“Come, come, my good soul,” said Rastignac, “shift the prayer of Moses on to the high notes, as Paganini does.”
Raoul sat speechless with fixed and besotted eyes. At last he opened his mouth.
“This beast of a ’prentice minister does not understand me!”
Thus, whilst the poor Eve of the Rue du Rocher went to bed, swathed in shame, terrified at the delight which had filled her while listening to this poetic pretender, hovering between the stern voice of gratitude to Vandenesse and the flattering tongue of the serpent, these three shameless spirits trampled on the tender white blossoms of her opening love. Ah! if women knew how cynical those men can be behind their backs, who show themselves all meekness and cajolery when by their side! if they knew how they mock their idols! Fresh, lovely, and timid creature, whose charms lie at the mercy of some graceless buffoon! And yet she triumphs! The more the veils are rent, the clearer her beauty shines.
Marie at this moment was comparing Raoul and Félix, all-ignorant of the danger to her heart in such a process. No better contrast could be found to the robust and unconventional Raoul than Félix de Vandenesse, with his clothes fitting like a glove, the finish of a fine lady in his person, his charming natural disinvoltura, combined with a touch of English refinement, picked up from Lady Dudley. A contrast like this pleases the fancy of a woman, ever ready to fly from one extreme to another. The Countess was too well-principled and pious not to forbid her thoughts dwelling on Raoul, and next day, in the heart of her paradise, she took herself to task for base ingratitude.
“What do you think of Raoul Nathan?” she asked her husband during lunch.
“He is a charlatan,” replied the Count; “one of those volcanoes which a sprinkling of gold-dust will keep tranquil. The Comtesse de Montcornet ought not to have had him at her house.”
This reply was the more galling to Marie because Félix, who knew the literary world well, supported his verdict with proofs drawn from the life of Raoul—a life of shifts, in which Florine, a well-known actress, played a large part.
“Granting the man has genius,” he concluded, “he is without the patience and persistency which make genius a thing apart and sacred. He tries to impress people by assuming a position which he cannot live up to. That is not the behavior of really able men and students; if they are honorable men they stick to their own line, and don’t try to hide their rags under frippery.”
A woman’s thought has marvelous elasticity; it may sink under a blow, to all appearance crushed, but in a given time it is up again, as though nothing had happened.
“Félix must be right,” was the first thought of the Countess.
Three days later, however, her mind traveled back to the tempter, allured by that sweet yet ruthless emotion which it was the mistake of Vandenesse not to have aroused. The Count and Countess went to Lady Dudley’s great ball, where de Marsay made his last appearance in society. Two months later he died, leaving the reputation of a statesman so profound that, as Blondet said, he was unfathomable. Here Vandenesse and his wife again met Raoul Nathan, amid a concourse of people made remarkable by the number of actors in the political drama whom, to their mutual surprise, it brought together.
It was one of the chief social functions in the great world. The reception-rooms offered a magic picture to the eye. Flowers, diamonds, shining hair, the plunder of countless jewel-cases, every art of the toilet—all contributed to the effect. The room might be compared to one of those show hothouses where wealthy amateurs collect the most marvelous varieties. There was the same brilliancy, the same delicacy of texture. It seemed as though the art of man would compete also with the animal world. On all sides fluttered gauze, white or painted like the wings of prettiest dragonfly, crepe, lace, blonde, tulle, pucked, puffed, or notched, vying in eccentricity of form with the freaks of nature in the insect tribe. There were spider’s threads in gold or silver, clouds of silk, flowers which some fairy might have woven or imprisoned spirit breathed into life; feathers, whose rich tints told of a tropical sun, drooping willow-like over haughty heads, ropes of pearls, drapery in broad folds, ribbed, or slashed, as though the genius of arabesque had presided over French millinery.
This splendor harmonized with the beauties gathered together as though to form a “keepsake.” The eye roamed over a wealth of fair shoulders in every tone of white that man could conceive—some amber-tinted, others glistening like some glazed surface or glossy as satin, others, again, of a rich lustreless color which the brush of Rubens might have mixed. Then the eyes, sparkling like onyx stones or turquoises, with their dark velvet edging or fair fringes; and profiles of every contour, recalling the noblest types of different lands. There were brows lofty with pride; rounded brows, index of thought within; level brows, the seat of an indomitable will. Lastly—most bewitching of all in a scene of such studied splendor—necks and bosoms in the rich voluptuous folds adored by George IV, or with the more delicate modeling which found favor in the eighteenth century and at the Court of Louis XV; but all, whatever the type, frankly exhibited, either without drapery or through the dainty plaited tuckers of Raphael’s portraits, supreme triumph of his laborious pupils. Prettiest of feet, itching for the dance, figures yielding softly to the embrace of the waltz, roused the most apathetic to attention; murmurings of gentle voices, rustling dresses, whispering partners, vibrations of the dance, made a fantastic burden to the music.
A fairy’s wand might have called forth this witchery, bewildering to the senses, the
