The International Monthly Magazine Volume V to No II

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The goddess of the place did not keep them a long time waiting; a door
opened, half-a-dozen dogs of every variety of breed sprang into the
parlor: it must be said, to the praise of Mademoiselle de Camargo, that
these were not lap-dogs. She appeared behind them, carrying in her arms
(looking like a fur muff) an Angora cat of fine growth. As she had not
followed the fashion for ten years or more, she appeared to have come from
the other world.--"You see, gentlemen," pointing to her dogs, "all the
court I have at present, but in truth those courtiers there are well worth
all others. Here, Marquis! down, Duke! lie down, Chevalier! Do not be
offended, gentlemen, that I receive you in such company; but how was I to
know?..."--Grimm first spoke.--"You will excuse, mademoiselle, this
unannounced visit when you know the important object of it."--"I am as
curious as if I were only twenty years old," said Mademoiselle de Camargo;
"but, alas! when I was twenty, it was the heart that was curious; but now,
in the winter of life, I am no longer troubled on that score."--"The heart
never grows old," said Helvetius, bowing.--"That is a heresy, sir: those
only dare to advance such maxims who have never been in love. It is love
that never grows old, for it dies in childhood. But the heart--"--"You see,
madame, that your heart is still young; what you have just said proves
that you are still full of fire and inspiration."--"Yes, yes," said
Mademoiselle de Camargo, "you are perhaps right; but when the hair is gray
and the wrinkles are deep, the heart is a lost treasure; a coin that is no
longer current."--While saying this, she lifted up Marquis by his two paws,
and kissed him on the head: Marquis was a fine setter-dog, with a
beautiful spotted skin.--"They, at least, will love me to the last. But it
seems to me we are talking nonsense; have we nothing better to talk about?
Come, gentlemen, I am all attention!"

The visitors looked at each other with some embarrassment; they seemed to
be asking of each other who was to speak first. Pont-de-Veyle collected
his thoughts, and spoke as follows: "Mademoiselle, we have been
breakfasting together; we had a gay time of it, like men of spirit.
Instead of bringing before us, as the Egyptians in olden times, mummies,
in order to remind us that time is the most precious of all things, we
called up all those gay phantoms which enchanted our youth: need I say
that you were not the least charming of them? who did not love you? who
did not desire to live with you one hour, even at the expense of a wound?
Happiness never costs too much--" Mademoiselle Camargo interrupted the
speaker: "O gentlemen, do not, I beg, blind me with the memory of the
past; do not awaken a buried passion! Let me die in peace! See, the tears
are in my eyes!"--The visitors, affected, looked with a certain degree of
emotion at the poor old lady who had loved so much. "It is strange," said
Helvetius to his neighbor, "we came here to laugh, but we are travelling
quite another road; however, I must say, nothing could be more ludicrous
than such a caricature, if it were not of a woman." "Proceed, sir," said
Mademoiselle de Camargo to Pont-de-Veyle. "To tell you the truth, madame,
the worst fellow in the company, or rather he who had drank the most,
declared that he was, of all your lovers, the one you most loved. 'The
mere talk of a man who has had too much wine,' said one of us. But our
impertinent emptied his glass, and backed his statement. The discussion
became very lively. We talked, we drank, and we talked. When the last
bottle was empty, and the dispute was likely to end in a duel, and we
talked without knowing, probably, what we said, the most sober of the
company proposed to go and ask you yourself which of your lovers you loved
the most. Is it the Count de Melun? is it the Duke de Richelieu? is it the
Marquis de Croismare? the Baron de Viomesnil? the Viscount de Jumilhac? is
it Monsieur de Beaumont, or Monsieur d'Aubigny? is it a poet? is it a
soldier? is it an abbe?" "Pshaw! pshaw!" said Mademoiselle de Camargo,
smiling; "you had better refer to the _Court Calendar_!" "What we want to
know is not the names of those who have loved you, but, I repeat, the name
of him whom you loved the most." "You are fools," said Mademoiselle de
Camargo, with an air of sadness and a voice that showed emotion; "I will
not answer you. Let us leave our extinct passions in their tombs, in
peace. Why unbury all those charming follies which have had their day?"
"Come," says Grimm to Duclos, "do not let us grow sentimental; that would
be too absurd. Mademoiselle de Camargo," said he, playing with the dogs at
the same time, "which was the epoch of short petticoats? for that is one
of the points of our philosophical dispute."

The aged _danseuse_ did not answer. Taking Pont-de-Veyle by the hand, all
of a sudden, she said in rising: "Monsieur, follow me." He obeyed with
some surprise. She conducted him to her bedchamber; it was like a basket
of odds and ends; it looked like a linendraper's shop in confusion; it was
all disorder; it was quite evident that the dogs were at home there.
Mademoiselle de Camargo went to a little rosewood chest of drawers,
covered with specimens of Saxony porcelain, more or less chipped and
broken. She opened a little ebony box, exposing its contents to the eyes
of Pont-de-Veyle. "Do you see?" said she, with a sigh. Pont-de-Veyle saw a
torn letter, the dry bouquet of half a century, the kind of flowers of
which it was composed could hardly be recognized. "Well?" asked
Pont-de-Veyle. "Well, do you understand?" "Not at all." "Look at that
portrait." She pointed with her finger to a wretched portrait in oils,
covered with dust and spider's web. "I begin to understand." "Yes," said
she, "that is his portrait. As for myself, I never look at it. The one
here," striking her breast, "is more like. A portrait is a good thing for
those who have no time for memory."

Pont-de-Veyle looked in turn with much interest at the letter, the faded
bouquet, and the wretched portrait. "Have you ever met this person?"
"Never." "Let us return, then." "No; I beg let me hear the story." "Is it
not enough to have seen his portrait? You can now settle your dispute with
a word, since you know whether he whom I loved the most resembles your
friend who had taken so much wine." "He does not resemble him the least in
the world." "Well, that is all: I forgive your visit. Farewell! When you
breakfast with your friends, you can take up my defence somewhat. You can
tell those libertines without pity, that I have saved myself by my heart,
if we can be saved that way.... Yes, yes; it is my plank of safety, in the
wreck!"

Saying these words, Mademoiselle de Camargo approached the door of the
saloon. Pont-de-Veyle followed her, carrying the ebony-box. "Gentlemen,"
said he, to his merry friends, "our drunken toper was a coxcomb; I have
seen the portrait of the best beloved of the goddess of this mansion; now,
you must join your prayers to mine, to prevail upon Mademoiselle de
Camargo to relate to us the romance of her heart; I only know the preface,
which is melancholy and interesting; I have seen a letter, a bouquet, and
a portrait." "I will not tell you a word," muttered she; "women are
charged with not being able to keep a secret; there is, however, more than
one that they never tell. A love-secret is a rose which embalms our
hearts; if it is told, the rose loses its perfume. I who address you,"
said Mademoiselle de Camargo, in brightening up, "I have only kept my love
in all its freshness by keeping it all to myself. There were only La
Carton and that old rogue Fontenelle who ever got hold of my secret.
Fontenelle was in the habit of dining frequently with me; one day, finding
me in tears, he was so surprised, he who never wept himself, from
philosophy, doubtless, that he tormented me for more than an hour for a
solution of the enigma. He was almost like a woman; he drew from me, by
his cat-like worrying, the history of my love. Would you believe it? I
hoped to touch his heart, but it was like speaking to the deaf. After
having listened to the end without saying a word, he muttered with his
little weak voice, '_It is pretty!_' La Carton, however, wept with me. It
is worth being a poet and a philosopher in order not to understand such
histories."

Mademoiselle de Camargo was silent; a deep silence followed, and every
look was upon her. "Speak, speak! we are all attention," said Helvetius,
"we are more worthy of hearing your story than the old philosopher, who
loved no one but himself." "After all," she replied, carried away by the
delight of her remembrance, "it will be spending a happy hour; I speak of
myself, and as for happy or unhappy hours, not many more are to pass
during my life, for I feel that I am passing away. But I do not know how
to begin; a fire flashes before my eyes; I cannot see, I am so overcome.
To begin: I was twenty.... But I shall never have the courage to read my
history aloud before so many people." "Fancy, Mademoiselle de Camargo,"
said Helvetius, "that you are reading a romance." "Well, then," said she,
"I will begin without ceremony."

"I was twenty years old. You are all aware, for the adventure caused a
great deal of scandal, you all know how the Count de Melun carried me off
one morning along with my sister Sophy. This little mad-cap, who had a
great deal of imagination, having discovered me reading a letter of the
count's, in which he spoke of his design, she swore upon her thirteen
years that he must carry her off too. I was far from conceding any such
claim. It was always taken for granted that children know nothing; but at
the opera, and in love, there are no children. The Count de Melun, by
means of a bribe, had gained over the chambermaid. I was very culpable; I
knew all, and had not informed my father. But my father wearied me
somewhat; he preached in the desert; that is to say he preached to me
about virtue. He was always talking to me about our noble descent, of our
cousin, who was a cardinal, of our uncle, who was a grand inquisitor of
the Inquisition. Vanity of vanities! all was vanity with him, while with
me all was love. I did not trouble myself about being of an illustrious
family; I was handsome, I was worshipped, and, what was still better, I
was young.

"In the middle of the night I heard my door open; it was the Count de
Melun. I was not asleep, I was expecting him. It is not every woman who
would like it that is run away with. I was going to be run away with.

"Love is not only charming in itself, it is so also from its romance. A
passion without adventure is like a mistress without caprice. I was seated
upon my bed. 'Is it you, Jacqueline?' I said, affecting fright. 'It is I,'
said the count, falling upon his knees. 'You, sir! Your letter was not a
joke then?' 'My horses are at hand; there is no time to lose; leave this
sad prison: my hotel, my fortune, my heart, all are at your service.' At
that moment a light appeared at the door. 'My father!' I cried, with
affright, as I concealed myself behind the bed curtains. 'All is lost,'
muttered the count. It was Sophy. I recognized her light step. She
approached with the light in her hand, and in silence, toward the count.
'My sister,' said she, with some degree of excitement, but without losing
her presence of mind, 'here I am, all ready.' I did not understand; I
looked at her with surprise; she was all dressed, from head to foot. 'What
are you saying? You are mad.' 'Not by any means; I want to be run away
with, like yourself.' The Count de Melun could not help laughing.
'Mademoiselle,' he said to her, 'you forget your dolls and toys. 'Sir,'
replied she, with dignity, 'I am thirteen years old. It was not yesterday
that I made my _debut_ at the opera; I take a part on the stage in the
ravishment of Psyche.' 'Good,' says the count, 'we will carry you off
too.' 'It is as well,' whispered the count in my ear; 'this is the only
way of getting rid of her.'

"I was very much put out by this contretemps, which gave a new
complication to our adventure. My father might forgive my being carried
off, but Sophy! I tried to dissuade her from her mad enterprise. I offered
her my ornaments; she would not listen to reason. She declared, that if
she was not carried off with me she would inform against us, and thus
prevent the adventure. 'Do not oppose her.' said the count; 'with such a
tendency she will be sure to be carried off sooner or later.'--'Well, let
us depart together,' The chambermaid, who had approached with the
stealthy, quiet step of a cat, told us to hurry, for she was afraid that
the noise of the horses, that were pawing the ground near by, would awaken
Monsieur de Camargo. We were off; the carriage drove us to the count's
hotel, rue de la Culture-Saint-Gervais. Sophy laughed and sung. In the
morning I wrote to the manager of the opera, that by the advice of my
physician it was impossible for me to appear for three weeks. To tell you
the truth, gentlemen, in a week's time I went myself to inform the manager
that I would dance that evening. This, you perceive, is not very
flattering to the Count de Melun; but there are so few men in this world
who are sufficiently interesting for a week together. I loved the count,
doubtless, but I wanted to breathe a little without him. I desired the
excitement of the theatre. I opened my window, constantly, as if I would
fly out of it.

"As soon as I appeared at the opera my father followed my track, and
discovered the retreat of his daughters. One evening behind the scenes, he
went straight to the count and insulted him. The count answered him, with
great deference, that he would avoid the chance of taking the life of a
gallant gentleman who had given birth to such a daughter as I was. My
father did his best to prove and establish his sixteen quarterings, the
count was not willing to fight him. It was about that time that my father
presented his famous petition to the Cardinal de Fleury: 'Your petitioner
would state to the Lord Cardinal, that the Count de Melun, having carried
off his two daughters in the night, between the 10th and 11th of the month
of May, 1728, holds them imprisoned in his hotel, rue de la
Culture-Saint-Gervais. Your petitioner having to do with a person of rank,
is obliged to have recourse to his majesty's ministers; he hopes, through
the goodness of the king, justice will be done him, and that the Count de
Melun will be commanded to espouse the elder daughter of your petitioner,
and endow the younger.'

"A father could not have done better. The Cardinal de Fleury amused
himself a good deal with the petition, and recommended me, one day that we
were supping together, for full penance, to make over to my father my
salary at the opera. But I find I am not getting on with my story. But
what would you have? The beginning is always where we dwell with the
greatest pleasure. I had been living in the count's hotel a year; Sophy
had returned to my father's house, where she did not remain long; but it
is not her history that I am relating. One morning a cousin of the count
arrived at the hotel in a great bustle; he was about spending a season in
Paris, in all the wildness of youth. He took us by surprise at breakfast;
he took his seat at table, without ceremony, on the invitation of the
count.

"In the beginning he did not strike my fancy; I thought him somewhat of a
braggadocio. He cultivated his mustachios with, great care (the finest
mustachios in the world), and spoke quite often enough of his prowess in
battle. Some visitor interrupting us, the count went into his library, and
left us together, _tete-a-tete_. Monsieur de Marteille's voice, until then
proud and haughty in its tone, softened a little. He had at first looked
at me with the eye of a soldier; he now looked at me with the eye of a
pupil.--'Excuse, madame,' said he, with some emotion, 'my rude soldier-like
bearing; I know nothing of fine manners; I have never passed through the
school of gallantry. Do not be offended at any thing I may say.'--'Why,
sir,' said I, smiling, 'you do not say any thing at all.'--'Ah, if I knew
how to speak! but, in truth, I would feel more at home before a whole army
than I do before your beautiful eyes. The count is very happy in having
such a beautiful enemy to contend with.'--While speaking thus, he looked at
me with a supplicating tenderness which contrasted singularly with his
look of the hero. I do not know what my eyes answered him. The count then
came in, and the conversation took another turn.

"Monsieur de Marteille accepted the earnest invitation of his cousin to
stay at his hotel. He went out; I did not see him again till evening. He
did not know who I was; the count called me Marianne, and,
unintentionally, perhaps, he had not spoken a word to his cousin about the
opera, or my grace and skill as a dancer. At supper, Monsieur de Marteille
had no longer the same frank gayety of the morning; a slight uneasiness
passed like a cloud over his brow; more than once I caught his melancholy
glance.--'Cheer up your cousin,' I said to the count.--'I know what he
wants,' answered Monsieur de Melun; 'I will take him to-morrow to the
opera. You will see that in that God-forsaken place he will find his
good-humor again.'--I felt jealous, without asking myself why.

"Next day the _Triumph of Bacchus_ was played. I appeared as Ariadne, all
covered with vine-leaves and flowers. I never danced so badly. I had
recognized Monsieur de Marteille among the gentlemen of the court. He
looked at me with a serious air. I had hoped to have had an opportunity to
speak with him before the end of the ballet, but he had already gone. I
was offended at his abrupt departure.--'How!' said I to myself, 'he sees me
dance, and this is the way he makes me his compliments.'--Next morning, he
breakfasted with us; he did not say a word about the evening; finally, not
being able to resist my impatience, 'Well, Monsieur de Marteille,' said I
to him, somewhat harshly, 'you left early last night; it was hardly polite
of you.'--'Ah! when you were to dance no more!' said he, with a sigh. This
was the first time that I was ever spoken to thus. Fearing that he had
said too much, and in order to divert Monsieur de Melun, who observed him
with a look of surprise, he began to speak of a little singer of no great
moment, who had a voice of some freshness.

"In the afternoon, the count detained at home for some reason or other,
begged his cousin to accompany me in a ride to the woods. He was to join
us on horseback. The idea of this ride made my heart beat violently. It
was the first time that I had listened with pleasure to the beatings of my
heart.

"We started on a fine summer's day. Every thing was like a holyday: the
sky, the houses, the trees, the horses, and the people. A veil had fallen
from my eyes. For some minutes we remained in the deepest silence; not
knowing what to do, I amused myself by making a diamond that I wore
glisten in the rays of the sun that entered the carriage. Monsieur de
Marteille caught hold of my hand. We both said not a word the whole time.
I tried to disengage my hand; he held it the harder. I blushed; he turned
pale. A jolt of the carriage occurred very opportunely to relieve us from
our embarrassment; the jolt had lifted me from my seat; it made me fall
upon his bosom.--'Monsieur,' said I, starting. 'Ah, madame, if you knew how
I love you!'--He said this with a tenderness beyond expression; it was love
itself that spoke! I had no longer the strength to get angry. He took my
hand again and devoured it with kisses. He did not say another word; I
tried to speak, but did not know what to say myself. From time to time our
looks met each other; it was then that we were eloquent. Such eternal
pledges, such promises of happiness!

"Notwithstanding, we arrived at the woods. All of a sudden, as if seized
with a new idea, he put his head out of the window, and said something to
the coachman. I understood, by the answer of La Violette, the coachman,
that he was not willing to obey; but Monsieur de Marteille having alluded
to a caning and fifty pistoles, the coachman made no further objections. I
did not understand very well what he was about. After an hour's rapid
travelling, as I was looking with some anxiety as to where we were, he
tried to divert me by telling me some episodes of his life. Although I did
not listen very intelligently to what he said, I heard enough to find out
that I was the first woman he had ever loved. They all say so, but he told
the truth, for he spoke with his eyes and his heart. I soon found out that
we were no longer on our right road; but observe how far the feebleness of
a woman in love will go: I hadn't the courage to ask him why he had
changed our route. We crossed the Seine in a boat, between Sevres and St.
Cloud; we regained the woods, and after an hour's ride through them, we
reached an iron park-gate, at the extremity of the village of Velaisy.

"Monsieur de Marteille had counted without his host. He expected not to
have found a soul in his brother's chateau, but, since the evening before,
his brother had returned from a journey to the coast of France. Seeing
that the chateau was inhabited, Monsieur de Marteille begged me to wait a
little in the carriage. As soon as he had gone, the coachman came to the
door.--'Well, madame, we breathe at last! my opinion is that we should make
our escape. Depend upon the word of La Violette, we shall be in less than
two hours at the hotel.'--'La Violette,' said I, 'open the door.'--I ran a
great risk. La Violette obeyed.--'Now,' said I to him, when I had alighted
upon the ground, 'you may go!'--He looked at me with the eye of an old
philosopher, mounted his box, and snapped his whip; but he had hardly
started, when he thought it better to return.--'I will not return without
madame, for if I return alone, I shall be sure of a good heating, and of
being discharged.'--'Indeed, La Violette! as you please.' At that moment I
saw the count returning.--'It is all for the best,' he cried out, in the
distance; 'my brother has only two days to spend in Paris: he has stopped
here to give his orders; he wishes, at all hazards, to see Camargo dance!
I told him that she was to appear this evening. He will leave in a moment.
You must wait in the park till he is gone. I will return to him, for I
must take my leave of him, and wish him a pleasant journey.

"An hour afterward we were installed in the chateau. La Violette remained,
at our order, with his carriage and horses. In the evening there was great
excitement at the opera. It was solemnly announced to the public that
Mademoiselle de Camargo had been carried off! The Count de Melun surprised
at not finding us in the woods, had gone to the theatre. He was hissed; he
swore revenge. He sought every where; he found neither his horses, nor his
carriage, nor his mistress. For three months the opera was in mourning!
Thirty bailiffs were on my track; but we made so little noise in our
little chateau, hid away in the woods, that we were never discovered."

Mademoiselle de Camargo became pale; she was silent, and looked at her
listeners as if she would say by her looks that had been lighted up at
that celestial flame which had passed over her life: "Oh, how we loved
each other during those three months!"

She continued as follows: "That season has filled a greater space in my
life than all the rest of my days. When I think of the past, it is there
where my thoughts travel at once. How relate to you the particulars of our
happiness? When destiny protects us, happiness is composed of a thousand
charming nothings that the hearts of others cannot understand. During
those three months I was entirely happy; I wished to live for ever in this
charming retreat for him that I loved a thousand times more than myself. I
wished to abandon the opera, that opera that the Count de Melun could not
make me forget for a week!

"Monsieur de Marteille possessed all the attraction of a real passion; he
loved me with a charming simplicity; he put in play, without designing it,
all the seductions of love. What tender words! what impassioned looks!
what enticing conversation! Each day was a holyday, each hour a rapture. I
had no time to think of the morrow.

"Our days were spent in walks, in the shade of the woods, in the thousand
windings of the park. In the evening I played the harpsichord, and I sang.
It often occurred that I danced, danced for him. In the middle of a dance
that would have excited a furor at the opera, I fell at his feet,
completely overcome; he raised me up, pressed me to his heart and forgave
me for having danced. I always hear his beautiful voice, which was like
music, but such music as I dream of, and not such as Rameau has
composed... But now I am speaking without knowing what I say."

Mademoiselle de Camargo turned toward Pont-de-Veyle. "Monsieur," said she,
"open that box or rather hand it to me." She took the box, opened it, and
took the bouquet from it. "But above all, gentlemen, I must explain to you
why I have preserved this bouquet." While saying this she attempted to
smell the vanished odor of the bouquet.

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