“You still seem to forget that I am not a fashionable painter,” I replied, “that I have not a little house on the Monceau Plain, that I do not ride in the Bois, and frequent the noble Faubourg though I live there.”
“Don’t let us mix up our localities,” he replied with his usual assurance. “The Monceau Plain and the Bois have nothing in common with the Faubourg and the nobility, nor has the charming person to whom I am referring, anything in common, except her name, with the real Bonnivet descended from the constable or admiral, the friend of Francis I.”
“There is one less imbecile among her ancestors then,” I interrupted. “That is one of the advantages the false nobility sometimes has over the true nobility.”
“Good,” Jacques said, shrugging his shoulders at the sally with which I had satisfied my ill-humour against her pretensions. “You remind me of Giboyer. You are a pedant, sir. But I shall not defend what you call the noble Faubourg against your attacks. I have seen enough of it to never wish to set foot in it again. There is too much fashion about it for me. Grand drawing-rooms are not in my line. I have nothing to do with aristocratic ladies. One-twentieth of the women in Paris, some young, some not, some titled, some not, have pretensions to be literary, political, or æsthetic, but they are all brainy and intellectual, and they are not courtesans. My pleasure is to turn them into courtesans when it is worth the trouble. If I ever show you Bonnivet, you will agree that she is worth the trouble. Besides there is at her house lively conversation and good food. Don’t look so disgusted. After ten years in Paris even with my stomach, dinner in town becomes a terrible bore. At her house dinner is a feast, the table exquisite and the cellar marvellous. Father Bonnivet has made ten or twelve million francs out of flour. It is not sufficient for his wife for the celebrated men about whom she is curious to honour her drawing-room with their presence. They have to fall in love with her as well, and I believe they have all done so, till now.”
I urged him to continue his story, though his cynicism made me shudder, his loquacity exasperated me, and I was horrified at his sentiments, which were so brutally plebeian in their dilettante disguise, for I was greatly interested in his confidences. He gladly opened his heart to me as I listened to him, though he actually liked me no more than I did him. He instinctively felt the fascination he exercised over me and it pleased him. We were at college together, and that strange bond would unite us till death in spite of everything. He went on—
“There is nothing to tell you except that for some time Queen Anne, as her intimate friends call her, absolutely refused to be introduced to me. In parenthesis, I wonder if this name Anne has been selected as coquettishly heraldic? I sometimes dine at the house of Madam Éthorel, her cousin, whom she detests. I met her there, and I also pretended to avoid her. She told any one who would listen to her that I had no talent, and that my books either bored or repelled her, that being the classic method of a fashionable woman who wishes to pique a famous man by not appearing to join the throng of his admirers. Kind friends always let one know of this amiability. La Duchesse Blue was produced with some success, as I have told you, and then, I don’t know how or why, there came an entire change of front. One of her beaters—she has beaters, just like a sportsman, whom she recruits from her most ardent admirers—Senneterre, whom you know well; the old blond who sometimes takes the bank here, and is a great admirer of mine. Generally we merely exchanged greetings, but instead of that he showered compliments upon me and finished up by inviting me to dine at the Club in the room reserved for fashionable ladies. That is five weeks ago. 'How are they going to make use of me?’ I thought as I went up the stairs. The first person I met in the anteroom, one of the prettiest, most elegant corners in Paris, was Madam Pierre de Bonnivet.”
“She was just like little Favier,” I interposed, “a coquette and a half. Ever since I have known you your stories have always been the same: they consist of playing with the women who have the least heart, and you always win.”
“It is not quite as simple as all that,” he replied without getting angry; “I amused myself with Queen Anne, but not in the way you think. The beater placed us side by side at the table. I should like you to have been there in hiding listening to us. The conversation was sweet, simple, friendly and melting, the meeting of two beautiful souls. She spoke well of all the women we knew, and I spoke well of all my colleagues. We declared in agreement that the great awkward Madam de Sauve has never had a lover, and that Dorsenne’s novels are his masterpieces, that the demon Madam Moraines is an angel of disinterestedness, and that the noodle, René Vincy is a great poet. Judge of our sincerity. It was as if neither she nor I had ever suspected that one writer could slander another, that a woman of the world could commit adultery. We have taken our revenge since, and we are at this moment in that state of bitter warfare which is disguised by the pretty name of flirtation. I spare you the details. It is sufficient to know that she is aware that little Favier is my mistress; she thinks I am madly in love with her, and her sole aim is to steal me from her. Accustomed as she is to masculine ruses, she has laid the snare which has always been successful since the earth has revolved around the sun: there is no virtue like the sensation of stealing a love from another woman. The most curious thing is that Queen Anne might easily have been virtuous. Oh, she is very fast. But I should not be surprised to hear that she has never had a real lover. Besides, if she had had twenty-five lovers her scheme would still have succeeded. I would wager that in the earthly paradise the serpent only told our mother Eve that he was about to pluck the apple for the female of his own species.”
“But what of Camille Favier?” I asked.
“Naturally she guessed or else I told her—I don’t know how to lie—so she is no less jealous of Bonnivet than Bonnivet is of her. I have not been bored for the last week or two I can assure you. Things have moved quickly, and the rapid are just as successful in gallantry as in everything else.”