I was seated in the corner of our box, trembling with emotion and weeping over these tender reproaches—yes, I wept!—he seemed so sad, so true to me—I was in an humble frame of mind, thoroughly convinced by this touching appeal that I had been wicked and unjust to doubt so faithful a heart. I was overcome by the magnitude of my offence—at having caused this great despair by my cruelty. Each word of this elaborate dirge was a dagger to my heart; I credulously admired the eloquence and simplicity of the style; I accepted as beautiful writing all these striking images—these antitheses full of passion and pretension: "Reason responded to by insanity." "The power of love that gives him strength to hold a pen. Extremes separated by a whole world and brought together in an instant, and this living death that he suffers, this name for his past happiness that had to be sought for among the joys of heaven!"
I accepted as gospel truth all these high-flown fictions, and was astonished at nothing until I came to the Lucifer part; that, I confess, rather startled me—but the finishing tirade composed me. I thought it fascinating, thrilling, heart-rending! In my enthusiastic pity I was, by way of expiation, admiring the whole letter when I was disturbed by a frightful noise made by people entering the adjoining box. I felt angry at their insulting my sadness with their heartless gayety. I continue to read, admire and weep—my neighbors continue to laugh and make a noise. Amidst this uproar I recognise a familiar voice—I listen—it is certainly the Prince de Monbert—I cannot be mistaken. Probably he has come here with strangers—he has travelled so much that he is obliged to do the honors of Paris to grand ladies who were polite to him abroad—but from what part of the world could these grand ladies have come? They seem to be indulging in a queer style of conversation. One of them boldly looked in our box, and exclaimed, "Four women! Four monsters!" I recognised her as a woman I had seen at the Versailles races—all was explained.
Then they played a sort of farce for their own pleasure, to the great annoyance of the audience. I will give you a sample of it, so you can have an idea of the wit and good taste displayed by these gentlemen. The most intoxicated of the young men asked, between two yawns, who were the authors of Antigone? "Sophocles," said M. de Monbert. "But there are two, are there not?" "Two Antigones?" said the Prince laughing; "yes, there is Ballanche's." "Ah, yes! Ballanche, that is his name," cried out the ignorant creature; "I knew I saw two names on the hand-bill! Do you know them?"
"I am not acquainted with Sophocles," said the Prince, becoming more and more jovial, "but I know Ballanche; I have seen him at the Academy."
This brilliant witticism was wonderfully successful; they all clapped so loud and laughed so hilariously that the audience became very angry, and called out, "Silence!" "Silence!" For a moment the noisy were quiet, but soon they were worse than ever, acting like maniacs. At the end of each scene, little George de S., who is a mere school-boy, cried out in deafening tones: "Bravo! Ballanche!" then turning to the neighboring boxes he said: "My friends, applaud; you must encourage the author;" and the two bold women clapped their hands and shrieked out, "Let us encourage Ballanche! Bravo! Ballanche!" It was absurd.
Madame Taverneau and her friends were indignant; they had heard the compliment bestowed upon us—"Four women. Four monsters!" This rapid appreciation of our elegant appearance did not make them feel indulgent towards our scandalous neighbors. Near us were several newspaper men who gave the names of the Prince de Monbert, the Messrs. de S., and their two beauties. These journalists spoke with bitter contempt of what they called the young lions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, of the rude manners of the aristocracy, of the ridiculous scruples of those proud legitimists, who feared to compromise themselves in the interests of their country, and yet were compromised daily by a thousand extravagances; then they related falsehoods that were utterly without foundation, and yet were made to appear quite probable by the disgraceful conduct of the young men before us. You may imagine how cruelly I suffered, both as a fiancée and as a legitimist. I blushed for our party in the presence of the enemy; I felt the insult offered to me personally less than I did the abuse brought upon our cause. In listening to those deserved sneers I detested Messrs. de S. as much as I did Roger. I decided during this hour of vexation and shame that I would rather always remain simple Madame Gruérin than become the Princess de Monbert.
What do you think of this despair, the result of champagne? Ought I not to be touched by it? How sweet it is to see one's self so deeply regretted!
It is quite poetical and even mythological; Ariadne went no further than this. She demanded of Bacchus consolation for the sorrows caused by love. How beautifully he sang the hymn to Bacchus in the last act of Antigone! He has a fine tenor voice; until now I was not aware of his possessing this gift. How happy he seemed among his charming companions! Valentine, was I not right in saying that the trial of discouragement is infallible? In love despair is a snare; to cease to hope is to cease to feign; a man returns to his nature as soon as hypocrisy is useless. The Prince has proved to me that he prefers low society, that it is his natural element; that he had completely metamorphosed himself so as to appear before us as an elegant, refined, dignified gentleman!
Oh! this evening he certainly was sincere; his real character was on the surface; he made no effort to restrain himself; he was perfectly at home, in his element; and one cannot disguise his delight at being in his element. There is a carelessness in his movements that betrays his self-satisfaction; he struts and spreads himself with an air of confidence; he seems to float in the air, to swim on the crest of the wave ... People can conceal their delight when they have recognised an adored being among a crowd ... can avoid showing that a piece of information casually heard is an important fact that they have been trying to discover for weeks; ... can hide sudden fear, deep vexation, great joy; but they cannot hide this agreeable impression, this beatitude that they feel upon suddenly returning to their element, after long days of privation and constraint. Well, my dear, the element of Monsieur de Monbert is low company. I take credit to myself for not saying anything more.
I have often observed these base proclivities in persons of the same high condition of life as the Prince. Men brought up in the most refined and cultivated society, destined to fill important positions in life, take the greatest pleasure in associating-with common people; they impose elegance upon themselves as a duty, and indulge in vulgarity as a recreation; they have a spite against these charming qualities they are compelled to assume, and indemnify themselves for the trouble of acquiring them by rendering them mischievously useless when they seek low society and attempt to shine where their brilliancy is unappreciated. This low tendency of human nature explains the eternal struggle between nature and education; explains the taste, the passion of intelligent distinguished men for bad company; the more reserved and dignified they are in their manners, the more they seek the society of worthless men and blemished women. Another reason for this low proclivity is the vanity of men; they like to be admired and flattered, although they know their admirers are utterly worthless and despicable.