Enter amongst the guests, Célie. The handsome woman was made up to look a little older now. Yet, "the deuce confound me!" said the venerable Marquise de Champfleury, a lady who, fifty years before, had been renowned for her bonnes fortunes in the Royal circle, "the deuce confound me! she resembles Diane more than ever." Which was true, and was, perhaps, made more so by the fact that the woman was now wearing a costly dress which Diane Grignan de Poissy had herself worn more than once at Eaux St. Fer before all her friends, but which she had now bestowed upon the wandering actress. The latter was, indeed, so like Diane, that again and again the revered marquise uttered her oaths as she regarded her.
To Célie there entered next Cidalise, young, slender, pretty, yet--because sometimes the troupe were starving and had naught to eat but that which was flung to them in charity, or a supper of broken victuals given them by an innkeeper in return for a song or performance before a handful of provincial shopkeepers--thin, and out of condition. Nevertheless, she could deliver her lines well, and speak as clearly as Charlotte Lenoir had done, or as La Gautier did now--and would have become a leading actress, indeed might become one yet, if she could only get a foothold in Paris.
In short, sharp sentences, such as the French dramatists loved to intersperse with the terribly long monologues which, in other places, they put into the mouths of their characters, Célie asked her if she was resolved to carry out her contract and marry this man, this Prince, who desired her for his wife? Yes, Cidalise replied, yes. Not because she loved him, but because her origin was obscure, her present surroundings revolting. Was not her uncle a gambler! At this there was a movement amongst the audience; many exquisitely painted fans were fluttered, a rustle of silk and satin and brocade was perceptible. And, also, eyes gleamed into other eyes again, but none spoke. Even the old Marquise de Champfleury swore no more. The aged trifler had become interested, a novelty which had not occurred to her--unless in connection with herself and her food and her health--for a long time.
Yet, because when all is said, these were ladies and gentlemen, not one stole a glance in the direction of Monsieur le Duc.
Had they done so they would have seen that he sat motionless in his seat, with his eyes half closed, yet glittering, as they gazed at the two women on the stage.
Two more figures were now upon the scene. His Highness, the Prince, the bridegroom predestinate, and also the uncle of Cidalise; the first called Cléon, Prince de Fourbignac, the second, Dorante. They loved such names as these, did those old French dramatists. Yet what was there about the man who played the Prince which awoke recollections in the minds of all the audience of another man they had once seen or known who was not the Duc Desparre, but someone very like him? How--how was that likeness produced? The vagabond, the stroller who enacted the illustrious personage, was a big, hectoring fellow, with a short-clipped, jet black moustache; an individual who looked more accustomed to the guardroom than a salon, to a spadroon clanking against his thigh--perhaps sticking out half a foot through its worn-out scabbard--than to a clouded cane which he now wielded, even though in a salon. His clothes, too--they were the best that could be found in the frowsy, hair-covered trunk which carried the costumes of the "first gentleman" of the troupe--seemed more fitted to some bully or sharper than to an exquisite. So, too, did his expressions, his "Health, belle comtesse!" to one high-born (stage) lady, his "Rasade" to another whose glass touched his as she wished him felicity; so, too, did his vulgar heartiness to all.
"A Prince!" the real aristocrats in front muttered to themselves and each other, yet remembered that the words he uttered must for sure have been put into his mouth either by the authoress, or her collaborateur, De Crébillon. Only, why and wherefore? And still they were puzzled, since many of them could recall in far back days some fellow very much like the creature who was now strutting about the stage and kicking a footman here and there, slapping the bare shoulders of female guests, and giving low winks to his male friends.
There was some art in this, they muttered; some recollection which it was intended to evoke. Whom had they ever known like this? What fellow who, for some particular reason, had been admitted to their august society--a society in which, to do them justice, they behaved admirably and with exquisite grace so long as their actions were public, no matter how much they atoned for that behaviour by extremely questionable conduct in private?
Then they remembered all, memory being aroused by none other than the respected Marquise de Champfleury.
"Me damne!" she whispered, changing her form of exclamation somewhat--probably for fear of being monotonous. "Me damne! does no one recall our friend when a beggarly captain on the frontier? Hein! he was the second, heir then, wherefore we permitted his presence sometimes. Yet, only sometimes, God be praised! Had he not been an heir, our lackeys should have kicked him down the street. You remember; you, Fifine, and you, Finette? Heaven knows you are both old enough to do so!"