_It is Mme. Derline, the wife of one of the most agreeable and richest lawyers in Paris. The Prince of Nerins, whose word has so much weight in such matters, said yesterday evening to every one who would listen, "She is the most beautiful woman in Paris." We are absolutely of that opinion._

A single paragraph, and that was all. It was enough, it was too much!

Mme Derline was seized with a feeling of undefinable confusion. It was a combination of fear and pleasure, of joy and trouble, of satisfied vanity and wounded modesty. Her dressing-gown was a little open; she folded it over with a sort of violence, and crossed it upon, her feet, abruptly drawn back towards the arm-chair. She had a feeling of nudity.

It seemed to her that all Paris was there, in her room, and that the Prince de Nerins was in front saying to all Paris, "Look, look! She is the most beautiful woman in Paris."

The Prince of Nerins! She knew the name well, for she read with keen interest in the papers all the articles ent.i.tled "_Parisian Life_,"

"_High Life_," "_Society Echoes_," etc.; and all the society columns signed "_Mousseline_," "_Fanfreluche_," "_Brimborion_," "_Veloutine_"; all the accounts of great marriages, great b.a.l.l.s, of great comings out, and of great charity sales. The name of the prince often figured in these articles, and he was always quoted as supreme arbiter of Parisian elegances.

And it was he who had declared--ah!--decidedly pleasure got the better of fear. Still trembling with emotion, Mme. Derline went and placed herself before a long looking-gla.s.s, an old cheval-gla.s.s from Jacob's, which never till now had reflected other than good middle-cla.s.s women married to good lawyers. In that gla.s.s she looked at herself, examined herself, studied herself, long, curiously, and eagerly. Of course she knew she was pretty, but oh, the power of print! She found herself absolutely delightful. She was no longer Mme. Derline--she was the most beautiful woman in Paris! Her feet, her little feet--their bareness no longer troubled her--left the ground. She raised herself gently towards the heavens, towards the clouds, and felt herself become a G.o.ddess.

But suddenly an anxiety seized her. "Edward! What would Edward say?"

Edward was her husband. There had been but one man's surname in her life--her husband's. The lawyer was well loved! And almost at the same moment when she was asking herself what Edward would say, Edward abruptly opened the door.

He was a little out of breath. He had run up-stairs two at a time. He was peacefully rummaging among old papers in his study on the ground-floor when one of his brother-lawyers, with forced congratulations, however, had made him read the famous article. He had soon got rid of his brother-lawyer, and he had come, much irritated, to his room. At first there was simply a torrent of words.

"Why do these journalists meddle? It's an outrage! Your name--look, there is your name in this paper!"

"Yes, I know, I've seen--"

"Ah, you know, you have seen--and you think it quite natural!"

"But, dear--"

"What times do we live in? It's your fault, too."

"My fault!"

"Yes, your fault!"

"And how?"

"Your dress last night was too low, much too low. Besides, your mother told you so--"

"Oh, mamma--"

"You needn't say 'Oh, mamma!' Your mother was right. There, read: 'And whose shoulders--ah, what shoulders!' And it is of your shoulders they are speaking. And that prince who dares to award you a prize for beauty!"

The good man had plebeian, Gothical ideas--the ideas of a lawyer of old times, of a lawyer of the Rue Dragon; the lawyers of the Boulevard Malesherbes are no longer like that.

Mme. Derline very gently, very quietly, brought the rebel back to reason. Of course there was charm and eloquence in her speech, but how much more charm and eloquence in the tenderness of her glance and smile.

Why this great rage and despair? He was accused of being the husband of the most beautiful woman in Paris. Was that such a horrible thing, such a terrible misfortune? And who was the brother-lawyer, the good brother-lawyer, who had taken pleasure in coming to show him the hateful article?

"M. Renaud."

"Oh, it was M. Renaud--dear M. Renaud!"

Thereupon Mme. Derline was seized with a hearty fit of laughter; so much so that the blond hair, which had been loosely done up, came down and framed the pretty face from which gleamed the dark eyes which could also, when they gave themselves the trouble, look very gentle, very caressing, very loving.

"Oh, it was M. Renaud, the husband of that delightful Mme. Renaud! Well, do you know what you will do immediately, without losing a minute? Go to the president of the Tribunal and ask for a divorce. You will say to him: 'M. Aubepin, deliver me from my wife. Her crime is being pretty, very pretty, too pretty. I wish another one who is ugly, very ugly, who has Mme. Renaud's large nose, colossal foot, pointed chin, skinny shoulders, and eternal pimples.' That's what you want, isn't it? Come, you big stupid, kiss your poor wife, and forgive her for not being a monster."

As rather lively gestures had ill.u.s.trated this little speech, the white cashmere dressing-gown had slipped--slipped a good deal, and had opened, very much opened; the criminal shoulders were within reach of M.

Derline's lips--he succ.u.mbed. Besides, he too felt the abominable influence of the press. His wife had never seemed so pretty to him, and, brought back to subjection, M. Derline returned to his study in order to make money for the most beautiful woman in Paris.

A very wise and opportune occupation; for scarcely was Mme. Derline left alone when an idea flashed through her head which was to call forth a very pretty collection of bank-notes from the cash-box of the lawyer of the Rue Dragon. Mme. Derline had intended wearing to the Palmer's ball a dress which had already been much seen. Mme. Derline had kept the dress-maker of her wedding-dress, her mother's dress-maker, a dress-maker of the Left Bank. It seemed to her that her new position imposed new duties on her. She could not appear at the Palmer's without a dress which had not been seen, and stamped with a well-known name. She ordered the carriage in the afternoon, and resolutely gave her coachman the address of one of the most ill.u.s.trious dress-makers in Paris. She arrived a little agitated, and to reach the great artist was obliged to pa.s.s through a veritable crowd of footmen, who were in the antechamber chatting and laughing, used to meeting there and making long stops.

Nearly all the footmen were those of society, the highest society; they had spent the previous evening together at the English Emba.s.sy, and were to be that evening at the d.u.c.h.ess of Gremoille.

Mme. Derline entered a sumptuous parlor; it was very sumptuous, too sumptuous. Twenty great customers were there--society women and actresses, all agitated, anxious, feverish--looking at the beautiful tall saleswomen come and go before them, wearing the last creations of the master of the house. The great artist had a diplomatic bearing: b.u.t.toned-up black frock-coat, long cravat with pin (a present from a royal highness who paid her bills slowly), and a many-colored rosette in his b.u.t.ton-hole (the gift of a small reigning prince who paid slower yet the bills of an opera-dancer). He came and went--precise, calm, and cool--in the midst of the solicitations and supplications of his customers. "M. Arthur! M. Arthur!" One heard nothing but that phrase. He was M. Arthur. He went from one to the other--respectful, without too much humility, to the d.u.c.h.esses, and easy, without too much familiarity, to the actresses. There was an extraordinary liveliness, and a confusion of marvellous velvets, satins, and embroidered, brocaded, and gold or silver threaded stuffs, all thrown here and there, as though by accident--but what science in that accident--on arm-chairs, tables, and divans.

In the first place Mme. Derline ran against a shop-girl who was bearing with outstretched arms a white dress, and was almost hidden beneath a light mountain of muslins and laces. The only thing visible was the shop-girl's mussed black hair and sly suburban expression. Mme. Derline backed away, wishing to place herself against the, wall; but a tryer-on was there, a large energetic brunette, who spoke authoritatively in a high staccato. "At once," she was saying--"bring me at once the princess's dress!"

Frightened and dazed, Mme. Derline stood in a corner and watched an opportunity to seize a saleswoman on the fly. She even thought of giving up the game. Never, certainly, should she dare to address directly that terrible M. Arthur, who had just given her a rapid glance in which she believed to have read, "Who is she? She isn't properly dressed! She doesn't go to a fashionable dress-maker!" At last Mme. Derline succeeded in getting hold of a disengaged saleswoman, and there was the same slightly disdainful glance--a glance which was accompanied by the phrase:

"Madame is not a regular customer of the house?"

"No, I am not a customer--"

"And you wish?"

"A dress, a ball-dress--and I want the dress for next Thursday evening--"

"Thursday next!"

"Yes, Thursday next."

"Oh! madame, it is not to be thought of. Even for a customer of the house it would be impossible."

"But I wished it so much--"

"Go and see M. Arthur. He alone can--"

"And where is M. Arthur?"

"In his office. He has just gone into his office. Over there, madame, opposite."

Mme. Derline, through a half-open door, saw a sombre and severe but luxurious room--an amba.s.sador's office. On the walls the great European powers were represented by photographs--the Empress Eugenie, the Princess of Wales, a grand-d.u.c.h.ess of Russia, and an archd.u.c.h.ess of Austria. M. Arthur was there taking a few moments' rest, seated in a large arm-chair, with an air of la.s.situde and exhaustion, and with a newspaper spread out over his knees. He arose on seeing Mme. Derline enter. In a trembling voice she repeated her wish.

"Oh, madame, a ball-dress--a beautiful ball-dress--for Thursday! I couldn't make such a promise--I couldn't keep it. There are responsibilities to which I never expose myself."

He spoke slowly, gravely, as a man conscious of his high position.

"Oh, I am so disappointed. It was a particular occasion and I was told that you alone could--"

Two tears, two little tears, glittered on her eye-lashes. M. Arthur was moved. A woman, a pretty woman, crying there, before him! Never had such homage been paid to his genius.

"Well, madame, I am willing to make an attempt. A very simple dress--"

"Oh no, not simple. Very brilliant, on the contrary--everything that is most brilliant. Two of my friends are customers of yours (she named them), and I am Mme. Derline--"