Thus the splendid collection went its way.
Florine carried her personal remembrances to shops where the sight of them did not enlighten passersby as to how and when these flowers of luxury had been paid for. It was agreed to leave her until the evening a few specially reserved articles, including her bed, her table, and her crockery, so that she might offer breakfast to her guests. These witty gentlemen, having fallen asleep under the beauteous drapery of wealth, awoke to the cold, naked walls of poverty, studded with nail-marks and disfigured by those incongruous patches which are found at the back of wall decorations, as ropes behind an opera scene.
“Why, Florine, the poor girl has an execution in the house!” cried Bixiou, one of the guests. “Quick! your pockets, gentlemen! A subscription!”
At these words the whole company was on foot. The net sweepings of the pockets came to thirty-seven francs, which Raoul handed over with mock ceremony to the laughing Florine. The happy courtesan raised her head from the pillow and pointed to a heap of banknotes on the sheet, thick as in the golden days of her trade. Raoul called Blondet.
“I see it now,” said Blondet. “The little rogue has sold off without a word to us. Well done, Florine!”
Delighted with this stroke, the few friends who remained carried Florine in triumph and deshabille to the dining-room. The barrister and the bankers had gone. That evening Florine had a tremendous reception at the theatre. The rumor of her sacrifice was all over the house.
“I should prefer to be applauded for my talent,” said Florine’s rival to her in the greenroom.
“That is very natural on the part of an artist who has never yet won applause except for the lavishness of her favors,” she replied.
During the evening Florine’s maid had her things moved to Raoul’s flat in the Passage Sandrié. The journalist was to pitch his camp in the building where the newspaper office was opened.
Such was the rival of the ingenuous Mme. de Vandenesse. Raoul’s fancy was a link binding the actress to the lady of title. It was a ghastly tie like this which was severed by that Duchess of Louis XIV’s time who poisoned Lecouvreur; nor can such an act of vengeance be wondered at, considering the magnitude of the offence.
VI
Love Versus Society
Florine proved no difficulty in the early stages of Raoul’s passion. Foreseeing financial disappointments in the hazardous scheme into which he had plunged, she begged leave of absence for six months. Raoul took an active part in the negotiation, and by bringing it to a successful issue still further endeared himself to Florine. With the good sense of the peasant in La Fontaine’s fable, who makes sure of his dinner while the patricians are chattering over plans, the actress hurried off to the provinces and abroad, to glean the wherewithal to support the great man during his place-hunting.
Up to the present time the art of fiction has seldom dealt with love as it shows itself in the highest society, a compound of noble impulse and hidden wretchedness. There is a terrible strain in the constant check imposed on passion by the most trivial and trumpery incidents, and not unfrequently the thread snaps from sheer lassitude. Perhaps some glimpse of what it means may be obtained here.
The day after Lady Dudley’s ball, although nothing approaching a declaration had escaped on either side, Marie felt that Raoul’s love was the realization of her dreams, and Raoul had no doubt that he was the chosen of Marie’s heart. Neither of the two had reached that point of depravity where preliminaries are curtailed, and yet they advanced rapidly towards the end. Raoul, sated with pleasure, was in the mood for Platonic affection; whilst Marie, from whom the idea of an actual fault was still remote, had never contemplated passing beyond it. Never, therefore, was love more pure and innocent in fact, or more impassioned and rapturous in thought, than this of Raoul and Marie. The Countess had been fascinated by ideas which, though clothed in modern dress, belonged to the times of chivalry. In her role, as she conceived it, her husband’s dislike to Nathan no longer appeared an obstacle to her love. The less Raoul merited esteem, the nobler was her mission. The inflated language of the poet stirred her imagination rather than her blood. It was charity which wakened at the call of passion. This queen of the virtues lent what in the eyes of the Countess seemed almost a sanction to the tremors, the delights, the turbulence of her love. She felt it a fine thing to be the human providence of Raoul. How sweet to think of supporting with her feeble, white hand this colossal figure, whose feet of clay she refused to see, of sowing life where none had been, of working in secret at the foundation of a great destiny. With her help this man of genius should wrestle with and overcome his fate; her hand should embroider his scarf for the tourney, buckle on his armor, give him a charm against sorcery, and balm for all his wounds!
In a woman with Marie’s noble nature and religious upbringing this passionate charity was the only form love could assume. Hence her boldness. The pure in mind have a superb disdain for appearances, which may be mistaken for the shamelessness of the courtesan. No sooner had the Countess assured herself by casuistical arguments that her husband’s honor ran no risk, than she abandoned herself completely to
