The Dedalus Book of French Horror: The 19th Century (40 page)

Through these salons, where a few servants stood in sombre livery, pointing out the way, the guests passed like phantoms, and the silence was so deep that one could hear their patent boots creak on the parquet’s inlaid wood or mosaic from one end of the rooms to the other.

It was in the last room that the reception was being held. Powerful lamps set into huge Japanese vases, a chandelier with forty branches hanging from a ceiling representing Olympus at the end of a silken rope tied to Venus’s belt, wall lamps laden with candles and reflecting their light into mirrors of polished silver, created a veritable daylight illumination which made visible every detail of luxurious appointments in which modern comfort had made intelligent accommodation to the severities of former style.

The lady of the noble Roman villa was none other, we must now confess, than mademoiselle Dafné de Boisfleury. An Englishman, back from India, possessing a great many
lacks
of rupees, surfeited with the somewhat sun-scorched charms of the nautch-girls, splenetic in the extreme and wearing around his eyes the golden spectacles of hepatitis, had found her as amusing as a monkey making faces at some carnival supper and had treated himself to ‘this droll litde item’. He had soon tired of her in the intimacy of an Italian journey and had set out again for Calcutta, leaving Dafné with a large sum of money, by way of consolation, magnificently installed in the Pandolfis’ villa, which he had bought from its last owner, who had become destitute and was compelled to this painful sacrifice of seeing a whore live in the palace of his forebears.

Dafné had not yet completed her toilette; such creatures take forever, and some seven or eight guests waited with the rather stiff composure of men who are rivals, either de facto or at least in intent. The ones who were or had been in favour with the diva, behaved with magnanimity, while the others, for all their polite manners, maintained a cold, almost fierce demeanour. We will surprise no one with the information that they included a hereditary duke, a British peer of the realm, a Roman prince, a Russian grand duke, two marquis, a baron, who, if not the first baron in Christendom, belonged no less to a very illustrious family, and a charming little embassy attaché, all youthfulness and blondness and pinkness, who might well have been taken for the angel of diplomacy. Any salon might be honoured with such guests, and if they were here, it was because well-bred people are fond of bad company to make up for the boredom they are caused by the good kind.

If you will allow, we shall leave these fine gentlemen busy leafing through albums, looking at stereoscopic pictures, inspecting the knick-knacks on the shelves, and exchanging polite observations about the legs of the prima ballerina, and we shall make our way into Dafné’s dressing-room. She was standing, dressed from head to toe, beside a vast marble table covered in flacons, brushes, pots, little steel implements and the whole panoply of modern beauty care. In front of her was spread out an array of glass screens, a triple cheval mirror, the triptych of coquettishness, which allowed her to look at herself full-length from any angle. Dafné’s outfit consisted in a gown of ice-green taffeta, its every seam trimmed with silver lace which likewise framed the neckline, and, sewn flat, formed squares, diamonds, circles and loops on the skirt. Silver strips of cloth matching the trimming of the gown, shone here and there among her red hair, which was waved and crimped and bristled up on her forehead, tied back at the nape and escaping in an enormous spray of spiralling tawny gold over her shoulders which, for all that they belonged to a creature so black of soul, were no less white.

Although she had every reason to be pleased with her toilette, Dafné was not engaged in giving her triple cheval mirror the approving look which she did not stint herself whenever the edifice of her coiffure had turned out well and the train of her gown was sufficiently long.

The dressing-room curtain had just fallen upon a mysterious visit. A woman dressed in black and hermetically veiled, had arrived noiselessly and left in the same way through secret passages of which she seemed to have foreknowledge, and which had enabled her to reach Dafné unknown to the servants.

Women of this sort, dressed in black with faces masked by a grenadine veil, are often seen prowling around fashionable courtesans, whispering promises of caskets and purses of gold, of guaranteed incomes; but this one, in her costume the colour of darkness akin to a domino’s cape, had a genuine air of grandeur.

However, when she had gone, Dafné opened an iron safe embedded in the wall and defended by every lock combination that could be created by the rivalrous Huret and Fichet, and she locked inside it a wallet swollen with banknotes, doubtless the price or the deposit of the bargain struck. Mademoiselle de Boisfleury had a serious look about her, something which seldom occurred, and as she directed her steps towards the salon, she murmured, as if to memorise, the following bizarre phrase: ‘Press the left eye of the sphinx on the right’. Before entering, doubtless feeling rather pale, she drew from her pocket a little ivory apple which split in half, took from it a pink-powdered puff and patted it over her cheeks.

After the obligatory distribution of handshakes and kisses placed on the back of a well-shared hand, the object of manicurists’ attentions, Dafné gave her arm to the peer of the realm and they moved into the dining room; a high room decorated with a fresco darkened by time and representing the banquet of the gods, the work of some pupil of Jules Romain, if not of Jules Romain himself. This fresco, which dominated the whole room, cut into only by the door and a single window with ample brocade curtains, rested on a dado, where, against a mock-architectural background, Polidoro da Caravàggio
²
had set bronze medallions enhanced by gold hatchings, which contained mythological scenes and attributes. These gods and goddesses in a state of Olympian nakedness underwent violent muscular contractions in order to hold out their goblets of Hebe’s nectar or take ambrosia, the food of immortals, upon great silver dishes. Their torsos, orange-hued, stood out from a sky whose blue had blackened, and their feet rested on wisps of white cloud, resembling marble splinters; all these gods of paganism to whom art had restored some manner of life, seemed to look disdainfully upon the over-modern mortals who laid their earthly dinner beneath their own celestial banquet where only paint was eaten. Juno, with her peacock between her legs and her head slightly turned over her shoulder, seemed to cast fierce glances upon mademoiselle Dafné de Boisfleury, who was placed directly opposite her. The severe wife of Jupiter has never liked nymphs whose behaviour was suspect.

The table was set in the midst of this vast room, upon a Smyrna rug, for though the end of spring was close, the floor mosaic would have been cold underfoot for the guests. On her right Dafné had the peer of the realm, who wore his five and fifty years majestically, retaining the vigour of old men that the English preserve through high living and superior hygiene; on her left was Lothario, the young Roman prince. He was a thin, wiry young man, on the small side, pale complexion, his face ringed by a fine line of very black side whiskers which became joined to a small neat beard that was silky and lustrous as ebony and was not of many years standing. His eyes were a dark brown with yellow glints around the pupil, and his features overall presented that classical regularity which one often encounters in Italy, and which is so rare in our climes. Artists said that Prince Lothario bore a strong resemblance to the portrait of Cesare Borgia by Raphael, which is to be admired in the Borghese Gallery. One night during carnival, Lothario had disguised himself in the costume of the portrait, and one would have said that the Borgia had returned to earth; do not be prompted by this to picture a ferocious and fearsome physiognomy – Lothario appeared the gentlest of men, and his face had the charm of the son of Alexander VI.

While preserving the obsequiousness which courtesans always maintain with regard to millions, even when the millions are white-haired, Dafné cultivated her neighbour on the left, Prince Lothario. She pointed out to him the wines he should drink and the best dishes to sample, leaning towards him almost tenderly, whispering in his ear things she could easily have said aloud, and at Lothario’s least witticism she would laugh fit to burst, displaying her lovely teeth right to the gums and throwing herself back in her chair, so as to show off the treasures of a most white and well-furnished bosom, as our forebears were wont to say in their light and courtly manner; often she would rest her naked arm against Lothario’s sleeve, which would become whitened with powder. These days one gets covered in flour when next to nymphs as much as next to millers.

The meal was refined and delicate. One eats now only at the table of these creatures, who must arouse every kind of indifference, those of the heart and those of the stomach. The champagne known as
la veuve
, the kind one mentions when one wants to go up in a waiter’s esteem, was chilling in decanters of Bohemian crystal, with a compartment set into the side of the vessel for the ice to lie without mixing with the wine. The most famous of fine Rhenish wines were poured from their long-necked bottles into emerald-green goblets, and Dafné, in full flow, told unbelievable anecdotes in a style which borrowed terms from three or four different kinds of slang; for she had been a model, a bit-part player in a small theatre, and had rubbed shoulders with the sporting world through her love life. The artist’s studio, the stage door, and the stable opened their lexicons of colourful idioms to her. It would seem it is a pleasure to see a pretty woman’s lips let fall not pearls or roses, but red mice and toads, because all these men of good family and the best education seemed to be much entertained by Dafné’s conversation. The peer of the realm, who did not always understand, although he was perfectly acquainted with the French of Racine, Fénelon and Voltaire, smiled gravely; the Russian grand duke, who was well versed in all these hackneyed phrases through his assiduous study of the yellow press, was ecstatic about mademoiselle de Boisfleury’s brilliant eloquence, pronouncing her quite incandescent that evening. As for the Roman prince Lothario, in whose honour this fireworks display was given, he appeared barely to notice. Parisian waggishness is lost on an Italian mind; a touch of passion would have worked better to seduce him. Despite his love for Dafné, the angel of diplomacy could not stop himself from acknowledging inwardly that the goddess of his heart used words which were hardly acceptable in any official circles, far less in the chancellery.

Yet anyone observing mademoiselle de Boisfleury with calm eyes would have easily perceived that her bacchanalian posture was cool and that there was something constrained and nervous in her efforts to lend gaiety to her guests. Despite the animation of the meal, her rouge had faded and a hint of moisture dampened her temples. Her eyes, which she strove to make provocative and voluptuous, sometimes flashed with a look of alarm. Happily for her, the guests, warmed by the wine and the good cheer, paid no heed to this secret anguish which shot through the mirth, the shaky puns and preposterous tall tales.

Seeing the mediocre impression she was making on Lothario, Dafné said to herself: ‘Time to move on to the melancholy pose,’ and as if wearied by the part she was playing, she struck an attitude which she knew would suit him; an elbow on the table, a hand at the temple, fingers in her hair and eyes on the ceiling, which gave her gaze a softened, lustrous light. She was really beautiful like this. Lothario, who had been bored by Dafné’s turbulence, turned more indulgent eyes upon her and addressed her with flattering phrases.

There, Dafné told herself, it’s always worthwhile putting on one of those Academy of Fine Arts expressions. This homesick-Mignon look never fails to do the trick.

Coffee was served, and Havana cigars from the best
vueltas
were offered to the guests in a rhinoceros horn minutely carved with the painstaking art of Chinese craftsmen. Bluish rings soon rose up towards the ceiling to meet with the clouds of Olympus, threatening to provoke the goddesses’ sneezes. The antique Venus breathed in the scent of incense; the modern Venus has to make do with the smell of tobacco. As the evening wore on two or three of these gentlemen had left. Those who remained were fearful of leaving the field free to a rival by going. Although more than once Dafné had let the conversation drop like someone desirous of being alone, the young ambassadorial attaché could not make up his mind to withdraw. No one else remained in the salon but himself and Prince Lothario, upon whom mademoiselle de Boisfleury cast languishing looks. At last, he got up and took his leave with an air of glumness. Lothario was getting ready to follow him when Dafné took his hand nervously and spoke very quickly in an undertone: ‘Go and collect your overcoat from the antechamber and send your carriage away.’ This order did not seem to surprise the prince overmuch, and he duly set about obeying it.

During the few minutes that it took him to carry out her command, Dafné, scarcely able to contain her agitation, murmured: ‘Lothario is young, handsome and wealthy. I should very much like to break my word. I should have as much to gain as with the other piece of business; yes, except that the dark woman would have me murdered just as she has promised or she would give me a poison pellet the some poodle.’

She had got thus far with her monologue when Lothario returned. At once, with a rapidity which would have done justice to a great actress, her features assumed a tender, loving and intoxicated expression, and in words mingled with flute-like sighs and melting looks she was able to persuade the young prince that she had long since adored him, ever since that day when she had met him in the Cascina Gardens in Florence and that she was wretched indeed that she, a poor fallen woman, had such high hopes, loving one so pure and noble, who could have nought but scorn for her.

Even when one disbelieves them, it is always pleasant to hear such things, especially if they come from the lips of a pretty woman, ready to prove her remorse with a fresh misdemeanour and to shed for your sake the white robe of innocence that she has donned in order to please you. At this moment Dafné was charming, either because the prince’s beauty genuinely moved her, or because the prospect of a perilous action gave her features a depth of expression to which they were unaccustomed.