with pearls, but one situated seemingly in the centre of the earth, in a nether, fiery region, a fissure of the hell of antiquity, a crevice in a mine of molten metals inhabited by Plutus. The silk simulating the rock showed broad threads of metal, layers that looked like the veins of the primeval world, loaded with riches incalculable and the eternal life of the soil. On the ground, thanks to a bold anachronism of M. Hupel de la Noue’s, lay an avalanche of twenty-franc pieces, louis spread-out, louis heaped-up, a swarm of ascending louis.
On the top of this heap of gold sat Mme. de Guende, as Plutus, a female Plutus, a Plutus showing her bosom set in the great stripes of her dress which imitated all the metals. Around the god, erect, reclining, grouped in clusters, blooming apart, were posed the fairylike flora of this grotto, into which the caliphs of the Arabian Nights seemed to have emptied their treasures: Mme. Haffner, as Gold, with a stiff and resplendent skirt like a bishop’s cope; Mme. d’Espanet, as Silver, gleaming like moonlight; Mme. de Lauwerens, in bright blue, as a Sapphire, with by her side little Mme. Daste, a smiling Turquoise in tenderest blue; then there followed an Emerald, Mme. de Meinhold; a Topaz, Mme. Teissière; and lower down, the Comtess Vanska, lending her dark ardour to a Coral, recumbent, with raised arms loaded with rosy pendants, resembling a monstrous, seductive polyp which displayed a woman’s flesh amidst the yawning pink pearliness of its shell. These ladies wore necklaces, bracelets, complete sets of jewels, formed of the precious stones they respectively impersonated. Especially noticeable were the quaint ornaments of Mmes. d’Espanet and Haffner, contrived entirely of small gold coins and small silver coins fresh from the mint. In the foreground the story remained unchanged: the Nymph Echo still tempted the beauteous Narcissus, who refused with the same gesture. And the eyes of the spectators grew accustomed with delight to this yawning cavity opening on to the inflamed bowels of the earth, to this heap of gold on which lay sprawling the riches of a world.
This second tableau was still more successful than the first. It seemed particularly ingenious. The audacity of the twenty-franc pieces, this stream from a modern safe that had fallen into a corner of Greek mythology, enchanted the imagination of the ladies and financiers present. The words, “What a heap of pieces! what a lot of money!” flitted around, with smiles, with long quivers of satisfaction; and assuredly each of those ladies, each of those gentlemen, dreamt of owning all this money himself, coffered in his cellar.
“England has paid up; there are your milliards,” maliciously whispered Louise in Mme. Sidonie’s ear.
And Mme. Michelin, her mouth slightly parted with enraptured desire, threw back her alme’s veil, fondled the gold with glittering eyes, while the group of serious men went into transports. M. Toutin-Laroche, beaming all over, whispered a few words in the ear of the baron, whose face was becoming mottled with yellow patches. But the Mignon and Charrier couple, less discreet, said with coarse candour:
“Damn it! there’s enough there to pull down all Paris and build it up again.”
The remark seemed a deep one to Saccard, who began to suspect that the Mignon and Charrier pair made fun of people under the guise of idiocy. When the curtains once more fell to, and the piano finished its triumphal march with a loud tumult of notes thrown pellmell, like last shovelfuls of crown-pieces, the applause burst forth louder, more prolonged.
Meantime, in the middle of the tableau, the minister, accompanied by his secretary, M. de Saffré, had appeared at the door of the drawingroom. Saccard, who was impatiently looking out for his brother, wanted to rush forward to welcome him. But the latter, with a movement of the hand, begged him not to stir. And he slowly approached the group of serious men. When the curtains had closed, and he was recognized, a long whisper travelled round the drawingroom, all heads looked round: the minister counterbalanced the success of Les Amours du Beau Narcisse et de la Nymphe Écho.
“You are a poet, monsieur préfet,” he said, smiling, to M. Hupel de la Noue. “You once published a volume of verse, Les Volubilis, I believe?… I see the cares of administration have not drained your imagination.”
The préfet detected, in this compliment, the sting of an epigram. The sudden advent of his chief disconcerted him, the more so as, on giving a glance to see if his dress was in order, he noticed on the sleeve of his coat the little white hand, which he did not dare to brush off. He bowed, stammered.
“Really,” continued the minister, addressing M. Toutin-Laroche, the Baron Gouraud, the other personages present, “all that gold was a wonderful spectacle…. We should be able to do great things if M. Hupel de la Noue would coin money for us.”
This was, in ministerial language, the same remark as that of the Mignon and Charrier couple. Then M. Toutin-Laroche and the others paid their court, rung the changes on the minister’s last phrase: the Empire had done wonders already; it was not gold that was wanting, thanks to the great experience of the government; never had France stood so high in the councils of Europe; and the gentlemen ended by uttering such platitudes that the minister himself changed the conversation. He listened to them with his head erect, the corners of his mouth a little raised, which gave to his fat, white, cleanshaven face an expression of dubiousness and smiling disdain.
Saccard manœuvred so as to find an excuse to change the subject and to make his announcement of the marriage of Maxime and Louise. He assumed an air of great familiarity, and his brother, with mock geniality, was goodnatured enough to help him by pretending great affection for him. He was really the superior of the two, with his steady gaze, his evident contempt for petty rascality, his broad shoulders, which, with a shrug, could have floored all that crew. When at last the marriage came into question, he became charming, he let it be understood that he had his wedding-present ready; he was so good as to talk of Maxime’s being appointed an auditor to the Council of State. He went so far as twice to repeat to his brother, with an air of absolute good-fellowship:
“Tell your son I will be his witness.”
M. de Mareuil crimsoned with delight. Saccard was congratulated. M. Toutin-Laroche offered himself as a second witness. Then, suddenly, they began to talk of divorce. A member of the opposition, said M. Haffner, had just had “the lamentable audacity” to defend this social scandal. And every one protested. Their sense of propriety found vent in profound observations. M. Michelin smiled faintly upon the minister, while the Mignon and Charrier couple noted with astonishment that the collar of his dress-coat was worn.
Meanwhile M. Hupel de la Noue remained ill at ease, leaning against the armchair of the Baron Gouraud, who had contented himself with silently shaking hands with the minister. The poet dared not leave the spot. An indefinable feeling, the dread of appearing ridiculous, the fear of losing the good graces of his chief detained him, despite his furious desire to go and pose the ladies on the stage for the last tableau. He waited for some happy remark to occur to him and restore him to favour. But he could think of nothing. He felt more and more embarrassed when he perceived M. de Saffré; he took his arm, hooked himself on to him as to a live-saving plank. The young man had just arrived, he was a fresh victim.
“Haven’t you heard what the marquise said?” asked the préfet.
But he was so perturbed that he no longer knew how to put the story spicily. He floundered.
“I said to her, ‘You have a charming costume’; and she replied….”
“‘I have a much prettier one underneath,’“ quietly added M. de Saffré. “It’s old, my dear sir, very old.”
M. Hupel de la Noue looked at him in consternation. The repartee was an old one, and he was just about still more deeply to penetrate into his commentary on the candour of this cry from the heart!
“Old,” replied the secretary, “old as the hills: Mme. d’Espanet
