The apartment—a large, sombre-looking one—was empty, however, and we traversed this, and a second similar to it, our names being repeated as before; when at length the low tones of voices indicated our approach to the salon where the visitors were assembled.
Dimly lighted by a few lamps, far apart from each other, the apartment as we entered seemed even larger than it really was. At one end, around a huge antique fireplace, sat a group of ladies, whom in a glance I recognized as of the class so distinctively called dowager. They were seated in deep-cushioned fauteuils, and were mostly employed in some embroidery work, which they laid down each time they spoke; and resumed, less to prosecute the labor, than, as it were, from mere habit.
With all the insinuating gracefulness of a well-bred Frenchman, Duchesne approached the seat next the chimney, and respectfully kissed the hand extended towards him.
“Permit me, my dear aunt, to present a very intimate friend,—Captain Burke,” said he, as he led me forward.
At the mention of the word “captain,” I could perceive that every hand dropped its embroidery-frame, while the group stared at me with no feigned astonishment. But already the duchess had vouchsafed a very polite speech, and motioned me to a seat beside her; while the chevalier insinuated himself among the rest, evidently bent on relieving the stiff and constrained reserve which pervaded the party. Not even his tact and worldly cleverness was equal to the task. The conversation, if such it could be called, was conducted almost in monosyllables,—some stray question for an absent “marquise,” or a muttered reply concerning a late “countess,” was the burden; not an allusion even being made to any topic of the day, nor any phrase dropped which could show that the speakers were aware of the year or the nation in which they lived and breathed.
It was an inexpressible relief to me when gradually some three or four other persons dropped in, some of them men, who, by their manner, seemed favorites of the party. And soon after the entrance of the servant with refreshments permitted a movement in the group, when I took the opportunity to stand up and approach Duchesne, as he bent over a table, listlessly turning over the leaves of a volume.
“Just think of the contradictions of human nature, Burke,” said he, in a low whisper. “These are the receptions for which the new noblesse would give half their wealth. These melancholy visits of worn-out acquaintances, these sapless twigs of humanity, are the envy of such houses as the Hôtel Clichy; and to be admitted to these gloomy, moth-eaten salons, is a greater honor than an invitation to the Tuileries. So long as this exists, depend upon it, there is rottenness in the core of society. But come, let us take our leave; I see you are well wearied of all this. And now for an hour at Madame de Lacostellerie's,—en revanche.”
As we came forward to make our adieux to the duchess, she rose from her seat, and in so doing her sleeve brushed against a small marble statue of Louis the Sixteenth, which, had I not opportunely caught it, would have fallen to the ground.
“Thank you, sir,” said she, graciously. “You have prevented what I should have deemed a sad accident.”
“Nay, more, Aunt,” said Duchesne, smiling; “he has shown his readiness to restore the Bourbon.”