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CHAPTER XVIII
A LION IN THE WAY
THE Grand Opera-house once more, but this time in Paris, The scene is so gorgeous and brilliant a one that as we enter to take our places in the stage-box reserved for us, we cannot refrain from casting a glance of surprise and gratification at the splendour with which we find ourselves surrounded. The whole huge horse-shoe of the auditorium seems one gigantic mass of gold, relieved only by the clear blue of the ceiling – a blue which is as pure and as transparent as the sky of one of Claude’s masterpieces. The design of the vast picture which decorates the roof is of course illustrative of mythological incident, and the colouring and style with which it is executed are singularly bold and flowing. But it is towards the centre of this magnificent ceiling that our attention is chiefly directed, for there a circle of glittering stars, blending its effulgence with the sparkle of the great chandelier, creates a strange illusory effect of distance, and makes the pendulous wheels of light below, appear as though they had descended from their proper sphere in the sea of blue overhead.
On each side of the proscenium and at the two correspondent curves of the theatre, enormous massive columns support the roof, and over the archivoltes which surmount them are four colossal eagles, whose burnished golden wings reflect the light. Mirrors and gold glitter wherever the eye turns, the whole front of the house flames with auriferous brilliance, the open spaces between the graceful lines which circle the auditorium are filled with all kinds of shining ornaments, bas reliefs, arabesques, garlands, harps, timbrels, lyres, syrinxes, cymbals, tambours, carved in miniature upon a delicate groundwork.
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Haroun Alraschid himself never devised anything more superb. For the Opera, operatic arrangements, and all things thereunto pertaining, form a class among those spécialités which they manage better is France. In common with many of the Continental nations our “lively neighbours” have for some centuries past made “Ia culte des beaux arts” an affair of State. Perhaps for important reasons connected with moral and intellectual education, perhaps for mere purposes of entertainment, music and its professors have always held a high place in the esteem of the French people. It was so under the House of Valois, under the Bourbons, even during the dismay and panic of the first Revolution, and especially while Bonaparte remained in power. In the beginning of the year 1854, the ex-Emperor Napoleon, obedient to the genius of the French nation, adopted the Opera as a pet child of the Imperial household, and put it under the peculiar control and care of some of his chief officers, and of a commission composed of public men, at once competent and distinguished.
But let us for the present suspend our little historical résumé, and watch the influx of the audience that is filling the house on all sides of us. In a conspicuous position upon the first tier, we note at once the Brabazonian Amazon and her inseparable brother; then a little further on, the Cairnsmuir family with Tristan Le Rodeur in the rear, just a little behind my Lady, his wonderful eyes bright with expectation, and his smooth olive cheeks a trifle less pale than their wont. My Lady looks splendidly handsome and stately to-night, and not a few marchionesses and duchesses, many years her juniors, grow uncomfortably envious as they turn their lorgnons in the direction of her box, and mentally compare the unfaded lustre of her natural complexion with the dullness of their own be-rouged and enamelled charms. They remark to one another with pretty glances and airy tones of graceful criticism, that miladi la Comtesse has worn remarkably well.
But who is this, below us, making his way through the genteel mob
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in the arena, with an ease and coolness of manner perfectly astounding, while other people close beside him continually lose themselves in all kinds of confusion and perplexity? Who is this, gracefully dropping himself into his luxurious fauteuil, running his glance rapidly over the fast-filling auditorium, settling his heavy waxed moustaches with supercilious contentment, and acknowledging acquaintances through his eyeglass with such an ineffable air of petit maître? Who is it but Vane Vaurien – perfectly handsome, superbly colossal, faultlessly attired – Vane with his falsest smile and most captivating manner, disseminating with every movement a breath of delicious perfume, and inspiring all the women about him with unaccountable restlessness?
Carry’s prediction then is verified. Vaurien the Vicious, has come to Paris in pursuit of Fräulein the Fair! Apollyon is abroad, – garde à toi, ma belle Adelheid!
There is a swell in the soft music, a sudden springing up of light round the stage, a little ruffle and stir like a cool breeze through the house, and the Fräulein herself is before us. She raises her crystal eyes and sweeps the gay glittering circle with one swift steady glance, that rests, only for an instant, upon the handsome face of the boy-artist at Lady Cairnsmuir’s elbow, but brief as is that mute acknowledgment of his presence, it is perceived and noted by other eyes than Tristan’s, – eyes which suffer no gesture or sign on the part of the fair German to escape their greedy cynosure. And when the curtain falls on the first act, Vane languidly rises in his seat, strokes his smooth moustache, views his foxy face with stealthy admiration in the nearest mirror, pets the exotic in his button-hole, and turns his opera-glass on Lady Cairnsmuir’s box. Not suddenly, but by degrees, as he comes to it in his telescopic round of the theatre. And instinctively, Le Rodeur knows that he is being looked at, looked at with an intention, distinctly different from the casual glances of recognition and of approving criticism of which he also knows himself to be the focus. An irresistible tremulousness
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comes upon him on the instant, as though a door had been opened behind him, and a sudden draft of disagreeable wind admitted. For, in fact, as the sagacious reader may have already divined, Tristan is one of those peculiarly gifted, and rarely found individuals, anent whose subtle capacities and emotions Baron Reichenbach has written at so much length, and to whom the results of the many curious experiments related in his Odische Briefe have induced him to apply the name of “sensitives.” But the scrutiny, annoying as it is to Le Rodeur’s system appears to impress our friend below with a sense of at least as much dissatisfaction. He removes his lorgnon and sits down, softly and jauntily of course; he could do nothing otherwise, but for a minute there is a shade of perplexity about his curved eyebrows, and a twitch as of displeasure under the ends of his big moustache, that do not augur any amiable intentions on the part of Mr. Vaurien towards my Lady’s favourite. During the subsequent progress of the Opera, Vane concentrates his attention upon Fräulein Stern with even closer assiduity than before; and when the fourth act is ended, he rises, and goes leisurely out of the auditorium. Someone, stepping from behind a curtain at the door of a saloon, meets him, and silently puts into his band a bouquet, composed of such rare un-English flowers as never grew in the old-fashioned garden of Corisande; flowers with heavy waxen-like petals that look so creamy and temptingly luscious they seem meant to be eaten; strange aromatic flowers which, at this season of the year, must have been paid for in paper.
Carrying the bouquet, Vaurien wends his way with that same well bred jaunty air, through a curiously intricate labyrinth of galleries and corridors, which appear familiar to him, for he follows his Norman nose with no uncertain step, and presents himself in due course among the coulisses of the theatre. Here he is recognised by some of the feminine subordinates, who stand waiting and chatting about the “flies,” and a little outburst of Gallic smartness immediately greets the new arrival.
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“Ohé Lambert! D’où viens-tu? Et ta sœur? Mademoiselle Nu-jambes n’est plus ici! Elle vient de mourir d’un désespoir affreux hier au soir! ‘Ah, fripon-scélerat,’ a-t-elle dit avec son dernier soupir, ‘il me quitte pour les grimaces d’un veritable loup-garou!’ Mais allez donc - Alphouse, insensé-cherchez Madame Cocotte, monsieur l’attend, voyez vous! Oh le beau lion! Va t’en!” And so on. But after loitering a minute Vane goes on, picking his way over the dangerous pitfalls and “timber” of the back stage, with a dainty lightness that somehow suggests the idea of lifted petticoats; and finally crosses to the region of the dressing-rooms.
Here he falls in, unexpectedly, with Vivian Brabazon, who is leaning against the wall, and talking lazily to one of the “officials” on duty. Vane strokes his moustache ominously with his unoccupied hand, and utters the short little interrogatory flourish which always haunts his conversation, like the ghost of a cough, murdered long since and yet unpropitiated.
“Eh! How are you, my dear fellow? Miss Brabazon well? Saw her in the theatre, – eh? Bouquet? Yes – well it is a good one. Glad you admire it.”
A few common-places ensue, then a door beside the speakers clicks and opens, and Fräulein Stern appears, dressed for the last act. What need to dilate upon her glorious beauty as she stands here diademed and jewelled, in her trailing robes of bright rose-coloured satin? She wears a little rouge necessarily – the garish theatre-light requires it, but even here where the glare is more subdued, one would scarcely perceive the shell-like teint to be artificial, it seems upon her fair skin to be rather the effect of excitement, a natural flush which one half expects to see suddenly dispelled when she perceives Vaurien, and quivers visibly, as if the sight of him had dealt her an actual blow. Has this man no sense of shame, – she wonders, – no delicacy, no heart, that he is here again, that he comes out of his way thus to thrust himself
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in her path at each new turn? She looks rapidly from Vane to Vivian, perhaps for protection, but the former is already beside her, tendering his bouquet with some low-spoken words of compliment which she scarcely comprehends. And she takes the offering instinctively, for Vane has a snake-like fascination and power of command which even she is unable to resist, and though she refused the pearls he sent, she cannot refuse the flowers he gives.
But there the little episode terminates, for Vivian, with a lover’s readiness and dexterity, anticipates his rival’s obvious intention, and draws the Fräulein’s arm within his own to lead her to the stage. At the touch she resumes her dignity, Gretchen gives place to Lucrezia Borgia, she gathers her sweeping draperies around her, turns her eyes coldly upon Vaurien, bows him a graceful dismissal – unmistakable in its purport – and sails away, a queenlier and prouder Fräulein Stern than we have yet beheld her.
From the spot where he stands, Vane can just catch a glimpse of the lighted auditorium, and that glimpse includes the dark melancholy face of Tristan Le Rodeur, addressed intently towards the vacant stage with eager earnest eyes yearning for some beloved object, as the eyes of benighted men yearn for the coming of a light, or the eyes of castaways for the nearing of a sail. Vaurien glances swiftly at the watchful faces and then at the retreating figures of Adelheid and her cavalier.
“So!” muses our scion of Norman antiquity, “here are two fools to be got rid of! And they shall be got rid of, for the girl’s worth the trouble! She’s more magnificent than ever – never looked so superb before to-night I believe! By Jove – new idea – I’ll marry her too! Don’t know why it is, but the harder the running is the more I want to win the cup. Nothing strange after all though, I suppose? It’s the hunting instinct – natural to man. Well – passer le temps – must do something! Brabazon I think I can put down – don’t believe she cares about him. But
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you, you young Leander,” apostrophizing Tristan, “who the deuce are you? In a Countess’ box, too! You are the most dangerous!”
In substance this is the warp and woof of Vaurien’s reflections, but all that he actually utters is a single word, pregnant with expression and fixed resolve.
“D––––n!”
“With that he turns away and picks his dainty path back as he came.
An hour later, as Vaurien strolls home with a Manilla – the night is not a cold one – Adelheid’s brougham flashes past him, and he sees her within it, seated beside the Amazon, and talking animatedly with Vivian, who is leaning towards her from the opposite seat, his eyes rivetted ardently on her face, and his hand resting upon hers.
There is no pride, no aversion, no repellant hauteur on the lovely features now, she is made of kindness, and smiles, and gay happy beauty. The smiles and softness are for Vivian and the Cairnsmuir Adonis – the pride and aversion for himself alone!
“D––––n again!”
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