Monsieur De Camors | Page 7

broken by the fresh voice of a woman calling
from the blinds of the balcony--
"Is that you, Theodore?"
Camors raised his eyes and saw a white hand, resting on the slats of the
blind, bathed in sunlight.
"That is my wife. Conceal yourself!" cried Lescande, briskly; and he
pushed Camors behind a clump of catalpas, as he turned to the balcony
and lightly answered:
"Yes, my dear; do you wish anything?"
"Maxime is with you?"
"Yes, mother. I am here," cried the child. "It is a beautiful morning. Are
you quite well?"
"I hardly know. I have slept too long, I believe." She opened the
shutters, and, shading her eyes from the glare with her hand, appeared
on the balcony.
She was in the flower of youth, slight, supple, and graceful, and
appeared, in her ample morning-gown of blue cashmere, plumper and
taller than she really was. Bands of the same color interlaced, in the
Greek fashion, her chestnut hair--which nature, art, and the night had
dishevelled--waved and curled to admiration on her small head.
She rested her elbows on the railing, yawned, showing her white teeth,
and looking at her husband, asked:
"Why do you look so stupid?"
At the instant she observed Camors--whom the interest of the moment
had withdrawn from his concealment--gave a startled cry, gathered up
her skirts, and retired within the room.

Since leaving college up to this hour, Louis de Camors had never
formed any great opinion of the Juliet who had taken Lescande as her
Romeo. He experienced a flash of agreeable surprise on discovering
that his friend was more happy in that respect than he had supposed.
"I am about to be scolded, my friend," said Lescande, with a hearty
laugh, "and you also must stay for your share. You will stay and
breakfast with us?"
Camors hesitated; then said, hastily, "No, no! Impossible! I have an
engagement which I must keep."
Notwithstanding Camors's unwillingness, Lescande detained him until
he had extorted a promise to come and dine with them--that is, with
him, his wife, and his mother-in-law, Madame Mursois--on the
following Tuesday. This acceptance left a cloud on the spirit of Camors
until the appointed day. Besides abhorring family dinners, he objected
to being reminded of the scene of the balcony. The indiscreet kindness
of Lescande both touched and irritated him; for he knew he should play
but a silly part near this pretty woman. He felt sure she was a coquette,
notwithstanding which, the recollections of his youth and the character
of her husband should make her sacred to him. So he was not in the
most agreeable frame of mind when he stepped out of his dog-cart, that
Tuesday evening, before the little villa of the Avenue Maillot.
At his reception by Madame Lescande and her mother he took heart a
little. They appeared to him what they were, two honest-hearted women,
surrounded by luxury and elegance. The mother--an ex-beauty--had
been left a widow when very young, and to this time had avoided any
stain on her character. With them, innate delicacy held the place of
those solid principles so little tolerated by French society. Like a few
other women of society, Madame had the quality of virtue just as
ermine has the quality of whiteness. Vice was not so repugnant to her
as an evil as it was as a blemish. Her daughter had received from her
those instincts of chastity which are oftener than we imagine hidden
under the appearance of pride. But these amiable women had one
unfortunate caprice, not uncommon at this day among Parisians of their
position. Although rather clever, they bowed down, with the adoration

of bourgeoises, before that aristocracy, more or less pure, that paraded
up and down the Champs Elysees, in the theatres, at the race-course,
and on the most frequented promenades, its frivolous affairs and rival
vanities.
Virtuous themselves, they read with interest the daintiest bits of scandal
and the most equivocal adventures that took place among the elite. It
was their happiness and their glory to learn the smallest details of the
high life of Paris; to follow its feasts, speak in its slang, copy its toilets,
and read its favorite books. So that if not the rose, they could at least be
near the rose and become impregnated with her colors and her
perfumes. Such apparent familiarity heightened them singularly in their
own estimation and in that of their associates.
Now, although Camors did not yet occupy that bright spot in the
heaven of fashion which was surely to be his one day, still he could
here pass for a demigod, and as such inspire Madame Lescande and her
mother with a sentiment of most violent curiosity. His early intimacy
with Lescande had always connected a peculiar interest with