I therefore sneered down my poor attaché, and as I passed him, I believe I even suffered my sabre to jar against his leg, not without hoping that he might notice the slight, and seek satisfaction for it. In this I was disappointed, and I left him, never to trouble my head more about him.
Among the pleasures which awaited me in Paris, none gave me more sincere satisfaction than the renewal of my acquaintance with De Minérale, who, however, could never believe that my good fortune was other than some lucky accident of my African campaign.
“Come, out with it,” he would say. “You robbed a 'Smala,' you pillaged a 'Deira,' or something of the sort. Tell me frankly how it was, and, on my honor, I 'll never print it till you 're dead and gone. In fact, if you persist in refusing, I 'll give you to the world, with name in full. I 'll describe you as a fellow that picked up a treasure in some small island of the Mediterranean, and turned millionnaire after being a pirate.”
“Put me down for fifty copies of the book,” said I, laughing; “I'm rich enough now to encourage the small-fry of literature.”
Thus did we often jest with each other, and we met continually; for when not invited out myself, I gave entertainments at home, at which I assembled various members of that artistic set in which I had once moved,—a very different order of society from that in which I mixed in Naples, and, I am free to own, with far less claim to real agreeability. The “wits by profession” were not only less natural than the smart people of society, but they wearied you by the exactions of their drollery. Not to laugh at the sorriest jest was to discredit the jester, and the omission became a serious thing when it touched a man's livelihood. In fact, from first to last, in whatever country I have lived, I have ever found that the best—that is, the highest society—was always the most agreeable as well as the most profitable. Its forms were not alone regulated upon the surest basis of comfort, but its tone ever tended to promote whatever was pleasurable, and exclude everything that could hurt or offend. So is it, your great aristocrats are very democratic in a drawing-room,—professing and practising the most perfect equality; while your “rights of man” and “popular sovereignty advocate” insists upon always being the king of his company. Forgive this digression, my dear reader, if for nothing else than because it shall be the last time of my offending.
I had now enjoyed myself at Paris about two months, or thereabouts, in which, having most satisfactorily arranged all my monetary matters, and—besides having a considerable sum in the English funds—found myself down in the “Grand Livre” for a couple of million of francs,—a feature which made me a much-caressed individual in that new social order just then springing up, called the “financière” class, one which, if with few claims to the stately manners of the “Faubourg,” numbered as many pretty women and as agreeable ones as could be found anywhere. Had I been matrimonially disposed, this set would certainly have been dangerous ground for me,—the attentions which beset me being almost like adulation. The truth was, however, Donna Maria had left an impression which comparison with others did not efface. I felt, if I were to marry, it might as well be for high rank and family influence, since I never could do so for love. My nobility required a little strengthening, nor was there any easier or more efficient mode of supporting it than by an alliance with some of those antiquated houses who, with small fortunes but undiminished pride, inhabited the solitudes of the “Faubourg St. Germain.” I cannot afford space here to recount my adventures in that peaceful and deserted quarter, whose amusements ranged between masses and tric-trac,—where Piety and Pope Joan divided the hours. The antiquity of my family and the pureness of my Castilian blood! had been the pretensions which obtained admission for me into these sacred precincts; and there, I must say, everything seemed old and worn out: the houses, the salons, the furniture, the masters, servants, horses, carriages,—all were as old as the formalities and the opinions they professed.
Even the young ladies had got a premature cast of seriousness that took away every semblance of juvenility. Whether from associating with them, or that I had voluntarily conformed to the staid Puritanism of their manners, I cannot say, but my other acquaintances began to quiz and rally me about my “Legitimist” air, and even said that the change had been remarked at Court.
This was an observation that gave me some uneasiness, and I hastened off to the Duc de St. Cloud, whose kindness had always admitted me to the most open intercourse.
“It is quite true, Creganne,” said he, “we all remarked that you were coquetting with the 'vieux,'—the old ones of the Faubourg; and although I had never any misgivings about you, others were less charitable.”
“What is to be done, then?” said I, in my distress at the bare thought of seeming ungrateful.