This second tableau proved even more successful than the first. The idea seemed particularly ingenious. The boldness of the twenty-franc coins, the dumping of the contents of a modern safe into a corner of Greek mythology, enchanted the imaginations of the ladies and financiers in attendance. “So much gold!” people exclaimed. “So much money!” There were smiles all around, and thrills of satisfaction, as each of the ladies and each of the gentlemen privately dreamt of having all that loot to himself or herself in an underground vault somewhere.
“England has paid its debt, those are your billions,” Louise maliciously whispered in Mme Sidonie’s ear.
Mme Michelin, her lips parted in an expression of rapturous desire, pushed aside her dancer’s veil and with gleaming eyes gazed fondly on the gold, while the group of serious men went into transports. A beaming M. Toutin-Laroche whispered a few words in the ear of the baron, on whose face yellow spots had begun to appear. Meanwhile, Mignon and Charrier, less discreet, expressed themselves in a direct and simple manner: “Good God! There’s enough there to demolish Paris and build it all up again.”
This remark struck Saccard as profound, and he began to think that Mignon and Charrier were thumbing their noses at society when they pretended to be imbeciles. When the curtains had closed, and the piano ended the triumphal march with a great clatter of notes heaped one upon the other like a last shovelful of gold coins, applause broke out even louder and longer than before.
Meanwhile, in the middle of the tableau, the minister, accompanied by his secretary M. de Saffré, had appeared in the door of the salon. Saccard, who had been awaiting his brother’s arrival impatiently, started to rush over to greet him. But his brother signaled him to stay where he was and walked slowly over to the group of serious men. When the curtains had closed and people noticed he was there, whispers coursed through the drawing room, and heads turned in the minister’s direction. The success of “The Amours of Handsome Narcissus and the Nymph Echo” depended on his judgment.
“You are a poet, Monsieur le Préfet,” the smiling official told M. Hupel de la Noue. “You previously published a volume of verse entitled Les Volubilis, if I’m not mistaken. . . . I see that the cares of government have not dampened your imagination.”
In this compliment the prefect detected the sting of an epigram. The sudden appearance of his superior disconcerted him all the more when he looked down to check his attire and noticed the small white handprint on his sleeve, which he did not dare to wipe clean. He bowed and stammered a reply.
“Really,” the minister continued, addressing himself to M. Toutin-Laroche, Baron Gouraud, and other personages nearby, “all that gold was a wonder to behold. We could do great things if M. Hupel de la Noue would coin money for us.”
This was the same remark that Mignon and Charrier had made, but in ministerial language. Then M. Toutin-Laroche and the others made flattering comments that played off the minister’s last sentence: the Empire had already worked miracles; there was no shortage of gold, owing to the vast experience of those in power; never had France enjoyed such a splendid position in the eyes of Europe. In the end, these gentlemen prostrated themselves to such a degree that the minister himself changed the subject. He listened to them with his head held high and the corners of his mouth slightly raised, which imparted to his plump, white, carefully shaved face an air of doubt and smiling disdain.
Saccard, who was looking for an opening to announce Maxime’s marriage to Louise, maneuvered in search of a clever transition. He affected a great familiarity, and his brother, with an air of friendly good nature, did him the favor of pretending to like him a great deal. He was truly superior, with his clear gaze, his visible contempt for petty mischief, and his broad shoulders, a shrug from which would have been enough to send everyone in the room reeling. When the subject of the marriage finally came up, he behaved charmingly and let it be known that his wedding gift was ready and waiting: he brought up the matter of Maxime’s appointment as an auditor with the Conseil d’Etat. In the heartiest of tones he twice went so far as to make his brother the promise he had been waiting to hear: “Tell your son that I want to be his witness.”
M. de Mareuil blushed with pleasure. Saccard accepted congratulations. M. Toutin-Laroche offered to serve as a second witness. Then the conversation abruptly turned to the subject of divorce. A member of the opposition had just found what M. Haffner called the “lamentable courage” to defend this social disgrace. This was greeted with cries of protest from all present. Their sense of propriety found profound words in which to express itself. M. Michelin smiled discreetly at the minister, while Mignon and Charrier noted with astonishment that his jacket collar was worn.
Meanwhile, M. Hupel de la Noue continued to lean uncomfortably on Baron Gouraud’s chair after the baron contented himself with a silent shake of the minister’s hand. The poet did not dare move from the spot, held there by an indefinable sentiment, a fear of looking ridiculous and of forfeiting the approval of his superior, despite his burning desire to go backstage to position the women for the final tableau. He was waiting for some clever remark to occur to him and restore him to favor. But none came. He was feeling more and more embarrassed when he spotted M. de Saffré, took him by the arm, and latched on to him as to a life raft. The young man had just arrived; here was a fresh victim.
“Have you heard the Marquise’s witty repartee?” the prefect asked.
But he was so flustered that he found it impossible to tell the story properly. He floundered. “I said to her, ‘You’re wearing a charming costume,’ and she answered—”
“ ‘I have a much prettier one underneath,’ ” M. de Saffré calmly finished his sentence. “That’s an old one, my dear fellow, very old.”
M. Hupel de la Noue looked at him in consternation. The witticism was an old one, yet he had been on the verge of embellishing yet again his commentary on the simplicity of the marquise’s cry from the heart.
“Old, as old as the hills,” the secretary repeated. “Mme d’Espanet has already used that remark twice at the Tuileries.”
That was the last straw. At that point the prefect ceased to care about the minister and the crowd in the drawing room. He was headed for the platform when the piano launched into the prelude, a series of notes played so tremulously that they seemed almost to weep. Then the plangent melody opened out into a more expansive section, which dragged on for quite some time, and the curtains were drawn aside. M. Hupel de la Noue, who had already half-vanished backstage, returned to the salon when he heard the gentle grating of the curtain rings on their rods. He looked pale and exasperated. By dint of immense effort he overcame a violent urge to berate the ladies. They had placed themselves on stage! It must have been the little Espanet woman who had organized the conspiracy to speed up the costume changes and make do without his advice. It was all wrong! What they had done was no good at all!
He returned to his place, muttering to himself. He looked at the stage, shrugged, and mumbled, “Echo is too close to the edge. . . . And there’s no nobility in Narcissus’ leg, none at all.”
Mignon and Charrier, who had come over to hear his “explanation,” ventured to ask “what the young man and young woman are doing lying on the ground.” But M. Hupel de la Noue did not answer. He refused to explain his poem any further, and when the contractors pressed their question, he said, “Why, I have nothing more to do with it, now that those women have gone and placed themselves without me.”