Chapter 6
"Oh no, not simple. Very brilliant, on the contrary--everything that is most brilliant. Two of my friends are customers of yours (she named them), and I am Mme. Derline--"
"Mme. Derline! You are Mme. Derline?"
The two _Mme. Derlines_ were followed by a glance and a smile--the glance was at the newspaper and the smile was at Mme. Derline; but it was a discreet, self-contained smile--the smile of a perfectly gallant man. This is what the glance and smile said with admirable clearness:
"Ah I you are Mme. Derline--that already celebrated Mme. Derline--who yesterday at the opera--I understand, I understand--I was reading just now in this paper--words are no longer necessary--you should have told your name at once--yes, you need me; yes, you shall have your dress; yes, I want to divide your success with you."
M. Arthur called:
"Mademoiselle Blanche, come here at once! Mademoiselle Blanche!"
And turning towards Mme. Derline, he said:
"She has great talent, but I shall myself superintend it; so be easy--yes, I myself."
Mme. Derline was a little confused, a little embarrassed by her glory, but happy nevertheless. Mademoiselle Blanche came forward.
"Conduct madame," said M. Arthur, "and take the necessary measures for a ball-dress, very low, and with absolutely bare arms. During that time, madame, I am going to think seriously of what I can do for you. It must be something entirely new--ah! before going, permit me--"
He walked very slowly around Mme. Derline, and examined her with profound attention; then he walked away, and considered her from a little distance. His face was serious, thoughtful, and anxious. A great thinker wrestling with a great problem. He passed his hand over his forehead, raised his eyes to the sky, getting inspiration by a painful delivery; but suddenly his face lit up--the spirit from above had answered.
"Go, madame," he said, "go. Your dress is thought out. When you come back, mademoiselle, bring me that piece of pink satin; you know, the one that I was keeping for some great occasion."
Thus Mme. Derline found herself with Mademoiselle Blanche in a trying-on room, which was a sort of little cabin lined with mirrors. A quarter of an hour later, when the measures had been taken, Mme. Derline came back and discovered M. Arthur in the midst of pieces of satin of all colors, of crêpes, of tulles, of laces, and of brocaded stuffs.
"No, no, not the pink satin," he said to Mademoiselle Blanche, who was bringing the asked-for piece; "no, I have found something better. Listen to me. This is what I wish: I have given up the pink, and I have decided on this, this peach-colored satin. A classic robe, outlining all the fine lines and showing the suppleness of the body. This robe must be very clinging--hardly any underskirts. It must be of surah. Madame must be melted into it--do you thoroughly understand?--absolutely melted into the robe. We will drop over the dress this crêpe--yes, that one, but in small, light pleats. The crêpe will be as a cloud thrown over the dress--a transparent, vapory, impalpable cloud. The arms are to be absolutely bare, as I already told you. On each shoulder there must be a simple knot, showing the upper part of the arm. Of what is the knot to be? I'm still undecided--I need to think it over--till to-morrow, madame, till to-morrow."
Mme. Derline came back the next day, and the next, and every day till the day before the famous Thursday; and each time that she came back, while awaiting her turn to try on, she ordered dresses, very simple ones, but yet costing from seven to eight hundred francs each.
And that was not all. On the day of her first visit to M. Arthur, when Mme. Derline came out of the great house, she was broken-hearted--positively broken-hearted--at the sight of her brougham; it really did make a pitiful appearance among all the stylish carriages which were waiting in three rows and taking up half the street. It was the brougham of her late mother-in-law, and it still rolled through the streets of Paris after fifteen years' service. Mme. Derline got into the woe-begone brougham to drive straight to a very well-known carriage-maker, and that evening, cleverly seizing the psychological moment, she explained to M. Derline that she had seen a certain little black coupé lined with blue satin that would frame delightfully her new dresses.
The coupé was bought the next day by M. Derline, who also was beginning fully to realize the extent of his new duties. But the next day it was discovered that it was impossible to harness to that jewel of a coupé the old horse who had pulled the old carriage, and no less impossible to put on the box the old coachman who drove the old horse.
This is how on Thursday, April 25th, at half-past ten in the evening, a very pretty chestnut mare, driven by a very correct English coachman, took M. and Mme. Derline to the Palmer's. They still lacked something--a little groom to sit beside the English coachman. But a certain amount of discretion had to be employed. The most beautiful woman in Paris intended to wait ten days before asking for the little groom.
While she was going up-stairs at the Palmer's, she distinctly felt her heart beat like the strokes of a hammer. She was going to play a decisive game. She knew that the Palmers had been going everywhere, saying, "Come on Thursday; we will show you Mme. Derline, the most beautiful woman in Paris." Curiosity as well as jealousy had been well awakened.
She entered, and from the first minute she had the delicious sensation of her success. Throughout the long gallery of the Palmer's house it was a true triumphal march. She advanced with firm and precise step, erect, and head well held. She appeared to see nothing, to hear nothing, but how well she saw! how well she felt, the fire of all those eyes on her shoulders! Around her arose a little murmur of admiration, and never had music been sweeter to her.
Yes, decidedly, all went well. She was on a fair way to conquer Paris. And, sure of herself, at each step she became more confident, lighter, and bolder, as she advanced on Palmer's arm, who, in passing, pointed out the counts, the marquises, and the dukes. And then Palmer suddenly said to her:
"I want to present to you one of your greatest admirers, who, the other night at the opera, spoke of nothing but your beauty; he is the Prince of Nérins."
She became as red as a cherry. Palmer looked at her and began to laugh.
"Ah, you read the other day in that paper?"
"I read--yes, I read--"
"But where is the prince, where is he? I saw him during the day, and he was to be here early."
Mme. Derline was not to see the Prince of Nérins that evening. And yet he had intended to go to the Palmers and preside at the deification of his lawyeress. He had dined at the club, and had allowed himself to be dragged off to a first performance at a minor theatre. An operetta of the regulation type was being played. The principal personage was a young queen, who was always escorted by the customary four maids-of-honor.
Three of these young ladies were very well known to first-nighters, as having already figured in the tableaux of operettas and in groups of fairies, but the fourth--Oh, the fourth! She was a new one, a tall brunette of the most striking beauty. The prince made himself remarked more than all others by his enthusiasm. He completely forgot that he was to leave after the first act. The play was over very late, and the prince was still there, having paid no attention to the piece or the music, having seen nothing but the wonderful brunette, having heard nothing but the stanza which she had unworthily massacred in the middle of the second act. And while they were leaving the theatre, the prince was saying to whoever would listen:
"That brunette! oh, that brunette! She hasn't an equal in any theatre! She is the most beautiful woman in Paris! The most beautiful!"
It was one o'clock in the morning. The prince asked himself if he should go to the Palmers. Poor Mme. Derline; she was of very slight importance beside this new wonder! And then, too, the prince was a methodical man. The hour for whist had arrived; so he departed to play whist.
The following morning Mme. Derline found ten lines on the Palmer's ball in the "society column." There was mention of the marquises, the countesses, and the duchesses who were there, but about Mme. Derline there was not a word--not a word.
On the other hand, the writer of theatrical gossip celebrated in enthusiastic terms the beauty of that ideal maid-of-honor, and said, "_Besides, the Prince of Nérins declared that Mademoiselle Miranda was indisputedly the most beautiful woman in Paris!_"
Mme. Derline threw the paper in the fire. She did not wish her husband to know that she was already not the most beautiful woman in Paris.
She has, however, kept the great dress-maker and the English coachman, but she never dared to ask for the little groom.
THE STORY OF A BALL-DRESS
When the women of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries write their memoirs they boldly present themselves to the reader thus: "I have a well-shaped mouth," said the Marquise of Courcelles, "beautiful lips, pearly teeth, good forehead, cheeks, and expression, finely chiselled throat, divine hands, passable arms (that is to say, they are a little thin); but I find consolation for that misfortune in the fact that I have the prettiest legs in the world."
And I will follow the marquise's example. Here is my portrait: Overskirt of white illusion trimmed with fringe, and three flounces of blond alternating with the fringe; court mantle of cherry silk girt by a high flounce of white blond which falls over the fringe and is caught up by Marie Antoinette satin; two other flounces of blond are placed behind at intervals above; on each side from the waist up are facings composed of little alternating flounces of blond, looped up with satin; the big puff behind is bound by a flounce of white blond. A little white waist, the front and shoulder-straps of which are of satin trimmed with blond. Belt of red satin with large red butterfly.
The world was made in six days, I in three. And yet I too am in the world--a little complicated world of silk, satin, blond, loops, and fringes. Did God rest while he was making the world? I do not know; but I do know that the scissors that cut me out and the needle that sewed me rested neither day nor night from Monday evening, January 24, 1870, to Thursday morning, January 27th. The slashes of the scissors and the pricks of the needle caused me great pain at first, but I soon paid no attention to them at all. I began to observe what was going on, to understand that I was becoming a dress, and to discover that the dress would be a marvel. From time to time M. Worth came himself to pay me little visits. "Take in the waist," he would say, "add more fringe, spread out the train, enlarge the butterfly," etc.
One thing worried me: For whom was I intended? I knew the name, nothing more--the Baroness Z----. Princess would have been better; but still, baroness did very well. I was ambitious. I dreaded the theatre. It remained to be seen whether this baroness was young, pretty, and equal to wearing me boldly, and whether she had a figure to show me off to advantage. I was horribly afraid of falling into the hands of an ugly woman, a provincial, or an old coquette.
How perfectly reassured I was as soon as I saw the baroness! Small, delicate, supple, stylish, a fairy waist, the shoulders of a goddess, and, besides all this, a certain little air of audacity, of raillery, but in exquisite moderation.
I was spread out on a large pearl-gray lounge, and I was received with marks of frank admiration. M. Worth had been good enough to bring me _himself_, and he didn't trouble himself about all dresses.
"How original!" exclaimed the little baroness; "how new! But very dear, isn't it?"
"One thousand and fifty francs."
"One thousand and fifty francs! And I furnished the lace! Ah, how quickly I should leave you if I didn't owe you so much! For I owe you a lot of money."
"Oh, very little, baroness--very little."
"No, no; a great deal. But we will discuss that another day."
That evening I made my first appearance in society, and I came out at the Tuileries. We both of us, the baroness and myself, had an undeniable success. When the Empress crossed the Salon of Diana, making pleasant remarks to the right and left, she had the graciousness to stop before us and make the following remark, which seemed to me extremely witty, "Ah, baroness, what a dress--what a dress! It's a dream!" On that occasion the Empress wore a dress of white tulle dotted with silver, on a design of cloudy green, with epaulettes of sable. It was queer, not ineffective, but in doubtful taste.
We received much attention, the baroness and I. The new Minister, M. Émile Ollivier, was presented to us; we received him coldly, as the little baroness did not approve, I believe, of liberal reforms, and looked for nothing good from them. We had a long chat on the window-seat with the Marshal Leboeuf. The only topic during that interesting conversation was the execution of Troppmann. It was the great event of the week.
At two o'clock we left--the baroness, I, and the baron. For there was a husband, who for the time being was crowded in the corner of the carriage, and hidden under the mass of my skirts and of my train, which was thrown back on him all in a heap.
"Confess, Edward," said the little baroness--confess that I was pretty to-night."
"Very."
"And my dress?"
"Oh, charming!"
"You say that indolently, without spirit or enthusiasm. I know you well. You think I've been extravagant. Well, indeed I haven't. Do you know how much this dress cost me? Four hundred francs--not a centime more."
We arrived home, which was a step from the Tuileries, in the Place Vendôme. The baron went to his rooms, the baroness to hers; and while Hermance, the maid, cleverly and swiftly untied all my rosettes and took out the pins, the little baroness kept repeating: "How becoming this dress is to me! And I seem to become it, too. I shall wear it on Thursday, Hermance, to go to the Austrian Embassy. Wait a minute, till I see the effect of the butterfly in the back. Bring the lamp nearer; nearer yet. Yes, that's it. Ah, how pretty it is! I am enchanted with this dress, Hermance--really enchanted!"
If the little baroness was enchanted with me, I was equally enchanted with the baroness. We two made the most tender, the most intimate, and the most united of families. We comprehended, understood, and completed each other so well. I had not to do with one of those mechanical dolls--stupidly and brutally laced into a padded corset. Between the little baroness and myself there was absolutely nothing but lace and fine linen. We could confidentially and surely depend on one another. The beauty of the little baroness was a real beauty, without garniture, conjuring, or trickery.
So the following Thursday I went to the Austrian Embassy, and a week later to the Princess Mathilde's. But, alas! the next morning the little baroness said to her maid: "Hermance, take that dress to the reserve. I love it, and I'd wear it every evening; but it has been seen sufficiently for this winter. Yesterday several people said to me, 'Ah, that's your dress of the Tuileries; it's your dress of the Austrian Embassy.' It must be given up till next year. Good-bye, dear little dress."
And, having said that, she placed her charming lips at hap-hazard among my laces and kissed me in the dearest way in the world. Ah, how pleased and proud I was of that childish and sweet fellowship! I remembered that the evening before, on our return, the little baroness had kissed her husband; but the kiss she had given him was a quick, dry kiss--one of those hurried kisses with which one wishes to get through; whereas my kiss had been prolonged and passionate. She had cordiality for the baron, and love for me. The little baroness wasn't twenty, and she was a coquette to the core. I say this, in the first place, to excuse her, and, in the second place, to give an exact impression of her character.
So at noon, in the arms of Hermance, I made my entry to the reserve. It was a dormitory of dresses, an immense room on the third story, very large, and lined with wardrobes of white oak, carefully locked. In the middle of the room was an ottoman, on which Hermance deposited me; after which she slid back ten or twelve wardrobe doors, one after the other. Dresses upon dresses! I should never be able to tell how many. All were hung in the air by silk tape on big triangles. Hermance, however, seemed much embarrassed.
"In the reserve," she murmured, "in the reserve; that is easy to say. But where is there any room? And this one needs a lot." At last Hermance, after having given a number of little taps to the right and left, succeeded in making a sort of slit, into which I had great difficulty in sliding. Hermance gave me and my neighbors some more little taps to lump us together, and then shut the door. Darkness reigned. I was placed between a blue velvet dress and a mauve satin one.
Towards the end of April we received a visit from the little baroness, and in consequence of that visit there was great disturbance. Winter dresses were hung up; spring dresses were got down. At the beginning of July another visit, another disturbance--entry of the costumes from the races; departure of others for the watering-places. I lost my neighbor to the right, the mauve dress, and kept my neighbor on the left, the blue dress, a cross and crabbed person who was forever groaning, complaining, and saying to me, "Oh, my dear, you do take up so much room; do get out of the way a little." I must admit that the poor blue velvet dress was much to be pitied. It was three years old, having been a part of the little baroness's trousseau, and had never been worn. "A high-neck blue velvet dress, at my age, with my shoulders and arms!" had exclaimed the little baroness; "I should look like a grandmother!" Thus it was decreed, and the unfortunate blue dress had gone from the trousseau straight to the reserve.
A week or ten days after the departure of the dresses for Baden-Baden we heard a noise, the voices of women, and all the doors were opened. It was the little baroness, who had brought her friend the Countess N----.
"Sit there, my dear, on that ottoman," said the little baroness. "I have come to look over my dresses. I am very hurried; I arrived but just now from Baden, and I start again to-night for Anjou. We can chatter while Hermance shows me the dresses. Oh, those Prussians, my dear, the monsters! We had to run away, Blanche and myself, like thieves. (Very simple dresses, Hermance, every-day dresses, and walking and boating dresses.) Yes, my dear, like thieves! They threw stones at us, real stones, in the Avenue of Lichtental, and called us 'Rascally Frenchwomen! French rabble!' The Emperor did well to declare war against such people. (Dresses for horseback, Hermance--my brown riding-habit.) At any rate, there's no need to worry. My husband dined yesterday with Guy; you know, the tall Guy, who is an aide of Leboeuf. Well, we are ready, admirably ready, and the Prussians not at all. (Very simple, I said, Hermance. You are showing me ball-dresses. I don't intend to dance during the war.) And then, my dear, it seems that this war was absolutely necessary from a dynastic point of view. I don't quite know why, but I tell it to you as I heard it. (These dozen dresses, Hermance, will be sufficient. But there are thirteen. I never could have thirteen. Take away the green one; or, no, add another--that blue one; that's all.) Now let's go down, my dear."
Whereupon she departed. So war was declared, and with Prussia. I was much moved. I was a French dress and a Bonapartist dress. I was afraid for France and afraid for the dynasty, but the words of the tall Guy were so perfectly reassuring.
For two months there was no news; but about the 10th of September the little baroness arrived with Hermance. She was very pale, poor little baroness--very pale and agitated.
"Dark dresses, Hermance," she said, "black dresses. I know! What remains of Aunt Pauline's mourning? There must remain quite a lot of things. You see, I am too sad--"
"But if madame expects to remain long in England?"
"Ah! as long as the Republic lasts."
"Then it may be a long time."
"What do you mean--a long time? What _do_ you mean, Hermance? Who can tell you such things?"
"It seems to me that if I were madame I'd take for precaution's sake a few winter dresses, a few evening-dresses--"
"Evening-dresses! Why, what are you thinking of? I shall go nowhere, Hermance, alone in England, without my husband, who stays in Paris in the National Guard."
"But if madame should go to see their Majesties in England?"
"Yes, of course I shall, Hermance."
"Well, it's because I know madame's feelings and views that--"
"You are right; put in some evening-dresses."
"Will madame take her last white satin dress?"
"Oh no, not that one; it would be too sad a memory for the Empress, who noticed it at the last ball at the Tuileries. And then the dress wouldn't stand the voyage. My poor white satin dress! Shall I ever wear it again?"
That is why I did not emigrate, and how I found myself blockaded in Paris during the siege. From the few words that we had heard of the conversation of the little baroness and Hermance we had a pretty clear idea of the situation. The Empire was overthrown and the Republic proclaimed. The Republic! There were among us several old family laces who had seen the first Republic--that of '93. The Reign of Terror! Ah, what tales they told us! The fall of the Empire, however, did not displease these old laces, who were all Legitimists or Orleanists. In my neighborhood, on a gooseberry satin skirt, there were four flounces of lace who had had the honor of attending the coronation of Charles X., and who were delighted, and kept saying to us: "The Bonapartes brought about invasion; invasion brings back the Bourbons. Long live Henry V.!"
We all had, however, a common preoccupation. Should we remain in style? We were nearly all startling, risky, and loud--so much so that we were quite anxious, except three or four quiet dresses, velvet and dark cloth dresses, who joined in the chorus with the old laces, and said to us: "Ah, here's an end to the carnival, to this masquerade of an empire! Republic or monarchy, little we care; we are sensible and in good taste." We felt they were somewhat in the right in talking thus. From September to February we remained shut up in the wardrobes, wrangling with each other, listening to the cannon, and knowing nothing of what was going on.
Towards the middle of February all the doors were opened. It was the little baroness--the little baroness!
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "my dresses, my beloved dresses, there they are; how happy I am to see them!"
We could say nothing; but we, too, were very happy to see the little baroness.
"Now, then, Hermance," continued the little baroness, "let us hunt around a little. What can I take to Bordeaux? After such disasters I must have quiet and sombre dresses."
"Madame hasn't very many."
"I beg your pardon, Hermance, I have dark dresses--this one and that one. The blue velvet dress! The blue velvet dress is just the thing, and I've never worn it."
And so my neighbor the blue dress was taken down, and was at last going to make her first appearance in the world. However, the little baroness herself, with great activity, rummaged round in the wardrobes.
"Nothing, nothing," she said; "four or five dresses only. All the rest are impossible, and would not accord with the Government we shall have in Bordeaux. Well, I shall be obliged to have some republican dresses made--very moderate republican, but still republican."