To a watchful observer the scene presented more than this gaily decorated surface. It had a soul; it lived, it thought, it felt, it found expression in the hidden passions which now and again forced their way to the surface. Now it would be an interchange of malicious glances; now some fair young girl, carried away by excitement and novelty, would betray a touch of passion; jealous women talked scandal behind their fans and paid each other extravagant compliments. Society, decked out, curled, and perfumed, abandoned itself to that frenzy of the fête which goes to the head like the fumes of wine. From every brow, as from every heart, seemed to emanate sensations and thoughts, which, forming together one potent influence, inflamed the most cold-blooded.
It was the most exciting moment of this entrancing evening. In a corner of the gilded drawing-room, where a few bankers, ambassadors, and retired ministers, together with that old reprobate, Lord Dudley (an unexpected arrival), were seated at play, Mme. Félix de Vandenesse found herself unable to resist the impulse to enter into conversation with Nathan. She, too, may have been yielding to that ballroom intoxication which has wrung many a confession from the lips of the most coy.
The sight of this splendid pageant of a world to which he was still a stranger stung Nathan to the heart with redoubled ambition. He looked at Rastignac, whose brother, at the age of twenty-seven, had just been made a Bishop, and whose brother-in-law, Martial de la Roche-Hugon, held office, while he himself was an Undersecretary of State, and about to marry, as rumor said, the only daughter of the Baron de Nucingen. He saw among the members of the diplomatic body an obscure writer who used to translate foreign newspapers for a journal that passed over to the reigning dynasty after 1830; he saw leader-writers members of the Council and professors peers of France. And he perceived, with bitterness, that he had taken the wrong road in preaching the overthrow of an aristocracy which counted among its ornaments the true nobility of fortunate talent and successful scheming. Blondet, though still a mere journalistic hack, was much made of in society, and had it yet in his power to strike the road to fortune by means of his intimacy with Mme. de Montcornet. Blondet, therefore, with all his ill-luck, was a striking example in Nathan’s eyes of the importance of having friends in high places. In the depths of his heart he resolved upon following the example of men like de Marsay, Rastignac, Blondet, and Talleyrand, the leader of the sect. He would throw conviction to the winds, paying allegiance only to accomplished facts, which he would wrest to his own advantage; no system should be to him more than an instrument; and on no account would he upset the balance of a society so admirably constructed, so decorative, and so consonant with nature.
“My future,” he said to himself, “is in the hands of a woman belonging to the great world.”
Full of this thought, the outcome of a frantic cupidity, Nathan pounced upon the Comtesse de Vandenesse like a hawk upon its prey. She was looking charming in a headdress of marabout feathers, which produced the delicious melting effect of Lawrence’s portraits, well suited to her gentle character. The fervid rhapsodies of the poet, crazed by ambition, carried the sweet creature quite off her feet. Lady Dudley, whose eye was everywhere, secured the tête-à-tête by handing over the Comte de Vandenesse to Mme. de Manerville. It was the first time the parted lovers had spoken face to face since their rupture. The woman, strong in the habit of ascendency, caught Félix in the toils of a coquettish controversy, with plenty of blushing confidences, regrets deftly cast like flowers at his feet, and recriminations, where self-defence was intended to stimulate reproach.
Whilst her husband’s former mistress was raking among the ashes of dead joys to find some spark of life, Mme. Félix de Vandenesse experienced those violent heartthrobs which assail a woman with the certainty of going astray and treading forbidden paths. These emotions are not without fascination, and rouse many dormant faculties. Now, as in the days of Bluebeard, all women love to use the bloodstained key, that splendid mythological symbol which is one of Perrault’s glories.
The dramatist, who knew his Shakespeare, unfolded the tale of his hardships, described his struggle with men and things, opened up glimpses of his unstable success, his political genius wasting in obscurity, his life unblessed by any generous affection. Without a word directly to that effect, he conveyed to this gracious lady the suggestion that she might play for him the noble part of Rebecca in Ivanhoe, might love and shelter him. Not a syllable overstepped the pure regions of sentiment. The blue of the forget-me-not, the white of the lily, are not more pure than were his flowers of rhetoric and the things signified by them; the radiance of a seraph lighted the brow of this artist, who might yet utilize his discourse with a publisher. He acquitted himself well of the serpent’s part, and flashed before the eyes of the Countess the tempting colors of the fatal fruit. Marie left the ball consumed by remorse, which was akin to hope, thrilled by compliments flattering to her vanity, and agitated to the remotest corner of her heart. Her very goodness was her snare; she could not resist her own pity for the unfortunate.
Whether
