LITMIR.BIZ

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it had Madame Tallien! In these days there is certainly a throne to let in France which is for her who can fill it. We among us could make a queen. I should have given La Torpille an aunt, for her mother is too decidedly dead on the field of dishonor; du Tillet would have given her a mansion, Lousteau a carriage, Rastignac her footmen, des Lupeaulx a cook, Finot her hats” – Finot could not suppress a shrug at standing the point-blank fire of this epigram – “Vernou would have composed her advertisements, and Bixiou her repartees! The aristocracy would have come to enjoy themselves with our Ninon, where we would have got artists together, under pain of death by newspaper articles. Ninon the second would have been magnificently impertinent, overwhelming in luxury. She would have set up opinions. Some prohibited dramatic masterpiece should have been read in her drawing-room; it should have been written on purpose if necessary. She would not have been liberal; a courtesan is essentially monarchical. Oh, what a loss! She ought to have embraced her whole century, and she makes love with a little young man! Lucien will make a sort of hunting-dog of her.”

      “None of the female powers of whom you speak ever trudged the streets,” said Finot, “and that pretty little ‘rat’ has rolled in the mire.”

      “Like a lily-seed in the soil,” replied Vernou, “and she has improved in it and flowered. Hence her superiority. Must we not have known everything to be able to create the laughter and joy which are part of everything?”

      “He is right,” said Lousteau, who had hitherto listened without speaking; “La Torpille can laugh and make others laugh. That gift of all great writers and great actors is proper to those who have investigated every social deep. At eighteen that girl had already known the greatest wealth, the most squalid misery – men of every degree. She bears about her a sort of magic wand by which she lets loose the brutal appetites so vehemently suppressed in men who still have a heart while occupied with politics or science, literature or art. There is not in Paris another woman who can say to the beast as she does: ‘Come out!’ And the beast leaves his lair and wallows in excesses. She feeds you up to the chin, she helps you to drink and smoke. In short, this woman is the salt of which Rabelais writes, which, thrown on matter, animates it and elevates it to the marvelous realms of art; her robe displays unimagined splendor, her fingers drop gems as her lips shed smiles; she gives the spirit of the occasion to every little thing; her chatter twinkles with bright sayings, she has the secret of the quaintest onomatopoeia, full of color, and giving color; she – ”

      “You are wasting five francs’ worth of copy,” said Bixiou, interrupting Lousteau. “La Torpille is something far better than all that; you have all been in love with her more or less, not one of you can say that she ever was his mistress. She can always command you; you will never command her. You may force your way in and ask her to do you a service – ”

      “Oh, she is more generous than a brigand chief who knows his business, and more devoted than the best of school-fellows,” said Blondet. “You may trust her with your purse or your secrets. But what made me choose her as queen is her Bourbon-like indifference for a fallen favorite.”

      “She, like her mother, is much too dear,” said des Lupeaulx. “The handsome Dutch woman would have swallowed up the income of the Archbishop of Toledo; she ate two notaries out of house and home – ”

      “And kept Maxime de Trailles when he was a court page,” said Bixiou.

      “La Torpille is too dear, as Raphael was, or Careme, or Taglioni, or Lawrence, or Boule, or any artist of genius is too dear,” said Blondet.

      “Esther never looked so thoroughly a lady,” said Rastignac, pointing to the masked figure to whom Lucien had given his arm. “I will bet on its being Madame de Serizy.”

      “Not a doubt of it,” cried du Chatelet, “and Monsieur du Rubempre’s fortune is accounted for.”

      “Ah, the Church knows how to choose its Levites; what a sweet ambassador’s secretary he will make!” remarked des Lupeaulx.

      “All the more so,” Rastignac went on, “because Lucien is a really clever fellow. These gentlemen have had proof of it more than once,” and he turned to Blondet, Finot, and Lousteau.

      “Yes, the boy is cut out of the right stuff to get on,” said Lousteau, who was dying of jealousy. “And particularly because he has what we call independent ideas…”

      “It is you who trained him,” said Vernou.

      “Well,” replied Bixiou, looking at des Lupeaulx, “I trust to the memory of Monsieur the Secretary-General and Master of Appeals – that mask is La Torpille, and I will stand a supper on it.”

      “I will hold the stakes,” said du Chatelet, curious to know the truth.

      “Come, des Lupeaulx,” said Finot, “try to identify your rat’s ears.”

      “There is no need for committing the crime of treason against a mask,” replied Bixiou. “La Torpille and Lucien must pass us as they go up the room again, and I pledge myself to prove that it is she.”

      “So our friend Lucien has come above water once more,” said Nathan, joining the group. “I thought he had gone back to Angoumois for the rest of his days. Has he discovered some secret to ruin the English?”

      “He has done what you will not do in a hurry,” retorted Rastignac; “he has paid up.”

      The burly mask nodded in confirmation.

      “A man who has sown his wild oats at his age puts himself out of court. He has no pluck; he puts money in the funds,” replied Nathan.

      “Oh, that youngster will always be a fine gentleman, and will always have such lofty notions as will place him far above many men who think themselves his betters,” replied Rastignac.

      At this moment journalists, dandies, and idlers were all examining the charming subject of their bet as horse-dealers examine a horse for sale. These connoisseurs, grown old in familiarity with every form of Parisian depravity, all men of superior talent each his own way, equally corrupt, equally corrupting, all given over to unbridled ambition, accustomed to assume and to guess everything, had their eyes centered on a masked woman, a woman whom no one else could identify. They, and certain habitual frequenters of the opera balls, could alone recognize under the long shroud of the black domino, the hood and falling ruff which make the wearer unrecognizable, the rounded form, the individuality of figure and gait, the sway of the waist, the carriage of the head – the most intangible trifles to ordinary eyes, but to them the easiest to discern.

      In spite of this shapeless wrapper they could watch the most appealing of dramas, that of a woman inspired by a genuine passion. Were she La Torpille, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, or Madame de Serizy, on the lowest or highest rung of the social ladder, this woman was an exquisite creature, a flash from happy dreams. These old young men, like these young old men, felt so keen an emotion, that they envied Lucien the splendid privilege of working such a metamorphosis of a woman into a goddess. The mask was there as though she had been alone with Lucien; for that woman the thousand other persons did not exist, nor the evil and dust-laden atmosphere; no, she moved under the celestial vault of love, as Raphael’s Madonnas under their slender oval glory. She did not feel herself elbowed; the fire of her glance shot from the holes in her mask and sank into Lucien’s eyes; the thrill of her frame seemed to answer to every movement of her companion. Whence comes this flame that radiates from a woman in love and distinguishes her above all others? Whence that sylph-like lightness which seems to negative the laws of gravitation? Is the soul become ambient? Has happiness a physical effluence?

      The ingenuousness of a girl, the graces of a child were discernible under the domino. Though they walked apart, these two beings suggested the figures of Flora and Zephyr as we see them grouped by the cleverest sculptors; but they were beyond sculpture, the greatest of the arts; Lucien and his pretty domino were more like the angels busied with flowers or birds, which Gian Bellini has placed beneath the effigies of the Virgin Mother. Lucien and this girl belonged to the realm of fancy, which is as far above art as cause is above effect.

      When the domino, forgetful of everything, was within a yard of the group, Bixiou exclaimed:

      “Esther!”

      The

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