Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“It is scarcely fair, after all,” said I, half laughing, “to criticise them so severely; and the more, as I think you had some old acquaintances among them.”

“Ha! you saw that, did you?” said he, smiling. “No, by Jove! I never met them before. But that confrèrie of soldiers – you understand – soon made us acquainted; and I saw one old fellow speaking to a very pretty girl I guessed to be his daughter, and soon cemented a small friendship with him: here’s his card.”

“His card! Why, are you to visit him?”

“Better again; I shall dine there on Monday next. Let us see how he calls himself: ‘Hippolyte Pierrot, stay and corset-maker to her Majesty the Empress, No. 22 Rue du Bac, – third floor above the entresol.’ Diable! we ‘re high up. Unfortunately, I am scarcely intimate enough to bring a friend.”

“Oh, make no excuses on that head,” said I, laughing; “I really have no desire to see Monsieur Hippolyte Pierrot’s menage. And now, what are your engagements for this evening? Are you for the Opera?”

“I don’t well know,” said he, pausing. “Madame Caulaincourt receives, and of course expects to see our gay jackets in her salon any time before or after supper. Then there’s the Comtesse de Nevers: I never go there without meeting my tailor; the fellow’s a spy of the police, and a confectioner to boot, and he serves the ices, and reports the conversations in the Place Vendôme and that side of the Rue St. Honoré, – I couldn’t take a glass of lemonade without being dunned. Then, in the Faubourg I must go in plain clothes, – they would not let the ‘livery of the Usurper’ pass the porter’s lodge; besides, they worry one with their enthusiastic joy or grief, – as the last letter from England mentions whether the Comte d’Artois has eaten too many oysters, or found London beer too strong for him.”

“From all which I guess that you are indisposed to stir.”

“I believe that is about the fact. Truth is, Burke, there is only one soirée in all Paris I ‘d take the trouble to dress for this evening; and, strange enough, it’s the only house where I don’t know the people. He is a commissary-general, or a ‘fournisseur’ of some kind or other of the army; always from home, they say; with a wife who was once, and a daughter who is now, exceeding pretty; keeps a splendid house; and, like an honest man, makes restitution of all he can cheat in the campaign by giving good dinners in the capital. His Majesty, at the solicitation of the Empress, I believe, made him a count, – God’s mercy it was not a king! – and as they come from Guadaloupe, or Otaheite, no one disputes their right. Besides, this is not a time for such punctilio. This is all I know of them, for unfortunately they settled here since I joined the army.”

“And the name?”

“Oh, a very plausible name, I assure you. Lacostellerie, – Madame la Comtesse de Lacostellerie.”

“By Jove! you remind me I have letters for her, – a circumstance I had totally forgotten, though it was coupled with a commission.”

“A letter! Why, nothing was ever so fortunate. Don’t lose a moment; you have just time to leave it, with your card, before dinner. You’ll have an invitation for this evening at once.”

“But I have not the slightest wish.”

“No matter, I have; and you shall bring me.”

“You forget,” said I, mimicking his own words, “I am unfortunately not intimate enough.”

“As to that,” replied he, “there is a vast difference between the etiquette Rue du Bac, No. 22, three floors above the entresol, and the gorgeous salons of the Hôtel Clichy, Rue Faubourg St. Honoré; ceremony has the advantage in the former by a height of three pair of stairs, not to speak of the entresol.”

“But I don’t know the people.”

“Nor I.”

“But how am I to present you?”

“Easily enough, – ‘Captain Duchesne, Imperial Guard;’ or, if you prefer it, I ‘ll do the honors for you.”

“With all my heart, then,” said I, laughing; and pre-pared to pay the visit in question.

CHAPTER X. THE HÔTEL DE CLICHY

Duchesne was correct in all his calculations. I had scarcely reached the Luxembourg when a valet brought me a card for the comtesse’s soirée for that evening. It was accordingly agreed upon that we were to go together; I as the invited, he as my friend.

“All your finery, Burke, remember that,” said he, as we separated to dress. “The uniform of the compagnie d’élite is as much a decoration in a salon as a camellia or a geranium.”

When he re-entered my room half an hour later, I was struck by the blaze of orders and decorations with which his jacket was covered; while at his side there hung a magnificent sabre d’honneur, such as the Emperor was accustomed to confer on his most distinguished officers.

“You smile at all this bravery,” said he, wilfully misinterpreting my look of admiration; “but remember where we are going.”

“On the contrary,” interrupted I; “but it is the first time I knew you had the cross of the Legion.”

“Parbleu!” said he, with an insolent shrug of his shoulders, “I had lent it to my hairdresser for a ball at the ‘Cirque.’ But here comes the carriage.”

While we drove along towards the Faubourg I had time to learn some further particulars of the people to whose house we were proceeding; and for my reader’s information may as well impart them here, with such other facts as I subsequently collected myself.

Like most of the salons of the new aristocracy, Madame Lacostellerie received people of every section of party and every class of political opinion. Standing equally aloof from the old régime and the members of the Jacobin party, her receptions were a kind of neutral territory, where each could come without compromise of dignity: for already, except among the most starched adherents of the Bourbons, few of whom remained in France, there was a growing spirit to side with the Napoleonists in preference to the revolutionary section; while the latter, with all their pretensions to simplicity and primitive tastes, felt no little pride in mixing with the very aristocracy they so loudly inveighed against. Besides all this, wealth had its prestige. Never, in the palmiest days of the royalty, were entertainments of greater splendor; and the Legitimists, however disposed to be critical on the company, could afford to be just regarding the cuisine, – the luxury of these modern dinners eclipsing the most costly displays of former times, where hereditary rank and ancient nobility contributed to adorn the scene. And, lastly, the admixture of every grade and class extended the field of conversational agreeability, throwing in new elements and eliciting new features in a society where peers, actors, poets, bankers, painters, soldiers, speculators, journalists, and adventurers were confusedly mixed together; making, as it were, a common fund of their principles and their prejudices, and starting anew in life with what they could seize in the scramble.

After following the long line of carriages for above an hour, we at last turned into a large courtyard, lit up almost to the brightness of day. Here the equipages of many of the ministers were standing, – a privilege accorded to them above the other guests. I recognized among the number the splendid liveries of Decrès; and the stately carriage of Talleyrand, whose household always proclaimed itself as belonging to a “seigneur” of the oldest blood of France, – the most perfect type of a highbred gentleman. Our progress from the vestibule to the stairs was a slow one. The double current of those pressing upwards and downwards delayed us long; and at last we reached a spacious antechamber, where even greater numbers stood awaiting their turn, if happily it should come, to move forward.

While here, the names of those announced conveyed tous a fair impression of the whole company. Among the first was Le General Junot, Berthollet (the celebrated chemist), Lafayette, Monges, Daru, Comte de Mailles (a Legitimist noble), David (the regicide), the Ambassador of Prussia, M. Pasquier, Talma. Such were the names we heard following in quick succession; when suddenly an avenue was opened by a master of the ceremonies before me, who read from my card the words, “Le Capitaine Burke, officier d’élite; le Chevalier Duchesne, présenté par lui.” And advancing within the doorway, I found myself opposite a very handsome woman, whose brilliant dress and blaze of diamonds concealed any ravages time might have made upon her beauty.

She was conversing with the Arch-Chancellor, Cambacérès, when my name was announced; and turning rapidly round, touched my arm with her bouquet, as she said, with a most gracious smile, —

“I am but too much flattered to see you on so short an invitation; but M. de Tascher’s note led me to hope I might presume so far. Your friend, I believe?”

“I have taken the great liberty – ”

“Indeed, Madame la Comtesse,” said Duchesne, interrupting, “I must exculpate my friend here. This intrusion rests on my own head, and has no other apology than my long cherished wish to pay my homage to the most distinguished ornament of the Parisian world.”

As he spoke, the quiet flow of his words, and the low deferential bow with which he accompanied them, completely divested his speech of its tone of gross flattery, and merely made it seem a very fitting and appropriate expression.

“This would be a very high compliment, indeed,” replied Madame de Lacostellerie, with a flush of evident pleasure on her cheek, “had it even come from one less known than the Chevalier Duchesne. I hope the Duchesse de Montserrat is well, – your aunt, if I mistake not?” “Yes, Madame,” said he, “in excellent health; it will afford her great pleasure when I inform her of your polite inquiry.”

Another announcement now compelled us to follow the current in front, which I was well content to do, and escape from an interchange of fine speeches, of whose sincerity, on one side at least, I had very strong misgivings.

“So, then, the comtesse is acquainted with your family?” said I, in a whisper.

“Who said so?” replied he, laughing.

“Did she not ask after the Duchesse de Montserrat?”

“And then?”

“And didn’t you promise to convey her very kind message?”

“To be sure I did. But are you simple enough to think that either of us were serious in what we said? Why, my dear friend, she never saw my aunt in her life; nor, if I were to hint at her inquiry for her to the duchesse, am I certain it would not cost me something like a half million of francs the old lady has left me in her will, – on my word, I firmly believe she’d never forgive it. You know little what these people of the vieille roche, as they call themselves, are like. Do you see that handsome fellow yonder, with a star on a blue cordon?”

“I don’t know him; but I see he’s a Marshal of France.”

“Well, I saw that same aunt of mine rise up and leave the room because he sat down in her presence!”

“Oh! that was intolerable.”

“So she deemed his insolence. Come, move on; they ‘re dancing in the next salon.” And without saying more, we pushed through the crowd in the direction of the music.

It is only by referring to the sensations experienced by those who see a ballet at the Opera for the first time that I can at all convey my own on entering the salle de danse. My first feeling was that of absolute shame. Never before had I seen that affectation of stage costume which then was the rage in society. The short and floating jupe – formed of some light and gauzy texture, which, even where it covered the figure, betrayed the form and proportions of the wearer – was worn low on the bosom and shoulders, and attached at the waist by a ribbon, whose knot hung negligently down in seeming disorder. The hair fell in long and floating masses loose upon the neck, waving in free tresses with every motion of the figure, and adding to that air of abandon which seemed so studiously aimed at. But more than anything in mere costume was the look and expression, in which a character of languid voluptuousness was written, and made to harmonize with the easy grace of floating movements, and sympathize with gestures full of passionate fascination.