Part 20

The great day arrived. The ladies rose early; the thought of their costumes had kept them awake. The men, who are sometimes as coquettish as the ladies, were all absorbed by their costumes or their rôles. I was less engrossed by the great affair of the evening, because my passion for Madame de Marsan, intensified by the obstacles it had encountered, occupied my thoughts quite as much as the play. But the busiest of all was Raymond. He was out of bed at daybreak. He sought out the two little peasants, and tried to make them move gracefully, and to teach them a little stage business, while he told them what they would have to do in the evening. The children stared at him, jumped into the air when he told them to dance, fell on the ground when he tried to make them stand on one leg, and began to cry when he told them to smile. My neighbor took them to the gardener, now transformed into a scene shifter, and repeated the lesson to him. The gardener was a dull-witted lout, who knew nothing at all, but who chose to pretend to understand instantly whatever was said to him.

"Do you know what you have to do to-night, my friend?" Raymond asked him.

"Yes, monsieur."

"First, the wreath of flowers----"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Which you are to lower on Fanchon's head."

"Fanchon's--yes, monsieur."

"You are to fasten it to a cord hanging from the beam; do you know whether there is one?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur; there was one for that gentleman with the syringes they acted the last time, that was so funny! Monsieur Pourceau--Pourceau--the man who wouldn't take physic before people, you know."

"Just so, my man, just so.--Well, when the wreath is all fixed, you must make a dozen fresh, pretty bouquets, and give them to these children, who will be dressed as Cupids."

"Say! I know 'em; they're Madeleine's boys."

"Pay attention to what I say."

"Yes, monsieur."

"When they have the bouquets, you'll take them to the prompter's box."

"Yes, monsieur, to the box, I understand."

"And they are to go out on the stage when I clap twice with my hands."

"Yes, monsieur, with your hands."

"Don't forget anything, my friend."

"No, monsieur. Oh! you needn't be afraid; I'm used to play-acting here!"

Raymond next betook himself, with the two children, to the costume room. He found no knit flesh-colored tights, because such costumes are rarely used by amateurs. He was obliged to be content with nankeen trousers, over which they were to wear their little white tunics: these, with the girdle, the band, the bow, and the quiver, should make the illusion complete. After urging the wig-maker, who had come from Montmorency for the occasion, to outdo himself in dressing the Cupids' locks, Raymond forgot everything but his rôles, and set about learning them for the evening. A numerous and select party of guests had arrived from Paris, and they strolled about the house and gardens. Madame de Marsan, despite the necessary preparations for the play, did the honors of her house with no less grace than good breeding. Monsieur de Marsan did not arrive until a few moments before dinner on the day of the fête. He was detained in Paris by business on the Bourse; he knew that his wife was spending a lot of money, and he had to devote his attention to making an equal amount in order to maintain the equilibrium. In the evening, many of the people of the neighborhood, carefully selected from the most eligible, who had received invitations for the performance, were on hand promptly. Thus the auditorium was certain to be entirely filled, for the last rows of chairs were thrown open to some of the villagers. It is much more agreeable to act before a large audience; empty benches are never flattering to the actor, even at an amateur performance.

The hour to begin had arrived. Our little hall was full. Raymond kept looking through the hole in the curtain, to see where the ladies were sitting whom he proposed to ogle.

"Time to begin!"--Such was the cry of all who were ready; but everybody was not ready, and it seemed as if Raymond would never finish dressing. After each garment that he put on, he ran to look through the hole, with his jar of rouge in one hand and his rôle in the other.

"Hurry! hurry!" we shouted at him from all sides, and pushed him back toward his dressing room; then someone ran to Madame de Marsan's room, to ask if Rosine was ready. The four amateurs who formed the orchestra had twice played through the overture to _Richard Coeur de Lion_, which served as overture to _Le Barbier_. They were about to begin it a third time, because they had no other music with them; the audience began to lose patience and some faint murmurs were heard. But at last we were ready, and Raymond, who was the machinist, raised the curtain.

I knew my lines very well, and my feeling for Madame de Marsan, who looked prettier than ever in the costume of Rosine, imparted to my acting the warmth and genuineness which befit the rôle of a lover like Almaviva. The young man who played Figaro was spirited, good-looking, and daring. We played with great _verve_, our scenes went off excellently, and the audience was delighted. At the moment when Bartholo was to appear at the window with Rosine, Raymond, trying to raise the blind, jerked it so violently that it was detached and fell on the lamps which did duty as footlights; luckily, the sight of Madame de Marsan, who was delicious in her Spanish costume, covered Raymond's awkwardness. The first act went without a hitch. In the second, Raymond, whose memory was fatigued already, could not say a word without the prompter, and he stood in front of his box all the time, with his eyes fixed upon it and his ears strained to hear. Often the prompter had to repeat the words three times, Raymond meanwhile abusing him when he did not prompt, and telling him to be quiet when he did prompt him in some speech that he thought he knew. Thus he made of Bartholo a veritable Cassandra; but such an audience as ours could not fail to be indulgent; moreover, all the other rôles were well done; we entered into the spirit of our parts and filled the stage with animation. We were wildly applauded; and Raymond assumed his share of the applause, although he confused us terribly when he was on the stage with us.

The third act began with Raymond on the stage. He walked forward and took his stand in front of the prompter's box.

"'What temper! what temper! [_To the prompter_: Why don't you prompt me?] She seemed appeased! Will someone tell me [Don't prompt me.]--will someone tell me who in the devil put it into her head to--to [Prompt me, will you?]--to refuse [What's that? I don't hear you.]--to refuse to take lessons from Don Basile. [Don't prompt me!] She knows that he is interfering about my marriage. Do everything in the world--do--do--[What? what do I say next? What the devil! you don't know how to prompt at the right time!]'"

The audience concluded to laugh at our Bartholo; whereat Raymond rubbed his hands with a satisfied air, and, whenever he returned to the wings, exclaimed:

"How pleased they are! how it amuses them! No audience at the Français ever laughed so much!"

The play came to an end at last, in spite of Raymond, who did all that he could to prevent it; but Rosine's grace, Figaro's hilarity, and, lastly,--for one must do one's self justice,--the warmth, the passion, the ardor which gave life to my performance of Almaviva made the illusion complete; I obtained a brilliant triumph, and I read in Madame de Marsan's eyes the pleasure that my success afforded her.

_Le Barbier_ at an end, the performance of _Fanchon_ was hurried forward. All of the cast of the first play, with the exception of Madame de Marsan and myself, were to appear in the second. We two had plenty of time to change our costumes. All the dressing rooms opened on the garden; those of the ladies were separated from ours only by an avenue of lindens. Having resumed my civilian costume, I went out into the garden for a breath of air. The second play had begun long before, and everybody was on the stage or among the spectators. The solitude and tranquillity of the garden were in refreshing contrast to the clamor not far away. I was not sorry to be able to saunter there for a moment; but as I crossed the avenue of lindens, I saw a lady come from one of the dressing rooms opposite. I stopped; it was Madame de Marsan; it was my Rosine. She recognized me and came toward me.

"Where is Monsieur le Comte Almaviva going, pray?"

"I came out to enjoy this cool shade a moment; but I missed something: Almaviva cannot be happy without Rosine."

"Rosine is not at all sure that she ought to go with you."

"What! after consenting to allow yourself to be abducted?"

"In truth, I should play the cruel now with a bad grace; but remember that you swore to be true to me! to love me always, to love none but me!"

"Oh! I swear it again! I have no other desire than to repeat it every moment!"

"But where are you taking me? we seem to be going a long way. Why do you take the darkest paths? Why are we going in under these trees? It is too dark here!"

"Dear Rosine, what can you fear, with me?"

"Dear Lindor, I am ill at ease."

"Did you not intrust yourself unreservedly to me?"

"Ah! I fear that I was not wise. What are you doing? Kissing me like this! Oh! that isn't in the play."

"Do we refuse a kiss to the lover who is to be our husband?"

"Stop--Lindor--Dorsan---- Oh! this scene----"

"Dear Rosine, what is it but the natural sequel? ought it not to crown our love?"

Madame de Marsan tried in vain to resist; it was too late; I had entered too completely into the spirit of my rôle, and she had identified herself with hers. We added to _Le Barbier de Séville_ the scene which the audience does not see, but which it may well divine after the union of Almaviva and Rosine. For some time the thicket had witnessed that charming scene, half lighted by the moon. The fervor with which we played our parts caused us to forget the world and the fête. I was determined that Almaviva should obtain as great a triumph in the thicket as on the stage, and Rosine was so prompt in response that I could not lag behind. We had not begun to think of the dénouement, when it was hastened by an unforeseen incident; but, to explain it, we must return to the theatre.

_Fanchon_ was acted indifferently well; many of the actors, not knowing their parts, had skipped several scenes; Raymond had done the same with his lines; so that the play was soon done. Neither Madame de Marsan's absence nor mine was noticed; the actors supposed that we were in the audience, the spectators, that we were behind the scenes.

The vaudeville being finished, Raymond arranged his little scene in honor of the lady who had played Fanchon, and whose birthday it was. Everyone sang his or her couplet, and Raymond called for Madame de Marsan and myself to sing ours. As he did not find us, and as the dénouement was at hand, he ran into the wings and seized the cord to which was attached the surprise that was to descend upon Fanchon's head. He pulled it slightly, and the weight that he felt above set his mind at rest, convincing him that the gardener had not forgotten to attach the wreath.

The moment had come; the orchestra played

"What grace, what majesty!"

That was the signal for the wreath to descend. Raymond let the cord go; a sudden murmur ran through the hall, then bursts of laughter arose on all sides.

"Stop! stop!" someone called from the stage. Raymond put his head out from the wings to witness the tableau, and saw that, instead of a wreath of flowers, he had lowered a syringe on Fanchon's head.

The confusion was at its height; the hall rang with laughter, while on the stage wrath at Raymond's blundering folly was still predominant. The young lady who had played Fanchon was obliged to push the syringe away from her head. Raymond dropped the cord and ran out on the stage, crying:

"It wasn't my fault; it's Pourceaugnac's syringe--and that idiot of a gardener forgot to take it off! It should have been a wreath. But we'll make up for this.--Forward, Cupids!"

He gave the signal, the orchestra played Zéphire's air from _Psyche_, and everybody waited impatiently for what was coming. Again Raymond clapped his hands.

"Come on, Cupids!" he cried; "come out, I say!"

But nothing came out of the prompter's box. The audience, tired of waiting to no purpose, prepared to leave the hall, and the actors to vacate the stage. In vain did Raymond try to detain them, crying:

"They're coming! they'll appear in a minute! they must be putting on the bands!"

Nobody listened to him. In his rage he determined to find his Cupids, at all events; he jumped down into the prompter's box, looked under the stage and in every corner of the building, but he did not succeed in finding them.

The two little fellows were dressed and ready two hours before it was time for them to appear. The gardener, bewildered by all the orders he had received, had entirely forgotten the wreath; but he had made some bouquets, which he gave to the children, then led them to the prompter's box and said:

"Stay here; you're to go on the stage when you're called."

The children waited quietly for half an hour; but they were tired by that time; they thought that they had been forgotten; and as they could enjoy themselves much more in the garden than under the stage, they left their bouquets there and went outside to play. In running about they approached the house, and saw on the ground floor, in a well-lighted room, a sideboard covered with innumerable delicacies, the bare sight of which made them open their mouths and lick their chops. They stopped, sighed, nudged each other, divined each other's thought, and looked behind them in obedience to the natural instinct of the man who is about to do wrong. There was no one in sight; all the servants had deserted the house for the play.

"Oh! see the nice things, brother!" said the smaller of the two; "we never saw anything like 'em!"

"Oh! Fanfan, mustn't that be sweet?"

"Say, Jean; just think--if we could eat some of it!"

"Look at them cakes!"

"There's no one there; let's climb in! Come on!"

They easily climbed in the ground-floor window; they ran to the sideboard, stuffed their mouths full, made aprons of their tunics, and filled them with fruit, meats, and cakes; lapped the cream that they could not carry away; dug their fingers into jars of preserves, and took refuge finally in the attic, to eat at their ease what they had filched.

While the little peasants were regaling themselves, Raymond was scouring the whole estate to find his Cupids. As he came out of the theatre, after a vain search, he met Monsieur de Marsan, who was looking for his wife, the company being surprised at her continued absence.

"Have you found them?" inquired Raymond.

"I don't know where she is; people are asking for her; ordinarily, I am not called upon to interfere in anything."

"Whom are you talking about?"

"My wife, who is not here to do the honors of the fête."

"Parbleu! Madame de Marsan can't be lost; she'll turn up; but my two Cupids--I am more anxious about them; for I must give them back to their mother, who is not Venus; and she'll break one of her little pitchers over my head if her brats are not found. Let us search the gardens together; the little rascals must be somewhere here."

Monsieur de Marsan followed Raymond, hoping to find his wife rather than the two little fugitives. They walked through part of the garden, and Monsieur de Marsan proposed to return to his guests, feeling sure that his wife must be with them; but Raymond detained him, telling him that he, Marsan, was responsible for the Cupids, as they were lost on his premises. They drew near the swing, which was close to the clump of trees where I was playing my scene with Madame de Marsan.

"They are over in this direction," said Raymond; "I hear the swing moving; I was sure that my little blackguards were amusing themselves."

They reached the swing, but saw nothing.

"There's no one here, you see," said Monsieur de Marsan.

"It's strange," said Raymond; "I still hear the same noise. Why--it's in this direction--in the thicket! What the devil are they doing there?"

Monsieur de Marsan went forward; Raymond followed him. The moon at that moment was much too bright! we were petrified.

"It's Almaviva and Rosine!" said Raymond, jumping back. Monsieur de Marsan alone retained his presence of mind.

"Madame," he said, calmly addressing his wife, "your guests are asking for you; you are needed for the festivities; you must try to arrange your business and your pleasures so that they will not interfere with each other."

With that, he coolly turned on his heel and returned to the house. Madame de Marsan had fainted; Raymond stood like a statue. I rushed from the thicket, pushing him roughly aside, in an instant was at the courtyard, then on the Paris road, and reached the capital at two in the morning.

XXVI

WHERE WILL IT END?

After the adventure of the thicket, it was impossible for me to go again to Madame de Marsan's house, or to see her in public. So that we were obliged to cover our liaison with a veil of mystery. With many women that fact would have simply added to the charm; but I was afraid that with Madame de Marsan, who loved to be surrounded by adorers and by admiring homage, the impossibility of gratifying her vanity by her conquest of me would speedily abate her love. If we no longer met at her house, it was solely out of respect for the proprieties; for, as Raymond had witnessed the catastrophe, I had no doubt that it was known to everybody.

What surprised me most was that I had not seen him since that memorable evening: a week had passed, and I had not even met him on the stairs; doubtless he dreaded my wrath. He evidently kept out of sight when he heard me coming; for as we lived on the same landing and both went in and out several times during the day, we did not usually pass two days without meeting.

Madame de Marsan and I were in regular correspondence; we made appointments, we went into the country together, and sat in closed boxes at the theatre. I enjoyed her society more, seeing her only _en tête-à-tête_. There was no longer between us that swarm of young dandies who were constantly fluttering about her, and whose presence was far from agreeable to me; when we were alone, she could not play the coquette so successfully and amuse herself by tormenting me. So that, for my part, I was not at all sorry that we met as we did, but I was very much afraid that it was not the same with her. Already our correspondence was beginning to drag, our assignations were becoming less frequent; she constantly found something to prevent her meeting me: a reception, a ball, some festivity which she could not possibly avoid attending. I had no faith in her excuses, because I knew that her husband left her entirely at liberty to do as she chose. If she refused to keep an appointment with me, it was because she preferred to create a sensation at a ball or a concert; in a word, to make conquests, to surround herself with admirers and attentions, rather than to be alone with me. The conclusion to be drawn from that state of affairs was very simple: Madame de Marsan did not love me, had never loved me. She had smiled upon me solely from caprice; had given me hopes from coquetry; had yielded by chance; and would leave me because she was bored.

One morning, opening my door suddenly, I saw Raymond going downstairs and caught him by his coat tail.

"Great heaven! I thought you were dead, Monsieur Raymond!" said I.

"Good-morning, my dear neighbor! It's a fact--I haven't seen you since the _Barbier de Séville_."

"That is true; and I counted upon you to tell me how the festivities came to an end."

"Oh! you must have heard all about it from----"

"From whom?"

"You know whom I mean. To tell the truth, I was afraid you were angry with me."

"Why so?"

"Because I took her husband to the thicket."

"Aha! so it was you who brought him there, was it?"

"That is to say, it was I and it wasn't. He was looking for his wife, and I was looking for the Cupids, who were giving themselves indigestion in the attic; the little rascals nearly burst, and their mother declared it was my fault and wanted to tear my eyes out! I was in hard luck at that party!--But to return to your adventure--if you had let me into the secret of your liaison with Madame de Marsan, it wouldn't have happened; on the contrary, I would have induced the husband to abandon the idea of looking for his wife! But there, as I am always saying to you, you won't ever tell me anything! your reticence leads to surprises! in fact, you are responsible for my having to give up going to Monsieur de Marsan's."

"Why so?"

"Why so! it's easy enough to see: the wife, knowing what--what I saw, receives me very coldly; and the husband's another oddity. I wished to try to arrange matters; it was no easy task, but still, as it was night, and moonlight--and then, with a shrewd wit one can make anything look all right."

"Well?"

"Well, when you had gone, I tried first to help Madame de Marsan, who had fainted, as I thought; but the moment I put my salts to her nose, she got up without help, threw the salts into my face, and ran off and locked herself in her room. When I saw that, I said to myself: 'I must go to the husband and throw dust in his eyes.'--I went to the salon, and motioned to Monsieur de Marsan to step out to speak to me; at first he was unwilling to leave the écarté table, but he finally made up his mind to it. I led him into a corner and said: 'Monsieur, you mustn't believe all you see, especially by moonlight, because the moon changes the aspect of things, and you may be misled. The scene they were rehearsing in the thicket was of my invention, and was to be played after the _Barbier_: it was a love scene, and in love scenes the actors sit very near together, on each other's knees sometimes, take hold of hands, embrace--in fact, the more things they do, the more complete the illusion.'--That was rather clever, eh?"

"Very clever; and what reply did Monsieur de Marsan make?"

"He hardly let me finish; then he said in a very sharp tone: 'Be good enough not to weary me with any more of your nonsense, and never to open your mouth again on that subject!'--And, with that, he turned on his heel. Faith! I confess that I call that very ill-mannered! I try to give a husband the matrimonial prism, and he receives me like a dog in a game of tenpins! you must agree that it was not very pleasant. To cap the climax, a moment later up comes the dairywoman with her two brats, who were purple in the face; they had just been found in an attic; and the impudent peasant began to abuse me, and promised me that, if they burst, her husband would summon me before the magistrate! As if it was my fault! Why, I told them to act the part of Cupid, not to stuff themselves with food!--Faith! when it came to that, I took my hat, and taking advantage of Figaro's cabriolet--he was driving back to Paris--I turned my back on the fête, vowing that I would never again compose anacreontic scenes for peasants."

My neighbor left me when he had finished his story. Despite the assurance that I had given him that I harbored no resentment against him on account of that incident, he seemed to me to retain in my presence a constrained, embarrassed air which was not usual with him. He had left me, whereas ordinarily I had hard work to get rid of him. I sought in vain a reason for this behavior, which was not natural in Raymond. However, it mattered little to me what maggot he had in his brain; it surprised me more than it interested me.