Scenes from a Courtesans Life | Page 2

a banker, a lawyer, some citizen soul suspicious of
infidelity. For in fact, in really high society, no one courts such
humiliating proofs. Several masks had laughed as they pointed this
preposterous figure out to each other; some had spoken to him, a few
young men had made game of him, but his stolid manner showed entire
contempt for these aimless shafts; he went on whither the young man
led him, as a hunted wild boar goes on and pays no heed to the bullets
whistling about his ears, or the dogs barking at his heels.
Though at first sight pleasure and anxiety wear the same livery--the
noble black robe of Venice--and though all is confusion at an opera ball,
the various circles composing Parisian society meet there, recognize,
and watch each other. There are certain ideas so clear to the initiated
that this scrawled medley of interests is as legible to them as any
amusing novel. So, to these old hands, this man could not be here by
appointment; he would infallibly have worn some token, red, white, or
green, such as notifies a happy meeting previously agreed on. Was it a
case of revenge?
Seeing the domino following so closely in the wake of a man
apparently happy in an assignation, some of the gazers looked again at
the handsome face, on which anticipation had set its divine halo. The
youth was interesting; the longer he wandered, the more curiosity he
excited. Everything about him proclaimed the habits of refined life. In
obedience to a fatal law of the time we live in, there is not much
difference, physical or moral, between the most elegant and best bred
son of a duke and peer and this attractive youth, whom poverty had not
long since held in its iron grip in the heart of Paris. Beauty and youth
might cover him in deep gulfs, as in many a young man who longs to
play a part in Paris without having the capital to support his pretensions,
and who, day after day, risks all to win all, by sacrificing to the god

who has most votaries in this royal city, namely, Chance. At the same
time, his dress and manners were above reproach; he trod the classic
floor of the opera house as one accustomed there. Who can have failed
to observe that there, as in every zone in Paris, there is a manner of
being which shows who you are, what you are doing, whence you come,
and what you want?
"What a handsome young fellow; and here we may turn round to look
at him," said a mask, in whom accustomed eyes recognized a lady of
position.
"Do you not remember him?" replied the man on whose arm she was
leaning. "Madame du Chatelet introduced him to you----"
"What, is that the apothecary's son she fancied herself in love with,
who became a journalist, Mademoiselle Coralie's lover?"
"I fancied he had fallen too low ever to pull himself up again, and I
cannot understand how he can show himself again in the world of
Paris," said the Comte Sixte du Chatelet.
"He has the air of a prince," the mask went on, "and it is not the actress
he lived with who could give it to him. My cousin, who understood him,
could not lick him into shape. I should like to know the mistress of this
Sargine; tell me something about him that will enable me to mystify
him."
This couple, whispering as they watched the young man, became the
object of study to the square-shouldered domino.
"Dear Monsieur Chardon," said the Prefet of the Charente, taking the
dandy's hand, "allow me to introduce you to some one who wishes to
renew acquaintance with you----"
"Dear Comte Chatelet," replied the young man, "that lady taught me
how ridiculous was the name by which you address me. A patent from
the king has restored to me that of my mother's family--the Rubempres.
Although the fact has been announced in the papers, it relates to so

unimportant a person that I need not blush to recall it to my friends, my
enemies, and those who are neither----You may class yourself where
you will, but I am sure you will not disapprove of a step to which I was
advised by your wife when she was still only Madame de Bargeton."
This neat retort, which made the Marquise smile, gave the Prefet of la
Charente a nervous chill. "You may tell her," Lucien went on, "that I
now bear gules, a bull raging argent on a meadow vert."
"Raging argent," echoed Chatelet.
"Madame la Marquise will explain to you, if you do not know, why that
old coat is a little better than the chamberlain's key and Imperial gold
bees which you