La Faustin. A life study

Front matter

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Preface

I N these days, when an author proposes to write a book upon some woman who has passed away, he asks for aid from every one who has been in any degree connected with this woman’s life, and for letters or papers which may chance to throw some little light on her interior life.

Why should not a romance writer (who after all is only — a historian of people who have no history) why should he not, I say, employ a somewhat similar method, not indeed by disinterring fragments of old letters, but by addressing himself to the living who are undoubtedly ready to come to his assistance. Let me explain myself.

I wish to write a romance which shall be in

PREFACE.

fact simply a psychological and physiological study of a young girl who has grown up in the hot-bed of a large city. But when I am ready to go to work upon it, I find that the books written on women by men, need feminine assistance. And I should be thankful to have this assistance, not from one woman, but from many. Yes, I desire to compose my romance with the aid and confidence of the women who deign to read my present words.

As regards adventures, I of course need no hints in that direction. What I want, are the impressions of a young girl when intelligence and coquetry are simultaneously awakened in her nature. I want confidences in regard to the emotions awakened in the heart of the girl when she goes to her first communion — confidences as to the effect produced on her by music. I want fully to comprehend her sensations when she first enters society; revelations of delicate emotions and refined modesty — in short, all that vast unknown and misunderstood femininity, the very life and soul of a woman which husbands

PREFACE.

and lovers go to their graves in ignorance of — this is what I ask.

And I make this appeal to my fair readers in every land to which this book may penetrate, begging them in their hour of leisure, of sad memories or joyous retrospection, to set down on paper a few of their thoughts and send them anonymously to my publisher.

Edmond De Goncourt.

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Contents

Chapter page

I. THE SEA SHORE 25

II. A GLIMPSE OF PARIS 30

Chapter I. The Sea Shore

rpHE sky was bright with stars, above a phospho- X rescent sea.

On a rocky beach, in a little cove made by the perpetual rolling in of the ocean, shadowy forms were to be seen lying on the sand in various positions — masses rather than forms — for the night was so dark that little could be distinguished save that two women were nearest the sea, one lying outstretched with arms folded under her head, and that her eyes were uplifted to the stars might be divined rather than seen. The attitude of her companion was vaguely suggestive of tenderness, for she had taken the feet of the other in her two hands and was warming them against her own body.

At a little distance from these two women were

THE SEA SHORE.

three men seated on the sand whose faces were occasionally seen by the light of their cigars.

Occasionally the strong sea breeze ruffled the garments of these silent, motionless women, and sent a little shiver up and down their forms. And before this grand spectacle of sea and sky, and under the influence of the soothing rhythm of the waves and the softness of the air, conversation between these men and women had entirely ceased.

Suddenly, through ^the silence and the shadows, came the voice of the woman who was lying outstretched on the sand. She said, in the voice of one who is suddenly aroused from a passionate dream — and apropos of a name that had been uttered fifteen minutes before —

“ No, there was nothing between us then except one kiss — a kiss which was given in my dressing-room, he standing on tiptoe that he might reach over the screen behind which I changed my costumes. He went away that night to his Legation. These Englishmen, when they are bad are bad — with their whole hearts and souls, but when they are good — well — he had a mother and she was a French woman ! Three months after that I went to Brussels on a theatrical tour — I had sent on and engaged a room in the Hôtel de Flandres, yes — that was the name — Ah! shall I ever forget it!

“ Do we not sometimes love a man for the circumstances under which we have loved him?

“ It was all very strange — that time and that Hôtel. All the while he kissed me the air was full of music — waves of sound came from under the cushions on

THE SEA SIIORE.

which I lay — and there were great gusts of harmony which seemed to bear me in his arms to Heaven — and in his caresses I felt a divine calm. I have always remembered that time — it is a stupid thing to say, but the truth is — it seemed to me that our love was that of angels. The Hôtel de Flandres is next to the Eglise Saint-Jacques, and the organ, as I found out the next day, was built into the wall next my room.

44 1 can’t tell you why,” she continued, 44 but I know one thing certainly, which is, that he is the only man I ever really loved.”

44 My adored Juliette, pray spare my vanity,” said a man’s voice, in which, in spite of its jesting tone, there was a faint suggestion of wounded feelings.

44 My friend,” answered the woman, serenely ironical, f4 this sea air has caused you to lose your sense of the position of things. You are a practical man and a banker, pray remain just that, for you have immense intelligence. We keep house together, but we are not lovers you know ! ”

And La Faustin turned her head away and looked off toward the horizon where the floating clouds seemed to have massed together just above the pale, luminous line of the ocean, like a border carved in ebony, and then, tempted by the soft languor of the night, resumed her confidences.

44 But there was a continuation to this episode. William took me away some time after that to a chateau in Scotland — I don’t know in what county, and I never cared to know or to see the place again. At the time, however, it was not a disagreeable experi-

THE SEA SHORE.

ence. The château was in a most ruinous condition, and stood in the midst of an' uncared for Park, the foliage was a paler shade of green than any I had ever seen before, and it rustled in a most melancholy fashion in the Autumnal winds.

“ But there was one delightful thing in that place — a quantity of white peacocks, that came every night at dusk to roost on the balustrade and pillars. You can have no idea of the strange effect of these great motionless birds — their whiteness relieved against the old moss-grown walls — and when the moon rose, all the recesses of the windows were occupied by these white spirits. They looked as if they might be brides in their shining wedding robes. And, by the way, it is very odd that in all the wonderful fairy pantomimes I have ever seen on the stage, I never saw anything like that.

“ My whole life in this place, though, was odd in the extreme ; it never seemed to me that I was exactly alive. Still, take it altogether, it was the happiest time of my life. The days flowed on without an event ”

“And how about the nights?” asked the woman, who la} r crouched at Faustin’s feet.

A little push with her boot was the reply made by Faustin, and as the other woman pressed her lips to the arched instep, she said, with a laugh :

“ Come, now, little sister, you must let me have my joke ”

“ To be sure you shall, Maria : you shall say what you please,” interposed a gay, masculine voice.

THE SEA SHORE.

“ Since that is your decision,” said La Faustin, rising with one spring from the ground, “ I think it is time for us to go into tea.”

“ Dear Madame,” said the man who had not before spoken, “ when will your début as Phèdre take place at the Theatre Français? The journals are full of it, but^they fix no date.”

“ In two months, perhaps more ; probably in ten weeks.”

“ Ladies,” said this man, with a low bow, “ have you no commissions for Carsonac ? ”

“ None, whatever, thank you ! ” answered La Faustin’s sister.

“I shall return the day after to-morrow. Adieu, Blancheron ! adieu, Luzy ! for I must be off to Havre for the night train.”

La Faustin took her sister’s arm, and followed by her two friends, she climbed a steep street, la Rue-de- Bellevue, and turned toward a stone châlet which looked very new.

A GLIMPSE OF PALIS.

Chapter II. A Glimpse Of Paris

U PON a small table, between two paper bags of bonbons, one bearing the name of Siraudin and the other that of Boissier, were placed a dish of partridges cooked with cabbage, and a salad that smelt of vinegar.

In the boudoir where this breakfast was laid, various articles of feminine apparel were thrown on the divan that ran around the room. In the corners were cabinets of modern Boule, through the glass door of which quantities of priceless china were to be seen, among which were scattered things that might have been picked up at a fair for two sous — things made of spun glass and other trifles.

Behind the clock, which was a marvel of the last century, was tucked into the mirror the card of an actor of the Palais Royal, on which it had pleased him to draw a well-used fine tooth comb, with broken teeth. A half-open door showed a dressing-room still in disorder — soiled towels thrown here and there ; on the washstand were several dry and mouldy halves of lemon ; from this dressing-room came a strong odor of musk, which mingled with that of cabbage and stale tobacco in the boudoir.

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

There were three women seated — one on a chair, the other on an ottoman and the third on a footstool. They were all eating partridges, and from time to time they took with their fingers a leaf of lettuce from the salad bowl, or a bonbon from one of the two paper bags. One of these women, in order to stuff herself more at her ease, had taken off her corsets and hung them on the back of a chair.

This woman was called Moumoute, a former lorette of bourgeois aspirations, who had finally married a leader of an orchestra in the Boulevard de Crime — a woman of forty, who had preserved, in spite of her stoutness, the soft, gentle eyes of a child.

The youngest of the three was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, who had a dainty little turned up nose, all the quick intelligence and astute vice of Paris were in her small-featured face, her voice was hoarse and her conversation was almost unintelligible by reason of the medical terms she used. She was living for the time being, by translating Darwin for the Reviews and Journals, and answered to the infantine name of Lillette.

The third, a woman of twenty-six, was very silent, but her silence was not so much that of resignation as of restrained impatience ; her color fluctuated, and when she was pale there seemed to be a warm color under the surface ready to mount at a second’s warning again to her cheeks. The deep blue of her eyes lent a shadow to the whites ; her bouffante hair showed the delicacy of her temples and the transparent exquisitely modelled ears.

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

She wore the toilette that was habitual to her all day long, in her own house and out of it, a gown of white piqué ; over her shoulders was crossed a small shawl of crimson crêpe de chine tied behind à V enfant. In this simple toilette her pale, vivacious beauty was very remarkable. When she drove out in her open carriage, she simply threw over her shoulders a furlined wrap.

After having performed for a succession of years many secret services for women of society, Josephine now lived at the expense of a well known horse-dealer on the Champs Elysées.

And around this table came and went a servant whoknelt familiarly on the edge of the ottoman as she placed some dish upon the table. This woman reminded one of a face of the Moyen Age, in some picture of a terrible famine. She wore rouge stolen from her mistress, and across her whole face was a deep scratch. She wore a cap perched on the top of her head, and on her tired feet she dragged Algerian slippers. She swore and slammed the doors when summoned, as she constantly was, to the ante-chamber by the bell.

“The piece still continues to run,” said the stout glutton, pausing a moment.

“ Yes, to be sure,” answered the hostess.

“ It will run forever — he told me so — yesterday — the new manager — I ran after him in the coulisses,” said the clear, flute-like voice of a little boy about seven years old, who was half hidden by a Chantilly lace mantle. He was lying in a corner of the divan, his

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

legs crossed in the air, and was rubbing his finger nails with a tiny file. The stiff collar, the tie which filled the space between the shirt and the vest — all about this infant w T as the fac simile of some fashionable man about town, from the immaculate sole of his boot to the precise parting of his hair. The child had already entered the world, joined in conversation, listened to confessions and was an interested witness of many strange scenes.

Unfortunate little fellow! he was carried about like a pretty little dog, left to sleep on the sofas in the cabinets where his mother supped, and often forgotten there, was returned to her at dawn by one of the waiters.

“You see, Moumoute ,” continued his mother, “that the effect of the electric light on the poisoned woman in the fourth act is so wonderful that it alone almost makes the success of the piece. But the truth is, my friend, that this sort of existence does not interest me in the least. I ought to have married and led an honest sort of life. I should like to be at the head of a table d’hôte for strolling actors somewhere in the provinces. I have ten minds to go off to Turin,” she said, as she made a pirouette to the other side of the room. Then, with another sudden whirl, she came back to the table, and brandishing her fork, on which was a mouthful of partridge, she added :

“ Who can tell that I should not fascinate the King himself?”

Faustin’s sister as she spoke re-seated herself in a melancholy sort of way and began to smooth her pretty round throat.

“Look here,” she added, “did you ever notice on Moumoute, just here where my hand is, this queer sort of lump that comes at about forty, it seems to me some days that it is growing in my throat ten years before it ought. Why does^ not somebody hear that bell ? ”

“ Madame,” said the servant, half opening the door of the boudoir, “ it is the doctor you employed at the Springs.”

“ Tell him to go West,” answered the mistress of the establishment snapping her fingers.

“ There comes Ragache ! ” she continued, as a gentleman appeared who, with little gestures implored silence.

“ Ragache ! Ragache ! Ragache ! ” was uttered in three different keys by the lips of the three guests.

Ragache was a ventriloquist who extracted from the heels of his boots, puns and jests and imitations of the actors of the day. Naturally, he was the idol of the house.

“Hush! Hush! Hush!” said Ragache, coming into the boudoir as if it were a stage. “It is whispered throughout Paris that Pousard is playing the deuce with Titania. What will be the result of this flirtation? At all events we must favor the mystery and we must speak very softly.”

Then turning toward Moumoute, who continued to eat very calmly, he assumed an attitude of profound admiration.

“Ah! Moumoute,” he exclaimed, will you never

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

make up your mind to accept my devotion?” He pretended to sob and wiped his eyes.

“ Do stop your nonsense,” cried Lillette, who hated men.

“ Hush ! child ; you are not expected to know anything except what your English scientist teaches you.”

“ Madame ! madame ! it is the gentleman who sends asparagus from Aranjuez to the Paris market.”

“Where on earth did I ever know him?” murmured Maria with a little frown. “Never mind. Tell him too, to go West.”

“Or to Spain,” interposed Ragache, rolling up his eyes until the whites only could be seen — “ to the land of sunshine, of poetry and of the Cid.”

Carsonac, the owner of this establishment, now appeared from another room. He was buttoning his light paletot, over a black coat.

He was a stout man with thick grey hair. His moustache was dyed and waxed. His eyes were generally half veiled by heavy lids, but when he uttered some wicked or malicious remark they opened widely enough and flashed like steel.

“What! breakfasting here? Why on earth don’t you go to the dining-room, Bonne-Ame ? ”

“ Because this is much cosier,” answered Maria, “ we all like it better, don’t we ?*” and she appealed to her friends.

“ Oh ! yes, I see, and you have the dressing-room convenient in case of an attack of the nerves after some friendly explanation,” he replied. “Well! upon my word, you are comfortable,” Carsonac continued, as he turned and saw the loosely-robed Moumoute. And turning to another friend of Maria’s he said :

“Well, fair Indolence, I suppose you know that the man who pays such a heavy price for your love is oil the point of falling a prey to the Provençale. I am happy to be the first to tell you this.”

Josephine did not reply. He was standing close beside her now. She advanced her head with a slow, undulating movement of the long throat, and when it was the height of his arm, she bit it with her white teeth through the sleeve.

“ That hurts — you little fiend ! ” he exclaimed.

The woman smiled. A singular flame kindled in her deep eyes. She lighted a cigar, and gliding from the chair to the ground, she lay with her white robe and red shawl gathered around her, as motionless as a panther ready to spring.

“ The truth is, Bonne-Ame,” said Carsonac, “ that things are not going well at the Théâtre Français — Faustin ”

“There, that will do. Remember that I will not allow you to speak of my sister,” said Bonne-Ame, very decidedly.

“Well, are you here?” asked Carsonac, turning to Ragache, whom he had pretended not to see.

“ Yes, I came to see if you had a box at your disposal.”

“ No. A single seat, in a good, strong draught, is all I have to offer.”

Ragache, quite unmoved by this rudeness, went up to Bonne-Ame, and her friend heard her say :

“ Don’t mind it. He is out of temper, to-day, but if you will do your best for the success of his play, (for Carsonac was the author of a new drama) I will see what can be done. You know when he is deeply interested in one thing, he can’t think of anything else. Won’t you have a glass of something?”

Ragache was picking from a bottle a brandied apricot, with the assistance of a cork-screw, and as he ate the yellow fruit, he said, “ Stupendum ! I feel as if I were dying in the tunic of Madame Duchenois ! ”

“ I don’t understand ! ” Carsonac said, coldly.

Ragache, totally unmoved, retired with his back to the door, imitating a Chinese playing a triangle.

“ Illustrious author ! ” he exclaimed on the threshold, “have you thought of the effect of remorse on the conscience of a concièrge who has committed a crime. Study that out for one of your plays; think what a point it would be that every time when his bell is pulled at night it awakens his conscience ! ”

Ragache was immediately replaced by a tall blonde fellow with a bald head. He held a much worn and shiny hat against his breast — his whole figure and attitude was the personification of obsequiousness.

Carsonac dropping the nerveless fingers which had been offered him, said roughly:

“ Really, Planche mol, you ought to take the trouble to dry your hands — their dampness is very disagreeable to people.”

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

Planchemol drew back with a frightened air, and seeking a refuge among the women, seated himself by the side of Bonne-Ame ; her friends presently heard her say to him :

“ If you can get such a plot as we want, I am quite sure that you can write a play with him. And you know when he is deeply interested in one thing ” —

“Monsieur, the small young man who has been here three times wishes to speak to you.”

“Show him in.”

A near-sighted debutante endowed with the double timidity of near-sighted people and debutantes — entered the room. He was greatly disturbed by the sight of this great man, and by the unexpected presence of the four women as well as by the indolent ease of their attitudes.

“ Listen, young man,” said Carsonac without offering him a seat, “ every plot offered me I find at first utterly hopeless and dull. Three or four months pass awajq and some of the ideas suggested to me have remained in my memory, and oddly enough, I then find some of them excellent. But by that time I have completely forgotten the person who brought them to me, and the plot seems to me entirely my own. Do you understand ? ”

The youth, greatly disturbed, turned to find the door.

“This way young man, this way. You have no especial desire I presume, to enter the dressing-room of these ladies! ”

“Tell me Lillette,” said Carsonac, after a few

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

minutes, “when I do you the honor to trust you to those solemn sexagenarians to take you home to your father, I should really much prefer to place you in a fiacre than to think of you sitting on the knee of one of those old men.

“ Oh ! you need not be in the least troubled when I sit on the knees of m} r friends, be they old or young ; it won’t be on those of a subscriber to the Manuel des Hommes Affaiblis like y ourself ! ”

“ Pretty good ! little one,” laughed Carsonac, quite exhilarated by a speech so like his own.

Then interrupting the dialogue which was going on in a low voice between Maria and Planchemol:

“Ah! Planchemol, what has Murger’s ghost whispered to you of late ? ”

“Something sir, which I should not venture to repeat before these ladies.”

Planchemol went up to Carsonac and said a few words in his ear.

“ Why, that is my own joke ! ” answered Carsonac.

“ Monsieur’s old servant wants the recommendation you were kind enough to promise him.”

“ There it is on the mantel shelf ; give it to him.”

“ Why did you send him away ? ” said Planchemol, trying to be easy and join in the conversation.

“ He was an excellent servant,” said Carsonac in his most malicious voice, “ but he came from Monsieur Ricord, and when he opened the door he did not choose to say good morning to the friends of Bonne-Ame ! ”

Bonne-Ame’s eyes flashed — her lips moved, but she

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

did not speak. She mechanically poured out the few drops of wine remaining in the bottom of the glass, and began to extend them over the waxed cloth with a finger on which was an antique ring having upon it a quaint inscription.

Planchemol had departed and Carsonac, standing in front of the mirror, was enveloping his throat in a white foulard.

“What has gone wrong, Bonne-Ame?” he said over his shoulder, as he noticed her thoughtfulness.

“Nothing, nothing at all — only — it is really ver3 r curious, but I just happened to think of something. Do you really want me to tell you?” And Maria in a low, suppressed but musical voice uttered these words :

“ I had a very strange dream last night. I was in a garden — such a garden as we only see in dreams. I saw a white shadow coming toward me ; I recognized it at once as Rose Chéri. In an instant she was at my side. She said to me 4 We were friends on earth, why do you avoid me? We are very happy here, and soon, very soon, you will join us.’ Behind her I perceived several dear shades — ghosts of persons who were dead or about to die — and these too, spoke to me. I awoke happy and not in the least saddened. I thought, so wonderfully real was this dream, that the Good God had permitted Rose Chéri to warn me in order that I might have time for preparation. But wrap yourself well up to-day, for the wind is from the northeast, and after the inflammation of the lungs which you had two years ago ”

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

Carson ac became very serious. He slowly put on his gloves, then he took them off, rolled them up and thrust them into his pocket, turned to leave the room, and came back, then went to the door, opened it and stood for a moment, holding it in his hand, and then going fairly out, he put his head back and addressing Maria said :

“You did not see me in the garden behind Rose Chéri, did you ? ”

Maria did not look round but shook her head negatively, not too decidedly however. As soon as she ceased to hear her lover’s footsteps she uttered a long shrill laugh, interspersed with scattered phrases : “ Why don’t you all laugh with me ?” She cried : “ He will be as meek as Moses for the next week. Ah! what a selfish brute that man is ! Do any of you know the bargains he has driven with me and for me ! These men give us money, and boast of it, but we earn it all twice over. I don’t know what Carsonac has in his head now — whether he wants an interdiction from the Censor removed, whether he is manoeuvring to be decorated — it does not matter, however. To gain it, he flings me at all the powders that be — ministers, secretaries and valets. But for Flamme de Punchy do you think that Machin would have had the renewal of his privileges for the last ten years. And do you suppose without La Cachalot, Chose would have had the patronage of His Excellency ? And I have been compelled to receive them all — the old imbeciles, the Ministers of State and the young fools attached to the Bureau of

A GLIMPSE OF PARIS.

the Press. It is too much î I am quite sure he means to become an officer of the Legion of Honor.”

She started from her chair and began to pace the room. Her rapid motion seemed to augment her excitement, and Maria poured forth words which spoke volumes and described one of those burning hatreds sometimes, nay often, existing between persons allied by their crimes — an alliance reminding one of that between two convicts attached to the same ball who are ready to kill each other.

By degrees the tempestuous wrath of Maria became assuaged. The expression of her face regained its usual calmness. She threw herself on the divan and with her head buried among her cushions, she said with a droll little wink :

“ One thing you may be sure of however, my dears, and that is whenever he makes me take a lover in order to advance his commercial enterprise, I have my revenge. Yes, I invariably take another and one after my own mind.

“ Oh ! yes, to be sure, an officer,” sighed the stout Moumoute, forgetful at the moment of her marriage and her husband — “ those men are charming — they always have biscuits and chocolate in their rooms. They wear the most beautiful slippers and dressing gowns.”

‘‘Who talks here of officers?” asked Maria with stinging contempt. “They are only interesting when we are young enough to press our faded flowers between the leaves of the last poem we read ! No, officers are too ingenuous for my taste.”