Part 8

"True; I asked the question inadvertently. Adieu!--By the way, are you going to Madame Vauvert's to-night? There's to be a grand party, a concert, and perhaps dancing. I fancy there'll be lots of people there. I am going to sing the aria from _Joconde_. Monsieur Vauvert sent me word that he should have a young woman who plays finely on the guitar, and a gentleman who sings in Italian like a Bouffon."

"A most alluring prospect."

"I believe Madame Bertin is going, with her young ladies. The younger one is studying a piece that she's to play on the piano. But time flies, and I have a lot of errands to do.--Au revoir, neighbor! I promised Vauvert to bring him a 'cello and a second violin to complete his quartette. I must go and drum up my performers."

He went away at last. The infernal fellow was responsible for my failure to see Caroline; for I had no doubt that it was she who had brought my box. What was I to do next? If I went again to the shop, what should I say? I had no idea; but I did not propose to have my rooms filled with artificial flowers to no purpose. I returned to Rue Sainte-Apolline.

The proprietor was out; so much the better. I complained and stormed because my flowers had not been sent. A girl rose and declared that she had left them at my rooms. It was not Caroline; therefore, it was not she who had come. I became calmer and shifted the blame onto my neighbor's shoulders. The forewoman scolded the girl. I bought some more wreaths, pretending that I had forgotten to buy them on my first visit; and I asked to have them sent with me. This time Caroline was selected to be the messenger. At last I was to have an opportunity to speak to her freely, to be alone with her!

"One moment!" I said to myself; "I haven't reached that point yet; I must not be too sure beforehand; one is so often disappointed!"

Mademoiselle Caroline walked with her eyes bent on the ground, and I remained at a respectful distance; but when we were a few steps from the shop, I put her into a cab, which took us to my domicile. She hesitated at first about entering the cab, but I urged her; she consented at last, and then she had no choice but to listen to all that love impelled me to say, if I may give the name of _love_ to the caprice that had occupied my thoughts since the preceding night.

But obstacles give added value to the most trifling fancy, and sometimes transform a simple caprice into a deep-rooted sentiment. The difficulty which I had encountered in obtaining an interview with Caroline caused me to find a greater charm in her company; my words had more fire, more eloquence; and so little is required to convince a girl whose heart is already half vanquished.

Everything, therefore, led me to hope for the most perfect success. In time the cab stopped, we alighted, and Mademoiselle Caroline handed me my box, refusing to go up to my rooms. In vain did I promise, aye, swear to be good; I was powerless to overcome the flowermaker's obstinacy; all that I could obtain was an appointment on the boulevard for the following evening.

She left me, and I entered the house alone. I could not help thinking of the difference between Mademoiselle Caroline's conduct and Nicette's. The little flower girl, who had known me but a few minutes, herself proposed to come to my apartment at midnight; while the grisette, having an excuse for going there, was afraid to venture in broad daylight. What was I to conclude? That one realized the danger more fully than the other? No. Nicette realized it; but she simply did not think of it; she trusted me. That Caroline was more virtuous than Nicette was impossible; indeed, I feared the contrary, and that there might be the same difference in their respective morals as in the flowers they dealt in.

I must, in any event, wait until the time appointed for our meeting. I determined to go that evening to Madame Vauvert's; not to hear Raymond sing the _Joconde_ aria, but because there was generally a collection of original creatures there that amused me, to say nothing of the master and mistress of the house, who are well worth a chapter to themselves.

XIII

AN AMATEUR CONCERT

In Paris there are parties for all tastes, all social ranks, all professions, all shades of opinion; in a word, for all classes.

A young man with tact and breeding may go everywhere; nothing is so easy as to obtain admission to the enormous parties, the gorgeous fêtes and balls, which are so popular that people go thither in crowds and do not see one another. The master and mistress of the house do not know the names of half the men who crowd their salons. In the best society it is customary for an invited guest to introduce whomsoever he may choose, without asking permission. The newcomer salutes the host and his wife; they exchange the conventional phrases, smiling at each other most amicably; that is all that is necessary; and one may then proceed to play cards, dance, and regale one's self, without paying any further attention to the master of the house.

It is not so easy to obtain admission to what are called _bourgeois_ parties. There the host, being a little more particular than the banker or marquis of the Chaussée d'Antin, likes to know the people who come to his house. When one young man introduces another to him, he inquires his name, his profession, and his character; indeed, there are some who carry their absurd prejudices so far as to turn a cold shoulder to young men whose too free and easy manners do not please them. But this extreme severity of morals is found only in the Marais or in the heart of Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Between the first society and the bourgeoisie, between etiquette and license, there are the delightful circles, distinguished by amiable freedom of manner, artless gayety, and a pleasant intimacy; these are generally to be found among artists. The arts go hand in hand; genuine talents are not jealous of one another; they esteem, seek out, and appreciate one another; that is why we find among them wit without malice, jesting without bitterness, rivalry without envy, merit without arrogance, and wealth without display.

Next come the strange, abnormal parties, which are made up from all the others. The people who give them do not know how to receive company; but they insist upon having company all the time, because it is good form to give soirées, and in these days no one is willing to lag behind his neighbor. For my part, I am in the habit of going only where I am invited by the host himself; I do not like to be introduced by another guest, unless it be at one of those crushes to which one goes as one would go to the theatre; and one may stay away from a second one without being taxed with discourtesy, because there is no danger of having been noticed at the first.

The function of Monsieur and Madame Vauvert may be placed in the last category. The master of the house fancied that he was a musician, but he had never in his life been able to beat a measure in three time, or to observe a minim rest or a crotchet rest, although he used his feet, his head, and his hands. He thrummed a little on the guitar; and when he had succeeded in accompanying some little ballad, without falling in with a minim rest or a crotchet one on the way, he was the happiest of men. Add to this an enduring passion for the fair sex, to which he paid assiduous court, despite his wife, a nose always smeared with snuff, soiled clothes and frills, strong breath and shifty eyes, a figure of medium height and a body that was always trembling, and you will have an idea of Monsieur Vauvert, who was a very good fellow in spite of his trifling faults, and whose greatest crime was not to be virtuous and orderly at forty-five. Gayety is of all ages, but libertinage is a different matter.

"If there's a time for folly, So there's a time for sense."

And I trust that at forty I shall be as virtuous as I now am the opposite. But let us come to Madame Vauvert.

She must once have been good-looking; the trouble was that she insisted upon continuing to be so. Her complexion was still fresh and ruddy, even when she was ill; which tempted unkind tongues to say that she made it herself. She was not familiar with the manners of good society, but by way of compensation she had a vast deal of curiosity and an extraordinary talent for setting people by the ears, while seeming never to speak ill of anyone; she also had a very pronounced penchant for good-looking youths and for chocolate.

Still, Madame Vauvert's parties were very entertaining, because there was not the slightest restraint, everyone did what he chose, and one was certain of meeting a lot of original people and of seeing some new faces at every party. Most of those who appeared there simply passed on and off, as in a magic lantern; those whose only aim was to be amused went again and again. I was one of the latter; so Vauvert had come to call me his dear friend, while his charming spouse always greeted me with a most gracious little smile.

As Monsieur Vauvert was only a government clerk, he did not live on the first floor; but on his reception evenings he caused candle ends to be placed along the staircase, so that the artists and amateurs might not break their noses before reaching the third floor above the entresol. He had no servant, but he had a nephew some fourteen or fifteen years old, who was junior clerk to a notary; a sly, mischievous youngster, whom his dear uncle tried to make useful on his festal days, which displeased the young man, who on those occasions always returned home later than usual from the notary's, in order not to be at the service of his uncle and aunt. It was nearly ten o'clock when I arrived at Monsieur Vauvert's; the company rarely assembled before that hour, for the petty bourgeois try to mimic the nobility, and think it good form to arrive very late at a party. Musicians, whether amateurs or professionals, love to keep people waiting; and I believe that, in due time, evening parties will not begin until the next morning.

I rang. The door was opened by Madame Vauvert; whence I concluded that the young nephew had not yet returned.

"Ah! here you are, my little Dorsan; it's very good of you to come; we shall have a lot of people to-night."

"You _will_ have? Do you mean to say that your guests haven't arrived yet?"

"Some of them are late; but it's early yet."

"Not very."

"We have a tall young lady from the Conservatoire, who has a magnificent voice."

"The deuce!"

"And a lady who plays the 'cello."

"Great heaven! why, here it's as it is at Nicolet's: always worse and worse!"

"Ha! ha! what a funny fellow!"

"What music have you had already?"

"Nothing yet."

"What! nothing? and it's ten o'clock! For whom are you waiting to begin your concert?"

"Little Martin hasn't come yet, to play the piano accompaniments."

"Isn't his sister here?"

"Yes, but she won't play to-night; she's sick; she's having one of her nervous attacks."

"Ah, yes! that's quite natural. But where's your husband?"

"He's gone out to get a 'cello part and to borrow a second violin, so that we can have a quartette."

"It seems to me that it would have been well to set about it a little sooner."

"Why, the poor man's been running his legs off ever since dinner. He had to fetch Madame Rosemonde and her daughter, then go to the musical instrument maker's for a double bass, then send for Mademoiselle Luquet's harp, then go to make sure that Monsieur Crachini could come; in fact, there's no end to what he's had to do!"

"I can see that he has had his hands full."

"And that little rascal of a Friquet doesn't come home! I hope his uncle will give him a good trouncing to-night. But come in, my dear fellow."

Our conversation was held in a narrow passage leading on one side to the dining room, which did duty as bedroom and dressing room, and on the other to the salon. I entered this last-named apartment, where the regular habitués and the newcomers were assembled. Everyone was wondering what the host and hostess could be doing, that no one had seen them; everyone was calling for them, and asking why the music could not begin; but not one of the singers was willing to sing first, and the instrumentalists seemed no better disposed.

"It seems to me that things aren't likely to go very well to-night," said a short, pockmarked man, who waddled up to me, smiling maliciously, whose nose was hidden by his bulging cheeks, and whose eyes one sought in vain behind his spectacles. "Almost ten o'clock, and nothing doing; you must agree that it's disrespectful to the company! Poor Vauvert! passing his evening scouring the neighborhood for instruments and scores! It's amusing enough! There are not two houses like this in Paris."

"That is just why it's so priceless. But aren't you going to sing to-night?"

"Yes; I've brought my song from _Jean de Paris_; it's called the _Princesse de Navarre_."

"I seem to remember that you sang that to us at the last reception."

"So I did; but I haven't had time to learn anything else; and then, you know, it's such a fine thing!--

"''Tis the Princesse de Navarre whom I annou--ou--ounce!'

Gad! how pretty it is!"

"Yes, when Martin sings it, it's delightful. Shall we have much singing to-night?"

"Oh! we shall have some sport. Raymond is to sing the aria from _Joconde_; that tall girl yonder is to sing the inevitable song from _Montano et Stéphanie_; the pupil from the Conservatoire has brought a song, too; and Monsieur Crachini will obligingly deafen us with a romanza or two. Then Chamonin and his friend are to make an attempt at a duo from the Bouffes. That's enough, I hope! God grant that Gripaille doesn't take his guitar to accompany us! if he does, we are lost."

As the chubby-faced little man finished speaking, Gripaille accosted him, and was greeted with:

"Well, my dear Gripaille, aren't we to have the pleasure of hearing you? Come, bring out your guitar; these ladies are dying for some of your chords."

Gripaille, who considered himself the first guitarist in Paris, replied, casting a seductive leer upon the ladies who surrounded us:

"What the devil do you expect me to sing you? I don't know anything! I've got a cold, too; and then, Vauvert's guitar is such a wretched instrument! a regular chestnut stove! it's impossible to play on it."

"With such talent as yours, one can play on anything," observed a little old woman, throwing herself back in her chair and clasping her hands ecstatically, while tears of pleasure started from her eyes. "Mon Dieu! what blissful moments I owe to you! Music produces such an effect on me--such an effect! you can't form any idea of it; my nerves are so sensitive, I abandon myself so utterly to the melody! Take your guitar, enchanter! take it and make me dream! You remind me of a handsome traveller who played the guitar under my windows when I was young!"

The chubby-faced gentleman and I turned away, to avoid laughing in the face of the old woman, from whom Gripaille had great difficulty in extricating himself. Old age is certainly most worthy of respect; but it is hard to keep a serious face before such old idiots, who fall into a trance during a ballad or an _adagio_.

I saw the old man who usually played the 'cello part look at his watch, and heard him mutter between his teeth:

"This is very disagreeable! I must be at home at eleven o'clock, and we are wasting all this time doing nothing; and I've been here since seven! They were laughing at me when they told me that they were going to begin early, and that there would be a full quartette here; but they won't catch me again."

At last Monsieur Vauvert appeared, panting, almost breathless, drenched with perspiration, and bending beneath the burden of a tenor violin and several portfolios of music.

"Here I am! here I am!" he exclaimed, bustling into the room with an air of great bewilderment; "I've had hard work collecting all the parts, but I've succeeded at last."

"You must have been diverting yourself between whiles," said Madame Vauvert, pursing her lips.

"Oh, yes! parbleu! that's very likely; diverting myself, indeed! I'm bathed in perspiration!--You can begin the quartette, messieurs."

"Let's begin, let's begin!" said Monsieur Pattier, the 'cello player; "we have very little time.--But have you brought my score?"

"Yes, yes! there it is on the stand."

"Come, messieurs, let's tune up."

The amateurs who formed the quartette tried to bring their instruments in tune with one another. Meanwhile, the guests took their places to listen; sat down when they could find chairs. The ladies were already yawning; the bare announcement of a quartette gave them the vapors; to distract their thoughts, they chatted with the men who stood behind their chairs. They whispered and laughed and made fun of everybody, especially of the performers; the moment when music is being performed is always selected by the listeners to make the most noise.

At last the intrepid amateurs were in tune and took their places at their desks. The old 'cello player had put his little shade of green paper round his candle, so that the light should not hurt his eyes; the tenor violinist had put on his spectacles; the second violin put an ounce of rosin on his bow; and the first violin adjusted his cravat so that his instrument should not rumple his collar.

All these preliminaries being completed,--during which Vauvert tried to bring the assemblage to order by many a prolonged _hush_!--the first violin raised his bow and stamped on the floor, glancing from one to another of his colleagues.

"Are we ready?" he said at last, with a determined air.

"Oh! I've been ready two hours!" retorted Monsieur Pattier, with an angry shrug.

"One moment, messieurs," said the second violin; "my first string is loose; it's a new string; I must tighten it."

The tenor seized the opportunity to play over a passage that seemed rather difficult, and the 'cellist consoled himself with a pinch of snuff.

"Now I'm ready," said the second violin.

"That's very fortunate.--Attention, messieurs, if you please; we will play the _allegro_ rather slowly, and the _adagio_ somewhat quickly; that produces a better effect."

"As you please; it's your place to beat time."

The signal was given; the first violin started, and the others straggled after, as usual. Although I paid little attention to the quartette, it seemed to me to be even worse than ordinarily.

"The villains have sworn to flay us alive!" said one of my neighbors.

"That isn't right! that isn't right!" cried the first violin, stopping short.

"I don't see why it didn't go well enough," observed the tenor.

"No, no! there was something that was all wrong."

"Where was it?"

"Where? I can't say exactly."

"Well, _I_ didn't miss a note," said the second violin.

"Nor I."

"Nor I."

"Come, messieurs, let us begin again."

"All right, but see that you beat time properly."

"I should say that I beat time loud enough."

"To be sure you do," said Madame Vauvert; "and the person who lives underneath said she would complain to the landlord."

They began to play again; but it went no better, although the first violin writhed and gesticulated like one possessed; the company began to laugh, and the performers stopped.

"It certainly doesn't go right," said Monsieur Longuet, the first violin and conductor. "There must be mistakes somewhere; let me see the 'cello score. What does this mean? you're playing in _B_ flat and we in _D_! Parbleu! I'm not surprised."

"I'm playing just what you told me to," rejoined old Pattier, scarlet with anger; "the first quartette in the first portfolio."

"True; how the devil does it happen? Let's look at the title. What do I see? Mozart's quartette! and we are playing one of Pleyel's! Ha! ha! that's a good one!"

Everybody laughed at the episode; Monsieur Pattier alone was furious over the mistake, for which Vauvert was responsible, and which resulted in preventing the performance of the quartette. He rushed up to the master of the house, who had just seated himself in a corner of the salon beside a young brunette on whom he was bestowing meaning glances.

"How's this, Monsieur Vauvert? You tell me that you have brought the score that was missing, and you give me the bass of a Mozart quartette when we are to play one of Pleyel's!"

"I thought I heard you mention Mozart."

"You thought! a man doesn't make such mistakes as that!"

"Well! I'll go and change it."

"No, no, it's no use; almost eleven o'clock; a pretty time to go out after music! I shan't forget this trick."

Père Pattier went away, muttering savagely; nobody paid any attention to him. Madame Vauvert scolded her husband for his blunder, and the company congratulated themselves on their escape from the quartette; while the tenor, who was determined not to be squelched, persisted in trying the brilliant passages of his part. Neighbor Raymond had just arrived, with his favorite piece under his arm. I noticed several new faces, and I was looking about for Madame Bertin and her daughters, who seldom came to Monsieur Vauvert's, whose decidedly mixed society was ill suited to well-bred young ladies, when I heard the confused murmur that announces the arrival of a new personage.

I looked toward the door of the salon. A very stylishly dressed lady was being escorted into the room by Vauvert, on whose arm she leaned, and whose soiled linen, snuffy nose, and awkward manner were in striking contrast to the grace, the refinement, and the elegant manners of the lady, for whom he tried to find a seat in his salon, where vacant chairs were as scarce as at Tivoli. I spied one by the fireplace, upon which a huge cat lay asleep; I threw the cat to the floor, and presented the chair to the newcomer, who thanked me as she accepted it. Thereupon I examined her more closely, and recognized the lady whom I had seen at the theatre two nights before, and whose carriage I had made a vain attempt to follow. I was fully convinced that it was she when I saw in the doorway the man who accompanied her on that occasion.

Decidedly that Saturday evening was destined to mark an epoch in my life; for chance had thrown in my way all the persons who had then attracted my attention. I was Nicette's friend, I hoped to be Caroline's lover, and as for this other lady, whose name I did not know as yet, I was ready to bet that we should become better acquainted.

Neighbor Raymond, who lost no time when he hoped to win applause, had already approached the piano and was looking about for someone to accompany him. But Monsieur Gripaille, seeing that no one asked him to sing, or paid any attention to him, ran and seized the guitar, seated himself in the centre of the salon, and prepared to begin. Singing is always the most popular part of a concert, especially a concert of amateurs, where those who play upon any instrument are rarely good enough players or good enough musicians to give pleasure to their audience. A quartette entertains none but those who take part in it; a sonata on the piano makes people yawn; airs with variations for the harp are always twice too long, and pieces for the guitar always fall flat after other instruments. Only for singing, therefore, does the audience at such affairs care to cease its conversation; a pleasant voice never wearies the attention or the ears.