IV

"You are making game of me, papa. Well, I assure you that I would

rather die in Mademoiselle de Conde's convent than not be the wife of

a peer of France."

She slipped out of her father's arms, and proud of being her own

mistress, went off singing the air of Cara non dubitare, in the

"Matrimonio Segreto."

As it happened, the family were that day keeping the anniversary of a

family fete. At dessert Madame Planat, the Receiver-General's wife,

spoke with some enthusiasm of a young American owning an immense

fortune, who had fallen passionately in love with her sister, and made

through her the most splendid proposals.

"A banker, I rather think," observed Emilie carelessly. "I do not like

money dealers."

"But, Emilie," replied the Baron de Villaine, the husband of the

Count's second daughter, "you do not like lawyers either; so that if

you refuse men of wealth who have not titles, I do not quite see in

what class you are to choose a husband."

"Especially, Emilie, with your standard of slimness," added the

Lieutenant-General.

"I know what I want," replied the young lady.

"My sister wants a fine name, a fine young man, fine prospects, and a

hundred thousand francs a year," said the Baronne de Fontaine.

"Monsieur de Marsay, for instance."

"I know, my dear," retorted Emilie, "that I do not mean to make such a

foolish marriage as some I have seen. Moreover, to put an end to these

matrimonial discussions, I hereby declare that I shall look on anyone

who talks to me of marriage as a foe to my peace of mind."

An uncle of Emilie's, a vice-admiral, whose fortune had just been

increased by twenty thousand francs a year in consequence of the Act

of Indemnity, and a man of seventy, feeling himself privileged to say

hard things to his grand-niece, on whom he doted, in order to mollify

the bitter tone of the discussion now exclaimed:

"Do not tease my poor little Emilie; don't you see she is waiting till

the Duc de Bordeaux comes of age!"

The old man's pleasantry was received with general laughter.

"Take care I don't marry you, old fool!" replied the young girl, whose

last words were happily drowned in the noise.

"My dear children," said Madame de Fontaine, to soften this saucy

retort, "Emilie, like you, will take no advice but her mother's."

"Bless me! I shall take no advice but my own in a matter which

concerns no one but myself," said Mademoiselle de Fontaine very

distinctly.

At this all eyes were turned to the head of the family. Every one

seemed anxious as to what he would do to assert his dignity. The

venerable gentleman enjoyed much consideration, not only in the world;

happier than many fathers, he was also appreciated by his family, all

its members having a just esteem for the solid qualities by which he

had been able to make their fortunes. Hence he was treated with the

deep respect which is shown by English families, and some aristocratic

houses on the continent, to the living representatives of an ancient

pedigree. Deep silence had fallen; and the guests looked alternately

from the spoilt girl's proud and sulky pout to the severe faces of

Monsieur and Madame de Fontaine.

"I have made my daughter Emilie mistress of her own fate," was the

reply spoken by the Count in a deep voice.

Relations and guests gazed at Mademoiselle de Fontaine with mingled

curiosity and pity. The words seemed to declare that fatherly

affection was weary of the contest with a character that the whole

family knew to be incorrigible. The sons-in-law muttered, and the

brothers glanced at their wives with mocking smiles. From that moment

every one ceased to take any interest in the haughty girl's prospects

of marriage. Her old uncle was the only person who, as an old sailor,

ventured to stand on her tack, and take her broadsides, without ever

troubling himself to return her fire.

When the fine weather was settled, and after the budget was voted, the

whole family--a perfect example of the parliamentary families on the

northern side of the Channel who have a footing in every government

department, and ten votes in the House of Commons--flew away like a

brood of young birds to the charming neighborhoods of Aulnay, Antony,

and Chatenay. The wealthy Receiver-General had lately purchased in

this part of the world a country-house for his wife, who remained in

Paris only during the session. Though the fair Emilie despised the

commonalty, her feeling was not carried so far as to scorn the

advantages of a fortune acquired in a profession; so she accompanied

her sister to the sumptuous villa, less out of affection for the

members of her family who were visiting there, than because fashion

has ordained that every woman who has any self-respect must leave

Paris in the summer. The green seclusion of Sceaux answered to

perfection the requirements of good style and of the duties of an

official position.

As it is extremely doubtful that the fame of the "Bal de Sceaux"

should ever have extended beyond the borders of the Department of the

Seine, it will be necessary to give some account of this weekly

festivity, which at that time was important enough to threaten to

become an institution. The environs of the little town of Sceaux enjoy

a reputation due to the scenery, which is considered enchanting.

Perhaps it is quite ordinary, and owes its fame only to the stupidity

of the Paris townsfolk, who, emerging from the stony abyss in which

they are buried, would find something to admire in the flats of La

Beauce. However, as the poetic shades of Aulnay, the hillsides of

Antony, and the valley of the Bieve are peopled with artists who have

traveled far, by foreigners who are very hard to please, and by a

great many pretty women not devoid of taste, it is to be supposed that

the Parisians are right. But Sceaux possesses another attraction not

less powerful to the Parisian. In the midst of a garden whence there

are delightful views, stands a large rotunda open on all sides, with a

light, spreading roof supported on elegant pillars. This rural

baldachino shelters a dancing-floor. The most stuck-up landowners of

the neighborhood rarely fail to make an excursion thither once or

twice during the season, arriving at this rustic palace of Terpsichore

either in dashing parties on horseback, or in the light and elegant

carriages which powder the philosophical pedestrian with dust. The

hope of meeting some women of fashion, and of being seen by them--and

the hope, less often disappointed, of seeing young peasant girls, as

wily as judges--crowds the ballroom at Sceaux with numerous swarms of

lawyers' clerks, of the disciples of Aesculapius, and other youths

whose complexions are kept pale and moist by the damp atmosphere of

Paris back-shops. And a good many bourgeois marriages have had their

beginning to the sound of the band occupying the centre of this

circular ballroom. If that roof could speak, what love-stories could

it not tell!

This interesting medley gave the Sceaux balls at that time a spice of

more amusement than those of two or three places of the same kind near

Paris; and it had incontestable advantages in its rotunda, and the

beauty of its situation and its gardens. Emilie was the first to

express a wish to play at being COMMON FOLK at this gleeful suburban

entertainment, and promised herself immense pleasure in mingling with

the crowd. Everybody wondered at her desire to wander through such a

mob; but is there not a keen pleasure to grand people in an incognito?

Mademoiselle de Fontaine amused herself with imagining all these town-

bred figures; she fancied herself leaving the memory of a bewitching

glance and smile stamped on more than one shopkeeper's heart, laughed

beforehand at the damsels' airs, and sharpened her pencils for the

scenes she proposed to sketch in her satirical album. Sunday could not

come soon enough to satisfy her impatience.

The party from the Villa Planat set out on foot, so as not to betray

the rank of the personages who were about to honor the ball with their

presence. They dined early. And the month of May humored this

aristocratic escapade by one of its finest evenings. Mademoiselle de

Fontaine was quite surprised to find in the rotunda some quadrilles

made up of persons who seemed to belong to the upper classes. Here and

there, indeed, were some young men who look as though they must have

saved for a month to shine for a day; and she perceived several

couples whose too hearty glee suggested nothing conjugal; still, she

could only glean instead of gathering a harvest. She was amused to see

that pleasure in a cotton dress was so very like pleasure robed in

satin, and that the girls of the middle class danced quite as well as

ladies--nay, sometimes better. Most of the women were simply and

suitably dressed. Those who in this assembly represented the ruling

power, that is to say, the country-folk, kept apart with wonderful

politeness. In fact, Mademoiselle Emilie had to study the various

elements that composed the mixture before she could find any subject

for pleasantry. But she had not time to give herself up to malicious

criticism, or opportunity for hearing many of the startling speeches

which caricaturists so gladly pick up. The haughty young lady suddenly

found a flower in this wide field--the metaphor is reasonable--whose

splendor and coloring worked on her imagination with all the

fascination of novelty. It often happens that we look at a dress, a

hanging, a blank sheet of paper, with so little heed that we do not at

first detect a stain or a bright spot which afterwards strikes the eye

as though it had come there at the very instant when we see it; and by

a sort of moral phenomenon somewhat resembling this, Mademoiselle de

Fontaine discovered in a young man the external perfection of which

she had so long dreamed.

Seated on one of the clumsy chairs which marked the boundary line of

the circular floor, she had placed herself at the end of the row

formed by the family party, so as to be able to stand up or push

forward as her fancy moved her, treating the living pictures and

groups in the hall as if she were in a picture gallery; impertinently

turning her eye-glass on persons not two yards away, and making her

remarks as though she were criticising or praising a study of a head,

a painting of genre. Her eyes, after wandering over the vast moving

picture, were suddenly caught by this figure, which seemed to have

been placed on purpose in one corner of the canvas, and in the best

light, like a person out of all proportion with the rest.

The stranger, alone and absorbed in thought, leaned lightly against

one of the columns that supported the roof; his arms were folded, and

he leaned slightly on one side as though he had placed himself there

to have his portrait taken by a painter. His attitude, though full of

elegance and dignity, was devoid of affectation. Nothing suggested

that he had half turned his head, and bent it a little to the right

like Alexander, or Lord Byron, and some other great men, for the sole

purpose of attracting attention. His fixed gaze followed a girl who

was dancing, and betrayed some strong feeling. His slender, easy frame

recalled the noble proportions of the Apollo. Fine black hair curled

naturally over a high forehead. At a glance Mademoiselle de Fontaine

observed that his linen was fine, his gloves fresh, and evidently

bought of a good maker, and his feet were small and well shod in boots

of Irish kid. He had none of the vulgar trinkets displayed by the

dandies of the National Guard or the Lovelaces of the counting-house.

A black ribbon, to which an eye-glass was attached, hung over a

waistcoat of the most fashionable cut. Never had the fastidious Emilie

seen a man's eyes shaded by such long, curled lashes. Melancholy and

passion were expressed in this face, and the complexion was of a manly

olive hue. His mouth seemed ready to smile, unbending the corners of

eloquent lips; but this, far from hinting at gaiety, revealed on the

contrary a sort of pathetic grace. There was too much promise in that

head, too much distinction in his whole person, to allow of one's

saying, "What a handsome man!" or "What a fine man!" One wanted to

know him. The most clear-sighted observer, on seeing this stranger,

could not have helped taking him for a clever man attracted to this

rural festivity by some powerful motive.

All these observations cost Emilie only a minute's attention, during

which the privileged gentleman under her severe scrutiny became the

object of her secret admiration. She did not say to herself, "He must

be a peer of France!" but "Oh, if only he is noble, and he surely must

be----" Without finishing her thought, she suddenly rose, and followed

by her brother the General, she made her way towards the column,

affecting to watch the merry quadrille; but by a stratagem of the eye,

familiar to women, she lost not a gesture of the young man as she went

towards him. The stranger politely moved to make way for the

newcomers, and went to lean against another pillar. Emilie, as much

nettled by his politeness as she might have been by an impertinence,

began talking to her brother in a louder voice than good taste

enjoined; she turned and tossed her head, gesticulated eagerly, and

laughed for no particular reason, less to amuse her brother than to

attract the attention of the imperturbable stranger. None of her

little arts succeeded. Mademoiselle de Fontaine then followed the

direction in which his eyes were fixed, and discovered the cause of

his indifference.

In the midst of the quadrille, close in front of them, a pale girl was

dancing; her face was like one of the divinities which Girodet has

introduced into his immense composition of French Warriors received by

Ossian. Emilie fancied that she recognized her as a distinguished

milady who for some months had been living on a neighboring estate.

Her partner was a lad of about fifteen, with red hands, and dressed in

nankeen trousers, a blue coat, and white shoes, which showed that the

damsel's love of dancing made her easy to please in the matter of

partners. Her movements did not betray her apparent delicacy, but a

faint flush already tinged her white cheeks, and her complexion was

gaining color. Mademoiselle de Fontaine went nearer, to be able to

examine the young lady at the moment when she returned to her place,

while the side couples in their turn danced the figure. But the

stranger went up to the pretty dancer, and leaning over, said in a

gentle but commanding tone:

"Clara, my child, do not dance any more."