“Is monsieur dining with madame?” inquired Bérénice.
“No, my mouth is clammy.”
“You were nicely screwed yesterday. Ah! Papa Camusot, I don’t like men who drink, I tell you at once—”
“You will give that young man a present, I suppose?” interrupted Camusot.
“Oh! yes. I would rather do that than pay as Florine does. There, go away with you, good-for-nothing that one loves; or give me a carriage to save time in future.”
“You shall go in your own carriage tomorrow to your manager’s dinner at the Rocher de Cancale. The new piece will not be given next Sunday.”
“Come, I am just going to dine,” said Coralie, hurrying Camusot out of the room.
An hour later Bérénice came to release Lucien. Bérénice, Coralie’s companion since her childhood, had a keen and subtle brain in her unwieldy frame.
“Stay here,” she said. “Coralie is coming back alone; she even talked of getting rid of Camusot if he is in your way; but you are too much of an angel to ruin her, her heart’s darling as you are. She wants to clear out of this, she says; to leave this paradise and go and live in your garret. Oh! there are those that are jealous and envious of you, and they have told her that you haven’t a brass farthing, and live in the Latin Quarter; and I should go, too, you see, to do the housework.—But I have just been comforting her, poor child! I have been telling her that you were too clever to do anything so silly. I was right, wasn’t I, sir? Oh! you will see that you are her darling, her love, the god to whom she gives her soul; yonder old fool has nothing but the body.—If you only knew how nice she is when I hear her say her part over! My Coralie, my little pet, she is! She deserved that God in heaven should send her one of His angels. She was sick of the life.—She was so unhappy with her mother that used to beat her, and sold her. Yes, sir, sold her own child! If I had a daughter, I would wait on her hand and foot as I wait on Coralie; she is like my own child to me.—These are the first good times she has seen since I have been with her; the first time that she has been really applauded. You have written something, it seems, and they have got up a famous claque for the second performance. Braulard has been going through the play with her while you were asleep.”
“Who? Braulard?” asked Lucien; it seemed to him that he had heard the name before.
“He is the head of the claqueurs, and she was arranging with him the places where she wished him to look after her. Florine might try to play her some shabby trick, and take all for herself, for all she calls herself her friend. There is such a talk about your article on the Boulevards.—Isn’t it a bed fit for a prince,” she said, smoothing the lace bedspread.
She lighted the wax-candles, and to Lucien’s bewildered fancy, the house seemed to be some palace in the Cabinet des Fées. Camusot had chosen the richest stuffs from the Golden Cocoon for the hangings and window-curtains. A carpet fit for a king’s palace was spread upon the floor. The carving of the rosewood furniture caught and imprisoned the light that rippled over its surface. Priceless trifles gleamed from the white marble chimneypiece. The rug beside the bed was of swan’s skins bordered with sable. A pair of little, black velvet slippers lined with purple silk told of happiness awaiting the poet of The Marguerites. A dainty lamp hung from the ceiling draped with silk. The room was full of flowering plants, delicate white heaths and scentless camellias, in stands marvelously wrought. Everything called up associations of innocence. How was it possible in these rooms to see the life that Coralie led in its true colors? Bérénice noticed Lucien’s bewildered expression.
“Isn’t it nice?” she said coaxingly. “You would be more comfortable here, wouldn’t you, than in a garret?—You won’t let her do anything rash?” she continued, setting a costly stand before him, covered with dishes abstracted from her mistress’ dinner-table, lest the cook should suspect that her mistress had a lover in the house.
Lucien made a good dinner. Bérénice waiting on him, the dishes were of wrought silver, the painted porcelain plates had cost a louis d’or apiece. The luxury was producing exactly the same effect upon him that the sight of a girl walking the pavement, with her bare flaunting throat and neat ankles, produces upon a schoolboy.
“How lucky Camusot is!” cried he.
“Lucky?” repeated Bérénice. “He would willingly give all that he is worth to be in your place; he would be glad to barter his gray hair for your golden head.”
She gave Lucien the richest wine that Bordeaux keeps for the wealthiest English purchaser, and persuaded Lucien to go to bed to take a preliminary nap; and Lucien, in truth, was quite willing to sleep on the couch that he had been admiring. Bérénice had read his wish, and felt glad for her mistress.
At half-past ten that night Lucien awoke to look into eyes brimming over with love. There stood Coralie in most luxurious night attire. Lucien had been sleeping; Lucien was intoxicated with love, and not with wine. Bérénice left the room with the inquiry, “What time tomorrow morning?”
“At eleven o’clock. We will have breakfast in bed. I am not at home to anybody before two o’clock.”
At two o’clock in the afternoon Coralie and her lover were sitting together. The poet to all appearance had come to pay a call. Lucien had been bathed and combed and dressed. Coralie had sent to Colliau’s for a dozen fine shirts, a dozen cravats and a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs for him, as well as twelve pairs of
