A PARISIAN SCENE

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET

Persons

The Prince, thirty years old.
The Countess, twenty-six years old.

Scene—The Countess’s Boudoir.

The Countess. How do you do, Prince?

Prince. What, not out? Ah, I am fortunate, upon my word!

Countess. But you wrote me that you would come—

Prince. I wrote you that, really? Ah, that’s odd. Ah, ah, that is amusing! Madame, your mother is well?

Countess. Very well—a little tired, that’s all—she’s just going up to her room. But sit down.

Prince (seating himself). Do you know what brings me here?

Countess. What?

Prince. I come to ask your advice. Imagine that I dined at the Embassy. They got talking about little drawing-room comedies, about proverbes or parables, about those little things, you know, that they play at private theatricals, and of the difficulty one experiences in finding any that are not too hackneyed, that one has not seen everywhere, and that are agreeable.

Countess. Yes—and then?

Prince. Very well, then. I was in rather a good humor; the spirit was upon me to compose during the week one of those witty trifles. A wager, serious enough, in fact, was connected with it. Briefly, since yesterday I have been thinking, without boring myself about other matters.

Countess. And you have hit upon something?

Prince. I have not yet thought of anything. But it will come. I conceived the idea of talking it over with you. We will do the thing together, if you are quite willing. It is very easy, you will see.

Countess. But I don’t know, for my part, that it is so very easy.

Prince. Positively. Nothing more simple. Will you try?

Countess. Mon Dieu, I should like to—but you must hold the pen.

Prince. That’s understood.

Countess. There, there’s paper and ink—blue ink; is that all right?

Prince. Blue ink will do no harm. (Places himself at a centre-table.) There! Sit down in front of me, like a muse, and let us begin without further ceremony, will you?

Countess. Very willingly—but it’s rather embarrassing, it seems to me.

Prince. Not at all. It’s very easy. Always the same thing: Two people who chat about the rain and about fine weather—more or less wittily, as it happens to come. Well, are you ready?

Countess. Yes, yes—go on.

Prince. First we must write down the persons: “The Count, the Countess ——,” is it not?

Countess. Yes, of course—but is this to be a proverbe?

Prince. Yes, it’s a proverbe.

Countess. But what proverbe? That must be decided first.

Prince. Oh! Mon Dieu, why? It’s of no use—it will develop itself in time—it will evolve naturally from the conversation—it will be the finishing touch.

Countess. So be it. Go on.

Prince. “The Count, the Countess. First scene—” Well?

Countess. Hé!

Prince. What is it they say?

Countess. But what is the subject?

Prince. There is no subject! It is a witty trifle, I told you—a nothing—an improvisation without substance—a go-as-you-please conversation—I am not proposing that you should write “The Misanthrope,”[11] remember.

Countess. Yet it is necessary to know what they are to talk about.

Prince. But about nothing—about trifles—you know how those things are!

Countess. But, no, my dear Prince, I know nothing about it—and no more do you, so it would seem.

Prince. Come, chère madame, do not let us quarrel. We said, “The Count and the Countess,” is it not so? They are in the country—and the Count is bored, I suppose—

Countess. Yes, that’s new enough.

Prince. I do not say that it must be new, but at any rate it is a subject, since you must have one. So then, the Count is bored—and the Countess—the Countess—

Countess. Is bored too, perhaps?

Prince. It’s an idea, and with that combination, too, may become original enough. They are both bored—Well, you see, chère madame, we are progressing. Let us pass on to the dialogue—That, that’s the easiest—Once in the dialogue it will go by itself—“The Count—” The Count—he enters, doesn’t he?

Countess. Quite right.

Prince. And in entering, he says—

Countess. He says?

Prince. What?

Countess. I am asking you.

Prince. Well—he might say, for instance, “Always alone, dear Countess?”

Countess. I see nothing inappropriate in that.

Prince. It’s sufficiently the phrase of a bored man—“Always alone, dear Countess?”

Countess. It’s a charming phrase—To which the Countess, who is always alone, replies?

Prince. Wait—yes—perhaps—that is to say, no—that will not do.

Countess. Instead of entering the diplomatic service you ought to devote yourself to literature—with your facility.

Prince (rising). It is certain that I am too beastly stupid—dumb as an animal—And then I am thinking of something else—Oh, well, I am going!

Countess. No!

Prince. I assure you that at other times I had a sort of wit—Inquire at the Embassy—they know—But I am altogether changed—Good night, I am going.

Countess. No!

Prince. I am not going?

Countess. No, I tell you!

Prince. So be it. (He sits down again.)

Countess. Let us return. Where were we?—“The Count, the Countess—”

Prince. The truth is you ought to consider me a regular imbecile.

Countess. Is it the Count says that?

Prince. No, it is I.

Countess. Not at all—I find you only a little odd.

Prince. Odd! You are very kind—But no, really; I beg of you to inquire at the Embassy—they will tell you that I do not lack intelligence, and that at other times I had even a sort of inspiration.

Countess. But, my Prince, I have no need to inquire at the Embassy, I have only to remember. I have known you to be extremely brilliant, several months ago when you were making love to me.

Prince. Brilliant, no; but I was as good as another at any rate.

Countess. Yes, yes, I insist—You were a brilliant young man, sparkling, dreadful!—(She rubs her hands softly.)

Prince. You are making fun of me—I was not sparkling, but I had some vivacity—and that was but two years ago! It is true that I had only just arrived at Paris,—and that I had not yet passed under the influence of the climate.

Countess. You believe it was the climate—

Prince. What will you have? It must assuredly have been something—It isn’t age—I am not thirty years old—At any rate, I think I shall leave Paris, and diplomacy as well—My mother sends for me from Vienna—I received a letter from her this morning—I wanted, also, to show it to you—

(He fumbles about in his coat pocket and pulls out a letter half-tangled in some black lace.)

Countess. What lace is that coming out of your pocket?

Prince (confused). Lace? Oh! Do you see some lace?

Countess. This—But I say, my Prince, is not this one of my veils, here?

Prince. One of your veils—here?—Are you sure?

Countess. Absolutely!—And I am going to take it back, too, if you will allow me—That’s lace of great price, if you have your doubts about it.

Prince. I implore you to believe, indeed, madame, that I did not attach a mercenary value to it. But how do I come to have that veil about me?

Countess. It is very easy to explain. I must have left it at the Embassy on a visit, they charged you to return it to me, and with your usual absent-mindedness, you forgot the commission.

Prince. That’s simple. I ask ten thousand pardons. It is perfectly evident! You see I am not myself at all any more. All my faculties—even my memory—are weakening. It is high time I go to recover strength in my native air. You see what my mother tells me?

Countess (running through the letter). She has the air of a noble woman, your mother.

Prince. Yes. We two are very fond of each other. She advises me not to have too much success, poor mother! She believes me always irresistible.

Countess. Then you have been so, my prince?

Prince. Why, yes, a little, up to the day I had the honor of meeting you—Well, what do you advise me?

Countess. To go, since your mother wishes to see you again.

Prince. That’s my advice, too, and to tell you the truth, I came this evening specially to bid you good-by.

Countess. What! to bid me good-by?—And that proverbe? What was the object of that joke?

Prince. That proverbe? Come, madame, I want the last impression you receive of me to be pleasant. You will laugh. Here is the history of that proverbe. You remember well enough that which passed between us two years ago, after I had vainly offered you my heart and my hand. It so happened that if I wished to continue to regard you as a friend, I must sternly refrain from all allusions to a love definitely repulsed. I gave you my word on the matter, and I expected to have kept it scrupulously.

Countess. That is true.

Prince. Well, then, I made a mistake there. Excuse me, I swear to you that I am going. My discretion and my reserve naturally made you believe that I was cured of my love.

Countess. Naturally.

Prince. Yes. Well, it is a mistake. I love you always. I love you like a fool, like a child, like an angel, like a savage, as you will. Having decided to go away, I wished first to make one supreme effort, a desperate one. The idea of that proverbe came to me. Under cover of that proverbe I promised myself to set my feelings before you, with so much fire, emotion, eloquence, wit, that you would be infallibly softened, fascinated, and overcome. You have seen how successful I was!—Isn’t it comic?—Now, madame, adieu.

Countess. Adieu, Prince.

Prince. One word more. Be gracious enough to tell me why you refused to marry me. My proposal was, in fact, perfectly honest and perfectly worthy of acceptance. Why did you repulse it with so much decision? Was it from caprice, from antipathy, or did you have some serious reason?

Countess. I had a serious reason.

Prince. You loved some one?

Countess. No one.

Prince. Then your heart was free, like your hand. You had not been, you told me so yourself, particularly happy with your husband—although he was charming, from what they say.

Countess. He was charming, altogether charming, sparkling and irresistible—like you—in days gone by.

Prince. In short, you were not happy; consequently, you had no occasion to torment yourself if you became unfaithful to the memory of the dead. As for me I had a brilliant name, a fortune, a position. At that time I was not ill and depressed as I am now. I was tolerable in my person.

Countess. Very handsome, indeed.

Prince. I passed for a sufficiently lively talker. I made court to you, if I remember, with—intelligence.

Countess. With much, much wit.

Prince. And you refused me!—Come, now, why?

Countess. You do not guess?

Prince. Not at all.

Countess (she takes his hand and looks him tenderly in the eyes). It is because I love dumb animals, my friend!