But you should hear him, this favoured one, the last favourite, the favourite of to-day, of to-night, of the last waltz, the last cotillon, the winner in that charming contest, in which flowers have battled with flowers, and graces with graces. You should see him in his ugly black coat, as he sits at supper, telling the other favourites (who tell him other tales in return) all the delightful things he has had said to him; how he only has to throw his handkerchief among so many eager beauties, who rival each other in their attentions to him; his disdain for them all.
In listening to these mysterious and veracious confidences, one is sometimes tempted to ask, Where am I? and who are these men talking about? and to admire more than ever the self-abnegation of women, who give themselves body and soul to fashion, that cruel and brutal goddess, whose priests are these men, and who renders only indifference or scorn for all these years of youth spent in her service. But as I also wished to appear to profit by the abnegation of one of these charming victims, among all the beauties that were blooming at that time, I attached myself to a very pretty young woman. She was blonde, fresh, and rosy, too rosy almost, but she had beautiful large black eyes, that were both tender and bright; her lips were scarlet, and she had beautiful white teeth, real little pearls set in coral, and she showed them on all occasions, and was quite right.
The only thing that I did not like was her adorer, a splendid young fellow, as handsome as possible, who, unfortunately for himself (and for her, poor woman, for it showed her bad taste), was called "Beau Sainville." That epithet, "beau," is fearfully ridiculous, and if one is ever unlucky enough to take it seriously, by attempting to live up to it, one is ruined for ever.
Certainly, if I had had more leisure to choose, I should have selected a more worthy rival than Beau Sainville, but the lady was pretty and facile, and I had not much time to spare, so I was obliged to appear as his adversary in this contest for her heart. As I had supposed, he was a perfect fool, and when I was presented to the lady he honoured with his attentions, he began almost immediately to manifest every sort of ridiculous jealousy.
Wishing to show what he probably considered his rights, he began to treat the poor young woman in the rudest and most compromising manner, which distressed me very much, for I could not offer her any compensation for her loss, neither did she desire any. But at last she became justly provoked at the brutal behaviour of her strange adorer, and, to avenge herself, flirted with me in an innocent sort of way. Very soon M. de Sainville did more for me than I had even hoped, for after two or three scenes, in which he gave vent to his wounded feelings, he passed from wounded dignity to cold irony and rude indifference; finally, he went and made love, with all his might, to another poor young thing, who didn't know what to make of it.
So that although it was almost entirely untrue, the world very soon gave me the credit and glory of being preferred to Beau Sainville. It served me right for my duplicity, but I had to stand it. As for the proofs the world had of my good fortune, they were of the most positive evidence, such as the world always can show on like occasions. First, I had once called for the carriage of the lady because there was no one else at hand; then she had offered me a place in her loge at one of the small theatres; I had hastened to offer her my arm, and we had made the tour of a crowded reception-room together in sight of all Paris; finally, last and flagrant proof, she had remained at home one evening, instead of going to a concert, and my carriage had been seen that same evening standing at her door. In the face of such convincing evidence, it was a duly established fact that I was the luckiest of mortals.
In the midst of this felicity, I learned, through M. de Cernay, of Madame de Pënâfiel's return. In order to win his wager, the count served my purposes uncommonly well, whether Madame de Pënâfiel had overheard my defence of her or not.
As soon as she came back to Paris, therefore, M. de Cernay never saw her without commenting on my strange behaviour, in neglecting to ask for a presentation, especially as I moved in precisely the same circle, and could hardly help meeting her every evening, to say nothing of my knowing that the count was one of her intimate friends, and would gladly procure me this favour, which so many desired. But, said M. de Cernay, it was rumoured that I was seriously attached to a charming young woman, who, no doubt, had made me promise never to go near the Hôtel Pënâfiel, which was supposed to be a sort of palace of Alcina, from which no one came out except in a state of enchantment, and hopelessly in love.
At last, by dint of heaping up so many silly stories, and constantly harping on this one subject, or from some unknown reason, Madame de Pënâfiel became either tired of hearing him, or provoked at my apparent indifference. As she was habitually sought after and flattered, she began to think my neglect was a want of respect to herself and to social customs.
Finally, as M. de Cernay was one day discoursing as usual on my strange behaviour, she said to him, haughtily, and with some show of injured dignity, "That although she knew it was difficult to be admitted to her circle, it would have been a proof of respect worthy of a well-bred man, whom she met so frequently, to have at least manifested a desire to visit the Hôtel Pënâfiel."