The Romance of Violette

CHAPTER VIII

On entering her mistress' room next morning, Mariette cast an investigating glance on all sides. She saw the easy chair before the cheval glass, the carpet is sprinkled with flowers, Florence lying quite exhausted in bed and awaiting her bath.

Mariette shook her head and said:

“Oh! Madame! Madame!”

“Well, what next?” asked Florence opening her eyes.

“When I think that the handsomest gentlemen and the prettiest women in Paris would like to be your slaves!”

“Do I not deserve it?” asked the actress.

“Oh, madame! I do not mean that. Just the reverse.”

“Well, you see, I can very well do without them.”

“Madame will not be amended. But really, in her place, were it only out of self-respect, I should have a lover.”

“But I cannot bear men. Do you like them, Mariette?”

“Do I like men? No, I do not. But I should certainly like one man.”

“Men only care for us from selfish motives-to exhibit us if we are pretty, to show themselves in our company if we are clever. No! If I gave myself up to a man, he would be such a superior being that I should admire, if not love him.

“Alas! my poor girl, I lost my mother before I knew her; my father was a mathematician, who taught me to believe in nothing but straight lines, squares and circles He used to call God the 'Supreme Unity', he called the universe 'the great whole', and death, 'the great problem'.

“He departed this life when I was only fifteen years old, leaving me penniless and devoid of any illusions. I became an actress, and now of what use is my art to me? To despise the work which I act; to find naught but historical heresies in dramas.

“Of what use to me are my intellectual powers? To find in dramas of the heart the shortcomings of sentiment; to shrug my shoulders at the conceit of the authors who read their productions to me. The major part of my success I reproach myself with as I would a bad action, or an encouragement of bad taste. At first I wished to speak on the stage as one speaks in everyday life-I produced no effect. I ranted when speaking-then I gained applause. At first I composed my own parts rationally, poetically, in masterly touches-they said: 'Good; very good'. I then overdid the part and showed the whites of my eyes; I shouted, I screamed-and there were thunders of applause in the house. The men who pay me compliments do not praise my merits, but my faults; and women do not understand my notions of beauty.

“A compliment which misses its mark hurts one as much as any criticism which does hit the mark. But, thank heaven, I make enough money not to need the favours of anybody.

I had rather die than owe anything to a man and have to say to him: 'Here is my body, repay yourself with it!' No, I had rather die!

“I can only bear women because I domineer over them; because I am their master, their lord, their spouse. But they are wayward, wilful and devoid of intellect. With a few exceptions, they are inferior beings, created for submission. I see no merit in subduing a woman. And then she will complain of being tyrannized, and will deceive you.

“No, no! Look you, Mariette, the ideal of domination is to be one's own mistress-to give nobody the right to say: 'You shall obey me.' Nobody has this right over me. I am twenty-two; am a virgin, like Herminice, like Clorinda, like Bradamante, and if ever I get tired of my virginity, I shall sacrifice it to myself. I shall have both the pain and the pleasure. I will not allow a man to be able to say: 'I possessed that woman.' “

“It is madame's taste, there is nothing to be said.”

“It is not my taste, Mariette. It is the outcome of my Philosophy.”

“As for me,” rejoined Mariette, “I know I should feel much humiliation in dying a virgin.”

“That misfortune will certainly not be yours. Come and dress me, Mariette.”

Florence left her bed languidly and sat in the easy chair in front of the cheval glass.

Florence, as we said before, was not exactly a pretty woman, but she had most expressive features. She had never loved except in imagination, but could render excellently the utmost violence of passion. Her peculiar talent was one rarely met with, such as that of Dorval or of Malibran.

She took her bath, breakfasted on a cup of chocolate, glanced over her part, read the Countess' letter a dozen times, grew excited over it, dined on some consomme, a couple of stewed truffles and four crawfish a la Bordelaise.

Then she went to the theatre in a state of great excitement.

The handsome young man (or rather the Countess) was in his box, and had a large bouquet on a chair close by.

At the fourth act in the course of a pathetic scene, the Countess threw the bouquet.

Florence picked it up, looked for the note inside, and read it without taking time to return to her box.

The note ran thus:

“Have I obtained your pardon? My impatience is such that I have come in person to seek for an answer. If you have forgiven me, place one of the flowers of my bouquet in your hair. In this case I shall be the most tender of lovers, the most happy of women; and I shall wait for you at the stage door with my carriage, for I hope that instead of going home sadly alone, you will do me the pleasure of supping at my house.