and returned to his wife, leaving the clerks, soldiers, and bystanders asking one another what it was all about. Madame la baronne had recovered her husband, Vauvert was in a condition to walk unaided, and Raymond began to play the dandy. I left the company and took a cab to return to Paris.

XVIII

A LITTLE DISSERTATION IN WHICH THERE IS NOTHING ENTERTAINING

When I arrived at Caroline's it was after five o'clock; my duel and its sequel had prolonged my absence, and she scolded me for going away without waking her, and said that she had been vexed at my delay. I would have preferred that she should have been bored, but I realized that she had had no leisure for that; there are so many thousand things to do in a new apartment, to say nothing of the indispensable purchases. She showed me a very modish bonnet that she had bought, and tried it on for me. It was a fascinating one; however, at twenty years, with a pretty face and a graceful figure, a woman might wear a sugar loaf on her head and she would still be good-looking. It seemed to me that I liked her better in her little cap than in a bonnet; but I concluded that I should get used to it.

The rest of the costume must necessarily correspond with the bonnet; that was in the regular order. I have always wondered at the importance which women attribute to all the gewgaws and trifles which are called dress! at the amount of thought and calculation they waste upon the best way of placing a flower or a ribbon! With what care they arrange a bit of trimming, a bouquet, a curl! All this is sometimes the result of several days' meditation! But let us not charge it to them as a crime: it is to seduce us that they array themselves; we should be very ungrateful to criticise what they do to please us.

Caroline had changed already; she wore her new garb with much ease of manner; she was no longer the grisette of Rue des Rosiers, but the _petite-maîtresse_ of the Chaussée d'Antin. Women form themselves in everything more rapidly than we do. Observe yonder villager: after three months in the city, he is still awkward, loutish, and embarrassed. But this little peasant girl left her home only a week ago, and already her parents would not recognize her; ere long she will not recognize her parents.

A fortnight had passed since Caroline's installation on Rue Caumartin. I saw her every day; I dare not say that it was love that I felt for her; certainly it was not a very impassioned love; but she still pleased me as much as ever. I believed that she loved me more than at the beginning of our liaison; at all events, she told me so.

Things had not turned out precisely as I had arranged, for she had ceased to go to her shop, and she could hardly be said to work in her room; but, by way of compensation, she had acquired the manners of good society, the tone of a lady, and the general aspect of an _élégante_. It is true that I refused her nothing, although I frequently considered the project of reducing my expenses. But how can you refuse anything to a pretty woman who entreats you with a melting voice, and, while entreating you, looks at you in a certain way? As for myself, I confess that I have never had the strength to resist. It has been my misfortune, perhaps.

I began to discover that what I called gewgaws formed a very important item in the keeping of a woman. I ruined myself in trifles: every day it was a dress, a neckerchief, a hat, or a shawl! I do not know how Caroline went about it, but she invariably proved to me that it was the fashion, and, therefore, that it was necessary; I am too just to refuse a woman what is necessary. But my income was insufficient; I had borrowed; I was running in debt. What in heaven's name would happen if she should take it into her head to want the superfluous!

Every other day I found a bouquet at my door when I went home. My little Nicette did not forget me, and I never went to see her; if I chanced to pass her stand, I never thought of her being there and never glanced in her direction! And yet, every time that I found a bouquet, I determined that I would go to thank her; but Caroline gave me so much occupation that I never had a free moment; every day there was some new pleasure party; I never had the courage to refuse her; she knew a way to make me approve all her plans. Her graceful ways charmed me, her wit fascinated me, her merriment amused me; the hussy was so adroit in making the most of all the gifts she had received from nature!

One morning I received a note written in an unfamiliar hand. It was from Madame de Marsan, who reproached me good-naturedly for not keeping the promise I had made to attend her musical evenings, and invited me to a small party she was giving at her country house. I had almost forgotten Madame de Marsan, for I often forget a person who has set me on fire the night before; a very lucky thing for one who takes fire so easily; it proves that the heart has no share in the nonsense we call love. I determined to go to the party in question, for I did not propose that Mademoiselle Caroline should make me lose sight of all my acquaintances; I ought not to abandon good society because she could not go thither with me. The girl had already led me into too much folly! And there was my sister, whose letter I had not answered, and who expected me from day to day! I was not at all content with myself. But the torrent bore me on; I closed my eyes and let myself go.

Someone entered my room: it was my neighbor, whom I had not seen since the day of our famous duel. He had a shrewd suspicion that I was not taken in by his false gallantry--I who had witnessed his abject terror on the day of the _partie fine_. I knew that he had made a great noise about his valor, prating of his duel to everybody he saw; but he had avoided meeting me in company; my presence would have embarrassed him in his narrative of our combat. I wondered what he wanted of me.

"Good-morning, my dear friend!" he began; "how goes the health this morning?"

"Why, I am inclined to think it goes too fast; I am going at a rapid pace."

"You must be prudent, neighbor."

"You're a good one to talk about prudence, Monsieur Raymond! What are you doing with Agathe?"

"Oh! I don't see her any more; that's all over, we are parted forever! I don't propose ever to be caught by one of those little hussies again; you spend an enormous amount of money, and sometimes you don't make your expenses. And they don't know how to appreciate a man; they don't know the difference between a poet and a gudgeon! So long as you have money in your pocket, and can stuff them from morning till night with bonbons, sweetmeats, ices, and syrups, and tell them they're adorable, take them to drive and to the theatre and to the country, and buy them all the fal-lals they happen to want, oh! bless my soul, then they're satisfied. You may be as stupid as a goose, as coarse as a street porter, as conceited as an Italian virtuoso, yet you're none the less delightful in the eyes of those girls."

"There's a great deal of truth in what you say, neighbor; but, as a general rule, it is adulation and flattery that spoil both men and women; if we didn't kneel at their feet, they wouldn't look down on us from such a height. Flatterers, courtiers, low-lived sycophants, creep in everywhere and sometimes corrupt the most happily endowed nature. Kings, unfortunately, are more encompassed than other men by this servile swarm, which constantly hums in their ears a concert of exaggerated and insipid praise; it is when men tremble that they stoop lower than at any other time. Louis XI had more courtiers than Louis XII, Charles IX more than Henri IV. Richelieu and Mazarin did not take a step without being surrounded by a multitude of courtiers; they were feared, people trembled before them, but humiliated themselves and scribbled verses in their honor. Sully and Colbert had their admirers, but they knew how to repel flattery; they were too great to surround themselves with people whom they despised. If too frequent adulation did not increase our vanity, if the familiar atmosphere of praise did not give us too great confidence in our own deserts, how many shortcomings would those heroes and great captains have escaped, who, under difficult circumstances, have rejected the counsels of wisdom because they were accustomed only to the language of flattery, and deemed themselves invincible because a thousand voices had declared that they were, and because the man who has been exalted to the rank of a demigod does not readily decide to take the advice of his creatures! The pernicious effects of adulation date from a very early period: the serpent seduced the first woman by flattery. Almost always by the same means have women since then been seduced. Flattery destroyed Antiochus and Nebuchadnezzar, Semiramis and Mary Stuart, Cinq-Mars, Monmouth, Cleopatra, and Marion Delorme; Samson allowed his hair to be cut off while listening to the compliments of Delilah; Holofernes lost his head while listening to Judith's soft voice; Charles XII of Sweden, blinded by his victories, buried his army in the plains of Pultowa; the Maréchal de Villeroi, relying always on luck, insisted on joining battle at Ramillies. Excessive praise, by blinding us to our faults, causes us to remain in the path of mediocrity, when nature has given us faculties calculated to raise us above the vulgar; by tempting us to close our ears to the harsh counsels of truth, it leads us to mistake self-esteem for genius, vanity for merit, facility for talent. How many artists, even when they seek advice, refuse to receive anything but compliments! But they have been persuaded that all their works are masterpieces, that no defect can be found in them! And people who have attained that end no longer take the pains to study; everything that comes from their hands must necessarily be perfect. But civility demands that we must not always say what we think. Suppose a poet reads us some of his verses: if they are bad, you must not tell him so unless you are his friend; for you do not desire to be looked upon in society as an Alcestis, forever growling about the vagaries and absurdities of everyone else; that rôle would raise up too many enemies to be endured, except on the stage. In society, we choose to overlook one another's failings rather than to set ourselves up as censors; mutual intercourse is pleasanter thus, and we find more pleasure in living for ourselves than in wasting our time trying to correct other people. But although courtesy may compel us to conceal what we think, it does not compel us to say what we do not think; when I listen to the reading of execrable poetry, I will hold my peace, but I won't say that it is charming; nay, more, I will try to summon courage to make some suggestions to the author. I can never make up my mind to say that a portrait resembles its subject, when I think it a wretched failure; I cannot tell a person that he sings true, when he has just been torturing my ears. With nascent talents, above all, we should be sparing of praise, even while we encourage them; flattery is responsible for very many such coming to naught, because it arrests the flight of a genius, which, deeming itself perfect already, no longer cares to take the trouble to acquire what it lacks. Doubtless a father is excusable for considering his son a prodigy of beauty, wit, and talent; paternal love naturally misleads us; but let us at least keep our conviction to ourselves; let us not force strangers to go into ecstasies over the story of a mischievous trick, to listen in religious silence to a fable often directly at variance with common sense, and to gaze in admiration at a flat nose, turned-up chin, and inflamed eyes, which can never delight any glance but a father's. If there were fewer flatterers, how many men, who are simply unendurable now because they have been spoiled, would be ornaments of society! Let us reserve our enthusiasm for those poets and artists whose talents exalt them above all praise. Doubtless the contemporaries of Molière and Voltaire rendered to those sublime geniuses the homage they deserved; but one does not display his admiration for such men by insipid compliments and empty praise: great talents are proud of the applause of people of taste; they despise the base fawning of which fools are so vain.

"When Voltaire lived at Ferney, those travellers who, by virtue of their rank or their merit, could hope to gain access to him, never failed, even though they were obliged to go far out of their way, to visit the philosopher's retreat. Everyone was curious to see that extraordinary man, who astounded the whole universe by his genius. Men of intellect and of taste thought only of the pleasure that was in store for them; but the fools--and they too were anxious to converse with Voltaire--gave all their attention to the posture and expression they proposed to assume at sight of the philosopher, the better to manifest their admiration of him. Voltaire was affable with the former; but when a lady, on catching sight of the great poet, deemed it advisable to shriek and to swoon, the philosopher shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel.

"Great geniuses are rare; great talents are affable and modest; they who might have acquired great talents but have failed inhale with delight the incense people are good enough to lavish on them. How can a young man whose voice is rather pleasant and nothing more fail to consider himself a Laïs or a Martin when people seem to be so infatuated with him? They urge him, entreat him, implore him to sing; all the women are in a flutter of excitement before hearing him; they belaud him to their neighbors in anticipation. 'Delicious!' 'Divine!' 'Charming!' are the only words that reach the ears of the virtuoso, who condescends at last to comply with the wishes of the assemblage, and, after all the inevitable monkey tricks, sings just passably a ballad of which it is well understood that he will not pronounce the words intelligibly; and he has hardly finished before the concert of praise begins anew, while the impartial auditor, who had been led to expect something very different, asks himself if he can believe his ears. Look you, my dear neighbor, I confess that I have never been able to persuade myself to increase the crowd that hovers about these social prodigies, in whom I find nothing except inordinate self-esteem; or to swell the number of adorers of a woman of fashion, whose coquetry is carried to such a point that I blush for her and for those who surround her. Unquestionably, I am as fond of a pretty woman as any other man; I will be the first to do homage to her charms; but does that necessitate my exalting her to the skies at all times and seasons, and overwhelming her with compliments which, even if they are not extravagant, must none the less be tiresome to the person to whom they are addressed? Must it be that she cannot take a step without my praising her dress, her figure, her gait, her foot, her grace? Can she not smile without my going into ecstasies over her teeth, her mouth, and the expression of her eyes? Can she not utter a word without my extolling her wit, her shrewdness, her tact, her penetration, and the sweet tones of her voice? I may think it all, but I won't say it; I should be afraid of bringing a blush to her cheek. I know that I am considered far from gallant; that may injure me with some ladies, but I have neither the power nor the desire to change. If everybody did as I do, perhaps we should see less self-conceit and arrogance in men, less coquetry and caprice in women; they would take more trouble to be affable and agreeable, and everybody would be the gainer.--What do you think about it, neighbor?"

I saw that Raymond was not listening; he was examining the bunches of orange blossoms that adorned my mantel, and seemed to be puzzled by the old bouquets which I had collected on my commode, after taking out the flowers that would not live.

"You seem to be very fond of orange blossoms?" he said at last.

"Very."

"They have a very pleasant odor.--You must have twenty bunches of them here."

"I haven't counted them.--But will you do me the favor to tell me what brings you to my rooms this morning? for I presume that you came for some purpose."

"True; I forgot it while looking at these bouquets. I have received an invitation from Madame de Marsan for a party she is giving at her country house the day after to-morrow; I suppose you are going, and I came to suggest that we go together."

"With pleasure; you know the way and you can be my guide."

"With the greatest pleasure. By the way, how shall we go?"

"We will hire a cabriolet, and keep it, so that we can return when we choose."

"That's the idea. I thought at first of going in the saddle--I am very fond of riding; I have a very fine seat."

"I have no doubt of your grace as a horseman; but we can't go to a party at Madame de Marsan's in top-boots, so we won't go in the saddle."

"True; I will undertake to provide a nice cabriolet; I know a liveryman. At what time shall we start?"

"At seven o'clock; we shall arrive at eight, which is the proper hour in the country."

"That's settled, then. I fancy we shall have some fun; I know the whole party, so I can tell you who's who."

"I thought you had been only twice to Madame de Marsan's."

"Oh! that doesn't make any difference! once is enough for me to know everybody; I have a certain amount of tact, of penetration--it's all a matter of habit. In case they should want to give a theatrical performance, I have an opera that I have just finished; I'll read it to you on the road."

"That will give me great pleasure."

"I must take a look over it. Until Thursday, neighbor!"

"Until Thursday!"

Raymond left me, and I went to see Caroline. I found her at the window. For several days past she had spent much time there, especially when she was alone. Doubtless it was so that she could watch for my coming. It seemed to me that she was gayer, more amiable, more fascinating, than usual; pleasure gleamed in her eyes.

"Ah! she loves me," I thought; "she loves me truly; she is grateful, she has a feeling heart; she is coquettish only to please me. Before forming a lasting attachment, she wanted to find someone worthy of her love; her heart chose me, and I am sure that she will be true to me. I knew that, with a little patience, I should find such a woman."

XIX

THE TRIP TO THE COUNTRY