This anecdote, move popularly known in France than in England, has there been the origin of a proverbial metaphor. When a minor vice, folly, or eccentricity is assumed as a cloak for a greater one, with a view to throw dust in the eyes of all inquisitive public, and to veil from its curiosity real motives, intentions, and inclinations, the pretext paraded is called the Dog of Alcibiades. The true application of the term may be better illustrated than exactly defined, and the former course has been adopted in a French book of no distant date, entitled Le Chien d’Alcibiade. A single volume, the only one its author has produced—its wit, elegance of style, and general good taste would do credit to the most experienced novelist; whilst the warm reception it met from the Parisian public, ought, one would imagine, to have encouraged a repetition of the attempt. On its title-page was found the assumed name of Major Fridolin, the same under which a noted Parisian turfite enters his horses for the races at Chantilly and the Champ de Mars. The gentleman-rider (vide the Anglo-Gallic vocabulary patronised by the Paris jochai-clubb) who owns the fantastical pseudonyme, is more esteemed for wealth than wit, better known as a judge of horse-flesh than as a cultivator of literature, and generally held more likely to achieve renown by the strength of his racers’ legs than of his own head. So that when an ably-written novel appeared under his nom-de-guerre, people asked one another if he were possibly its author, and had previously kept his candle under a bushel, only to dazzle the more when the shade was withdrawn. There could be no doubt that the book was from the pen of a man of talent and refinement, accustomed to good society, and seizing with peculiar felicity its phases and foibles. The characters were so true to life, that it was impossible for those moving in the circles portrayed to avoid recognising the originals, not as individuals but as types of classes. The gay world of Paris was painted with a sharp and delicate pencil, without exaggeration or grotesque colouring. Some similarity might be traced to the manner of Charles de Bernard, but in one respect the new author had the advantage. His wit was as sparkling, his tone quite as gentlemanly and agreeable, but he eschewed the caricature into which De Bernard’s verve not unfrequently seduces him. The name of the new aspirant for literary fame soon oozed out, and to Monsieur Valbezene was decerned the honour of having produced one of the most attractive novels of the day. It at once gave him a reputation for ability, and is even said to have conduced to his shortly afterwards receiving a government appointment. It brought him under the notice of the bestowers of loaves and fishes, as a man whose finesse d’esprit and knowledge of the world might be rendered serviceable to the state. M. Valbezene is now consul of France at the Cape of Good Hope. It is to be desired that he may there find leisure to cultivate his literary talents, and add others to the favourable specimen of them he has already given. In Paris we should have had less expectation of his so doing, for his book denotes him, if a writer may her judged by his writings, to be a man of ease and pleasure, more disposed and likely to sink into far niente and form the chief ornament of a brilliant circle, than to seclude himself in a study, and apply seriously to literature.
The opening scene of M. Valbezene’s book is a brilliant ball-room in the Faubourg St Honoré. At a whist-table sits the Count de Marsanne—a man of forty years of age, at most; of robust health and handsome person. His figure is stout without being corpulent; his ruddy countenance, tanned by exposure to the weather, is not without distinction and grace; his blue eyes are remarkably fine and intelligent; he wears his beard, and his thick strong hair is cropped short. His dress denotes the gentleman. His linen is exquisitely white, and the cut of his coat can only be attributed to the skilful hand of Blin or Chevreuil. The Count, who served previously to the July revolution in the hussars of the Guard, and who, since leaving the service, has sought in field-sports the peril, excitement, and activity essential to his ardent and impetuous character, drives his dowager partner to despair by his blunders at whist. He pays less attention to the game than to the facetious whispers of his cousin, De Kersent—a young man of five-and-twenty, short, fat, always happy and good-humoured, an eager sportsman, and much more at his ease at a battue than a ball. The rubber over, the Count leaves the heated card-room, to seek cooler air in an outer apartment. M. Valbezene shall speak for himself.
“Whilst posted at the entrance door, Marsanne was accosted by a young man of about eight-and-twenty, of elegant figure and most agreeable countenance. The exquisitely polished tone of this new personage, the tasteful simplicity of his costume, indicated a man of the best society, to whom the epithet of lion might with propriety have been applied, were it not that, in these days of promiscuous lionism, the word has lost its primitive acceptation.
“‘Well! my dear Vassigny,’ said Marsanne, breathing with difficulty, ‘did you ever experience such a temperature? For my part, I was never so hot in my life, not even in Africa, when our soldiers blew out their brains to escape the scorching sun. Refreshments, too, are scarce at the whist-table; we did not see even a glass of water. Consequently, my friend, I was so inattentive to the game, that, through my fault, my very heinous fault, we lost the rub. The Baroness de Pibrac, my unlucky partner, was tragically indignant. Ah! she will not forgive me in a hurry! If heaven has any regard for her maledictions, I shall pay dearly for the fourteen francs I made her lose.’
“‘Madame de Marsanne is here?’ inquired the young man.
“‘Of course. You know me well enough to be sure I should not remain from choice in such a furnace. I am no great lover of balls, but this is the last of the season; so, one hour’s patience, and a year’s holiday is before me. Remember, we meet to-morrow morning at seven, sharp. Kersent accompanies us to Rambouillet. At last, then, I shall revisit my horses, my dogs, my forests; I shall have air—motion... Tonton, tontaine, tonton’ ... hummed the sportsman, whose face beamed with joy at thoughts of the chase.
“‘Certainly, I shall be exact.... But as you have been here some time, you will perhaps be so good as to show me Mr Robinson, the master of the house. None of my friends have been able to point him out, and I am rather curious to make my bow to him.’
“‘Ma foi! my dear fellow,’ replied Marsanne, ‘your question is not easy to answer. I am inclined to think it is that crooked little gentleman in black—unless, indeed, it be yonder portly handsome man in the blue coat. Upon reflection, I vote for the latter. His wholesome corpulence tells of the substantial and judicious nourishment of the Anglo-Americans. In fact, I am as ignorant as yourself. On arriving, we were met at this door by the Marchioness de Presle, who, as you know, sent out the invitations for Mr Robinson; and as soon as we had paid our respects to the Marchioness, Madame de Marsanne dragged me forward to the third saloon, so that I know no more of our amphitryon than you do. But here is little Movillez. He will settle our doubts.’
“The new personage whose coming Marsanne announced, owed to his age alone the epithet applied to him, for he was above the ordinary height. He was apparently about one-and-twenty: his insignificant countenance, which in character bore some resemblance to that of a sheep, expressed perfect self-satisfaction. An embroidered shirt, and a white satin waistcoat, spangled with gold, might have made him suspected of a great leaning to the frivolities of dress, had not a white flower in his buttonhole revealed serious political predilections, and an unchangeable attachment to the fallen House of Bourbon.
“‘Movillez,’ said Marsanne, ‘show Vassigny the master of the house; he wishes to make his bow to him.’