In the Days of My Youth. Amelia Ann Blanford Edwards
Rachel."
We passed through a small antechamber, and into a brilliant salon, the very reverse of antique. Here all was light and color. Here were hangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of every conceivable shape and hue; great Indian jars; richly framed drawings; stands of exotic plants; Chinese cages, filled with valuable birds from distant climes; folios of engravings; and, above all, a large cabinet in marqueterie, crowded with bronzes, Chinese carvings, pastille burners, fans, medals, Dresden groups, Sévres vases, Venetian glass, Asiatic idols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise-shall, mother o'-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic. In this room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped here and there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirty gentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation. Saluting some of these by a passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this salon and into a larger one immediately beyond it.
"This," he said, "is one of the most beautiful rooms in Paris. Look round and tell me if you recognise, among all her votaries, the divinity herself."
I looked round, bewildered.
"Recognise!" I echoed. "I should not recognise my own father at this moment. I feel like Abou Hassan in the palace of the Caliph."
"Or like Christopher Sly, when he wakes in the nobleman's bedchamber," said Dalrymple; "though I should ask your pardon for the comparison. But see what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salary per week. See these panels painted by Muller--this chandelier by Deniére, of which no copy exists--this bust of Napoleon by Canova--these hangings of purple and gold--this ceiling all carved and gilded, than which Versailles contains nothing more elaborate. Allons donc! have you nothing to say in admiration of so much splendor?"
I shook my head.
"What can I say? Is this the house of an actress, or the palace of a prince? But stay--that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plain gold circlet on her head--who is she?"
"Phédre herself," replied Dalrymple. "Follow me, and be introduced."
She was sitting in a large fauteuil of purple velvet. One foot rested on a stool richly carved and gilt; one arm rested negligently on a table covered with curious foreign weapons. In her right hand she held a singular poignard, the blade of which was damascened with gold, while the handle, made of bronze and exquisitely modelled, represented a tiny human skeleton. With this ghastly toy she kept playing as she spoke, apparently unconscious of its grim significance. She was surrounded by some ten or a dozen distinguished-looking men, most of whom were profusely décoré. They made way courteously at our approach. Dalrymple then presented me. I made my bow, was graciously received, and dropped modestly into the rear.
"I began to think that Captain Dalrymple had forsworn Paris," said Rachel, still toying with the skeleton dagger. "It is surely a year since I last had this pleasure?"
"Nay, Madame, you flatter me," said Dalrymple. "I have been absent only five months."
"Then, you see, I have measured your absence by my loss."
Dalrymple bowed profoundly.
Rachel turned to a young man behind her chair.
"Monsieur le Prince," said she, "do you know what is rumored in the foyer of the Francais? That you have offered me your hand!"
"I offer you both my hands, in applause, Madame, every night of your performance," replied the gentleman so addressed.
She smiled and made a feint at him with the dagger.
"Excellent!" said she. "One is not enough for a tragedian But where is Alphonse Karr?"
"I have been looking for him all the evening," said a tall man, with an iron-gray beard. "He told me he was coming; but authors are capricious beings--the slaves of the pen."
"True; he lives by his pen--others die by it," said Rachel bitterly. "By the way, has any one seen Scribe's new Vaudeville?"
"I have," replied a bald little gentleman with a red and green ribbon in his button-hole.
"And your verdict?"
"The plot is not ill-conceived; but Scribe is only godfather to the piece. It is almost entirely written by Duverger, his collaborateur."
"The life of a collaborateur," said Rachel, "is one long act of self-abnegation. Another takes all the honor--he all the labor. Thus soldiers fall, and their generals reap the glory."
"A collaborateur," said a cynical-looking man who had not yet spoken, "is a hackney vehicle which one hires on the road to fame, and dismisses at the end of the journey."
"Sometimes without paying the fare," added a gentleman who had till now been examining, weapon by weapon, all the curious poignards and pistols on the table. "But what is this singular ornament?"
And he held up what appeared to be a large bone, perforated in several places.
The bald little man with the red and green ribbon uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"It is a tibia!" said he, examining it through his double eye-glass.
"And what of that?" laughed Rachel. "Is it so wonderful to find one leg in a collection of arms? However, not to puzzle you, I may as well acknowledge that it was brought to me from Rome by a learned Italian, and is a curious antique. The Romans made flutes of the leg-bones of their enemies, and this is one of them."
"A melodious barbarism!" exclaimed one.
"Puts a 'stop,' at all events, to the enemy's flight!" said another.
"Almost as good as drinking out of his skull," added a third.
"Or as eating him, tout de bon," said Rachel.
"There must be a certain satisfaction in cannibalism," observed the cynic who had spoken before. "There are people upon whom one would sup willingly."
"As, for instance, critics, who are our natural enemies," said Rachel. "C'est à dire, if critics were not too sour to be eaten."
"Nay, with the sweet sauce of vengeance!"
"You speak feelingly, Monsieur de Musset. I am almost sorry, for your sake, that cannibalism is out of fashion!"
"It is one of the penalties of civilization," replied de Musset, with a shrug. "Besides, one would not wish to be an epicure."
Dalrymple, who had been listening somewhat disdainfully to this skirmish of words, here touched me on the arm and turned away.
"Don't you hate this sort of high-pressure talk?" he said, impatiently.
"I was just thinking it so brilliant."
"Pshaw!--conversational fireworks--every speaker bent on eclipsing every other speaker. It's an artificial atmosphere, my dear Damon--a sort of forcing-house for good things; and I hate forced witticisms, as I hate forced peas. But have you had enough of it? Or has this feast of reason taken away your appetite for simpler fare?"
"If you mean, am I ready to go with you to Madame de Courcelles'--yes."
"A la bonne heure!"
"But you are not going away without taking leave of Madame Rachel?"
"Unquestionably. Leave-taking is a custom more honored in the breach than the observance."
"But isn't that very impolite?"
"Ingénu! Do you know that society ignores everything disagreeable? A leave-taker sets an unpleasant example, disturbs the harmony of things, and reminds others of their watches. Besides, he suggests unwelcome possibilities. Perhaps he finds the party dull; or, worse still, he may be going to one that is pleasanter."
By this time we were again rattling along the Boulevard. The theatres were ablaze with lights. The road was full of carriages. The trottoir was almost as populous as at noon. The idlers outside the cafés