The Cross of Berny | Page 7

us a nameless
virtue--or vice, made up of tolerance, stoicism and disdain. After
having trodden over the graveyards of all nations, it seems as if we had

assisted at the funeral ceremonies of the world, and they who survive
on its surface seem like a band of adroit fugitives who have discovered
the secret of prolonging to-day's agony until to-morrow.
I walked upon the Boulevard Italien without wonder, hatred, love, joy
or sorrow. On consulting my inmost thoughts I found there an
unimpassioned serenity, a something akin to ennui; I scarcely heard the
noise of the wheels, the horses--the crowd that surrounded me.
Habituated to the turmoil of those grand dead nations near the vast
ruins of the desert, this little hubbub of wearied citizens scarcely
attracted my attention.
My face must have reflected the disdainful quietude of my soul.
By contemplative communion with the mute, motionless colossal faces
of Egypt's and Persia's monuments, I felt that unwittingly my
countenance typified the cold imperturbable tranquillity of their granite
brows.
That evening La Favorita was played at the opera. Charming work! full
of grace, passion, love. Reaching the end of Le Pelletier street, my walk
was blocked by a line of carriages coming down Provence street; not
having the patience to wait the passage of this string of vehicles, nor
being very dainty in my distinction between pavement and street, I
followed in the wake of the carriages, and as they did not conceal the
façade of the opera at the end of the court, I saw it, and said "I will go
in."
I took a box below, because my family-box had changed hands,
hangings and keys at least five times in ten years, and seated myself in
the background to avoid recognition, and leave undisturbed friends who
would feel in duty bound to pay fashionable court to a traveller due ten
years. I was not familiar with La Favorita, and my ear took in the new
music slowly. Great scores require of the indolent auditor a long
novitiate.
While I listened indolently to the orchestra and the singers, I examined

the boxes with considerable interest, to discover what little revolutions
a decade could bring about in the aristocratic personnel of the opera. A
confused noise of words and some distinct sentences reached my ear
from the neighboring boxes when the orchestra was silent. I listened
involuntarily; the occupants were not talking secrets, their conversation
was in the domain of idle chat, that divides with the libretto the
attention of the habitues of the opera.
They said, "I could distinguish her in a thousand, I mistrust my sight a
little, but my glass is infallible; it is certainly Mlle. de Bressuire--a
superb figure, but she spoils her beauty by affectation."
"Your glass deceives you, my dear sir, we know Mlle. de Bressuire."
"Madame is right; it is not Mlle. That young lady at whom everybody is
gazing, and who to-night is the favorite--excuse the pun--of the opera,
is a Spaniard; I saw her at the Bois de Boulogne in M. Martinez de la
Hosa's carriage. They told me her name, but I have forgotten. I never
could remember names."
"Ladies," said a young man, who noisily entered the box, "we are at last
enlightened. I have just questioned the box-keeper--she is a maid of
honor to the Queen of Belgium."
"And her name?" demanded five voices.
"She has a Belgian name, unpronounceable by the box-keeper;
something like Wallen, or Meulen."
"We are very much wiser."
From the general commotion it was easy to perceive that the same
subject was being discussed by the whole house, and doubtless in the
same terms; for people do not vary their formulas much on such
occasions.
A strain of music recalled to the stage every eye that during the
intermission had been fastened upon one woman. I confess that I felt

some interest in the episode, but, owing to my habitual reserve, barely
discovered by random and careless glances the young girl thus handed
over to the curious glances of the fashionable world. She was in a box
of the first tier, and the native grace of her attitude first riveted my
attention. The cynosure of all eyes, she bore her triumph with the ease
of a woman accustomed to admiration.
To appear unconscious she assumed with charming cleverness a pose
of artistic contemplation. One would have said that she was really
absorbed in the music, or that she was following the advice of the
Tuscan poet:
"Bel ange, descendu d'un monde aérien, Laisse-toi regarder et ne
regarde rien."
From my position I could only distinguish the outline of her figure,
except by staring through my glasses, which I regard as a polite
rudeness, but she seemed to merit the homage that all eyes looked and
all