Memoirs of Thiebault #33 - Masques et Bergamasques

     One evening, Rivierre took me to the ball of the Opera. He treated it very seriously, while I only came out of curiosity. There was no one expecting me or attracting me there, whereas Rivierre was committed to God knows how many love affairs. The ladies’ crowd assaulted him as soon as he entered, fighting to have the privilege of getting him first. Indeed, he was a charming man, with a brilliant spirit and pleasant features; always laughing, endowed with a frame that was both athletic and elegant, he could appeal to all kinds of tastes and this explained the number of women trying to grab him.

     “I have many amusing tales to share,” one of them shouted.

     “Mine will please you nicely,” another called out.

     He did not know whom he should listen, and as both women pulled him left and right, he said, laughing:

     “Please, please, fight among yourselves, I will be the victor’s prize.”

     In such occasions, Rivierre was a source of continuous entertainment. He always found gay and original jabs and repartees to fuel this war of words which offered a thousand variations on the same theme.

     I was soon taken aside and I lost sight of him. The first masker who approached me said that someone who took such good care of his country’s affairs should start thinking of his own, but that I treated my fortune as I did my old friends. Aside from that last reproach, this could be true; however, it was neither spicy nor apropos, and I did not feel seriously intrigued. Things were different with a second masker. She used the masquerades’ jargon with as much amenity, as much vivaciousness and as much maliciousness as could be imagined; she was a rolling flame; but what truly struck me was that there not a single matter or intimate thought which the accursed little masker did not mention, and she did so in the wittiest and most whimsical way. I used every possible trick to uncover the secrets of the fairy I was facing; everything was in vain: I only suffered the most extraordinary defeats. Well, just as she could boast about pulling off the most successful intrigue, another masker approached her and she left. But while she was finished with me, I was not; I kept her in sight, and followed her to the exit door. She stepped into a coach along with her friend, and although I was very hot, it was snowing and I did not have time to take my coat, I wanted to follow my sibyl. Luckily, she stayed at the Rue Neuve des Bons-Enfants; thus I was right on time to foil her when, having taken her mask, she found me in front of her door and had to take my hand to step down from her carriage. One of these ladies was Mme Clavier, the Hellenist’s charming wife; the other was Mme Winch, her young Creole friend. Both knew Rivierre, who had given my interlocutor, Mme Clavier, all the information she could possibly want to know about me.

     Understandably, after this very encouraging beginning, I made haste to go back to the ball. It was almost over, but a masker with a very nice figure took me by the arm and said:

     “How long has it been since you last received news from Milan?”

     “Who is telling you that I am expecting any?”

     “Oh, do not act mysterious, I know your whole story...”

     Indeed, she knew everything, including the pink colour of the paper which made up our correspondence.

     “Beautiful masker,” I then said, “why do you persist in hiding, since you know that my servitude excludes me from any other love affair?”

     “What does it matter! You will not recognise me.”

     “And what if I followed you?”

     I told her of what I had just done. In the end, under the promise of not going further, I got her to take off her gloves and allow me to investigate her hands; but this was not much help; these beautiful hands were unknown to me. I did not know the rings on her fingers either, and the only thing that could catch my attention was a bracelet bearing the motif of an eye surrounded with clouds, an eye which I felt had gazed at me before, but for the moment, it did not remind me of anything. Some time later, Michel Lagreca, who had been in France since the evacuation of Naples, asked for my help on behalf of one of his friends, Texier, who was away due to unfortunate circumstances. This man’s wife was a beautiful Dutch woman, living in Paris on her own wealth. He wanted to introduce me to her, so that she could tell me about her husband’s situation. Thus I came with him to visit her; we had to wait for her in the parlour for a while, and the first item that caught my attention was the bracelet, left on the chimney; and at once, I recognised the eye, for its perfect duplicates were on Michel’s face; therefore two mysteries were solved at once.

     Meanwhile, Rivierre followed the course of his amorous adventures. I joined him after my detour by the Rue Neuve des Bons-Enfants; there was a moment of respite, and we walked amidst this odd scramble, a most inert mass for those who have nothing to do with the idlers and the mad people that composed it, a scramble in which women of the highest condition temporarily cast aside all decency, insolently making advances to the men, and sometimes falling into odious roles; we had barely taken a few steps when Rivierre found himself arm in arm with a little masker whom my presence seemed to embolden instead of intimidating her; after a few pleasantries, she asked:

     “What is your wife doing?”

     “She’s sleeping.”

     “Ah!” the masker retorted with a chuckle, “the things I could do if I made a living out of what women do while their husband think they’re sleeping!”

     Such was the theme; and without following through with the ensuing dialogue, I will point out that this mean female stopped at nothing to make Rivierre suspect that his wife was cheating on him with one of his friends. As for Rivierre, he began by feigning surprise: “What! … really? … Ah! My God!” But the more she spoke, the sterner and gloomier he became; his face distorted in horror, and... “Who would have thought? That’s horrible!” and other such exclamations were all he could utter. Once the masker was done with her abominable litany, Rivierre spoke again: “I am truly unlucky,” he said, “yet would I trade places with your husband? Certainly not, although I am sure that he does not need to worry about anything of the sort,” he added, staring disdainfully at her. She tried to deny that her husband could be as secure as Rivierre claimed; but having turned cutting and derisive, he ended the discussion with these words: “You may try to deny it, but you must be quite ugly for lowering yourself to playing such a vile role, and quite wicked for playing it so well.” With that, he got rid of this perfidious little masker.

     I related that scene in order to show that, amidst good fortunes and happy affairs, the Opera ball could bring its share of bitterness; to further prove that point, I will now speak of two mystifications of which Rivierre was the victim.

     One day, he was approached by a masker with a beautiful figure and attire, and who nonetheless managed to keep him away; as she left, she only granted him an invitation to the next ball, and they agreed on a signal. During this second encounter, the masker played the same part as before, but with renewed seductiveness, which in turn increased Rivierre’s ardour and insistence; yet he could only get her to promise that they would meet again at the mid-Lent ball, and this ball, he last of the year, only ended on a mutual oath to reunite in the first ball of the next year.

     The carnival of this second year of intrigues started. Love had grown during this long wait, but through skilful evasion, the masker managed to keep Rivierre’s most violent desires at bay. Giving one more year of submission as a pretext, she said that she could not give herself entirely for the time being, and the idea of making only half a sacrifice revolted her, so everything had to be put off till the next year; she swore that she would be there.

     The couple reunited again on the third year, and Rivierre was even more in love: “My word is sacred,” the masker said, “just as my passions are exclusive, and if I may count on your tenderness, you must believe in mine; the end of these balls will be the beginning of our happiness.” However, wanting to miss nothing that could fan the flames of love, she delayed the supreme delights until the moment of the last ball, and these words, interlaced on both sides with oaths of adoration, carried them through the last steps of the road of hope. At last the day came; the ball was nearing its end when the masker told Rivierre: “There, I no longer have cause to refuse; I am yours, all yours.” They hurried out of the ballroom, clibming towards the upper rooms; but, just as they were about to enter the one whose key Rivierre had managed to obtain, the masker stopped under a lamp and said: “Before crossing this threshold, you must at least see me and recognise me.” With this, as he pressed her to come, feeling his irritation rise at this last delay, she took off her mask, and my unfortunate friend found himself facing a perfume-maker named Dulac, who was once quite pretty and whose figure was still perfect; her levity, her wits and her mischievousness had made her famous, and she had turned sixty on the previous day. Rivierre was completely stunned, and sobered at once; he left her here, while she burst into laughter and called him an ungrateful monster.

     One of his victims, for he inevitably made many in turn, played another trick on her. During one of these periods of idleness that sometimes come after the most vivid scenes, he suddenly found himself facing a rather short but delightful masker, whose elegant domino suggested a lovely waist. She did not retract when he looked at her; he offered his arm, and she accepted it; he went into raptures guessing what was under the veil. He took one of her hands and admired its delicacy, while the arm he dared touched seemed to be made even rounder by love. Increasingly excited by the masker’s soft resistance, he started to ask questions, and he learnt that he was talking to a woman whose husband drove her to despair, and who had come to the ball out of jealousy. He advised her to take revenge; he praised, pressed and pleaded; she fought back, yet she let herself be carried away, and the bold lover took her one of the side rooms. Once in here, there could be no hesitation, and the masks were down; he was face to face with his wife. He fell ill, while Mme Rivierre was too distressed by her success to twist the knife further.