Monsieur de Camors — Complete. Feuillet Octave
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is there, my dear friend,” answered Lescande, in a low voice—and he pointed to the closed shutters of a large window of a balcony surmounting the veranda. “She is there; and this is our son.”
Camors let his hand pass listlessly over the child’s hair. “The deuce!” he said; “but you have not wasted time. And you are happy, my good fellow?”
“So happy, my dear friend, that I am sometimes uneasy, for the good God is too kind to me. It is true, though, I had to work very hard. For instance, I passed two years in Spain—in the mountains of that infernal country. There I built a fairy palace for the Marquis of Buena-Vista, a great nobleman, who had seen my plan at the Exhibition and was delighted with it. This was the beginning of my fortune; but you must not imagine that my profession alone has enriched me so quickly. I made some successful speculations—some unheard of chances in lands; and, I beg you to believe, honestly, too. Still, I am not a millionaire; but you know I had nothing, and my wife less; now, my house paid for, we have ten thousand francs’ income left. It is not a fortune for us, living in this style; but I still work and keep good courage, and my Juliette is happy in her paradise!”
“She wears no more soiled cuffs, then?” said Camors.
“I warrant she does not! Indeed, she has a slight tendency to luxury—like all women, you know. But I am delighted to see you remember so well our college follies. I also, through all my distractions, never forgot you a moment. I even had a foolish idea of asking you to my wedding, only I did not dare. You are so brilliant, so petted, with your establishment and your racers. My wife knows you very well; in fact, we have talked of you a hundred thousand times. Since she patronizes the turf and subscribes for ‘The Sport’, she says to me, ‘Your friend’s horse has won again’; and in our family circle we rejoice over your triumphs.”
A flush tinged the cheek of Camors as he answered, quietly, “You are really too good.”
They walked a moment in silence over the gravel path bordered by grass, before Lescande spoke again.
“And yourself, dear friend, I hope that you also are happy.”
“I—happy!” Camors seemed a little astonished. “My happiness is simple enough, but I believe it is unclouded. I rise in the morning, ride to the Bois, thence to the club, go to the Bois again, and then back to the club. If there is a first representation at any theatre, I wish to see it. Thus, last evening they gave a new piece which was really exquisite. There was a song in it, beginning:
‘He was a woodpecker,
A little woodpecker,
A young woodpecker—’
and the chorus imitated the cry of the woodpecker! Well, it was charming, and the whole of Paris will sing that song with delight for a year. I also shall do like the whole of Paris, and I shall be happy.”
“Good heavens! my friend,” laughed Lescande, “and that suffices you for happiness?”
“That and—the principles of ‘eighty-nine,” replied Camors, lighting a fresh cigar from the old one.
Here their dialogue was broken by the fresh voice of a woman calling from the blinds of the balcony—
“Is that you, Theodore?”
Camors raised his eyes and saw a white hand, resting on the slats of the blind, bathed in sunlight.
“That is my wife. Conceal yourself!” cried Lescande, briskly; and he pushed Camors behind a clump of catalpas, as he turned to the balcony and lightly answered:
“Yes, my dear; do you wish anything?”
“Maxime is with you?”
“Yes, mother. I am here,” cried the child. “It is a beautiful morning. Are you quite well?”
“I hardly know. I have slept too long, I believe.” She opened the shutters, and, shading her eyes from the glare with her hand, appeared on the balcony.
She was in the flower of youth, slight, supple, and graceful, and appeared, in her ample morning-gown of blue cashmere, plumper and taller than she really was. Bands of the same color interlaced, in the Greek fashion, her chestnut hair—which nature, art, and the night had dishevelled—waved and curled to admiration on her small head.
She rested her elbows on the railing, yawned, showing her white teeth, and looking at her husband, asked:
“Why do you look so stupid?”
At the instant she observed Camors—whom the interest of the moment had withdrawn from his concealment—gave a startled cry, gathered up her skirts, and retired within the room.
Since leaving college up to this hour, Louis de Camors had never formed any great opinion of the Juliet who had taken Lescande as her Romeo. He experienced a flash of agreeable surprise on discovering that his friend was more happy in that respect than he had supposed.
“I am about to be scolded, my friend,” said Lescande, with a hearty laugh, “and you also must stay for your share. You will stay and breakfast with us?”
Camors hesitated; then said, hastily, “No, no! Impossible! I have an engagement which I must keep.”
Notwithstanding Camors’s unwillingness, Lescande detained him until he had extorted a promise to come and dine with them—that is, with him, his wife, and his mother-in-law, Madame Mursois—on the following Tuesday. This acceptance left a cloud on the spirit of Camors until the appointed day. Besides abhorring family dinners, he objected to being reminded of the scene of the balcony. The indiscreet kindness of Lescande both touched and irritated him; for he knew he should play but a silly part near this pretty woman. He felt sure she was a coquette, notwithstanding which, the recollections of his youth and the character of her husband should make her sacred to him. So he was not in the most agreeable frame of mind when he stepped out of his dog-cart, that Tuesday evening, before the little villa of the Avenue Maillot.
At his reception by Madame Lescande and her mother he took heart a little. They appeared to him what they were, two honest-hearted women, surrounded by luxury and elegance. The mother—an ex-beauty—had been left a widow when very young, and to this time had avoided any stain on her character. With them, innate delicacy held the place of those solid principles so little tolerated by French society. Like a few other women of society, Madame had the quality of virtue just as ermine has the quality of whiteness. Vice was not so repugnant to her as an evil as it was as a blemish. Her daughter had received from her those instincts of chastity which are oftener than we imagine hidden under the appearance of pride. But these amiable women had one unfortunate caprice, not uncommon at this day among Parisians of their position. Although rather clever, they bowed down, with the adoration of bourgeoises, before that aristocracy, more or less pure, that paraded up and down the Champs Elysees, in the theatres, at the race-course, and on the most frequented promenades, its frivolous affairs and rival vanities.
Virtuous themselves, they read with interest the daintiest bits of scandal and the most equivocal adventures that took place among the elite. It was their happiness and their glory to learn the smallest details of the high life of Paris; to follow its feasts, speak in its slang, copy its toilets, and read its favorite books. So that if not the rose, they could at least be near the rose and become impregnated with her colors and her perfumes. Such apparent familiarity heightened them singularly in their own estimation and in that of their associates.
Now, although Camors did not yet occupy that bright spot in the heaven of fashion which was surely to be his one day, still he could here pass for a demigod, and as such inspire Madame Lescande and her mother with a sentiment of most violent curiosity. His early intimacy with Lescande had always connected a peculiar interest with his name: and they knew the names of his horses—most likely knew the names of his mistresses.
So it required all their natural tact to conceal from their guest the flutter of their nerves caused by his sacred presence; but they did succeed, and so well that Camors was slightly piqued. If not a coxcomb, he was