But Moronval profited by this opening. "Think of it!" he said; "think that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!"
"And why can you not?" asked Ida, quickly.
"Because we have not the funds."
"But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to languish!"
She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady"s weakness by talking to her of D"Argenton, whom he painted in glowing colors.
He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature, one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot.
Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of n.o.ble birth.
"Most a.s.suredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the n.o.blest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of an agent."
This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and ill.u.s.trate by many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts to attract his mother"s attention. "Jack, do be quiet!"
and "Jack, you are insufferable!" finally sent him off, with tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally Laba.s.sandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Madou, who was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times.
Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D"Argenton, who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He appeared to be out of temper--and with whom? With the whole world; for he was one of that very large cla.s.s who are at war against society, and against the manners and customs of their day.
At this very moment he was declaiming violently, "You have all the vices of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name.
Love is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually."
"Pardon me, sir," interrupted his hearer. But the other went on more vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all hope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to America.
All this time the poet was vaguely conscious of the admiring gaze that was bent upon him. He experienced something of the same sensation that one has in the fields in the early evening, when the moon suddenly rises behind you and compels you to turn toward its silent presence. The eyes of this woman magnetized him in the same way. The words she caught in regard to leaving France struck a chill to her heart. A funereal gloom settled over the room. Additional dismay overwhelmed her as D"Argenton wound up with a vigorous tirade against French women,--their lightness and coquetry, the insincerity of their smiles, and the venality of their love.
The poet no longer conversed; he declaimed, leaning against the chimney, and careless who heard either his voice or his words.
Poor Ida, intensely absorbed as she was in him, could not realize that he was indifferent, and fancied that his invectives were addressed to herself.
"He knows who I am," she said, and bowed her head in shame.
Moronval said aloud, "What a genius!" and in a lower voice to himself, "What a boaster!" But Ida needed nothing more; her heart was gone. Had Dr. Hirsch, who was always so interested in pathological singularities, been then at leisure, he might have made a curious study of this case of instantaneous combustion.
An hour before, Madame Moronval had dispatched Jack to bed, with two or three of the younger children; the others were gaping in silent wretchedness, stupefied by all they saw and heard. The Chinese lanterns swung in the wind each side of the garden-gate; the lane was unlighted, and not even a policeman enlivened its muddy sidewalk; but the disputative little group that left the Moronval Academy cared little for the gloom, the cold, or the dampness.
When they reached the avenue they found that the hour for the omnibus had pa.s.sed. They accepted this as they did the other disagreeables of life--in the same brave spirit.
Art is a great magician. It creates a sunshine from which its devotees, as well as the poor and the ugly, the sick and the sorry, can each borrow a little, and with it gain a grace to suffer, and a calm serenity that may well be envied.
CHAPTER V.--A DINNER WITH IDA.
The next day the Moronvals received from Madame de Barancy an invitation for the following Monday; at the bottom of the note was a postscript, expressing the pleasure she should have in receiving also M. d"Argenton.
"I shall not go," said the poet, dryly, when Moron-val handed him the coquettish perfumed note. Then the princ.i.p.al grew very angry, as he saw his plans frustrated. "Why would not D"Argenton accept the invitation?"
"Because," was the answer, "I never visit such women."
"You make a great mistake," said Moronval; "Madame de Barancy is not the kind of person you imagine. Besides, to serve a friend, you should lay aside your scruples. You see that I need the countess, that she is disposed to look favorably on my Colonial Review, and you should do all that lies in your power to favor my views. Come, now, think better of it."
D"Argenton, after being properly entreated, finished by accepting the invitation.
On the following Monday, therefore, Moronval and his wife left the academy under the supervision of Dr. Hirsch, and presented themselves in the Boulevard Haussmann, where the poet was to join them.
Dinner was at seven; D"Argenton did not arrive until half an hour past the time. Ida was in a state of great anxiety. "Do you think he will come?" she asked; "perhaps he is ill. He looks very delicate."
At last he appeared with the air of a conquering hero, making some indifferent excuse for his lack of punctuality. His manner, however, was less disdainful than usual, for the hotel had impressed him. Its luxury, the flowers, and thick carpets; the little boudoir with its bouquets of white lilacs; the commonplace salon, like a dentist"s waiting-room, a blue ceiling and gilded mouldings, the ebony furniture, cushioned with gold color, and the balcony exposed to the dust of the boulevard,--all charmed the attache of the Moronval Academy, and gave him a favorable impression of wealth and high life.
The table equipage, the imposing effect produced by Augustin, in short, all the luxurious details of the house, appealed to his senses, and D"Argenton, without flattering the countess as openly as did Moronval; yet succeeded in doing so in a more subtile manner, by thawing under her influence to a very marked extent.
He was an interminable talker, and submitted with a very bad grace to any interruption. He was arbitrary and egotistical, and rang the changes on the _I_ and the _my_ for a whole evening, without allowing any one else to speak.
Unhappily, to be a good listener is a quality far above natures like that of the countess; and the dinner was characterized by some unfortunate incidents. D"Argenton was particularly fond of repeating the replies he had made to the various editors and theatrical managers who had declined his articles, and refused to print his prose or his verse.
His mots on these occasions had been clever and caustic; but with Madame de Barancy he was never able to reach that point, preceded as it must necessarily be with lengthy explanations. At the critical moment Ida would invariably interrupt him,--always, to be sure, with some thought for his comfort.
"A little more of this ice, M. d"Argenton, I beg of you."
"Not any, madame," the poet would answer with a frown, and continue, "Then I said to him--"
"I am afraid you do not like it," urged the lady.
"It is excellent, madame,--and I said these cruel words--"
Another interruption from Ida; who, later, when she saw her poet in a fit of the sulks, wondered what she had done to displease him. Two or three times during dinner she was quite ready to weep, but did her best to hide her feelings by urging all the delicacies of her table upon M.
and Madame Moronval. Dinner over, and the guests established in the well warmed and lighted salon, the princ.i.p.al fancied he saw his way clear, and said suddenly, in a half indifferent tone, to the countess,--
"I have thought much of our little matter of business. It will cost less than I fancied."
"Indeed!" she answered absently,
"If, madame, you would accord to me a few moments of your attention--"
But madame was occupied in looking at her poet, who was walking up and down the salon silent and preoccupied.
"Of what can he be thinking?" she said to herself.
Of his digestion only, dear reader. Suffering somewhat from dyspepsia, and always anxious in regard to his health, he never failed, on leaving the table, to walk for half an hour, no matter where he might chance to be.
Ida watched him silently. For the first time in her life she loved, really and pa.s.sionately, and felt her heart beat as it had never beat before. Foolish and ignorant, while at the same time credulous and romantic; very near that fatal age--thirty years--which is almost certain to create in woman a great transformation; she now, aided by the memory of every romance she had ever read, created for herself an ideal who resembled D"Argenton. The expression of her face so changed in looking at him, her laughing eyes a.s.sumed so tender an expression, that her pa.s.sion soon ceased to be a mystery to any one.
Moron val, who looked on, shrugged his shoulders, with a glance at his wife. "She is simply crazy," he said to himself.
She certainly was crazed in a degree; and, after dinner, she tormented herself to find some way of returning to the good graces of D"Argenton, and, as he approached her in his walk, she said,--
"If M. d"Argenton wished to be very amiable, he would recite to us that beautiful poem which created such a sensation the other evening. I have thought of it all the week. There is one verse that haunts me, especially the final line: