The Parisians — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (beautiful books to read TXT) 📖

The Englishman halted at the threshold. His eye, passing rapidly over the figure of Savarin reading in the window-niche, rested upon Rameau and Isaura seated on the same divan, he with her hand clasped in both his own, and bending his face towards hers so closely that a loose tress of her hair seemed to touch his forehead.

The Englishman halted, and no revolution which changes the habitudes and forms of States was ever so sudden as that which passed without a word in the depths of his unconjectured heart. The heart has no history which philosophers can recognize. An ordinary political observer, contemplating the condition of a nation, may very safely tell us what effects must follow the causes patent to his eyes; but the wisest and most far-seeing sage, looking at a man at one o’clock, cannot tell us what revulsions of his whole being may be made ere the clock strike two.

As Isaura rose to greet her visitor, Savarin came from the window-niche, the manuscript in his hand.

“Son of perfidious Albion,” said Savarin, gayly, “we feared you had deserted the French alliance. Welcome back to Paris, and the entente cordiale.”

“Would I could stay to enjoy such welcome! but I must again quit Paris.”

“Soon to return, n’est ce pas? Paris is an irresistible magnet to les beaux esprits. A propos of beaux esprits, be sure to leave orders with your bookseller, if you have one, to enter your name as subscriber to a new journal.”

“Certainly, if Monsieur Savarin recommends it.”

“He recommends it as a matter of course; he writes in it,” said Rameau.

“A sufficient guarantee for its excellence. What is the name of the journal?”

“Not yet thought of,” answered Savarin. “Babes must be born before they are christened; but it will be instruction enough to your bookseller to order the new journal to be edited by Gustave Rameau.”

Bowing ceremoniously to the editor in prospect, Graham said, half ironically, “May I hope that in the department of criticism you will not be too hard upon poor Tasso?”

“Never fear; the Signorina, who adores Tasso, will take him under her special protection,” said Savarin, interrupting Rameau’s sullen and embarrassed reply.

Graham’s brow slightly contracted. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “is then to be united in the conduct of this journal with M. Gustave Rameau?”

“No, indeed!” exclaimed Isaura, somewhat frightened at the idea.

“But I hope,” said Savarin, “that the Signorina may become a contributor too important for an editor to offend by insulting her favourites, Tasso included. Rameau and I came hither to entreat her influence with her intimate and illustrious friend, Madame de Grantmesnil, to insure the success of our undertaking by sanctioning the announcement of her name as a contributor.”

“Upon social questions,—such as the laws of marriage?” said Graham, with a sarcastic smile, which concealed the quiver of his lip and the pain in his voice.

“Nay,” answered Savarin, “our journal will be too sportive, I hope, for matters so profound. We would rather have Madame de Grantmesnil’s aid in some short roman, which will charm the fancy of all and offend the opinions of none. But since I came into the room, I care less for the Signorina’s influence with the great authoress,” and he glanced significantly at the manuscript.

“How so?” asked Graham, his eye following the glance.

“If the writer of this manuscript will conclude what she has begun, we shall be independent of Madame de Grantmesnil.”

“Fie!” cried Isaura, impulsively, her face and neck bathed in blushes,—“fie! such words are a mockery.”

Graham gazed at her intently, and then turned his eyes on Savarin. He guessed aright the truth. “Mademoiselle then is an author? In the style of her friend Madame de Grantmesnil?”

“Bah!” said Savarin, “I should indeed be guilty of mockery if I paid the Signorina so false a compliment as to say that in a first effort she attained to the style of one of the most finished sovereigns of language that has ever swayed the literature of France. When I say, ‘Give us this tale completed, and I shall be consoled if the journal does not gain the aid of Madame de Grantmesnil,’ I mean that in these pages there is that nameless charm of freshness and novelty which compensates for many faults never committed by a practised pen like Madame de Grantmesnil’s. My dear young lady, go on with this story,—finish it; when finished, do not disdain any suggestions I may offer in the way of correction,—and I will venture to predict to you so brilliant a career as author, that you will not regret should you resign for that career the bravoes you could command as actress and singer.”

The Englishman pressed his hand convulsively to his heart, as if smitten by a sudden spasm. But as his eyes rested on Isaura’s face, which had become radiant with the enthusiastic delight of genius when the path it would select opens before it as if by a flash from heaven, whatever of jealous irritation, whatever of selfish pain he might before have felt; was gone, merged in a sentiment of unutterable sadness and compassion. Practical man as he was, he knew so well all the dangers, all the snares, all the sorrows, all the scandals menacing name and fame, that in the world of Paris must beset the fatherless girl who, not less in authorship than on the stage, leaves the safeguard of private life forever behind her, who becomes a prey to the tongues of the public. At Paris, how slender is the line that divides the authoress from the Bohemienne! He sank into his chair silently, and passed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out a vision of the future.

Isaura in her excitement did not notice the effect on her English visitor. She could not have divined such an effect as possible. On the contrary, even subordinate to her joy at the thought that she had not mistaken the