Part 104

“In the big drawing-room.”

“Well, make haste, child. Give me my smartest slippers, the dressing-gown embroidered by Bijou, and no end of lace frills. Do my hair in a way to astonish a woman.--This woman plays a part against mine; and tell the lady--for she is a real, great lady, my girl, nay, more, she is what you will never be, a woman whose prayers can rescue souls from your purgatory--tell her I was in bed, as I was playing last night, and that I am just getting up.”

The Baroness, shown into Josepha’s handsome drawing-room, did not note how long she was kept waiting there, though it was a long half hour. This room, entirely redecorated even since Josepha had had the house, was hung with silk in purple and gold color. The luxury which fine gentlemen were wont to lavish on their petites maisons, the scenes of their profligacy, of which the remains still bear witness to the follies from which they were so aptly named, was displayed to perfection, thanks to modern inventiveness, in the four rooms opening into each other, where the warm temperature was maintained by a system of hot-air pipes with invisible openings.

The Baroness, quite bewildered, examined each work of art with the greatest amazement. Here she found fortunes accounted for that melt in the crucible under which pleasure and vanity feed the devouring flames. This woman, who for twenty-six years had lived among the dead relics of imperial magnificence, whose eyes were accustomed to carpets patterned with faded flowers, rubbed gilding, silks as forlorn as her heart, half understood the powerful fascinations of vice as she studied its results. It was impossible not to wish to possess these beautiful things, these admirable works of art, the creation of the unknown talent which abounds in Paris in our day and produces treasures for all Europe. Each thing had the novel charm of unique perfection. The models being destroyed, every vase, every figure, every piece of sculpture was the original. This is the crowning grace of modern luxury. To own the thing which is not vulgarized by the two thousand wealthy citizens whose notion of luxury is the lavish display of the splendors that shops can supply, is the stamp of true luxury--the luxury of the fine gentlemen of the day, the shooting stars of the Paris firmament.

As she examined the flower-stands, filled with the choicest exotic plants, mounted in chased brass and inlaid in the style of Boulle, the Baroness was scared by the idea of the wealth in this apartment. And this impression naturally shed a glamour over the person round whom all this profusion was heaped. Adeline imagined that Josepha Mirah--whose portrait by Joseph Bridau was the glory of the adjoining boudoir--must be a singer of genius, a Malibran, and she expected to see a real star. She was sorry she had come. But she had been prompted by a strong and so natural a feeling, by such purely disinterested devotion, that she collected all her courage for the interview. Besides, she was about to satisfy her urgent curiosity, to see for herself what was the charm of this kind of women, that they could extract so much gold from the miserly ore of Paris mud.

The Baroness looked at herself to see if she were not a blot on all this splendor; but she was well dressed in her velvet gown, with a little cape trimmed with beautiful lace, and her velvet bonnet of the same shade was becoming. Seeing herself still as imposing as any queen, always a queen even in her fall, she reflected that the dignity of sorrow was a match for the dignity of talent.

At last, after much opening and shutting of doors, she saw Josepha. The singer bore a strong resemblance to Allori’s Judith, which dwells in the memory of all who have ever seen it in the Pitti palace, near the door of one of the great rooms. She had the same haughty mien, the same fine features, black hair simply knotted, and a yellow wrapper with little embroidered flowers, exactly like the brocade worn by the immortal homicide conceived of by Bronzino’s nephew.

“Madame la Baronne, I am quite overwhelmed by the honor you do me in coming here,” said the singer, resolved to play her part as a great lady with a grace.

She pushed forward an easy-chair for the Baroness and seated herself on a stool. She discerned the faded beauty of the woman before her, and was filled with pity as she saw her shaken by the nervous palsy that, on the least excitement, became convulsive. She could read at a glance the saintly life described to her of old by Hulot and Crevel; and she not only ceased to think of a contest with her, she humiliated herself before a superiority she appreciated. The great artist could admire what the courtesan laughed to scorn.

“Mademoiselle, despair brought me here. It reduces us to any means--”

A look in Josepha’s face made the Baroness feel that she had wounded the woman from whom she hoped for so much, and she looked at her. Her beseeching eyes extinguished the flash in Josepha’s; the singer smiled. It was a wordless dialogue of pathetic eloquence.

“It is now two years and a half since Monsieur Hulot left his family, and I do not know where to find him, though I know that he lives in Paris,” said the Baroness with emotion. “A dream suggested to me the idea--an absurd one perhaps--that you may have interested yourself in Monsieur Hulot. If you could enable me to see him--oh! mademoiselle, I would pray Heaven for you every day as long as I live in this world--”

Two large tears in the singer’s eyes told what her reply would be.

“Madame,” said she, “I have done you an injury without knowing you; but, now that I have the happiness of seeing in you the most perfect virtue on earth, believe me I am sensible of the extent of my fault; I repent sincerely, and believe me, I will do all in my power to remedy it!”

She took Madame Hulot’s hand and before the lady could do anything to hinder her, she kissed it respectfully, even humbling herself to bend one knee. Then she rose, as proud as when she stood on the stage in the part of Mathilde, and rang the bell.

“Go on horseback,” said she to the man-servant, “and kill the horse if you must, to find little Bijou, Rue Saint-Maur-du-Temple, and bring her here. Put her into a coach and pay the coachman to come at a gallop. Do not lose a moment--or you lose your place.

“Madame,” she went on, coming back to the Baroness, and speaking to her in respectful tones, “you must forgive me. As soon as the Duc d’Herouville became my protector, I dismissed the Baron, having heard that he was ruining his family for me. What more could I do? In an actress’ career a protector is indispensable from the first day of her appearance on the boards. Our salaries do not pay half our expenses; we must have a temporary husband. I did not value Monsieur Hulot, who took me away from a rich man, a conceited idiot. Old Crevel would undoubtedly have married me--”

“So he told me,” said the Baroness, interrupting her.

“Well, then, you see, madame, I might at this day have been an honest woman, with only one legitimate husband!”

“You have many excuses, mademoiselle,” said Adeline, “and God will take them into account. But, for my part, far from reproaching you, I came, on the contrary, to make myself your debtor in gratitude--”

“Madame, for nearly three years I have provided for Monsieur le Baron’s necessities--”

“You?” interrupted the Baroness, with tears in her eyes. “Oh, what can I do for you? I can only pray--”

“I and Monsieur le Duc d’Herouville,” the singer said, “a noble soul, a true gentleman--” and Josepha related the settling and marriage of Monsieur Thoul.

“And so, thanks to you, mademoiselle, the Baron has wanted nothing?”

“We have done our best to that end, madame.”

“And where is he now?”

“About six months ago, Monsieur le Duc told me that the Baron, known to the notary by the name of Thoul, had drawn all the eight thousand francs that were to have been paid to him in fixed sums once a quarter,” replied Josepha. “We have heard no more of the Baron, neither I nor Monsieur d’Herouville. Our lives are so full, we artists are so busy, that I really have not time to run after old Thoul. As it happens, for the last six months, Bijou, who works for me--his--what shall I say--?”

“His mistress,” said Madame Hulot.