"Mme. Derline! You are Mme. Derline?"

The two _Mme. Derlines_ were followed by a glance and a smile--the glance was at the newspaper and the smile was at Mme. Derline; but it was a discreet, self-contained smile--the smile of a perfectly gallant man. This is what the glance and smile said with admirable clearness:

"Ah I you are Mme. Derline--that already celebrated Mme. Derline--who yesterday at the opera--I understand, I understand--I was reading just now in this paper--words are no longer necessary--you should have told your name at once--yes, you need me; yes, you shall have your dress; yes, I want to divide your success with you."

M. Arthur called:

"Mademoiselle Blanche, come here at once! Mademoiselle Blanche!"

And turning towards Mme. Derline, he said:

"She has great talent, but I shall myself superintend it; so be easy--yes, I myself."

Mme. Derline was a little confused, a little embarra.s.sed by her glory, but happy nevertheless. Mademoiselle Blanche came forward.

"Conduct madame," said M. Arthur, "and take the necessary measures for a ball-dress, very low, and with absolutely bare arms. During that time, madame, I am going to think seriously of what I can do for you. It must be something entirely new--ah! before going, permit me--"

He walked very slowly around Mme. Derline, and examined her with profound attention; then he walked away, and considered her from a little distance. His face was serious, thoughtful, and anxious. A great thinker wrestling with a great problem. He pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead, raised his eyes to the sky, getting inspiration by a painful delivery; but suddenly his face lit up--the spirit from above had answered.

"Go, madame," he said, "go. Your dress is thought out. When you come back, mademoiselle, bring me that piece of pink satin; you know, the one that I was keeping for some great occasion."

Thus Mme. Derline found herself with Mademoiselle Blanche in a trying-on room, which was a sort of little cabin lined with mirrors. A quarter of an hour later, when the measures had been taken, Mme. Derline came back and discovered M. Arthur in the midst of pieces of satin of all colors, of crepes, of tulles, of laces, and of brocaded stuffs.

"No, no, not the pink satin," he said to Mademoiselle Blanche, who was bringing the asked-for piece; "no, I have found something better. Listen to me. This is what I wish: I have given up the pink, and I have decided on this, this peach-colored satin. A cla.s.sic robe, outlining all the fine lines and showing the suppleness of the body. This robe must be very clinging--hardly any underskirts. It must be of surah. Madame must be melted into it--do you thoroughly understand?--absolutely melted into the robe. We will drop over the dress this crepe--yes, that one, but in small, light pleats. The crepe will be as a cloud thrown over the dress--a transparent, vapory, impalpable cloud. The arms are to be absolutely bare, as I already told you. On each shoulder there must be a simple knot, showing the upper part of the arm. Of what is the knot to be? I'm still undecided--I need to think it over--till to-morrow, madame, till to-morrow."

Mme. Derline came back the next day, and the next, and every day till the day before the famous Thursday; and each time that she came back, while awaiting her turn to try on, she ordered dresses, very simple ones, but yet costing from seven to eight hundred francs each.

And that was not all. On the day of her first visit to M. Arthur, when Mme. Derline came out of the great house, she was broken-hearted--positively broken-hearted--at the sight of her brougham; it really did make a pitiful appearance among all the stylish carriages which were waiting in three rows and taking up half the street. It was the brougham of her late mother-in-law, and it still rolled through the streets of Paris after fifteen years' service. Mme. Derline got into the woe-begone brougham to drive straight to a very well-known carriage-maker, and that evening, cleverly seizing the psychological moment, she explained to M. Derline that she had seen a certain little black coupe lined with blue satin that would frame delightfully her new dresses.

The coupe was bought the next day by M. Derline, who also was beginning fully to realize the extent of his new duties. But the next day it was discovered that it was impossible to harness to that jewel of a coupe the old horse who had pulled the old carriage, and no less impossible to put on the box the old coachman who drove the old horse.

This is how on Thursday, April 25th, at half-past ten in the evening, a very pretty chestnut mare, driven by a very correct English coachman, took M. and Mme. Derline to the Palmer's. They still lacked something--a little groom to sit beside the English coachman. But a certain amount of discretion had to be employed. The most beautiful woman in Paris intended to wait ten days before asking for the little groom.

While she was going up-stairs at the Palmer's, she distinctly felt her heart beat like the strokes of a hammer. She was going to play a decisive game. She knew that the Palmers had been going everywhere, saying, "Come on Thursday; we will show you Mme. Derline, the most beautiful woman in Paris." Curiosity as well as jealousy had been well awakened.

She entered, and from the first minute she had the delicious sensation of her success. Throughout the long gallery of the Palmer's house it was a true triumphal march. She advanced with firm and precise step, erect, and head well held. She appeared to see nothing, to hear nothing, but how well she saw! how well she felt, the fire of all those eyes on her shoulders! Around her arose a little murmur of admiration, and never had music been sweeter to her.

Yes, decidedly, all went well. She was on a fair way to conquer Paris.

And, sure of herself, at each step she became more confident, lighter, and bolder, as she advanced on Palmer's arm, who, in pa.s.sing, pointed out the counts, the marquises, and the dukes. And then Palmer suddenly said to her:

"I want to present to you one of your greatest admirers, who, the other night at the opera, spoke of nothing but your beauty; he is the Prince of Nerins."

She became as red as a cherry. Palmer looked at her and began to laugh.

"Ah, you read the other day in that paper?"

"I read--yes, I read--"

"But where is the prince, where is he? I saw him during the day, and he was to be here early."

Mme. Derline was not to see the Prince of Nerins that evening. And yet he had intended to go to the Palmers and preside at the deification of his lawyeress. He had dined at the club, and had allowed himself to be dragged off to a first performance at a minor theatre. An operetta of the regulation type was being played. The princ.i.p.al personage was a young queen, who was always escorted by the customary four maids-of-honor.

Three of these young ladies were very well known to first-nighters, as having already figured in the tableaux of operettas and in groups of fairies, but the fourth--Oh, the fourth! She was a new one, a tall brunette of the most striking beauty. The prince made himself remarked more than all others by his enthusiasm. He completely forgot that he was to leave after the first act. The play was over very late, and the prince was still there, having paid no attention to the piece or the music, having seen nothing but the wonderful brunette, having heard nothing but the stanza which she had unworthily ma.s.sacred in the middle of the second act. And while they were leaving the theatre, the prince was saying to whoever would listen:

"That brunette! oh, that brunette! She hasn't an equal in any theatre!

She is the most beautiful woman in Paris! The most beautiful!"

It was one o'clock in the morning. The prince asked himself if he should go to the Palmers. Poor Mme. Derline; she was of very slight importance beside this new wonder! And then, too, the prince was a methodical man.

The hour for whist had arrived; so he departed to play whist.

The following morning Mme. Derline found ten lines on the Palmer's ball in the "society column." There was mention of the marquises, the countesses, and the d.u.c.h.esses who were there, but about Mme. Derline there was not a word--not a word.

On the other hand, the writer of theatrical gossip celebrated in enthusiastic terms the beauty of that ideal maid-of-honor, and said, "_Besides, the Prince of Nerins declared that Mademoiselle Miranda was indisputedly the most beautiful woman in Paris!_"

Mme. Derline threw the paper in the fire. She did not wish her husband to know that she was already not the most beautiful woman in Paris.

She has, however, kept the great dress-maker and the English coachman, but she never dared to ask for the little groom.

THE STORY OF A BALL-DRESS

When the women of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries write their memoirs they boldly present themselves to the reader thus: "I have a well-shaped mouth," said the Marquise of Courcelles, "beautiful lips, pearly teeth, good forehead, cheeks, and expression, finely chiselled throat, divine hands, pa.s.sable arms (that is to say, they are a little thin); but I find consolation for that misfortune in the fact that I have the prettiest legs in the world."

And I will follow the marquise's example. Here is my portrait: Overskirt of white illusion trimmed with fringe, and three flounces of blond alternating with the fringe; court mantle of cherry silk girt by a high flounce of white blond which falls over the fringe and is caught up by Marie Antoinette satin; two other flounces of blond are placed behind at intervals above; on each side from the waist up are facings composed of little alternating flounces of blond, looped up with satin; the big puff behind is bound by a flounce of white blond. A little white waist, the front and shoulder-straps of which are of satin trimmed with blond. Belt of red satin with large red b.u.t.terfly.

The world was made in six days, I in three. And yet I too am in the world--a little complicated world of silk, satin, blond, loops, and fringes. Did G.o.d rest while he was making the world? I do not know; but I do know that the scissors that cut me out and the needle that sewed me rested neither day nor night from Monday evening, January 24, 1870, to Thursday morning, January 27th. The slashes of the scissors and the p.r.i.c.ks of the needle caused me great pain at first, but I soon paid no attention to them at all. I began to observe what was going on, to understand that I was becoming a dress, and to discover that the dress would be a marvel. From time to time M. Worth came himself to pay me little visits. "Take in the waist," he would say, "add more fringe, spread out the train, enlarge the b.u.t.terfly," etc.

One thing worried me: For whom was I intended? I knew the name, nothing more--the Baroness Z----. Princess would have been better; but still, baroness did very well. I was ambitious. I dreaded the theatre. It remained to be seen whether this baroness was young, pretty, and equal to wearing me boldly, and whether she had a figure to show me off to advantage. I was horribly afraid of falling into the hands of an ugly woman, a provincial, or an old coquette.

How perfectly rea.s.sured I was as soon as I saw the baroness! Small, delicate, supple, stylish, a fairy waist, the shoulders of a G.o.ddess, and, besides all this, a certain little air of audacity, of raillery, but in exquisite moderation.

I was spread out on a large pearl-gray lounge, and I was received with marks of frank admiration. M. Worth had been good enough to bring me _himself_, and he didn't trouble himself about all dresses.

"How original!" exclaimed the little baroness; "how new! But very dear, isn't it?"

"One thousand and fifty francs."

"One thousand and fifty francs! And I furnished the lace! Ah, how quickly I should leave you if I didn't owe you so much! For I owe you a lot of money."

"Oh, very little, baroness--very little."

"No, no; a great deal. But we will discuss that another day."

That evening I made my first appearance in society, and I came out at the Tuileries. We both of us, the baroness and myself, had an undeniable success. When the Empress crossed the Salon of Diana, making pleasant remarks to the right and left, she had the graciousness to stop before us and make the following remark, which seemed to me extremely witty, "Ah, baroness, what a dress--what a dress! It's a dream!" On that occasion the Empress wore a dress of white tulle dotted with silver, on a design of cloudy green, with epaulettes of sable. It was queer, not ineffective, but in doubtful taste.

We received much attention, the baroness and I. The new Minister, M.