“I should not suppose that Monsieur Vauvert’s receptions were likely to ruin him,” said Madame de Marsan.
“It seems so to you, madame, because you have noticed simply the general effect of the affair, which, I agree, was not very splendid at first glance; but for an under clerk those lamps, the candles on the music stands, the hired piano, the music and the instruments that they sent out for, and, lastly, the modest refreshments—all those things, madame, are as extravagant for a government clerk at eighteen hundred francs, as a magnificent function, where everything is provided in profusion, is for a wealthy banker. The difference between the banker and the clerk is that people go about praising the former’s party, which they are proud of having attended, while they make fun of the clerk’s soirée, to which they go for the sole purpose of sneering at those who put themselves out to make people laugh at their expense.”
Monsieur de Marsan was right; there was a husband who spoke with profound wisdom. I approved what he said: first, because I agreed with him; secondly, because I had my reasons for always being of his opinion.
Monsieur de Marsan lived near the beginning of Faubourg Saint-Honoré; I could not repress my desire to laugh when I learned his address, because it reminded me of that infernal cabman who had taken me to the farther end of Faubourg Montmartre on the night when I attempted to follow the carriage; but I instantly attributed my merriment to a memory of the concert, and, as we all retained some very comical ones, that seemed perfectly natural. They set me down on Rue Saint-Florentin, after inviting me to their house to listen, not to a concert, but to a little music; there is a great difference between the two, for I had to admit that I had heard no music at Monsieur Vauvert’s concert of amateurs.
Standing at my door, I thought of my new acquaintance; I dared not as yet say my conquest, but I secretly flattered myself that she soon would be. Meanwhile, I had not forgotten the charming Caroline, who had given me an appointment for the next day. My imagination had abundant food for reverie: what a wellspring of pleasure the future had in store for me! I could see nothing but roses, and my mind, enchanted, sought to communicate its enthusiasm to my heart, which did what it could to find something for itself in all that was going on. I went upstairs without a light; for it was very late, and Madame Dupont extinguished her lamp at midnight. I started to open my door; but as I was putting the key in the lock, my hand came in contact with something—leaves—flowers—why, someone had put a bouquet there! Ah! I knew who had done it!—I entered my room; I soon procured a light and could look at my bouquet. It was beautiful! orange blossoms, a rose or two, some carnations, and all surrounded by pansies; the bouquet was tied with a small white bow.—“Dear Nicette!” I thought; “so you still think of me! you are not ungrateful! Ah, no! you have a warm heart and you are virtuous! What a pity that, with those two priceless qualities, you were born in obscure station! Not that I believe that your equals are incapable of appreciating your virtues, but that I can do no more than admire them. You will be a treasure to others, but you can be nothing to me; I must seek such a treasure in high life; there are some there, no doubt, but they are not all so seductive as you.”
How had she succeeded in leaving that bouquet at my keyhole? If it had not been so late, I should have gone down and questioned my concierge; but I had no choice but to wait till morning. Raymond, who saw everything, had undoubtedly seen the bouquet; but perhaps—he was so engrossed by his aria from Joconde!
I longed for the morning to come, that I might question Madame Dupont. I could not tire of smelling Nicette’s bouquet and gazing at it in admiration. I looked at the pansies.—“Ah!” I said to myself; “I understand: it was gratitude that prompted the gift. Poor child! she loves her benefactor; that is natural enough; but she is so pretty that she will soon be besieged by lovers, her heart will speak, and she will forget me. That is the way such affairs always end.”—I carefully placed my bouquet in water and went to bed. I passed in review the events of the day. Madame de Marsan and Caroline played a large part therein; they were both coquettes—in a different way, to be sure, but it was coquetry all the same. Alas! all the women I had known were coquettes, and I did not honestly believe that any one of them had loved me; at all events, it had been only for a moment. What does a sentiment amount to that has the duration of a mere caprice, and that does not resist the slightest trial? And my sister insisted that I should marry! Why should I hope to find in a wife what I had failed to find in a mistress? Of course, the indissoluble bond, children, duties, the opinion of society, might prevent my wife from being unfaithful to me; but all those things would not revive her love when it was once extinct.
“I will not marry,” said I to myself; “I will make the most of life.”—And yet it had seemed to me for some time, amid all my follies, that I was not perfectly happy. Although fickle, I was sentimental; my heart was constantly looking about for something to attach itself to; it was not its fault that it did not find a heart to respond to it. Of late, I had met none but perfidious, unfaithful women; I used always to take the initiative in the inevitable separation, but the later ones had not given me time; to be sure, I had been foolish enough to put them to the test. I determined to be wiser in future, to take women for what they were, and to thank fortune when I chanced to fall on my feet.
Who could say? Perhaps Caroline would love me; perhaps Madame de Marsan would be less coquettish in due time; perhaps the young flowermaker was really virtuous. As for the adventures which Raymond attributed to Madame de Marsan, my neighbor was so evil-tongued that I could not place any reliance on what he said.
I lulled myself to sleep with thoughts of my various inamoratas; but, for some unknown reason, the memory of Nicette was always involved in my schemes and my hopes. I concluded that it was the smell of her bouquet that kept her so constantly in my thoughts; but the orange blossoms were so sweet, that I was unwilling to take them out of my bedroom. What a charming little attention, to bring me that bouquet and to place it so that I could not enter my room without taking hold of it! Ah! if women are coquettish and deceitful, they alone are capable of such forethought, such amiable attentions, of that delicacy of feeling which enables them to discover, even in the most trifling circumstance, a means of giving an additional proof of their love or their friendship. I went to sleep; but how did it happen that I dreamed neither of Caroline nor of Madame de Marsan? It was Nicette whom I saw in my dreams, it was she who engaged all my thoughts. Doubtless the odor of the orange blossoms continued to remind me of her, even in my sleep.