Notre-Dame de Paris
upon her garments no less distinctly than upon her face.
Beside her stood a young man of imposing mien, although partaking
somewhat of vanity and bravado—one of those handsome fellows whom
all women agree to admire, although grave men learned in
physiognomy shrug their shoulders at them. This young man wore
the garb of a captain of the king’s unattached archers, which
bears far too much resemblance to the costume of Jupiter, which
the reader has already been enabled to admire in the first book
of this history, for us to inflict upon him a second description.
The damoiselles were seated, a part in the chamber, a part in the
balcony, some on square cushions of Utrecht velvet with golden
corners, others on stools of oak carved in flowers and figures.
Each of them held on her knee a section of a great needlework
tapestry, on which they were working in company, while one end of
it lay upon the rush mat which covered the floor.
They were chatting together in that whispering tone and with the
half-stifled laughs peculiar to an assembly of young girls in
whose midst there is a young man. The young man whose presence
served to set in play all these feminine self-conceits, appeared
to pay very little heed to the matter, and, while these pretty
damsels were vying with one another to attract his attention, he
seemed to be chiefly absorbed in polishing the buckle of his
sword belt with his doeskin glove. From time to time, the old
lady addressed him in a very low tone, and he replied as well as
he was able, with a sort of awkward and constrained politeness.
From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloïse, from the
glances which she threw towards her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as
she spoke low to the captain, it was easy to see that there was
here a question of some betrothal concluded, some marriage near
at hand no doubt, between the young man and Fleur-de-Lys. From
the embarrassed coldness of the officer, it was easy to see that
on his side, at least, love had no longer any part in the matter.
His whole air was expressive of constraint and weariness, which
our lieutenants of the garrison would to-day translate admirably
as, “What a beastly bore!”
The poor dame, very much infatuated with her daughter, like any
other silly mother, did not perceive the officer’s lack of
enthusiasm, and strove in low tones to call his attention to the
infinite grace with which Fleur-de-Lys used her needle or wound
her skein.
“Come, little cousin,” she said to him, plucking him by the
sleeve, in order to speak in his ear, “Look at her, do! see her
stoop.”
“Yes, truly,” replied the young man, and fell back into his
glacial and absent-minded silence.
A moment later, he was obliged to bend down again, and Dame
Aloïse said to him,—
“Have you ever beheld a more gay and charming face than that of
your betrothed? Can one be more white and blonde? are not her
hands perfect? and that neck—does it not assume all the curves of
the swan in ravishing fashion? How I envy you at times! and how
happy you are to be a man, naughty libertine that you are! Is not
my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately
in love with her?”
“Of course,” he replied, still thinking of something else.
“But do say something,” said Madame Aloïse, suddenly giving his
shoulder a push; “you have grown very timid.”
We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the captain’s
virtue nor his defect. But he made an effort to do what was
demanded of him.
“Fair cousin,” he said, approaching Fleur-de-Lys, “what is the
subject of this tapestry work which you are fashioning?”
“Fair cousin,” responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone, “I
have already told you three times. ’Tis the grotto of Neptune.”
It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her
mother through the captain’s cold and absent-minded manner. He
felt the necessity of making some conversation.
“And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?”
“For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des Champs,” answered
Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.
The captain took up a corner of the tapestry.
“Who, my fair cousin, is this big gendarme, who is puffing out
his cheeks to their full extent and blowing a trumpet?”
“’Tis Triton,” she replied.
There was a rather pettish intonation in Fleur-de-Lys’s laconic
words. The young man understood that it was indispensable that he
should whisper something in her ear, a commonplace, a gallant
compliment, no matter what. Accordingly he bent down, but he
could find nothing in his imagination more tender and personal
than this,—
“Why does your mother always wear that surcoat with armorial
designs, like our grandmothers of the time of Charles VII.? Tell
her, fair cousin, that ’tis no longer the fashion, and that the
hinge (_gond_) and the laurel (_laurier_) embroidered on her robe
give her the air of a walking mantlepiece. In truth, people no
longer sit thus on their banners, I assure you.”
Fleur-de-Lys raised her beautiful eyes, full of reproach, “Is
that all of which you can assure me?” she said, in a low voice.
In the meantime, Dame Aloïse, delighted to see them thus bending
towards each other and whispering, said as she toyed with the
clasps of her prayer-book,—
“Touching picture of love!”
The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back upon the
subject of the tapestry,—“’Tis, in sooth, a charming work!” he
exclaimed.
Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful blonde,
with a white skin, dressed to the neck in blue damask, ventured a
timid remark which she addressed to Fleur-de-Lys, in the hope
that the handsome captain would reply to it, “My dear
Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries of the Hôtel de la
Roche-Guyon?”
“Is not that the hôtel in which is enclosed the garden of the
Lingère du Louvre?” asked Diane de Christeuil with a laugh; for
she had handsome teeth, and consequently laughed on every
occasion.
“And where there is that big, old tower of the ancient wall of
Paris,” added Amelotte de Montmichel, a pretty fresh and
curly-headed brunette, who had a habit of sighing just as the
other laughed, without knowing why.
“My dear Colombe,” interpolated Dame Aloïse, “do you not mean the
hôtel which belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville, in the reign of
King Charles VI.? there are indeed many superb high warp
tapestries there.”
“Charles VI.! Charles VI.!” muttered the young captain, twirling
his moustache. “Good heavens! what old things the good dame does
remember!”
Madame de Gondelaurier continued, “Fine tapestries, in truth. A
work so esteemed that it passes as unrivalled.”
At that moment Bérangère de Champchevrier, a slender little maid
of seven years, who was peering into the square through the
trefoils of the balcony, exclaimed, “Oh! look, fair Godmother
Fleur-de-Lys, at that pretty dancer who is dancing on the
pavement and playing the tambourine in the midst of the loutish
_bourgeois!_”
The sonorous vibration of a tambourine was, in fact, audible.
“Some gypsy from Bohemia,” said Fleur-de-Lys, turning carelessly
toward the square.
“Look! look!” exclaimed her lively companions; and they all ran
to the edge of the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, rendered
thoughtful by the coldness of her betrothed, followed them
slowly, and the latter, relieved by this incident, which put an
end to an embarrassing conversation, retreated to the farther end
of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier released from
duty. Nevertheless, the fair Fleur-de-Lys’s was a charming and
noble service, and such it had formerly appeared to him; but the
captain had gradually become _blasé;_ the prospect of a speedy
marriage cooled him more every day. Moreover, he was of a fickle
disposition, and, must we say it, rather vulgar in taste.
Although of very noble birth, he had contracted in his official
harness more than one habit of the common trooper. The tavern and
its accompaniments pleased him. He was only at his ease amid
gross language, military gallantries, facile beauties, and
successes yet more easy. He had, nevertheless, received from his
family some education and some politeness of manner; but he had
been thrown on the world too young, he had been in garrison at
too early an age, and every day the polish of a gentleman became
more and more effaced by the rough friction of his gendarme’s
cross-belt. While still continuing to visit her from time to
time, from a remnant of common respect, he felt doubly
embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the first place, because, in
consequence of having scattered his love in all sorts of places,
he had reserved very little for her; in the next place, because,
amid so many stiff, formal, and decent ladies, he was in constant
fear lest his mouth, habituated to oaths, should suddenly take
the bit in its teeth, and break out into the language of the
tavern. The effect can be imagined!
Moreover, all this was mingled in him, with great pretentions to
elegance, toilet, and a fine appearance. Let the reader reconcile
these things as best he can. I am simply the historian.
He had remained, therefore, for several minutes, leaning in
silence against the carved jamb of the chimney, and thinking or
not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys suddenly turned and addressed
him. After all, the poor young girl was pouting against the
dictates of her heart.
“Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian whom
you saved a couple of months ago, while making the patrol with
the watch at night, from the hands of a dozen robbers?”
“I believe so, fair cousin,” said the captain.
“Well,” she resumed, “perchance ’tis that same gypsy girl who is
dancing yonder, on the church square. Come and see if you
recognize her, fair Cousin Phœbus.”
A secret desire for reconciliation was apparent in this gentle
invitation which she gave him to approach her, and in the care
which she took to call him by name. Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers
(for it is he whom the reader has had before his eyes since the
beginning of this chapter) slowly approached the balcony. “Stay,”
said Fleur-de-Lys, laying her hand tenderly on Phœbus’s arm;
“look at that little girl yonder, dancing in that circle. Is she
your Bohemian?”
Phœbus looked, and said,—
“Yes, I recognize her by her goat.”
“Oh! in fact, what a pretty little goat!” said Amelotte, clasping
her hands in admiration.
“Are his horns of real gold?” inquired Bérangère.
Without moving from her arm-chair, Dame Aloïse interposed, “Is
she not one of those gypsy girls who arrived last year by the
Gibard gate?”
“Madame my mother,” said Fleur-de-Lys gently, “that gate is now
called the Porte d’Enfer.”