On re-entering the salon Ernest de La Briere found a young officer of the company of the guard d’Havre, the Vicomte de Serizy, who had just arrived from Rosny to announce that Madame was obliged to be present at the opening of the Chambers. We know the importance then attached to this constitutional solemnity, at which Charles X. delivered his speech, surrounded by the royal family — Madame la Dauphine and Madame being present in their gallery. The choice of the emissary charged with the duty of expressing the princess’s regrets was an attention to Diane, who was then an object of adoration to this charming young man, son of a minister of state, gentleman in ordinary of the chamber, only son and heir to an immense fortune. The Duchesse de Maufrigneuse permitted his attentions solely for the purpose of attracting notice to the age of his mother, Madame de Serizy, who was said, in those chronicles that are whispered behind the fans, to have deprived her of the heart of the handsome Lucien de Rubempre.
“You will do us the pleasure, I hope, to remain at Rosembray,” said the severe duchess to the young officer.
While giving ear to every scandal, the devout lady shut her eyes to the derelictions of her guests who had been carefully selected by the duke; indeed, it is surprising how much these excellent women will tolerate under pretence of bringing the lost sheep back to the fold by their indulgence.
“We reckoned without our constitutional government,” said the grand equerry; “and Rosembray, Madame la duchesse, will lose a great honor.”
“We shall be more at our ease,” said a tall thin old man, about seventy-five years of age, dressed in blue cloth, and wearing his hunting-cap by permission of the ladies. This personage, who closely resembled the Duc de Bourbon, was no less than the Prince de Cadignan, Master of the Hunt, and one of the last of the great French lords. Just as La Briere was endeavoring to slip behind the sofa and obtain a moment’s intercourse with Modeste, a man of thirty-eight, short, fat, and very common in appearance, entered the room.
“My son, the Prince de Loudon,” said the Duchesse de Verneuil to Modeste, who could not restrain the expression of amazement that overspread her young face on seeing the man who bore the historical name that the hero of La Vendee had rendered famous by his bravery and the martyrdom of his death.
“Gaspard,” said the duchess, calling her son to her. The young prince came at once, and his mother continued, motioning to Modeste, “Mademoiselle de La Bastie, my friend.”
The heir presumptive, whose marriage with Desplein’s only daughter had lately been arranged, bowed to the young girl without seeming struck, as his father had been, with her beauty. Modeste was thus enabled to compare the youth of today with the old age of a past epoch; for the old Prince de Cadignan had already said a few words which made her feel that he rendered as true a homage to womanhood as to royalty. The Duc de Rhetore, the eldest son of the Duchesse de Chaulieu, chiefly remarkable for manners that were equally impertinent and free and easy, bowed to Modeste rather cavalierly. The reason of this contrast between the fathers and the sons is to be found, probably, in the fact that young men no longer feel themselves great beings, as their forefathers did, and they dispense with the duties of greatness, knowing well that they are now but the shadow of it. The fathers retain the inherent politeness of their vanished grandeur, like the mountain-tops still gilded by the sun when all is twilight in the valley.
Ernest was at last able to slip a word into Modeste’s ear, and she rose immediately.
“My dear,” said the duchesse, thinking she was going to dress, and pulling a bell-rope, “they shall show you your apartment.”
Ernest accompanied Modeste to the foot of the grand staircase, presenting the request of the luckless poet, and endeavoring to touch her feelings by describing Melchior’s agony.
“You see, he loves — he is a captive who thought he could break his chain.”
“Love in such a rapid seeker after fortune!” retorted Modeste.
“Mademoiselle, you are at the entrance of life; you do not know its defiles. The inconsistencies of a man who falls under the dominion of a woman much older than himself should be forgiven, for he is really not accountable. Think how many sacrifices Canalis has made to her. He has sown too much seed of that kind to resign the harvest; the duchess represents to him ten years of devotion and happiness. You made him forget all that, and unfortunately, he has more vanity than pride; he did not reflect on what he was losing until he met Madame Chaulieu here today. If you really understood him, you would help him. He is a child, always mismanaging his life. You call him a seeker after fortune, but he seeks very badly; like all poets, he is a victim of sensations; he is childish, easily dazzled like a child by anything that shines, and pursuing its glitter. He used to love horses and pictures, and he craved fame — well, he sold his pictures to buy armor and old furniture of the Renaissance and Louis XV.; just now he is seeking political power. Admit that his hobbies are noble things.”
“You have said enough,” replied Modeste; “come,” she added, seeing her father, whom she called with a motion of her head to give her his arm; “come with me, and I will give you that scrap of paper; you shall carry it to the great man and assure him of my condescension to his wishes, but on one condition — you must thank him in my name for the pleasure I have taken in seeing one of the finest of the German plays performed in my honor. I have learned that Goethe’s masterpiece is neither Faust nor Egmont —” and then, as Ernest looked at the malicious girl with a puzzled air, she added: “It is Torquato Tasso! Tell Monsieur de Canalis to re-read it,” she added smiling; “I particularly desire that you will repeat to your friend word for word what I say; for it is not an epigram, it is the justification of his conduct — with this trifling difference, that he will, I trust, become more and more reasonable, thanks to the folly of his Eleonore.”
The duchess’s head-woman conducted Modeste and her father to their apartment, where Francoise Cochet had already put everything in order, and the choice elegance of which astounded the colonel, more especially after he heard from Francoise that there were thirty other apartments in the chateau decorated with the same taste.
“This is what I call a proper country-house,” said Modeste.
“The Comte de La Bastie must build you one like it,” replied her father.
“Here, monsieur,” said Modeste, giving the bit of paper to Ernest; “carry it to our friend and put him out of his misery.”
The word our friend struck the young man’s heart. He looked at Modeste to see ............