Читать книгу Two banks of the Seine (Les Deux Rives) - Fernand Vandérem - Страница 7

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THE ball given by M. and Mme. Lemeunier de Saulvard (of the Institute) “in their apartment” in the avenue Kléber, on the occasion of the engagement of their niece, Mlle. Genevieve de Saulvard, to M. Brisset de Saffry de Lamorneraie, lieutenant of the 21st hussars, had attracted a large assembly of guests.

The army, the fine arts, literature, science, the upper bourgeoisie, men of learning, club-men, men of finance and men of the drawing-room—the full contingent of their acquaintances filled their apartment after 11 lock. All the guests, for lack of any other common ground, were at least agreed on the subject of the party and voted it a success.

As a matter of fact, the Saulvards deserved the praise, for they had shown themselves far from niggardly. The buffet was sumptuous, covered with silver plate, viands and piles of sandwiches, ices, sweet-smelling drinks and spread here and there with dishes of frozen fruit in large pale pink or green rings like dull-colored silk plaques. And everywhere there were flowers, in bushes, baskets and garlands. Rows of white chrysanthemums concealed the upper parts of the windows with their intricate strands, and chains of delicate winter roses climbed along the chandeliers, whence fell through the crystal the calm, intense glow of the electric lights.

The orchestra was made up of gypsies in red coats with heavy gold braidings. They formed a sort of barbaric guard of honor in front of the piano. In the interval between the dances people stopped to watch them cleaning their strange instruments as if they were wild men in a camp.

They began to play their sensuous airs. One couple rose, then two, then three. Then all at once the reflections made by the lights upon the empty shiny floor disappeared under the mixed crowd of dancers. Mothers smiled. Old savants dreamily beat the rhythm with their feet; the heads of young women were bent backwards and their eyes shone in enamored glances. The enervating beatitude of that music caused them all to tremble for an instant in spite of themselves with the same pleasure that drew them together. At those moments one might have imagined himself witnessing one of those gatherings where people of the same set are fused in joyous intimacy and with the feeling of being secure among themselves.

But the illusion disappeared with the last note. It was like refractory liquids which, as soon as one ceases to beat them together, separate and naturally resume their own color and their own place. The whirlwind of the dancers was broken up; close embraces ceased and steady glances turned away. Instinctively everyone fell back among his own set, returned to his caste. Once more between hostile groups the floor in the center of the room stretched out under the lights a desert of frightening barrenness.

There were but a few daring young men from the great clubs who ventured on it; Gerald de Meuze, Tommy Barbier, Patrice de Vernaise, Saint-Pons and the little prince of Tavarande; they had committed themselves at the urgent entreaty of Mme. de Saulvard. There were also some brother officers of the fiancé, in sky-blue coats and red trousers with light bands, most of them titled or bearing those bourgeois names which, while not noble, announced at least an ancient worth and a duly established family.

They walked round the drawing-rooms alone, or by twos, seemingly meditative, supporting their bent elbows with one hand and curling their mustaches with the other. They examined the women, one by one, studiously, as if these had been cattle at a fair. With their heavy, disdainful eyelids, one could hardly tell whether they were purposely shrinking their eyes to the dimensions of that small world or whether they were perhaps tormented by a persistent and rebellious desire to sneeze.

Saulvard had vainly attempted at first to merge the other elements of the assembly. He had had to give it up in the face of resistance.

Thus high finance and great industry and their satellites formed a compact clan in the right-hand corner of the first drawing-room. They laughed, cackled and chattered, and were sufficient unto themselves; the minute a stranger dared to break in, seeking a chair or a little more elbow room, in short, the slightest opening, this group assumed dark countenances. They had a welcome for none but the representatives of the aristocracy. The latter, however, were massed a little away from them; they formed a small élite, had closed their ranks after the necessary greetings, and henceforth affected to ignore their jovial neighbors, reserving for each other their cordiality and their smiles. Apart from a few noblemen whom the smell of blood or the need for financial advice moved to approach the other clan, the aristocratic group remained effectively faithful to its principles of separatism and its arrogant virtuosity.

The Academicians also kept their distance. The five sections of the Institute kept to their circle but did not fraternize. They hardly even exchanged brief amenities or passed chairs to each other in order to avoid any promiscuity with the Academy of Medicine—intruders who were signaled to all by a volatile smell of iodoform or phenol brought in their clothing.

The literary men and their wives had constituted a close circle with the groups of painters and musicians. But even that brought forth constraint or reciprocal animosity.

The result was that Saulvard, who stood on duty near the door, assumed more and more the air of a guardian of a public dancing hall, or the controller of a casino who checked the entrance of the subscribers and jollied equally all his diverse classes of patrons.

He was short and bald; his yellow face was framed by two short white whiskers—the face of a Japanese turned butler; he smiled ceaselessly, bowed and straightened himself up again; he hopped on his high pointed heels as if waiting, or thanking for, a tip. He murmured, following them five or six steps, appropriate flatteries to all his invited guests, as soon as they reached the doorstep. His glances wandered round, discreet and confidential. From afar one might have thought that he was showing the newcomers the way to the cloakroom.

As soon as the Raindal family appeared, he nimbly rose to meet them.

“Ah, my dear colleague!... What joy!... I was almost despairing....”

His two hands caught that of M. Raindal and he went on:

“I have not seen you since your success!... What a triumph!... What a beautiful book!... Madame.... Mademoiselle....”

He bowed, then, standing on tiptoe so as to reach the ear of M. Raindal, he whispered:

“You know, our young man is here ... a charming fellow. He will attract your daughter very much.... No escape.... Fata volunt.... This way, please, come, my dear colleague, and I shall bring you that phenix....”

By an instinctive pressure on the shoulder he shunted Raindal towards a corner of the drawing-room where the section of the Inscriptions had disposed its trenches. A few chairs were left unoccupied in the first and second rows. M. and Mme. Raindal settled down behind and Thérèse sat in front of them between the two daughters of one of her fathe colleagues. They were thin and small, like the raw-boned hectic teams that draw the Paris public cabs. They conversed, but furtively inspected the gir dress. Thérèse looked up when she heard the voice of Saulvard who was making his reappearance, followed by a young man of very short stature.

“My dear friend, dear master,” he called over the heads of the girls, “allow me to introduce one of our young confrères, whose name you surely know: M. Pierre Boerzell....” Each of the two savants mumbled courteous expressions which the other could not catch. Then Saulvard added:

“M. Pierre Boerzell ... Mlle. Raindal.”

The young man bowed awkwardly. The orchestra was preluding with the slow harmonies of a waltz. He murmured:

“Mademoiselle, will you give me the pleasure of this waltz?”

Sympathetically Thérèse refused.

“No, Monsieur, thank you.... I do dance ... but if you wish ... we might, as one says, I believe, talk it....”

Boerzell stammered a grateful acceptance. The two “hackney horses” had started immediately for the waltz. He took one of the chairs they had left empty by the side of Thérèse. The conversation, which she had cleverly directed at once towards scientific matters, became cordial and almost familiar.

He was not handsome. His chest was narrow, his nose short; his cheeks were bloated and flabby, almost falling over a suspicion of a beard. His eyelids were heavy from night work. His eyes, however, behind the thick glasses of his pince-nez, shone with a kind and tender light. When he talked, his voice had those caressing and particular inflections of intellectual people who enjoy having their words sound like true coin; and while he spoke his gestures became more alert and vivacious; his arms relaxed as he grew less embarrassed.

M. Raindal out of curiosity soon brought his chair forward and took part in the discussion of the two young people. They were flirting over the interpretation of a tri-lingual inscription recently discovered in Mesopotamia. Thérèse was defending her interpretation with that professional assurance, that ma voice, which she always assumed in the course of scientific discussions.

“Ah, Monsieur!” Boerzell exclaimed in discouragement. “Mademoiselle is very strong; she knows much more than I.... She has beaten me....”

Smilingly M. Raindal agreed.

“Well, you are not the first!... Often I myself....”

The waltz had finished and the two cab horses were coming back to their stand which the young savant had to leave. He asked Thérèse:

“Would you allow me to take you to the buffet with Madame, your mother?”

“With pleasure, monsieur! Will you come, Mother?”

Mme. Raindal took Boerzel arm and Thérèse followed behind, going towards the buffet through the crowd of dancers who were returning to their seats.

M. Raindal watched them go. He was sitting in his favorite position: his elbows were pressed against his sides, his forearms up, and his hands hung limp at the end of his wrists like the paws of a “begging” dog. From his seat through the wide open door he could see without effort into the dining-room. He perceived the back of his wife; she was bent over the elaborate table hastily making her choice. Against the high chimney covered with white blossoms Thérèse stood with Boerzell; they were sipping out of their spoons a pink fruit-like ice; they stopped at times and looked at each other laughingly, chatting, their heads close together, like life-long friends.

If only she could make up her mind! If she would accept that young man!... No, that would be too fine!... And yet, who knew!... The ebb and flow of contradictory thoughts caused M. Rainda lips to stretch in softened smiles or to purse in bitter grimaces.

Then his colleagues approached and began to congratulate him upon his new book. More of them joined the first ones. A small, applauding group surrounded M. Raindal and hid his daughter from his sight. The last comers tipped their heads to one side, straining their ears to catch the maste replies. “You are very good....” “I am ashamed, really....” “Be sure that on my side....” The complimenters vied with each other in outbidding and protested their sincerity in extravagant praise.

At length the enthusiasm came to an end. They became silent and listened to M. Raindal, who was recalling memories of his youth and the misery of his early efforts.

Suddenly the purring voice of Saulvard caused the ranks of the audience to open.

“Pardon, Gentlemen! Pardon!”

With one hand bent like the prow of a boat, he was making a path for a dark-haired young woman who hung on his arm; he came to a stop near M. Raindal.

“My dear friend.... Will you help me satisfy the wishes of one of your lady admirers who is longing to make your acquaintance?... M. Eusèbe Raindal ... Mme. Georges Chambannes....”

M. Raindal rose and bowed, one hand resting on the back of his chair.

“Madame, I am delighted....”

Mme. Chambannes protested.

“It is I, on the contrary, Monsieur....”

They stood facing each other in distress as if, in spite of their mutual good will, they did not know what to say.

Shyly M. Raindal glanced at the young woman. Her little eagle face was softened by light brown eyes with a languorous expression; the waves of her black hair, brushed in classic style back towards her neck, concealed in its rich coils something savage and willful. At length she spoke again in halting sentences, the words often lacking the precision which she might have desired.

“Yes, Monsieur, I greatly admire your book.... It is a charming book, a great masterpiece.... I cannot say how much I was charmed with it, and how much amused.... Ah! it must be so interesting to write books like that.... And the style is so delightful, so pleasant to read!...”

“Well, I must leave you!” M. Saulvard interrupted, as he blinked his slanting eyes.... “My guests.... Excuse me!...”

He disappeared leaving them alone, as the members of the little group had discreetly vanished one by one.

After a glance of mutual agreement M. Raindal and the young woman sat down to continue their conversation.

But he noticed the pale blue satin dress of Mme. Chambannes so close to the black cloth of his trousers that instinctively he withdrew slightly to one side. Smilingly she piled up her compliments. Then the discomfort which the master habitually felt when conversing with people of inferior culture—ignorant people, men or women of society—was increased by the embarrassment he felt at being so close to the low-cut dress of his admirer. Despite himself his glances were fastened to it and followed her full and easy curves. It seemed to him that an invisible force compelled his eyes to look at that skin, dull and diaphanous like a piece of fine china, at those perfumed breasts that rose and fell quietly against the ruffles of the opening without needing its support for their young firmness. Distractedly, all out of place, with sudden flights of thought, he answered the exclamations and multiple queries of Mme. Chambannes. And while he tried to listen to her he was comparing her to one of Cleopatr attendants, one of those dainty Greek slaves whose saucy prettiness provided a setting for the Queen of Egypt, as nymphs around a goddess.

Nevertheless the lad flow of praise was ceasing. Her smooth little brow, framed by the two flat curls, was furrowed by a searching frown. She found no more chapters or passages in which to plant her “so charming” and her “so pretty” like equal good marks of alternate colors. Suddenly her graceful face smiled again and her wide nostrils palpitated with mischief. She teased M. Raindal with the challenge that he could not guess her last reason for liking his book so much.

The master pretended to search. Finally he declared with modesty:

“I do know.”

“Well, think a moment,” commanded Mme. Chambannes familiarly, rolling her .

M. Raindal was not trying to find the answer but thought to himself.

“She is very attractive but somewhat silly!”

What he said aloud, imitating her tone, was:

“No, I really ca think what it is.”

Then she resigned herself and voiced her secret, her final surprise, and indeed her pretext for further acquaintanceship, her supreme bait. Well! precisely, next winter, she intended to travel with her husband, to go to Cairo, Alexandria and the Nile. M. Rainda book had come in most handy, at the precise moment when she was beginning to study the Egyptian antiquities in view of that expected trip and naturally....

“My dear lady,” a guttural voice interrupted them. “Forgive me.... Would you be kind enough to introduce me to Monsieur....”

“Why, of course!”

Then she made the presentations.

“Monsieur le Marquis de Meuze ... one of our best friends ... and one who adores your book.”

He was a powerful old man with a majestic waistband and an aristocratic carriage. His white whiskers and curled up white mustache gave him the air of an Austrian general, for his was one of those heads which one readily fancies wearing a gold-braided cocked hat ornamented with a panache of green feathers. At the time of the financial smash of 1882, he had suffered from an attack of facial paralysis which had deprived him of the use of his left eyelid. It hung gray and lifeless and hid three quarters of his eye—this infirmity completed, like a glorious wound, his resemblance to an old warrior.

He multiplied protests of admiration. Then, following the immutable rule which prompts most people to conclude their compliments with an apology, he broached the true cause that had brought him to the master. He had once possessed a collection of cameos, a quite remarkable and exceptional collection. (As to the quality of the different pieces of which it had been composed, M. Raindal could consult several of his colleagues: the Count de Lastreins, of the Academy of Inscriptions; Baron Grollet, unattached member of the Beaux Arts, or the Viscount de Sernhac, of the Académie Française, all good friends or old comrades of the Marquis.) Well, one of the gems of that collection had been a cameo of Cleopatra. Alas! M. de Meuze had had to part with it, following financial losses. But he knew where it had gone; into the hands of a Jewish stock broker, a M. Stralhaus, and, if M. Raindal so desired, the Marquis fancied that he could obtain permission to examine that piece.

The master neither accepted nor refused. The conversation circled around the art of cameo-making, with a few comments on the closely-related subject of numismatics, of which the marquis was not altogether ignorant. Out of her element Mme. Chambannes piped softly at intervals her “very prettys” and “very charmings.” M. Chambannes, a tall, fair-haired man, with a faded complexion, a weak eye and fine and scanty hair, had joined her in the meantime. His thick cylindrical mustache was like a hinged cover, so closely did it fit his lips. Taken as a whole, his tired appearance might have been either that of a flabby scoundrel or of a pleasant young man worn out by his excesses.

All three surrounded M. Raindal, who replied to their chatter with assenting but weary smiles. He would have reproached himself had he rebuffed ever so slightly strangers who were so courteous for all their stupidity. Nevertheless, after a while he grew impatient with this strained politeness, the end of which he could not foresee. He was now equally bored by that old marquis with his verbose chatter, which was worthy of a second-hand dealer, his stories about cameos, sales, and bargains, and his quotations from catalogues.

At last reinforcements arrived to rescue him. Mme. Raindal returned with Thérèse and Boerzell. Then began new introductions. Immediately Mme. Chambannes briefly repeated her compliments. Mme. Raindal, blushing continually, stammered replies that were like so many apologies. Thérèse observed in silence; her virile glance judged it all mercilessly. Then Mme. Chambannes asked what their receiving day was and if she might have permission to call. There came a period of quiet when they merely talked for the sake of talking, of the ball, the orchestra and the dances. Of a sudden Mme. Chambannes called the marquis.

“M. de Meuze....”

“Madame?”

“A little secret. Will you permit me, ladies?”

Behind her spread-out fan she whispered a few words to M. de Meuze, who listened, bent towards her, his eyebrows arched in deep attention.

“Do you think so?... I do know whether he will.... Well, I shall take a chance!”

He stepped uncertainly towards the next room, holding aloft his proud field-marsha head and searching the groups with his one small green eye. At the door of the buffet he promptly turned to one side, his hand stretched out like a hook to catch someone who was walking away from him.

Thérèse could distinguish nothing but the square shoulders and the brown neck above the shining white collar of the tall young man whom the marquis had caught. No doubt M. de Meuze must be asking something absurd and impracticable, for she could see that brown neck shaken in indignant denials; the young man was apparently asserting that they were mad or playing a trick upon him.... But suddenly she saw the neck assent and the tall man turned right about, shrugging his shoulders. The heart of Thérèse was suddenly twisted like a wounded serpent.

It was almost Albârt. An older Albârt, more refined, more fashionable, of a superior class, but himself: the same big eyes of the color of a dark agate, the same black mustache with its impertinent tips, the same swaying of the body over two straight legs. He was coming towards her preceded by the marquis, his eyes awake as if to reconnoitre from afar and see what enemy it was against whom he was led.

Thérèse bent her head down; her back was strained against her chair; she was gathered upon herself with fright. No longer did she see her parents nor the Chambannes, nor Boerzell, nor the couples that were beginning to dance, nor the people near her, nor those beyond. She saw nothing but the long patent leather shoes, the long narrow feet of the young man, and they were coming nearer, nearer still.

When they were quite close to her the marquis effaced himself and bowed.

“Mademoiselle, may I introduce my son, M. Gerald de Meuze....”

The young count was slightly swaying before her.

“Mademoiselle, will you please grant me the end of this dance?”

Unconsciously, in the tone of a schoolgirl, Thérèse replied:

“Monsieur, I cannot dance.... I do not know how.”

“What does it matter? It all depends on your partner....”

He gave Mme. Chambannes a quick wink, either friendly or ironical, as if he were winning a bet.

“No danger, Mademoiselle, I guarantee the waltz....”

Sharply, in a sudden need to see him well, to take in all his features, Thérèse looked at him fixedly. She could not resist. Perspiration ran down her back. She was dominated by the desire to be in those arms, as once she had been in others so very much like them. She rose shortly, her voice almost harsh in spite of the smile with which she tried to correct it, and said:

“Very well, monsieur, let us try.”

Gerald put one arm round her and they began to whirl. At the first steps she stumbled out of ignorance and fear of losing the rhythm. Then he lifted her as if she were a child and carried her off gently among the dancers. Her feet no longer touched the floor. Couples brushed lightly against her. She had the impression of sliding in rhythms upon clouds with a robust lover. She closed her eyes. Voluptuous sobs choked her throat. He thought she was out of breath and stopped.

“Well, mademoiselle.... What did I say?... It goes beautifully....”

Thérèse approved with a nod; her thin lips were pale with pleasure. The count went on paternally:

“Dancing is like swimming!... You must throw yourself blindly into it.... Music pushes you along like waves.... Then, after that, you have nothing to do but let yourself go....”