CHAPTER XXVI
SOCIETY GOSSIP
We were at the beginning of November, a Friday, ominous day for me.
For some time, Madame de Fersen, informed of her husband's approaching return, desirous of dispelling suspicion, had thought best to be at home at all times, and accessible to every one. Still, she had pledged herself to give me a few hours to myself.
Our private meetings had become so rare, so difficult to arrange, on account of the crowd which beset her, that we both attached great value to this day of happiness. Catherine had been preparing for some time for this blissful meeting by postponing or putting an end to a thousand trifling engagements which are like invisible fetters in which a woman of society, however free she may appear, is daily entangled. The previous evening, at tea-time, Catherine had renewed her promise, in the presence of her wonted circle, by telling me, in accordance with the understanding between us, that she hoped it would be fine weather for her walk on the morrow.
I remember that Baron de ——, a walking encyclopedia, thereupon opened a learned meteorologic and astronomic parenthesis, and a lively discussion ensued upon planetary influences and atmospheric causes.
Several times Catherine and I could scarcely suppress a smile, as we thought of the mysterious and bewitching cause which served as a basis for the learned lucubrations of so many wise people. We had to exercise the greatest control over ourselves to refrain from laughing aloud at the excellent reasons the papal nuncio gave as a proof that the next day the weather would be splendid. I was so strongly of this opinion, that I wildly launched myself on his side, and between us we got the better of a devilish chargé d'affaires of the United States, who rabidly predicted, envious republican that he was, execrable weather.
I therefore left Catherine in a state of hopeful excitement, and as impatient as in the first days of our love.
It seemed to me that my love was greater this day than other days. I had a thousand golden dreams regarding this meeting, and my heart overflowed with love and hope.
That evening Catherine had seemed to me even more beautiful and witty. She had been more admired and more deferred to than usual; and, to our shame be it said, the praise or censure of the indifferent or envious invariably cause love to fluctuate between fervour and coldness.
The next morning I was on the point of leaving home, when I received a line from her. Our meeting could not take place. She had learned that a discussion of the highest importance, which had been supposed adjourned, was to take place that very day in the Chamber of Deputies, and that she was to go there with M. P. de B——, the Russian ambassador.
My regrets, my vexation, my anger and sorrow, were excessive.
The hour for the opening of the debate had not arrived, so I went at once to Madame de Fersen's.
The footman, instead of announcing me, told me that the princess had denied herself to every one, as she was then in conference with the Prussian minister.
If all the ancestors of the Marquis de Brandebourg had been in the drawing-room I would have entered. I therefore ordered the footman to announce me.
As a culmination to my despair, Catherine had never been more lovely, and my vexation, my ill temper, increased still more.
She seemed amazed at my entrance, and the aged Comte de W—— was visibly annoyed, which, however, was quite immaterial to me.
He took his departure, saying to the princess that they would resume their conversation later.
"How miserable I am at this disappointment!" said Catherine, sadly, "but it is nearly one o'clock; the meeting begins at two, and our ambassador—"
"Eh, madame!" I exclaimed, interrupting her, and violently stamping my foot, "say no more about Chambers and ambassadors; it is a question of choosing between my love and the interests of countries to which you devote yourself. The connection is ridiculous, I admit, but your unreasonable ways provoke it."
Madame de Fersen gazed at me in profound and pained astonishment, for I had never accustomed her to such acrimonious methods.
I continued:
"I am moreover delighted to find this opportunity of telling you, once for all, that your parleys and continual verbiage with these tiresome and self-sufficient persons are very displeasing to me, and make me impatient beyond all expression. I never find you alone. You are for ever surrounded by these people, who find it very convenient to make your parlours an annex to their legations. I would infinitely prefer that you should be surrounded by a bevy of the most elegant and the wittiest young men, and that you showed yourself towards them as great a coquette as Madame de V——! At least I could be jealous of somebody, I could vie with some rival in attentions and tenderness for you. But here, against whom can I struggle? Whom shall I call to account?—the various nations? I declare to you that I find nothing more humiliating, more abject, than being reduced to feel jealous of Europe, or to contest for the heart of the woman I love with orators in the Chambers, as I am doing this day."
"My dearest, are you speaking seriously?" said Madame de Fersen, with a timid, shrinking, and yet bantering uncertainty, which would have enraptured me if Catherine had been less desperately beautiful, and if certain vexations did not drive you senseless as well as wicked. Madame de Fersen's question, moreover, exasperated me, for it showed me that my exhibition of anger approached the comic.
"Loving hearts and generous minds divine the impressions, and do not question. If you are reduced to asking me what I feel, I pity you. As for me, I am more clear-sighted, and understand but too well that you no longer love me."
"I not love you!" exclaimed Madame de Fersen, clasping her hands in distressed amazement; then she repeated: "I not love you! You say that—to me?"
"If you loved me, you would for my sake sacrifice all this following which I detest, because it hampers me, because it is useless, because it warps your mind. If you loved me, you would sacrifice the gratification of your vanity to my happiness."
"The gratification of my vanity! It is then from vanity that I preserve, that I cultivate these relations! Mon Dieu! Must I then repeat to you, Arthur, what I never say without sorrow and shame? I have been guilty, let me, at least, do all I can not to aggravate my error."
"Now you are beginning with your remorse," said I, harshly; "a rupture is not far distant, but, let me tell you, you might be anticipated."
"Ah, what are you saying? It is dreadful,—have I deserved it?" cried Catherine, her eyes filling with tears.
"His Excellency the Russian ambassador," announced the footman.
Madame de Fersen had barely time to disappear behind the portière which concealed the door between the parlour and her bedchamber.
"I am, like you, waiting for Madame de Fersen," I said to M. P. de B——, "she is doubtless finishing her toilet. You are going to the Chambers, I believe?"
"Yes; it will be a most brilliant and interesting sitting; they say that Benjamin Constant, Foy, and Casimir Perier are going to speak, and that M. de Villèle will answer."
Catherine entered, calm and composed, as if nothing had passed between us.
Her control over herself angered me.
After a few unmeaning words M. P. de B—— remarked that it was getting late, and it was best to start at once in order to find places in the diplomatic gallery. He offered his arm to Madame de Fersen, who suggested that I should go with them, accompanying the proposal with an imploring glance to which I was insensible.
I left Madame de Fersen in a state of irritation, dissatisfied with her and with myself.
My carriage drove me to the Tuileries, where I got down for a walk.
By chance I met Pommerive.
I had not seen him since I left Paris in the spring.
I felt so sad, so gloomy, that I was not sorry to find some distraction for my thoughts.
"Where do you come from, M. de Pommerive?" I inquired.
"Don't speak of it! I have been for three months in Franche-Comté, at St. Prix, with the D'Aranceys. Don't speak of it, it is disgusting!"
"They are certainly rich enough to give you some of those excellent dinners you are so fond of, and for which you show yourself so grateful, M. de Pommerive."
"The only way to show one's gratitude for a good dinner is to eat it with pleasure," said the cynic. "I don't complain of the table at D'Arancey's, they have first-rate fare. The father of D'Arancey has stolen enough by his contracts and otherwise; he has brought about enough fraudulent bankruptcies to enable his son to display all that luxury. By the bye, do you know that he has as much right to call himself D'Arancey, as I have to call myself Jeroboam! His name is simply something like Polimard; now, this common, low name is not pleasing to this fine gentleman, so, by means of a slight change, skilfully substituting D'Aran for Poli, and cey for mard, he has changed the distinguished name of Polimard into D'Arancey. He likes that better. You may tell me that this bankrupt's son had no reason to cling to his name, since he had none at all, for he had never been acknowledged by old Polimard, who died the victim of an epizooty, which made havoc in his district. This, however, is not a reason for him to take the name of the D'Aranceys, and what is worse, their arms, which that vulgar and impudent little creature, forsooth, calls her arms, and which she displays, I believe, even on her scullery maids' kitchen aprons. This is certainly very nice for the escutcheon of the D'Aranceys, whose name unfortunately is extinct; without that, the Polimards, male and female, should be whipped and branded, as ought to have been done to old Polimard, the first of the name."
This time I did not have the courage to censure Pommerive; these people were, in fact, such low-bred parvenus, their effrontery was so plebeian, their back-stairs insolence so ridiculous, that I freely and willingly relinquished them to his tender mercies. "But what has made you so indignant with your excellent friends, M. de Pommerive?"
"Everything; because everything is first-class, and that their presence spoils all. Surrounded by this household of common folks, it seemed to me all the time that I was being entertained by the steward and housekeeper of some absent lord, who were having fine sport in the absence of their master. But that is not all. Would you believe it? This Polimard-d'Arancey gets a fancy to set up a hunting retinue, and he has dared, actually dared, to engage as his first huntsman the famous La Brisée, who had just left the kennels of his Highness the Duke of Bourbon. Of course you will understand that I made La Brisée feel so ashamed at being chief huntsman to a M. Polimard, that I made him desert, giving him, however, a recommendation to the Marquis D. H——, where, at least, he will have an honourable position and be appreciated."
"I see, M. de Pommerive, that you are not much changed; you are as ever the most amiable of men."
"But you,—what are you doing? Still a statesman! A diplomat? Ah, by the bye, talking of diplomats, do you still go to that idiot of a Russian prince, that bad substitute for Potier and Brunet? I never set my foot now inside his door, or rather inside his wife's door, for happily for us he has taken himself away."
"And for what reason is the Princesse de Fersen deprived of the honour of seeing you, M. de Pommerive?"
"Why? Because I generally do like every one else; and, excepting diplomats and a few strangers, nobody in society sets a foot inside the princess's door."
"And why is this?" I inquired, almost mechanically, of M. de Pommerive.
"Forsooth! It is no secret, everybody knows it. The beautiful Muscovite is just simply a spy in high life.”