The ball was at its height when they glided1 in quietly, and were soon lost in the crowd. A couple had taken refuge from the pressure under the queen’s box; one of them wore a white domino and the other a black one. They were talking with great animation2. “I tell you, Oliva,” said the black domino, “that I am sure you are expecting some one. Your head is no longer a head, but a weather cock, and turns round to look after every newcomer.”
“Well, is it astonishing that I should look at the people, when that is what I came here for?”
“Oh, that is what you came for!”
“Well, sir, and for what do people generally come?”
“A thousand things.”
“Men perhaps, but women only for one—to see and be seen by as many people as possible.”
“Mademoiselle Oliva!”
“Oh, do not speak in that big voice, it does so frighten me; and above all, do not call me by name; it is bad taste to let every one here know who you are.”
The black domino made an angry gesture; it was interrupted by a blue domino who approached them.
“Come, monsieur,” said he, “let madame amuse herself; it is not every night one comes to a ball at the Opera.”
“Meddle with your own affairs,” replied Beausire, rudely.
“Monsieur, learn once for all that a little courtesy is never out of place.”
“I do not know you,” he replied, “and do not want to have anything to do with you.”
“No, you do not know me; but I know you, M. Beausire.”
At hearing his name thus pronounced, Beausire visibly trembled.
“Oh, do not be afraid, M. Beausire; I am not what you take me for.”
“Pardieu! sir, do you guess thoughts, as well as names?”
“Why not?”
“Then tell me what I thought. I have never seen a sorcerer, and should find it amusing.”
“Oh, what you ask is not difficult enough to entitle me to that name.”
“Never mind—tell.”
“Well, then! you took me for an agent of M. de Crosne.”
“M. de Crosne!” he repeated.
“Yes; the lieutenant3 of police.”
“Sir!”
“Softly, M. de Beausire, you really look as if you were feeling for your sword.”
“And so I was, sir.”
“Good heavens! what a warlike disposition4; but I think, dear M. Beausire, you left your sword at home, and you did well. But to speak of something else, will you relinquish5 to me madame for a time?”
“Give you up madame?”
“Yes, sir; that is not uncommon6, I believe, at a ball at the Opera.”
“Certainly not, when it suits the gentleman.”
“It suffices sometimes that it should please the lady.”
“Do you ask it for a long time?”
“Really, M. Beausire, you are too curious. Perhaps for ten minutes—perhaps for an hour—perhaps for all the evening.”
“You are laughing at me, sir.”
“Come, reply; will you or not?”
“No, sir.”
“Come, come, do not be ill-tempered, you who were so gentle just now.”
“Just now?”
“Yes; at the Rue7 Dauphine.”
Oliva laughed.
“Hold your tongue, madame,” said Beausire.
“Yes,” continued the blue domino, “where you were on the point of killing8 this poor lady, but stopped at the sight of some louis.”
“Oh, I see; you and she have an understanding together.”
“How can you say such a thing?” cried Oliva.
“And if it were so,” said the stranger, “it is all for your benefit.”
“For my benefit! that would be curious.”
“I will prove to you that your presence here is as hurtful as your absence would be profitable. You are a member of a certain academy, not the Académie Française, but in the Rue du Pôt au Fer, in the second story, is it not, my dear M. Beausire?”
“Hush!” said Beausire.
The blue domino drew out his watch, which was studded with diamonds that made Beausire’s eyes water to look at them. “Well!” continued he, “in a quarter of an hour they are going to discuss there a little project, by which, they hope to secure 2,000,000 francs among the twelve members, of whom you are one, M. Beausire.”
“And you must be another; if you are not——”
“Pray go on.”
“A member of the police.”
“Oh, M. Beausire, I thought you had more sense. If I were of the police, I should have taken you long ago, for some little affairs less honorable than this speculation9.”
“So, sir, you wish to send me to the Rue du Pôt au Fer: but I know why—that I may be arrested there: I am not such a fool.”
“Now, you are one. If I wanted to arrest you, I had only to do it, and I am rid of you at once; but gentleness and persuasion10 are my maxims11.”
“Oh, I know now,” said Beausire, “you are the man that was on the sofa two hours ago.”
“What sofa?”
“Never mind; you have induced me to go, and if you are sending a gallant12 man into harm, you will pay for it some day.”
“Be tranquil,” said the blue domino, laughing; “by sending you there, I give you 100,000 francs at least, for you know the rule of this society is, that whoever is absent loses his share.”
“Well, then, good-by!” said Beausire, and vanished.
The blue domino took possession of Oliva’s arm, left at liberty by Beausire.
“Now!” said she, “I have let you manage poor Beausire at your ease, but I warn you, you will find me not so easy to talk over; therefore, find something pretty to say to me, or——”
“I know nothing prettier than your own history, dear Mademoiselle Nicole,” said he, pressing the pretty round arm of the little woman, who uttered a cry at hearing herself so addressed; but, recovering herself with marvelous quickness, said:
“Oh, mon Dieu! what a name! Is it I whom you call Nicole? If so, you are wrong, for that is not my name.”
“At present I know that you call yourself Oliva, but we will talk afterwards of Oliva; at present I want to speak of Nicole. Have you forgotten the time when you bore that name? I do not believe it, my dear child, for the name that one bears as a young girl is ever the one enshrined in the heart, although one may have been forced to take another to hide the first. Poor Oliva, happy Nicole!”
“Why do you say ‘Poor Oliva’? do you not think me happy?”
“It would be difficult to be happy with a man like Beausire.”
Oliva sighed and said, “Indeed I am not.”
“You love him, however.”
“A little.”
“If you do not love him much, leave him.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I should no sooner have done so than I should regret it.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am afraid I should.”
“What could you have to regret in a drunkard; a gambler, a man who beats you, and a black-leg, who will one day come to the gallows13?”
“You would not understand me if I told you.”
“Try.”
“I should regret the excitement he keeps me in.”
“I ought to have guessed it; that comes of passing your youth with such silent people.”
“You know about my youth?”
“Perfectly14.”
Oliva laughed and shook her head.
“You doubt it?”
“Really I do.”
“Then we will talk a little about it, Mademoiselle Nicole.”
“Very well; but I warn you, I will tell nothing.”
“I do not wish it. I do not mean your childhood. I begin from the time when you first perceived that you had a heart capable of love.”
“Love for whom?”
“For Gilbert.”
At this name Oliva trembled.
“Ah, mon Dieu!” she cried. “How do you know?” Then with, a sigh said, “Oh, sir! you have pronounced a name indeed fertile in remembrances. You knew Gilbert?”
“Yes; since I speak to you of him.”
“Alas!”
“A charming lad, upon my word. You loved him?”
“He was handsome. No, perhaps not; but I thought him so; he was full of mind, my equal in birth, but Gilbert thought no woman his equal.”
“Not even Mademoiselle de Ta——”
“Oh, I know whom you mean, sir. You are well instructed. Yes, Gilbert loved higher than the poor Nicole: you are possessed16 of terrible secrets, sir; tell me, if you can,” she continued, looking earnestly at him, “what has become of him?”
“You should know best.”
“Why, in heaven’s name?”
“Because if he followed you from Taverney to Paris, you followed him from Paris to Trianon.”
“Yes, that is true, but that is ten years ago; and I wished to know what had passed since the time I ran away, and since he disappeared. When Gilbert loved Mademoiselle de——”
“Do not pronounce names aloud,” said he.
“Well, then, when he loved her so much that each tree at Trianon was witness to his love——”
“You loved him no more.”
“On the contrary, I loved him more than ever; and this love was my ruin. I am beautiful, proud, and, when I please, insolent17; and would lay my head on the scaffold rather than confess myself despised.”
“You have a heart, Nicole?”
“I had then,” she said, sighing.
“This conversation makes you sad.”
“No, it does me good to speak of my youth. But tell me why Gilbert fled from Trianon.”
“Do you wish me to confirm a suspicion, or to tell you something you do not know.”
“Something I do not know.”
“Well, I cannot tell you this. Have you not heard that he is dead?”
“Yes, I have, but——”
“Well, he is dead.”
“Dead!” said Nicole, with an air of doubt. Then, with a sudden start, “Grant me one favor!” she cried.
“As many as you like.”
“I saw you two hours ago; for it was you, was it not?”
“Certainly.”
“You did not, then, try to disguise yourself?”
“Not at all.”
“But I was stupid; I saw you, but I did not observe you.”
“I do not understand.”
“Do you know what I want?”
“No.”
“Take off your mask.”
“Here! impossible!”
“Oh, you cannot fear other people seeing you. Here, behind this column, you will be quite hidden. You fear that I should recognize you.”
“You!”
“And that I should cry, ‘It is you—it is Gilbert!’”
“What folly18!”
“Take off your mask.”
“Yes, on one condition—that you will take off yours, if I ask it.”
“Agreed.” The unknown took off his immediately.
Oliva looked earnestly at him, then sighed, and said:
“Alas! no, it is not Gilbert.”
“And who am I?”
“Oh, I do not care, as you are not he.”
“And if it had been Gilbert?” said he, as he put on his mask again.
“Ah! if it had been,” cried she passionately19, “and he had said to me, ‘Nicole, do you remember Taverney Maison-Rouge?’ then there would have been no longer a Beausire in the world for me.”
“But I have told you, my dear chi............