Читать книгу The Burning Glass - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

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Mademoiselle De Lespinasse lived in the rue Saint- Dominique, in a house that faced the convent of Bellechase.

It was quite a modest house, the property of a master-joiner, and Julie de Lespinasse had rented the second and third floors since her stormy break with Madame du Deffand, who inhabited rooms in the Convent of Saint-Joseph, a few yards away.

The means of this fortuneless, and, in reality, nameless woman, consisted of a tiny pension left her by her mother, a small yearly sum from the Court, obtained for her by the influence of Madame du Deffand, the Duc d'Orleans, and the Duc de Choiseul.

This mean pittance had been augmented by the generosity of her friends. Madame la Maréchale de Luxembourg had given her the furniture for her few rooms, Madame de Chatillon, M. Turgot, M. Henault, and M. d'Ussé had contributed to the expenses of her installation, and Madame Geoffrin had sold her three most beautiful Carl Van Loos to the Empress of Russia, and with the sum she received had secured a life income for Mademoiselle de Lespinasse; this had been added to by M. de Vaines, and brought Julie's income to about twelve thousand livres. This sum was not sufficient, despite the modest way in which she lived, to relieve her of all care, for she managed her affairs badly, having very little interest in them, and spent extravagantly on clothes. Her minute establishment was that of a great lady; she kept two women servants, a lackey, and her tirewoman; her apartment was a nobleman's hotel in miniature. She was like M. de Guibert In this—that she followed ancient traditions while preaching new ideas.

Her tastes were fine, luxurious, and exquisite. She had indulged them in the furniture that the generosity of Madame de Luxembourg had paid for; she had now lived nearly ten years in the rue Saint-Dominique, and the place perfectly expressed her personality, and those who obtained the envied privilege of the entrée to her salon found the dwelling as charming as the mistress. Julie loved the place; until she had owned these few rooms she had always had to defer to the taste of others, and she still felt an intense satisfaction in having, even within these limits, everything that entirely pleased her. She lived on the second floor, a small ante-chamber led into the salon, a fair-sized room with the windows looking onto the street; the walls were of pale wood with sculptured panels, and set with four large mirrors in gilt frames facing the windows. These were hung with taffeta curtains of a dull, soft shade of crimson. The floor was of polished wood and there were no carpets or mats; the fireplace was furnished with dogs and irons in polished iron, ornamented with brass. On the mantelpiece stood a handsome pendule clock by Masson and two branched candlesticks in ormolu. Either side of this mantelpiece stood a marble bust on a pedestal, one of M. D'Alembert, one of M. Voltaire, and near the windows was an exquisitely-executed alabaster bird, poised for flight, on a stand of gilt brass. Before the fire stood a face-screen of green silk, a little table with a green velvet cover that held a tiny box and pot-pourri jar of lacquer, a bergère with green damask cushions, and a large chair with arms covered with crimson damask. Two arm, and three single chairs, of the Regency period, of gilt wood with cane bottoms, an ottoman in red Utrecht velvet, two more bergères, covered with dauphine with a white ground, six armchairs with crimson damask cushions, a desk-chair in red morocco, two rosewood commodes with marble tops, a table of acacia wood covered with books, a veneered cupboard, a sideboard of cherry wood, a desk in rosewood and a desk in satinwood, filled the centre of the room.

A little dining-table of acacia wood, one of the same for books, a rosewood coffer, footstools and cushions completed the furniture.

The walls in between the mirror were covered with prints, framed in gilt or black wood; several subjects in mezzotint after M. Greuze, La Lecture and La Conversation Espagnol by Beauvarlet, Ruines Romaines by Dietrich, and several portraits, among which were M. D'Alembert and M. Turgot.

Between the windows stood a cylinder desk of satinwood, furnished with candlesticks, snuffers, and tinderbox in silvered brass, and above were four shelves of books.

This desk, adorned with ormolu, was Julie's special property, and held two locked portfolios and several books.

An elegant spinning-wheel and a work-table occupied one corner; on the sideboard stood a few silver dishes, a package of sweets, and a decanter.

All the chairs were low and easy and filled with cushions in brocade, mostly red and green, of damask and Utrecht velvet. The room, though too full of furniture, had an air of comfort and ease, of elegance and leisure. At the far end an inner door led into the bed-chamber. This, with a dressing-closet and the room of her maid, completed the suite on this floor.

Above, on the next floor, were the rooms of the other servants, the kitchen and several empty closets.

Above that lived one or two other lodgers of the master joiner, among whom was M. D'Alembert, joint editor of the Encyclopaedia, perpetual secretary of the Academy, as a mathematician second to none, as writer and philosopher second only to M. Voltaire. He had long been the great attraction of the salon in the Convent, of Saint-Joseph and the dearest friend of its blind mistress, the Marquise du Deffand.

When the bitter quarrel arose between this lady and Julie, her companion and secretary, the Marquise had offered her old friend his choice between her and Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. The great man had unhesitatingly chosen the woman whom he had secretly adored since he had first beheld her, and had taken his presence, his prestige, his brilliant following, to the new salon in the rue Saint-Dominique, thereby causing the lonely and bitter old Marquise to hate him furiously with but little less of the violence which she accorded to the rebellious Julie.

Soon after this secession, Mademoiselle de Lespinasse fell ill of the smallpox, that disease which nearly ruined her health and completely ruined her looks. The famous philosopher had proved himself the most anxious, the most devoted of friends. It was largely owing to his intense care that Julie survived her terrible illness. His self-sacrifice nearly cost him his life; he caught the hideous complaint against which his feeble frame could ill struggle. Julie nursed him with complete self-abnegation, and on his recovery insisted that he should leave the close, miserable garret in the house of his foster-mother where he had hitherto spent his life. A temporary lodging was found for him in the hotel of M. Watelet, in the Boulevard du Temple, but the impulsive, warm-heartedness of Julie insisted that he should make his residence under her roof. The man, who regarded her with a secret, tenacious, and hopeless affection, caught eagerly at this half-happiness which was so much more than he had ever dreamed to obtain, and, with a pleasure and pride unspeakable, took up his residence in the rue Saint-Dominique. He shared his meals with Julie and used her salon to receive his friends, acted as her secretary when her sight troubled her, ran her errands, and was completely at her service. He was always present on her famous Tuesdays, and it was very rarely that he did not accompany her to dinner, supper, to the theatre, opera or fête—seldom was one asked without the other.

This singular relationship was respected by a world where sentiment was allowed so high a value and passion had been almost civilised out of existence—at least, out of recognition. Julie de Lespinasse, at any rate, was regarded as a woman sufficiently remarkable to do as she pleased, and the perfect calm and frankness with which she filled her unconventional role would in any case have disarmed criticism.

If it was obvious that M. D'Alembert was most single-heartedly in love with her, it was also obvious that she was not in love with him—and, indeed, the philosopher, fifty-four years of age, frail and effeminate in appearance, sickly and feeble, with his high voice and plain face, was hardly likely to be the object of a romantic passion, and his life had passed without the shadow of a love affair.

The radiant Julie, sure of her own heart, secure in her position, slightly defiant towards a world that had given her so much but withheld so much, cared nothing if her action caused comment or no.

'Eh,' she said proudly, 'when one is old and plain, one may do as one likes.' And she merely smiled at the thought of the weapon she had given to the black spite of Madame du Deffand.

The deep and honest devotion of M. D'Alembert touched her deeply; he had nothing to offer her beyond his fame; his birth was as blotted as her own, his story as sad, his past as painful, his means yet more restricted and uncertain, his health as feeble, and he had never put himself forward as a pretender to her favour—the infinite tact of Julie had spared him that. But every instant of his life was at her service, all his thoughts were for her. No duty, no office was too humble, if it was to pleasure her, and he accepted with humble gratitude the high place she had offered him in her friendship.

He did not really understand this woman whom he adored. Perhaps no nature so calm and tenacious could understand one so passionate and changeful, but he thought that he comprehended her every emotion, and that her whole heart lay bare to him. He knew that she was debarred from marriage by the same reason that he was, and he believed that the tender affection she accorded him was all she had to give to any man. He did not see the compassion in her gentle acceptance of his all; he did not guess how the woman in her was soothed by his attentions; that his brilliant company relieved hours of bitter loneliness, that her feminine vanity was flattered to think that there was always one heart in which she reigned supreme.

Certainly M. D'Alembert understood more about geometry than women, and was very "completely deceived in the complex character of Julie de Lespinasse."

Passionate, sensitive, born and educated under a cloud, terribly hurt again and again, always homeless, without relatives, dependent, conspicuous, yet set apart from others, with a vast capacity for suffering, she found in the rue Saint-Dominique something of what other people took for granted, but what she had never had—her own domain, liberty, security, a permanent refuge, and in M. D'Alembert something of that warm atmosphere of homely affection that hitherto she had missed. Her eager kindness to the man who gave her these sensations of secured happiness had to the infatuated philosopher the aspect of love, and he lived in the rosy illusion of being the first object of her heart.

Julie de Lespinasse had once been in love.

A noble Irishman, M. Taafe, whom she had met in the salon of Saint-Joseph, had inspired her with a capricious and violent fancy. The brief enchantment was dispelled by the grim irony of Madame du Deffand; the demoiselle de compagnie was made to understand that she was not to have feelings, and neither love nor marriage were for the dowerless, disowned girl.

Jealousy barbed these stinging truths. The tongue of the blind Marquise was a terrible, if delicate, weapon, and Julie had been wounded to the quick, and most of all by the fact that the Irishman had proved no persistent lover, but had desisted at the first rebuff, and soon afterwards left Paris, never to return.

A more reserved, a prouder Julie, rose from the overthrow of that first despair. Her friendships were numerous and famous, her attraction was universally acknowledged; she was called 'enchantress,' but she had had no more love affairs until, at an age when she fondly believed life had passed her by, she was drawn, almost despite herself, into the unhappy, violent, and doomed affection that now filled her entire life. Her marvellous friendships were not all with men; many women were under the empire of her charm, and to them she was loyal, frank, and devoted. Madame de Luxembourg, Madame de Chatillon, Madame de Boufflers were among her intimates, and for Madame Geoffrin she had a filial affection, and admitted her into her entire confidence. It was to this lady, whose salon was the most famous in Paris, that Julie owed the support that made it possible for her, alone, poor, and unplaced as she was, to open a salon that could compete with, and finally outshine, those held in the splendid hotel of the rue Saint-Clery, that of the Baron D'Holbach and those of Madame du Deffand and Madame Geoffrin herself.

So great was the devotion of these two brilliant women for each other, that the bitter jealousy of the daughter of the Marquise was roused, and so, in a measure, the friendship spoiled for Julie. The beautiful Comtesse de Boufflers, fresh and seductive, though no younger than Julie, had been her generous champion in the break with Madame du Deffand, and remained her close friend, though not her confidante. Madame de Marchais, lovely and witty, a lady of the Court, a coquette, despite her life-long attachment to the Comte D'Angeviller, and the Duchesse de Chatillon were next among the women of Julie's circle. This last, dowered with all the gifts of fortune, behaved as a tender sister to Julie, who, however, had never admitted her to any great intimacy. Three men came next to M. D'Alembert among those whom she loved—the Marquis de Condorcet, whom she called her second secretary,' M. Suard, the writer, for whom she was using her vast influence to obtain a seat in the Academy, and the Chevalier de Chastellux.

No trace of sentiment entered into her relations with any of these. M. Condorcet was nursing a hopeless passion for the fascinating Mademoiselle D'Ussé, M. Suard was in love with his wife, de Chastellux was unalterably attached to the Marquise de Géon. In all these affairs she was their confidante, and in return opened her inmost heart to them. Her genius for the platonic friendship found expression also with M. Turgot, whom she called 'my minister,' with the Marquis de Caraccioli, the ambassador of Naples at Paris, with David Hume, whose historic quarrel with Rousseau had been settled under her arbitration, and the Earl of Shelburne.

Among others who frequented her modest room, and who were of her near acquaintance, were such men as the Abbé Galiani, Marmontel, Grimm, the Comte de Cruetz, the Baron de Gleichen, and the Comte d'Aranda. So, under her light, gay, and easy rule, gathered thinkers, soldiers, statesmen, scientists, wits, men of fashion, beauties, great ladies, famous foreigners, all enthralled alike by her exquisite culture, her unfailing intelligence and tact, her natural enthusiasm, her unaffected delight in all aspects of life and art, the enchantment of her delicious personality. Her lack of youth and beauty had never stood in her way; women of middle age were the fashion, and the gifts of youth could not show to advantage in the atmosphere of the salons; beauty was at a discount in an over-civilised society that permitted only nuances of sentimental affection and platonic relationships that were tacitly supposed to supersede the crudeness and violence of passion, the natural storms of early love. Julie had no young girl among her acquaintances. Her friends were nearly all older than herself. Those who were not, Madame de Marchais and Madame de Chatillon, were not seen very frequently in her company. She knew herself unique, both in her history, her personality and the position she had achieved, and without in the least losing her head, she abandoned herself to the delights of her friendships, the adulation, the fame, the praise, the round of visits, of entertainments, the gay, easy exchange of thought with the finest minds of the time, the delicious intimacy with her slave, D'Alembert, with Condorcet, with Suard, the celebrity of her Tuesdays, the pleasure of literary labour, of music, of which she was passionately fond, of plenty of clothes, in which direction she had always been starved, with that eager fervour that was her main characteristic. And her youth was past when she began gradually to find that the fame was becoming meaningless, the laughter hollow, the gaiety forced, the friendships limited, the wit stale.

Restlessness and melancholy afflicted her attitude to all the things that had at one time been such a source of avid enjoyment to her: she murmured in her soul, 'A quoi bon?' Some deep instinct told her that her life, outwardly so frank and natural, was in reality artificial, that her days, seemingly so full, were, in truth, empty, that, having in appearance had everything, she had really had nothing.

Her old love of children began to stir in her heart with a torturing pang. She had the nostalgia for the home she had never known, a longing and a yearning for she knew not what.

Tears were close behind her laughter, and she faced the future with terrified eyes. It was when she was falling into this mood of weariness that was near despair that she met the Marquis de Mora.