The Blue Duchess

n pages and pages of details without weariness. It seems to me, while writing this upon cold mute paper, that the clock has gone backwards and it is once more the time when the conversation ended,

an adorable phantom ever disappearing. She half closes her fine eyes which were heavy with sleep, she bows her head with a smile, she puts her finger to her mouth with a malicious

e moonlight along streets deserted except for a few stray cats and dogs, a few policemen on their beats, a belated cab, and a group of young artists just leaving a café in the Boulevard Saint Michel, which were the only things which testified to the existence of life in the great sleeping mansions, d

hough I wandered aimlessly in this deserted part overwhelmed by a trouble for which I could scarcely blame myself. That sudden burning of the inner being, that handling and interminable repetition of phrases which one has just heard, that obsession of thought at the same time pl

would prevent me from becoming amorous of her, if I desired to. But I shall not have this desire. She has moved me this evening in her real life as she moved me at the theatre,

o the prudent programme of not seeing her again. The fact was, I began by not having the good night’s sleep I promised myself, and when I awakened from my morning doze I thought of Camille Favier with as much troubled interest as I had done the evening before. I at once fo

ce, did not the presence of this creature demonstrate to me the absurdity of my incipient sentiment? Malvina had, too, like Camille, the ideal head for the primitive Madonna, and she was pleasure personified. Her mouth, which looked so beautiful in its silent smile, only opened to retail obscenity. What a good plan it i

n life without essential value, I have kept for these studies a keener taste, a more refined 84sense of certain landscapes, those of the Seine, for example, the Tuileries, and the Place de la Concorde. I love them especially in their morning tints which give them a tender freshness, distinct water-colour transparencies, with a thrill of alert activity. That morning, though my nerves were still quivering with the intoxication of my new-born passion, the water of the river seemed to me fresher than ever; th

d then what 85an adorable lover she would be! Was it a rare tint of soul, which the story she told me yesterday had, and was it different from the ones in the heads of her little friends? A rich protector and much advertisement is the usual ideal of such girls! The only actress who thinks differently must needs meet with Molan, the cold machine for producing prolific copy. But what is the use of my understanding and appreciating her like this, when I am on my way to contribute to the closeness of their intimacy? What absurd chance made me meet Jacques yesterday evening? That must happen to me: it is the symbol

thor, who was such a clever administrator of his wealth and talents, and ran over in my mind his rapid 86advance along the highway of Parisan glory. First of all on leaving college he had a little furnished room in the Rue Monsieur le Prince.

he early years of his literary life he only depicted sentiments which he had not. His first volume, so elegant and yet so brutal, was, strange to say, scrawled in this Latin Quarter garret. His joining the staff of a Boulevard paper and a change of residence showed that the writer did not intend to vegetate in the same narrow circle. He took rooms in the Rue de Bellechasse still on the left bank of the river, but now very close to the right bank. The portrait of Baudelaire still remained, to proclaim his fidelity to his early artistic convictions; but now it was framed in vel

tudy and contained a case full of rare curios, consisting of old Chinese lacquer-work, admirable sixteenth century bronzes, polished boxes, statuettes from Saxony, and old sweetmeat boxes. The dissimilarity of the objects expressed Molan’s utilitarian ideas. He studied the possibility of sale in case of misfortune. A few pictures decorated the walls, but they were

s, who would be flattered by seeing their works bound in colours appropriate to their talents, the colourists in red, the elegists in mauve, and the stylists in Japanese paper. The brilliant new silver articles, the freshness of the Havanna carpet and many other little things showed the eye of a master difficult to please, whose wishes extended to the smallest detail without ever being satisfied. The conver

hall have done my day’s work. Four 89pages a day, whether it is a novel or a play, is my method,” and

ume your work when you

e, meditated upon these words of a great master: 'Patience is that which in man most resembles the proceeding which nature employs in her creations.’ Almost au

able to disconcert his fatuity; “she did not ev

ttle actress. Another woman with an income of 200,000 francs, coming of a good family, bearing a famous name, beautiful, and with a position in society, is a bad actress. But if the little one is romantic, she is

not fores

ick for me. Fomberteau sent her this reply,” and he took a piec

ing both of us, and as it is press day please excuse me from coming in person to thank you for your kind anxiety.’ To this Camille has added a p

ou get this lett

nted to see you and know what she said to you. She has lost no

d, “to know by what new sche

ling her that I have not the least explanation to give her, and I do not wish her to al

bt. She thought you were lying to her and she wanted to know the truth. Come, is not that natural? Had she not the right? Be

any longer to urge on her rival. As you are my 'beater,’ and I know that you are as silent as a tomb, I will tell you everything in spite of those noble phrases about discretion, more especially as up to the present this confidence only compromises me. Last evening I obtained an appointment from Madam de Bonnivet. You would never guess the place though, not in a thousand times. At Pére Lachaise, before the tomb of Musset like the other girl. You d

es the second paler than the duellist, Little Favier’s passionate love served Jacques as an attack upon the vanity of the blasé woman of the world who was coquettish and coldly perverse without doubt, but also elegant, envied and rich, and afterwards whom his vanity and curiosity attracted. The heart of the poor little

he extreme clearness of this vision prevented me answering Jacques with indignation, as he no doubt expected and was prepared to amuse himself at my simplicity. He would have chaffed me, and that would have annoyed me. He would have told me in words what his enigmatic smile expressed. “If she pleases you so there is a place for you to take at once as her consoler.” I can give myself the credit for not using that ugly expression. But I lay claim to no other m

weary ones, or a faithful shoulder on which to rest his weary brow. It was enough to have associated this sigh of regret for some minutes with the name of Jacques’ mistress for the hope of a common and spiteful adventure with this poor girl not to need dismissing. But the fact of my not nourishing a dirty gallant project did not prevent my sympathy, which was already unhealthy, growing during this talk with my comrade. That is why instead of writing to Malvina the model, according to the wise plan formed a few hours before, I followed my illogical visit of the morning by one still more illog

clock. The faded tints of the badly painted front harmonized with the sordidness of the hall, and the glacial chill of the uncarpeted wooden staircase, the dirty stairs of which sloped towards the street. An air of shabby mediocrity extended over the old building, and the common visiting cards nailed to the doors, at which I was curious enough to look, revealed what sort of tenants dragged out their existence there. These poor houses abound in the old streets near the Faubourg Saint Germain, and as the highest rent is 1,200 francs they are the last haven open to all the waifs of humble middle-class virtue. While I listened to the bell and the sound of approaching footsteps all my impressions we

d wood betokened former opulence. A beautiful tapestry covered one of the walls. It had been necessary to double it up to adapt it to the size of the room, the ceiling of which I could almost reach with my cane. The grand piano, the great bronze clock, and the too lofty candelabra had also come from a financier’s mansion. These mute witnesses of vanished sple

s at once corrected. Just as Camille’s blue eyes, with their pupils in turn very clear or very dark, very animated and very languishing, revealed a passionate inequality of soul, and profound troubles, so did the peaceful and sluggish azure of Madam Favier’s eyes tell of passive serenity, resigned acceptance, and above all happiness. This woman, the widow of the stock-broker, whose life ended in a trag

sociate of the Comédie Fran?aise draws the salary of an Ambassador before retiring with the red ribbon in his button-hole, while actresses on tour abroad are received at monarch’s receptions. The barrier of prejudices or principles which separated the artistic life from the world of society has been broken down, to the applause of the democrats and progressives? The example of Jacques and my studies have convinced me that it is on the contrary one of the worst errors of the period. The artist has alway

adam Favier, in the drawing-room with its covered up furniture, with a rather sheepish look at finding myself with the mother when I had come to see the daughter. The widow, however, soon reassured me as she entertained me with commonplace con

year. Do you know Yport, sir? It is very pretty, and very quiet, but we have been there six summers. I like, when I go into the country, to go to a familiar place. You are so much better treated if you do, and feel more at home. When my dear husban

t to you then? She has

g, I think, for you, and not bad for her. We are waiting, before moving back to our old neighbourhood where we have a few friends, till Camille has signed a definite engagement. The Théatre-Fran?ais 100has offered her one, but as they let her go after she had won two pr

rusting as to be almost loquacious. Her mind was a very solid and sensible one and that of a woman who had retained her good sense through her ruin. This phenomenon is rarer even than sentiment in an actress. Usually these sudden falls from the Olympus of opulence have as a result a moral b

toire to the Odéon, Vaudeville and Comédie Fran?aise were fixed in this good woman’s mind with a regularity which was the more astonishing because her education had been such as to make her think of another type of destiny for a woman. How had such a revolution been accomplished in her mind? Is it necessary to explain that there are certain natures whose primordial instinct is to model themselves on circumstances, just as the instinct of others is to strugg

r you. M. la Croix has a few minutes to spare us I am sure.” But wh

im this mornin

that I am aware

e to Fomberteau,” I

ception? He has sent you to find out for him what impression his infamous note

It is true that Jacques did not conceal his sorry scheme nor his note from me. I did not hide from him what I thought of his harshness, and if I come here it is of my own accord, under the impulse of a sympathy which I admit I have no right to feel. We have only been friends for twenty-four hours and

though I hardly know you, feel too keen a sympathy for you to doubt yours. But this note from Jacques has wounded me and 103he really has gone too far. He knows th

f apprehension. “You wrote to Fomberteau. For the moment Jacques was wounde

othing more than vanity, a woman’s sentiment to be put in the button-hole like a flower. But come, my passion blinds me no longer. That rends me, and he, who is so intelligent, does not even suspect the nature of my suffering. Don’t you think that I guessed that creature Madam de Bonnivet invited him to supper last evening, or else to see her home, or worse still? We know what fashionable women are when they once begin. We have about us 104the same men as they do, and they tell us their stories. They are sometimes haughty wretches; and Jacques accepted her invitation because she has a house, horses, pictures,

plied; “even to say it raises

iting for a tram with a waterproof and overshoes to save a cab fare of 35 sous, I sometimes get impatient, and those tempting words, 'If you 105liked,’ come into my mind. Ah! when I have a soul full of happiness, when I can think that I love and am loved, that I am realizing and carrying out the romance of my youth, that Jacques clings to me as I do to him, and that I shall remain mingled in his life and work, then it is an intoxication to answer myself: 'If I liked? But I do

y consists in having what you believe Jacques has not, I mean a heart. But then he has on

cter, the bad side. You will find it out. There is another characteristic, too, pride; but don’t be any the less 106my friend,” she went on, introducing a subtle touch of melancholy into her anger. The grace of this sudden change of front brought the shadow of a sad smile to her face. She wiped away with her

f play and fastens himself upon a particular woman. At the same time I could see Jacques Molan as I had left him that morning, and his look when he had spoken of his scheme for a rupture. But it was impossible that he could suspect the responsibility he was incurring. I tried to demonstrate to myself that there was more affectation than real perversity in his nature as a literary man and that 107it was inoffensive. It is always childish for a man to make such a parade of himself, even when, as in his case, it was diplomatic and calculated. Was he not better than his attitudes and paradoxes? Who knows? In te

of meeting him, I wanted at least to have another talk with the woman who had been the cause of my fruitless search, the seductive Camille Favier, whose frail silhouette, blue eyes and emotional smile, pursued me with an obsession much more irresistible than my pity justified. That was the pretext I found as I made my way to 108the Vaudeville. I reached the theatre even before the end of the first ac

th a heartiness through which I discerned m

running

I thank you, for it would have been quite legitimate for you to try and profit by the situation. Only you are an honourable man. The cause is w

I asked him, surprised at thi

She came there with the intention of making me climb to the top of the yew trees between which we walked. She played the coquette

the other woman?” I interrupted. “That is wha

give you another chance.’ I raised my hat too tranquilly for the fool to think I was sincere. But I was. I lit a cigar, reaching the Boulevard on foot with a quickness which surprised even myself. I made the discovery that not only I did not love this woman, but that she really displeased me. With her a visit to my bachelor’s apartments, the usual theatre of my pleasures, would have been a sport which flattered my vanity without a doubt, but still an unpleasant job. She is, then, quaint and pre

Favier answer yo

and a half pages to tell me she would never forgive me, and the last half-page to forg

ave found out. You are doing her justice and have done so to the other one. Your lover’s quarrel is o