The Count was intoxicated by the light perfume of
Esperance’s body there so near him that he seemed
almost to touch her. His strong hands rose and
fell beside her delicate fingers, making the young
girl think of a great hawk fluttering over white pigeons,
at the farm of Penhouet in Brittany, where for years
she had spent her holidays. The fragment was
executed brilliantly, for these two persons, united
in their enthusiasm for art, although so different
in personal reactions, gave the two auditors of this
musical treat a magnificent interpretation of Liszt’s
genius. Francois Darbois and his wife, both distinguished
in their appreciation of the beautiful, could not
sufficiently thank the Count, dividing his praises
with congratulations to their daughter.
“You surpassed yourself, my dear,” said
the philosopher, “but then I admit that you
have never before had such a partner. It was really
remarkable.”
When the young man had left, Esperance excused herself,
saying that she was tired. She kissed her parents
tenderly, although for the first time she felt an
unjust and unfounded resentment against them.
She was aggrieved that they should see nothing of
Count Styvens’s manoeuvres.
The maid, helping her to undress, exclaimed, “How
grand it was this evening, Mademoiselle, and what
a fine young gentleman!”
Esperance shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.
Marguerite, coming in to see that the young mistress
whom she adored wanted nothing, could not help saying,
“Ah! Mademoiselle, what talent he has, that
young Count! How well you two did look, your
backs, sitting side by side! I just said to myself....”
Esperance shivered, guessing what was coming, and
interrupted the good woman quickly, “Don’t
talk to me Marguerite, to-night. I am tired and
I must go to sleep.”
But she did not sleep.
The last presentation of Sardou’s play was a
veritable ovation for Esperance. Flowers were
presented to her on the stage. Two baskets attracted
special attention, one overflowing with white orchids;
the other, with gardenias, so powerful in their sweetness
that even the first rows of the orchestra felt their
strength. It was rumoured in the boxes that the
white orchids were sent by the Countess Styvens and
her son Albert, who were sitting in a stall in the
auditorium. As to the gardenias, the card attached
to the green ribbons of the basket revealed the name
of the most elegant clubman of Paris, the Duke Charles
de Morlay-La-Branche. He was a handsome man of
thirty-two, very wealthy, adored by women, popular
with men. A ripple ran through the audience.
“You know the Duke, they say that he is very
much taken....”
“They know each other?”
“No, he has never been presented.”
“No, look out for the love of the immaculate
Albert,” said mockingly a beautiful woman with
bold eyes, glancing toward the stall occupied by Albert
and his mother; but her eyes widened at seeing the
Duke enter to present his compliments to the Countess
Styvens. A few minutes later he was seen to go
out with Count Albert. He was going to be presented
to the young artist.
