Collected works of eugen.., p.701
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 701
“Yes.”
The footman closed the door, and repeated the instructions to the coachman who applied the whip vigorously to his bony steeds, and the landau started in the direction of the Cours la Reine.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE HOTEL SAINT-RAMON.
M. DE RIANCOURT’S clumsy equipage moved so slowly that when it reached the entrance to the Cours la Reine a pedestrian, who was proceeding in the same direction, kept pace with it without the slightest difficulty.
This pedestrian, who was very poorly dressed, did not seem to be very active, for he leaned heavily on his cane. His long beard, his hair, and his bushy eyebrows were as white as snow, while the swarthy hue of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of an aged mulatto. When M. de Riancourt’s carriage had advanced about half way up the Cours la Reine, its progress was still further impeded by a long line of vehicles, which were evidently also on the way to the Hôtel Saint-Ramon; so the old man passed the landau, and walked on until he came to an avenue glittering with gaily coloured lamps, and filled from end to end with a long procession of carriages.
Though the old man seemed deeply absorbed in thought, his attention was naturally attracted to the large crowd that had assembled near the handsome gateway that served as an entrance to this brilliantly lighted avenue, so he paused, and, addressing one of the bystanders, inquired:
“Can you tell me what all these people are looking at?”
“They are looking at the guests who are going to the opening of the famous Saint-Ramon mansion.”
“Saint-Ramon?” murmured the old man, with evident surprise. “How strange!”
Then he added aloud:
“What is this Hôtel Saint-Ramon, monsieur?”
“The eighth wonder of the world, people say. It has taken five years to build it, and the owner gives a house-warming to-night.”
“To whom does this house belong, monsieur?”
“To a young man worth several millions.”
“And what is his name?”
“Saint-Harem, or Saint-Herem, I believe.”
“I thought as much,” the old man said to himself. “But, in that case, why do they call it the Saint-Ramon mansion?” Then, turning to the same bystander again, he asked aloud: “Will you be kind enough to tell me what time it is?”
“Half-past ten, exactly.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” responded the old man, getting a little nearer to the gate. “Half-past ten,” he said to himself. “I need not be at Chaillot until midnight, so I have plenty of time to solve this mystery.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the old man passed through the gateway, and proceeded up a walk shaded with magnificent elms, to a brilliantly lighted half-circle in front of the house itself, which was a veritable palace, — a superb example of the palmiest days of Renaissance architecture.
Crossing the half-circle, the old man found himself at the foot of the imposing perron leading to the peristyle. Through the glass doors that enclosed the entire front of this peristyle, he saw a long row of tall, powdered footmen clad in gorgeous liveries, but all the while the carriages that drew up at the foot of the perron were depositing men, women, and young girls, whose plain attire contrasted strangely with the splendour of this fairy palace.
The old man, to whom allusion has already been made, urged on, apparently, by an almost irresistible curiosity, followed several of these newcomers up under the peristyle, where two tall Swiss, halberds in hand, opened the broad portals of the large glass double door to all, making their halberds ring noisily on the marble floor as each guest entered. Still mingling with a party of invited guests, the old man passed through a double row of footmen in bright blue livery, profusely trimmed with silver, into a large reception-room, where numerous valets, clad in bright blue jackets, black satin knee breeches, and white silk stockings, were in attendance, all manifesting the utmost deference to these guests whose unpretending appearance seemed so out of harmony with the princely luxury of the abode. The guests passed from this room into a large music-room, fitted up for concerts, and from that into an immense circular hall surmounted by a dome. This hall served as a nucleus for three other large apartments, — or rather four in all, including the music-room, — one intended for a ballroom, another for a banquet-hall and the other for a cardroom.
It is impossible to describe the splendour, elegance, and sumptuous furnishings of these large, brilliantly lighted apartments, whose lavish adornments in the shape of paintings, statuary, and flowers were multiplied again and again in the enormous mirrors that lined the walls. The most illustrious artists of the time had assisted in this work of ornamentation. Masterpieces by Ingres and Delacroix hung side by side with those of Scheffer and Paul Delaroche; while the future fame of Couture and Gérôme had evidently been divined by the wealthy and discerning builder of this palace. Among the most magnificent works of art, we must not forget to mention an immense sideboard in the banquet-hall, loaded with superb silver, worthy of the master hand of Benvenuto Cellini, and consisting of candelabra, pitchers, epergnes, and fruit-dishes, each and every one entitled to an honoured place in a museum, by reason of its rare beauty of form and exquisite ornamentation.
One word more in relation to a peculiar feature of the spacious rotunda. Directly over a gigantic white marble mantel, a monument to the genius of David of Angers, the French Michael Angelo, with allegorical figures in alto-relievo, representing the Arts and Sciences at the base, was a portrait that might with reason have been attributed to Velasquez. It represented a pale, austere-looking man with strongly marked features, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. A brown robe similar to those worn by monks imparted to this person the impressive character of those portraits of saints or martyrs so frequently encountered in the Spanish school of art, — a resemblance that was heightened by a sort of halo which shone out brightly against the dark background of the picture, and seemed to cast a reflected radiance upon the austere and thoughtful countenance. On the frame below, in German text, were the words:
SAINT-RAMON.
The aged stranger, who had continued to advance with the crowd, at last found himself opposite this fireplace, but, on seeing the portrait, he paused as if overwhelmed with astonishment. His emotion was so great that tears rose to his eyes, and he murmured, almost unconsciously:
“My poor friend, it is indeed he! But why has the word ‘saint’ been added to his name? Why has this aureole been placed around his head? And this strange entertainment, how is it that a person as poorly clad as I am, and a stranger to the master of the house, besides, should be allowed to enter here unhindered?”
Just then a servant, carrying a large waiter loaded with ices, cake, and similar dainties, paused in front of the old man, and offered him refreshments. This offer was declined, however, by the stranger, who was striving, though in vain, to determine the social status of those around him. The men, who were for the most part plainly but neatly dressed, some in coats and others in new blouses, while they seemed delighted to participate in the fête, appeared perfectly at ease, or, in other words, perfectly at home, and not in the least astonished at the wonders of this palatial abode; while the women and the young girls, many of whom, by the way, were extremely pretty, were evidently much more deeply impressed by the splendour around them. The young girls, particularly, who were nearly all attired in inexpensive, though perfectly fresh, white dresses, exchanged many admiring comments in low tones.
The venerable stranger, more and more anxious to solve this mystery, at last approached a group composed of several men and women who had paused in front of the fireplace to gaze at the portrait of Saint-Ramon.
“You see that picture, Juliette,” he heard a sturdy, pleasant-faced young man say to his wife. “It is only right to call that worthy man Saint-Ramon. There is many a saint in paradise who is not to be compared with him, judging from the good he has done.”
“How is that, Michel?”
“Why, thanks to this worthy saint, I, like most of my fellow workmen here, have had lucrative employment for the last five years, and we all owe this good fortune to the original of this portrait, M. Saint-Ramon. Thanks to him, I have not been out of work for a single day, and my wages have not only been liberal enough to support us comfortably, but also to enable us to lay aside a snug little sum for a rainy day.”
“But it was not this worthy man whose portrait we see here that ordered and paid for all this work. It was M. de Saint-Herem, who is always so pleasant and kind, and who said so many nice things to us just now when we came in.”
“Of course, my dear Juliette, it was M. de Saint-Herem who employed us, but, as he always said to us when he came to see how we were getting on: ‘Ah, boys, if it were not for the wealth I inherited from another person, I could not give you employment or pay you as such industrious and capable workmen ought to be paid, so always hold in grateful remembrance the memory of the person who left me all this money. He accumulated it, penny by penny, by depriving himself of every comfort, while I have the pleasure of spending his wealth. In fact, it is my bounden duty to spend it. What is the good of money, if it is not to be spent? So hold in grateful remembrance, I say, the memory of yonder good old miser. Bless his avarice, for it gives me the pleasure of accomplishing wonderful things, and you, liberal wages, richly earned.’”
“Still, while we are, of course, under great obligations to this worthy miser, we ought to be equally grateful to M. de Saint-Herem, it seems to me. So many wealthy people spend little or nothing; or, if they do employ us, haggle about the price of our work, or keep us waiting a long time for our money.”
The venerable stranger listened to this conversation with quite as much interest as astonishment. He also lent an attentive ear to other conversations that were going on around him, and everywhere he heard a chorus of praises and benedictions lavished upon Saint-Ramon, while M. de Saint-Herem’s nobility of soul and liberality were lauded to the skies.
“Is all this a dream?” the old man said to himself. “Who would ever believe that these eulogiums and protestations of respect were addressed to the memory of a miser, — of a person belonging to a class of people that is almost universally despised and vilified? And it is the spendthrift heir of this miser who thus eulogises him! But what strange whim led him to invite all his workmen to his entertainment?”
The astonishment of the old man increased as he began to note a strange contrast that was becoming apparent between the guests, for quite a number of correctly dressed and extremely distinguished-looking men — many with decorations in their buttonholes — were now moving about the spacious rooms with exquisitely dressed ladies on their arms.
Florestan de Saint-Herem, handsomer, gayer, and more brilliant than ever, seemed to be entirely in his element in this atmosphere of luxury and splendour. He did the honours of his palace delightfully, receiving every guest with wonderful grace and perfect courtesy. He had stationed himself near the door of the large circular hall into which the reception-room opened, and no woman or young girl entered to whom he did not address a few of those cordial and affable words which, when they are sincere, never fail to charm even the most timid, and make them perfectly at ease.
Florestan was thus engaged when he saw the Comtesse Zomaloff, accompanied by the Princesse Wileska and the Duc de Riancourt, enter the hall.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A NOVEL ENTERTAINMENT.
SAINT-HEREM HAD NEVER seen the Comtesse Zomaloff and her aunt before, but he had known M. de Riancourt a long time, so on seeing him enter, accompanied by two ladies, Florestan stepped quickly forward to meet him.
“My dear Saint-Herem,” said the duke, “permit me to introduce to you Madame la Princesse Wileska and Madame la Comtesse Zomaloff. These ladies hope they have not been indiscreet in accompanying me here this evening to see your new house and its wonders.”
“I am delighted to have the honour of receiving the ladies, and shall be only too glad to show them what you are pleased to call the wonders of my house.”
“And M. de Riancourt is right, for, on entering here, I must confess that it is difficult to decide what one should admire most, everything is so beautiful,” remarked the countess.
“I also feel it my duty to tell you, my dear Saint-Herem, that Madame Zomaloff’s visit is not altogether one of curiosity,” remarked the duke, “for I have told the countess of your intentions in regard to the house, and as I shall be so fortunate as to have the honour of bestowing my name on the countess a week from now, you understand, of course, that I can come to no decision in this matter without consulting her.”
“Really, madame, as M. de Riancourt thus gives himself all the airs of a married man in advance, don’t you think it only fair that he should submit to the consequences of his revelation?” exclaimed Florestan, gaily, turning to Madame Zomaloff. “So, as a husband never gives his arm to his wife, will you not do me the honour to accept mine?”
In this way Florestan escaped the necessity of offering his arm to the princess, who seemed likely to prove a much less agreeable companion than her young and pretty niece, who graciously accepted her host’s proffered arm, while M. de Riancourt, as in duty bound, offered his arm to the princess.
“I have travelled a great deal, monsieur,” said Madame Zomaloff, “but I have never seen anything to compare, not with the magnificence, for any millionaire could compass that, — but with the exquisite taste which has presided over every detail in the construction of this mansion. It is really a superb museum. You will pardon me, I trust, but I really cannot refrain from expressing the admiration the superb decoration of this ceiling excites.”
“The artist’s reward should follow admiration for his work, do you not think so, madame?” inquired Florestan, smiling. “So it depends upon you to make the artist who painted that ceiling both proud and happy.”
And as he spoke Saint-Herem pointed out to Madame Zomaloff one of the most illustrious masters of the modern school of art.
“I thank you a thousand times, monsieur, for this piece of good fortune!” exclaimed the young woman, advancing with Florestan toward the artist.
“My friend,” Saint-Herem said to him, “Madame la Comtesse Zomaloff wishes to express to you her intense admiration for your work.”
“Not only my admiration, but my gratitude as well,” added the lady, graciously. “The profound pleasure the sight of such a chef-d’œuvre excites certainly places the beholder under a deep obligation to the creator of it.”
“However pleasing and flattering such praise may be to me, I can take only a part of it to myself,” replied the illustrious painter, with great modesty and good taste. “But leaving my own works out of the question entirely, so I may be able to express myself more freely, let me advise you to notice particularly the decorations of the ceiling of the music-room. They are the work of M. Ingres, our Raphael, and will furnish pilgrims of art in days to come with as many objects of adoration as the finest frescoes of Rome, Pisa, or Florence, yet this chef-d’œuvre would not be in existence but for my friend Saint-Herem. Really, madame, in this extravagant but essentially materialistic age, is it not a delightful phenomenon to meet a Medici, as in the palmy days of the Italian republics?”
“That is true, monsieur,” replied the countess, quickly, “and history has been only just in—”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, madame la comtesse,” said Saint-Herem, smiling, “but I am no less modest than my famous friend here, so for fear that your enthusiasm may lead you astray, I must point out the real Medici to you. There he is,” added Florestan, pointing to the portrait of Saint-Ramon, as he spoke.
“What an austere face!” exclaimed the countess, scrutinising the portrait with mingled surprise and curiosity; then seeing the name inscribed upon the frame, she asked, turning to Florestan in evident astonishment, “Saint-Ramon? What saint is that?”
“A saint of my own making, madame. He was my uncle, and, though I am not a pope, I have ventured to canonise this admirable man as a reward for his long martyrdom and for the miracles he has wrought since his death.”
“His long martyrdom! The miracles he wrought after his death!” Madame Zomaloff repeated, wonderingly. “You are jesting, monsieur, are you not?”
“Far from it, madame. My uncle imposed the severest privations upon himself during his life, for he was a confirmed miser. That was his martyrdom. I inherited his wealth; so the artistic achievements you so much admire really owe their origin indirectly to him. These are the miracles to which I alluded.”
Madame Zomaloff, more and more impressed by Saint-Herem’s originality, was silent for a moment, but M. de Riancourt, who had been standing a little distance off, now approached Florestan, and said:
“There is a question I have been wanting to ask you ever since our arrival, my dear Saint-Herem. Who are these people? I have recognised three or four great painters and a celebrated architect among them, but who are the others? The princess and I have been trying in vain to solve the mystery.”
“As M. Riancourt has ventured to ask this rather indiscreet question, I must confess that I share his curiosity, monsieur,” added Madame Zomaloff.
“You have doubtless noticed, madame, that most of the persons I have taken such pleasure in welcoming this evening do not belong to the fashionable world.”
“That is true.”
“Still, you were much pleased just now, were you not, madame, to meet the great artist whose work you so greatly admired?”
“Yes, monsieur; I told you how much pleasure the opportunity to meet him afforded me.”
“You must consequently approve, I think, of my having extended an invitation to him as well as to a number of his colleagues.”
“It seems to me that such an invitation was almost obligatory upon you, monsieur.”
“Ah, well, madame, I feel that it was likewise obligatory upon me to extend the same invitation to all who had assisted in any way in the construction of this house, from the famous artists to the humblest mechanic, so they are all here with their families enjoying the beauties they have created, as they, in my opinion, at least, have an undoubted right to do.”
