Part 50 (1/2)
”In heaven, mother,” said Hortense solemnly.
”Come, my angel, help me to dress.--No, no; I will not have you help me in this! Send me Louise.”
Adeline, in her room, went to study herself in the gla.s.s. She looked at herself closely and sadly, wondering to herself:
”Am I still handsome? Can I still be desirable? Am I not wrinkled?”
She lifted up her fine golden hair, uncovering her temples; they were as fresh as a girl's. She went further; she uncovered her shoulders, and was satisfied; nay, she had a little feeling of pride. The beauty of really handsome shoulders is one of the last charms a woman loses, especially if she has lived chastely.
Adeline chose her dress carefully, but the pious and blameless woman is decent to the end, in spite of her little coquettish graces. Of what use were brand-new gray silk stockings and high heeled satin shoes when she was absolutely ignorant of the art of displaying a pretty foot at a critical moment, by obtruding it an inch or two beyond a half-lifted skirt, opening horizons to desire? She put on, indeed, her prettiest flowered muslin dress, with a low body and short sleeves; but horrified at so much bareness, she covered her fine arms with clear gauze sleeves and hid her shoulders under an embroidered cape. Her curls, _a l'Anglaise_, struck her as too fly-away; she subdued their airy lightness by putting on a very pretty cap; but, with or without the cap, would she have known how to twist the golden ringlets so as to show off her taper fingers to admiration?
As to rouge--the consciousness of guilt, the preparations for a deliberate fall, threw this saintly woman into a state of high fever, which, for the time, revived the brilliant coloring of youth. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowed. Instead of a.s.suming a seductive air, she saw in herself a look of barefaced audacity which shocked her.
Lisbeth, at Adeline's request, had told her all the circ.u.mstances of Wenceslas' infidelity; and the Baroness had learned to her utter amazement, that in one evening in one moment, Madame Marneffe had made herself the mistress of the bewitched artist.
”How do these women do it?” the Baroness had asked Lisbeth.
There is no curiosity so great as that of virtuous women on such subjects; they would like to know the arts of vice and remain immaculate.
”Why, they are seductive; it is their business,” said Cousin Betty.
”Valerie that evening, my dear, was, I declare, enough to bring an angel to perdition.”
”But tell me how she set to work.”
”There is no principle, only practice in that walk of life,” said Lisbeth ironically.
The Baroness, recalling this conversation, would have liked to consult Cousin Betty; but there was no time for that. Poor Adeline, incapable of imagining a patch, of pinning a rosebud in the very middle of her bosom, of devising the tricks of the toilet intended to resuscitate the ardors of exhausted nature, was merely well dressed. A woman is not a courtesan for the wis.h.i.+ng!
”Woman is soup for man,” as Moliere says by the mouth of the judicious Gros-Rene. This comparison suggests a sort of culinary art in love. Then the virtuous wife would be a Homeric meal, flesh laid on hot cinders.
The courtesan, on the contrary, is a dish by Careme, with its condiments, spices, and elegant arrangement. The Baroness could not--did not know how to serve up her fair bosom in a lordly dish of lace, after the manner of Madame Marneffe. She knew nothing of the secrets of certain att.i.tudes. This high-souled woman might have turned round and round a hundred times, and she would have betrayed nothing to the keen glance of a profligate.
To be a good woman and a prude to all the world, and a courtesan to her husband, is the gift of a woman of genius, and they are few. This is the secret of long fidelity, inexplicable to the women who are not blessed with the double and splendid faculty. Imagine Madame Marneffe virtuous, and you have the Marchesa di Pescara. But such lofty and ill.u.s.trious women, beautiful as Diane de Poitiers, but virtuous, may be easily counted.
So the scene with which this serious and terrible drama of Paris manners opened was about to be repeated, with this singular difference--that the calamities prophesied then by the captain of the munic.i.p.al Militia had reversed the parts. Madame Hulot was awaiting Crevel with the same intentions as had brought him to her, smiling down at the Paris crowd from his _milord_, three years ago. And, strangest thing of all, the Baroness was true to herself and to her love, while preparing to yield to the grossest infidelity, such as the storm of pa.s.sion even does not justify in the eyes of some judges.
”What can I do to become a Madame Marneffe?” she asked herself as she heard the door-bell.
She restrained her tears, fever gave brilliancy to her face, and she meant to be quite the courtesan, poor, n.o.ble soul.
”What the devil can that worthy Baronne Hulot want of me?” Crevel wondered as he mounted the stairs. ”She is going to discuss my quarrel with Celestine and Victorin, no doubt; but I will not give way!”
As he went into the drawing-room, shown in by Louise, he said to himself as he noted the bareness of the place (Crevel's word):
”Poor woman! She lives here like some fine picture stowed in a loft by a man who knows nothing of painting.”
Crevel, seeing Comte Popinot, the Minister of Commerce, buy pictures and statues, wanted also to figure as a Maecenas of Paris, whose love of Art consists in making good investments.
Adeline smiled graciously at Crevel, pointing to a chair facing her.
”Here I am, fair lady, at your command,” said Crevel.