THE PRESENTATION
It is over. The presentation took place last night, and I must jot down the story of that memorable evening for the amusement of my old age.
Well, last night, at five minutes to eight, when my maid had assured me that all our guests had arrived, I made my appearance in the drawing-room. Entering a room is my forte. I don't think I have often failed in it. I walk straight ahead, gazing steadily before me over the eyes of those present; I do not see, nor do I wish to see any of those who are looking at me. I choose, on the contrary, as a point of direction, some old lady settled comfortably in an armchair, or some inoffensive old friend of papa's, or simply mama. Invariably all conversation ceases at once, and all eyes are centred on me. What wonderful tact I possess, and isn't it a pity to be compelled to exercise it in such a limited sphere?
Besides my parents, my suitors, and myself, the diners yesterday were Count and Countess d'Aube, nobility of the Empire, whose combined ages would make a century and a half—insufferable bores, but fine people withal; Madame Salandier, the mother of the young Judge of the Exchequer, bourgeoise, with a protruding forehead, round eyes, and a ridiculous toilet, who showed much embarrassment at finding herself in our society.
At table Monsieur de Nivert sat on mama's right and Monsieur Salandier on her left. I found myself seated between Madame Salandier and Monsieur de Nivert. Madame Salandier immediately began talking to me in quite a patronizing tone that quickly irritated me. She extolled the serious character of her son, whom she proudly called "my own." "My own" retires every night at ten. She also offered me a few cursory glimpses of the qualities she expected her future daughter-in-law to possess—her deportment, economy, and domestic habits—"with occasionally a reception or an evening at the theatre, of course; that is necessary in the position which 'my own' occupies."
In the mean time "my own," quite at his ease and stroking from time to time his pointed beard (he is really very handsome), was holding forth on the reduction of the public debt.
Papa, mama, Monsieur d'Aube, Mademoiselle Espalier and even old Madame d'Aube, who is as deaf as a post, listened with open mouths, and Madame Salandier whispered in my ear:
"Listen to him. Not a minister is there that knows as much about it as he does—"
I looked at Monsieur de Nivert. He met my glance with one of discreet irony, and immediately we felt like comrades, two exiles from the same country who had fallen among barbarians.
Monsieur de Nivert is not handsome, but it is astonishing what an immense advantage he has gained over his rival by simply not saying a word about the public debt. In pouring me a glass of wine he paid me a neat compliment upon my toilet, saying that there was something truly elegant and uncommon about it. And then he began to talk of dress in a low tone, while "my own" continued his harangue for the benefit of papa and mama, who do not know how to add up the household accounts, and of Monsieur d'Aube, who is an old imbecile, and of Madame d'Aube, who is deaf. The handsome judge, however, is not stupid if he is pedantic. In a few moments he saw that he was boring us.
"This conversation," said he, "must be quite tiresome to Mademoiselle."
"Oh, no," I replied artlessly; "I was not listening."
And I had the joy of seeing a look of dismay spread over the countenances of my parents and the good Espalier, while Madame Salandier glared at me like a bonze who has just seen a street arab of Paris make a face at his Buddha.
Monsieur de Nivert smiled.
A little piqued, I think, "my own" replied:
"Indeed, such a conversation is beyond the depths of the young girls of our continent. In America they willingly take part in such discussions. Is there not some State in the North where women have the right to vote?"
"Do you hear, Juliette?" said mama.
Did I hear? I think I did! He wearied me, this economist bent on matrimony, and I let him see it very plainly. I took up the accusation of frivolity implied in his sentence, but I took it up as a banner. Proudly I declared my right—the right of a pretty woman to be ignorant, frivolous, and whimsical. I argued the advantages of frivolity over seriousness, and of spirit and dash over dignity.
Oh, papa's expression and that of the two relics of the Empire and the mother of "my own"!
"My own" seemed perfectly amazed at discovering a young girl capable of giving him a retort that took the wind out of his sails.
Nivert alone encouraged me with smiles and whispered bravos.
The dinner ended in confusion.
In the drawing-room, in order to serve the coffee, I became a very proper young lady again; but the company had not regained its wonted composure. Madame Salandier could find nothing better to say than to ask:
"Isn't Mademoiselle Juliette going to play something for us?"
"Certainly," said mama.
"Ah," thought I, "you wish some music; well, then, you shall have it. Wait a moment."
I seated myself at the piano and played—and I played without stopping. I played everything that I could remember, for striking upon the little black and white keys soothed my nerves a little. Ah, you want some music! Well, listen. Take some Massenet, a little Mozart, some Serpette, some Wagner, and some Beethoven, some Lecocq, and some Berlioz, some Tchaikovsky, and some Nimporteki, one after another, haphazard, pell-mell; one hour and three-quarters at the piano without stopping. After which I turned round and looked at my auditors. They resembled a plantation after a hail-storm—they were simply annihilated. They took immediate advantage of the lull in the storm and fled. I was still caressing the keys with my right hand, and they trembled lest I should begin again. In a few minutes the drawing-room was empty.
Mama came toward me:
"Will you tell me now, Mademoiselle—"
But I stopped her short.
"Listen, mother. You know that I am usually very amiable and seldom nervous, but this evening I am very nervous. Don't worry me, please. We will talk to-morrow as much as you like."
And I ran lightly up to my room.
This morning, on coming down to breakfast, I expected to find my parents with long faces, but oh, what a surprise! they smiled upon me, they kissed me, and were as sweet as could be.
The key to this mystery? It is this: Papa rejoined the baron at the club last night about midnight, and Monsieur de Nivert said to him:
"My dear Givernay, your daughter is adorable! You will, I hope, permit me to call upon the ladies again as soon as possible."
But what is even more surprising is, that an hour before breakfast a letter came from Madame Salandier, in which that former chestnut vender declared that "her son had been deeply impressed by the wit and grace of Mademoiselle Juliette," etc., and finally asked if my mother could receive her Monday to have a serious talk with her.
My friend Pepita was quite right when she said:
"Little Juliette, there are two classes of men that you must treat insolently in order to make them respect you—servants and suitors."
THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
BY HENRI DE RÉGNIER
Henri de Régnier, one of the most distinguished living poets of France, was born at Honfleur in 1864. He has published a number of novels, such as "La Double Maîtresse," in 1901, aimed at reconstructing past eras of society, and a volume of tales distinguished for their originality. His first masters were Leconte de Lisle and De Heredia, but in the beauty of his harmony and tenderness he is original. He is a symbolist, chief of that younger generation of French writers who have set out to enlarge the resources of their national poetry. Edmund Gosse says that "of the number of experiment makers ... he comes nearest to presenting a definitely evolved talent ... a genuine artist of pure and strenuous vision."
