The Collection of Antiquities

The Vidame introduced his young friend to one of the most amiable and frivolous duchesses of the day, a lady whose adventures caused an explosion five years later.  Just then, however, she was in the full blaze of her glory; she had been suspected, it is true, of equivocal conduct; but suspicion, while it is still suspicion and not proof, marks a woman out with the kind of distinction which slander gives to a man.  Nonentities are never slandered; they chafe because they are left in peace.  This woman was, in fact, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, a daughter of the d’Uxelles; her father-in-law was still alive; she was not to be the Princesse de Cadignan for some years to come.  A friend of the Duchesse de Langeais and the Vicomtesse de Beauseant, two glories departed, she was likewise intimate with the Marquise d’Espard, with whom she disputed her fragile sovereignty as queen of fashion.  Great relations lent her countenance for a long while, but the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse was one of those women who, in some way, nobody knows how, or why, or where, will spend the rents of all the lands of earth, and of the moon likewise, if they were not out of reach.  The general outline of her character was scarcely known as yet; de Marsay, and de Marsay only, really had read her.  That redoubtable dandy now watched the Vidame de Pamiers’ introduction of his young friend to that lovely woman, and bent over to say in Rastignac’s ear: 

“My dear fellow, he will go up whizz! like a rocket, and come down like a stick,” an atrociously vulgar saying which was remarkably fulfilled.

The Duchesse de Maufrigneuse had lost her heart to Victurnien after first giving her mind to a serious study of him.  Any lover who should have caught the glance by which she expressed her gratitude to the Vidame might well have been jealous of such friendship.  Women are like horses let loose on a steppe when they feel, as the Duchess felt with the Vidame de Pamiers, that the ground is safe; at such moments they are themselves; perhaps it pleases them to give, as it were, samples of their tenderness in intimacy in this way.  It was a guarded glance, nothing was lost between eye and eye; there was no possibility of reflection in any mirror.  Nobody intercepted it.

“See how she has prepared herself,” Rastignac said, turning to de Marsay.  “What a virginal toilette; what swan’s grace in that snow-white throat of hers!  How white her gown is, and she is wearing a sash like a little girl; she looks round like a madonna inviolate.  Who would think that you had passed that way?”

“The very reason why she looks as she does,” returned de Marsay, with a triumphant air.

The two young men exchanged a smile.  Mme. de Maufrigneuse saw the smile and guessed at their conversation, and gave the pair a broadside of her eyes, an art acquired by Frenchwomen since the Peace, when Englishwomen imported it into this country, together with the shape of their silver plate, their horses and harness, and the piles of insular ice which impart a refreshing coolness to the atmosphere of any room in which a certain number of British females are gathered together.  The young men grew serious as a couple of clerks at the end of a homily from headquarters before the receipt of an expected bonus.

The Duchess when she lost her heart to Victurnien had made up her mind to play the part of romantic Innocence, a role much understudied subsequently by other women, for the misfortune of modern youth.  Her Grace of Maufrigneuse had just come out as an angel at a moment’s notice, precisely as she meant to turn to literature and science somewhere about her fortieth year instead of taking to devotion.  She made a point of being like nobody else.  Her parts, her dresses, her caps, opinions, toilettes, and manner of acting were all entirely new and original.  Soon after her marriage, when she was scarcely more than a girl, she had played the part of a knowing and almost depraved woman; she ventured on risky repartees with shallow people, and betrayed her ignorance to those who knew better.  As the date of that marriage made it impossible to abstract one little year from her age without the knowledge of Time, she had taken it into her head to be immaculate.  She scarcely seemed to belong to earth; she shook out her wide sleeves as if they had been wings.  Her eyes fled to heaven at too warm a glance, or word, or thought.

There is a madonna painted by Piola, the great Genoese painter, who bade fair to bring out a second edition of Raphael till his career was cut short by jealousy and murder; his madonna, however, you may dimly discern through a pane of glass in a little street in Genoa.

A more chaste-eyed madonna than Piola’s does not exist but compared with Mme. de Maufrigneuse, that heavenly creature was a Messalina.  Women wondered among themselves how such a giddy young thing had been transformed by a change of dress into the fair veiled seraph who seemed (to use an expression now in vogue) to have a soul as white as new fallen snow on the highest Alpine crests.  How had she solved in such short space the Jesuitical problem how to display a bosom whiter than her soul by hiding it in gauze?  How could she look so ethereal while her eyes drooped so murderously?  Those almost wanton glances seemed to give promise of untold languorous delight, while by an ascetic’s sigh of aspiration after a better life the mouth appeared to add that none of those promises would be fulfilled.  Ingenuous youths (for there were a few to be found in the Guards of that day) privately wondered whether, in the most intimate moments, it were possible to speak familiarly to this White Lady, this starry vapor slidden down from the Milky Way.  This system, which answered completely for some years at a stretch, was turned to good account by women of fashion, whose breasts were lined with a stout philosophy, for they could cloak no inconsiderable exactions with these little airs from the sacristy.  Not one of the celestial creatures but was quite well aware of the possibilities of less ethereal love which lay in the longing of every well-conditioned male to recall such beings to earth.  It was a fashion which permitted them to abide in a semi-religious, semi-Ossianic empyrean; they could, and did, ignore all the practical details of daily life, a short and easy method of disposing of many questions.  De Marsay, foreseeing the future developments of the system, added a last word, for he saw that Rastignac was jealous of Victurnien.

“My boy,” said he, “stay as you are.  Our Nucingen will make your fortune, whereas the Duchess would ruin you.  She is too expensive.”

Rastignac allowed de Marsay to go without asking further questions.  He knew Paris.  He knew that the most refined and noble and disinterested of women—­a woman who cannot be induced to accept anything but a bouquet—­can be as dangerous an acquaintance for a young man as any opera girl of former days.  As a matter of fact, the opera girl is an almost mythical being.  As things are now at the theatres, dancers and actresses are about as amusing as a declaration of the rights of woman, they are puppets that go abroad in the morning in the character of respected and respectable mothers of families, and act men’s parts in tight-fitting garments at night.

Worthy M. Chesnel, in his country notary’s office, was right; he had foreseen one of the reefs on which the Count might shipwreck.  Victurnien was dazzled by the poetic aureole which Mme. de Maufrigneuse chose to assume; he was chained and padlocked from the first hour in her company, bound captive by that girlish sash, and caught by the curls twined round fairy fingers.  Far corrupted the boy was already, but he really believed in that farrago of maidenliness and muslin, in sweet looks as much studied as an Act of Parliament.  And if the one man, who is in duty bound to believe in feminine fibs, is deceived by them, is not that enough?

For a pair of lovers, the rest of their species are about as much alive as figures on the tapestry.  The Duchess, flattery apart, was avowedly and admittedly one of the ten handsomest women in society.  “The loveliest woman in Paris” is, as you know, as often met with in the world of love-making as “the finest book that has appeared in this generation,” in the world of letters.

The converse which Victurnien held with the Duchess can be kept up at his age without too great a strain.  He was young enough and ignorant enough of life in Paris to feel no necessity to be upon his guard, no need to keep a watch over his lightest words and glances.  The religious sentimentalism, which finds a broadly humorous commentary in the after-thoughts of either speaker, puts the old-world French chat of men and women, with its pleasant familiarity, its lively ease, quite out of the question; they make love in a mist nowadays.

Victurnien was just sufficient of an unsophisticated provincial to remain suspended in a highly appropriate and unfeigned rapture which pleased the Duchess; for women are no more to be deceived by the comedies which men play than by their own.  Mme. de Maufrigneuse calculated, not without dismay, that the young Count’s infatuation was likely to hold good for six whole months of disinterested love.  She looked so lovely in this dove’s mood, quenching the light in her eyes by the golden fringe of their lashes, that when the Marquise d’Espard bade her friend good-night, she whispered, “Good! very good, dear!” And with those farewell words, the fair Marquise left her rival to make the tour of the modern Pays du Tendre; which, by the way, is not so absurd a conception as some appear to think.  New maps of the country are engraved for each generation; and if the names of the routes are different, they still lead to the same capital city.

In the course of an hour’s tete-a-tete, on a corner sofa, under the eyes of the world, the Duchess brought young d’Esgrignon as far as Scipio’s Generosity, the Devotion of Amadis, and Chivalrous Self-abnegation (for the Middle Ages were just coming into fashion, with their daggers, machicolations, hauberks, chain-mail, peaked shoes, and romantic painted card-board properties).  She had an admirable turn, moreover, for leaving things unsaid, for leaving ideas in a discreet, seeming careless way, to work their way down, one by one, into Victurnien’s heart, like needles into a cushion.  She possessed a marvelous skill in reticence; she was charming in hypocrisy, lavish of subtle promises, which revived hope and then melted away like ice in the sun if you looked at them closely, and most treacherous in the desire which she felt and inspired.  At the close of this charming encounter she produced the running noose of an invitation to call, and flung it over him with a dainty demureness which the printed page can never set forth.

“You will forget me,” she said.  “You will find so many women eager to pay court to you instead of enlightening you. . . .  But you will come back to me undeceived.  Are you coming to me first? . . .  No.  As you will.—­For my own part, I tell you frankly that your visits will be a great pleasure to me.  People of soul are so rare, and I think that you are one of them.—­Come, good-bye; people will begin to talk about us if we talk together any longer.”

She made good her words and took flight.  Victurnien went soon afterwards, but not before others had guessed his ecstatic condition; his face wore the expression peculiar to happy men, something between an Inquisitor’s calm discretion and the self-contained beatitude of a devotee, fresh from the confessional and absolution.

“Mme. de Maufrigneuse went pretty briskly to the point this evening,” said the Duchesse de Grandlieu, when only half-a-dozen persons were left in Mlle. des Touches’ little drawing-room—­to wit, des Lupeaulx, a Master of Requests, who at that time stood very well at court, Vandenesse, the Vicomtesse de Grandlieu, Canalis, and Mme. de Serizy.

“D’Esgrignon and Maufrigneuse are two names that are sure to cling together,” said Mme. de Serizy, who aspired to epigram.

“For some days past she has been out at grass on Platonism,” said des Lupeaulx.

“She will ruin that poor innocent,” added Charles de Vandenesse.

“What do you mean?” asked Mlle. des Touches.

“Oh, morally and financially, beyond all doubt,” said the Vicomtesse, rising.

The cruel words were cruelly true for young d’Esgrignon.

Next morning he wrote to his aunt describing his introduction into the high world of the Faubourg Saint-Germain in bright colors flung by the prism of love, explaining the reception which met him everywhere in a way which gratified his father’s family pride.  The Marquis would have the whole long letter read to him twice; he rubbed his hands when he heard of the Vidame de Pamiers’ dinner—­the Vidame was an old acquaintance—­and of the subsequent introduction to the Duchess; but at Blondet’s name he lost himself in conjectures.  What could the younger son of a judge, a public prosecutor during the Revolution, have been doing there?

There was joy that evening among the Collection of Antiquities.  They talked over the young Count’s success.  So discreet were they with regard to Mme. de Maufrigneuse, that the one man who heard the secret was the Chevalier.  There was no financial postscript at the end of the letter, no unpleasant reference to the sinews of war, which every young man makes in such a case.  Mlle. Armande showed it to Chesnel.  Chesnel was pleased and raised not a single objection.  It was clear, as the Marquis and the Chevalier agreed, that a young man in favor with the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse would shortly be a hero at court, where in the old days women were all-powerful.  The Count had not made a bad choice.  The dowagers told over all the gallant adventures of the Maufrigneuses from Louis XIII. to Louis XVI.—­they spared to inquire into preceding reigns—­and when all was done they were enchanted.  —­Mme. de Maufrigneuse was much praised for interesting herself in Victurnien.  Any writer of plays in search of a piece of pure comedy would have found it well worth his while to listen to the Antiquities in conclave.