The Nabob [210]
some days past had left him in ignorance of the public exasperation, of the homilies, the statements broadcast in the newspapers, with the corrupting influence of his wealth as their text--articles written for effect, hypocritical phraseology by the aid of which opinion avenges itself from time to time on the innocent for all its own concessions to the guilty. It was a terribly embarrassing exhibition, which gave him at first more sorrow than anger. Deeply moved, he hid his emotion behind his opera- glass, fixing his attention on the least details of the stage arrangements, giving a three-quarters view of his back to the house, but unable to escape the scandalous observation of which he was the victim and which made his ears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his opera-glass become full of those whirling multi-coloured circles which are the first symptom of brain disorder.
When the curtain fell at the end of the first act he remained motionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment; the whisperings, now more distinct when they were no longer held in check by the dialogue on the stage, the pertinacity of certain inquisitive people changing their places in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave his box and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beast escaping across a circus from the arena. Beneath the low ceiling in the narrow circular passage of the theatre corridors, he found himself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd of emasculate youths, journalists, tightly laced women wearing their hats, laughing as part of their trade, their backs against the wall. From box-doors opened for air, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were escaping:
"A delightful piece. It is fresh; it is good."
"That Nabob! What impudence!"
"Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it."
"How is it that he has not yet been arrested?"
"Quite a young man, it seems. It is his first play."
"Bois l'Hery at Mazas! It is impossible. Why, there is the marquise opposite, in the balcony, with a new hat."
"What does that prove? She is at her business as a stager of new fashions. It is very pretty, that hat. In Desgrange's racing colours."
"And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing?"
"At Tunis, with Felicia. Old Brahim has seen them both. It seems that the Bey has begun to take the pearls."
"The deuce he has!"
Farther along, soft voices were murmuring:
"Yes, father, do, do go speak to him. See how lonely he looks, poor man!"
"But, children, I do not know him."
"Never mind. Just a bow. Something to show him that he is not utterly deserted."
Thereupon the little old gentleman, very red in the face and wearing a white tie, stepped quickly in front of the Nabob, and ceremoniously raised his hat to him with great respect. With what gratitude, what a smile of eager good-will was that solitary greeting returned, that greeting from a man whom Jansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen, and who had yet exerted a weighty influence upon his destiny; for, but for the /pere/ Joyeuse, the chairman of the board of the Territorial would probably have shared the fate of the Marquis de Bois l'Hery. Thus it is that in the tangle of modern society, that great web of interests, ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all the various worlds are connected, united beneath the surface, from the highest existences to the most humble; this it is that explains the variegation, the complexity of this study of manners, the collection of the scattered threads of which the writer who is careful of truth is bound to make the background of his story.
In ten minutes the Nabob had been subjected to every manifestation of the terrible ostracism of that Paris world to which he had neither relationship nor serious ties, and whose contempt isolated him more surely than a visiting monarch is isolated by respect--the averted look, the apparently aimless step aside, the hat suddenly put on and pulled down over the eyes. Overcome by embarrassment and shame, he stumbled. Some one said quite
When the curtain fell at the end of the first act he remained motionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment; the whisperings, now more distinct when they were no longer held in check by the dialogue on the stage, the pertinacity of certain inquisitive people changing their places in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave his box and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beast escaping across a circus from the arena. Beneath the low ceiling in the narrow circular passage of the theatre corridors, he found himself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd of emasculate youths, journalists, tightly laced women wearing their hats, laughing as part of their trade, their backs against the wall. From box-doors opened for air, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were escaping:
"A delightful piece. It is fresh; it is good."
"That Nabob! What impudence!"
"Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it."
"How is it that he has not yet been arrested?"
"Quite a young man, it seems. It is his first play."
"Bois l'Hery at Mazas! It is impossible. Why, there is the marquise opposite, in the balcony, with a new hat."
"What does that prove? She is at her business as a stager of new fashions. It is very pretty, that hat. In Desgrange's racing colours."
"And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing?"
"At Tunis, with Felicia. Old Brahim has seen them both. It seems that the Bey has begun to take the pearls."
"The deuce he has!"
Farther along, soft voices were murmuring:
"Yes, father, do, do go speak to him. See how lonely he looks, poor man!"
"But, children, I do not know him."
"Never mind. Just a bow. Something to show him that he is not utterly deserted."
Thereupon the little old gentleman, very red in the face and wearing a white tie, stepped quickly in front of the Nabob, and ceremoniously raised his hat to him with great respect. With what gratitude, what a smile of eager good-will was that solitary greeting returned, that greeting from a man whom Jansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen, and who had yet exerted a weighty influence upon his destiny; for, but for the /pere/ Joyeuse, the chairman of the board of the Territorial would probably have shared the fate of the Marquis de Bois l'Hery. Thus it is that in the tangle of modern society, that great web of interests, ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all the various worlds are connected, united beneath the surface, from the highest existences to the most humble; this it is that explains the variegation, the complexity of this study of manners, the collection of the scattered threads of which the writer who is careful of truth is bound to make the background of his story.
In ten minutes the Nabob had been subjected to every manifestation of the terrible ostracism of that Paris world to which he had neither relationship nor serious ties, and whose contempt isolated him more surely than a visiting monarch is isolated by respect--the averted look, the apparently aimless step aside, the hat suddenly put on and pulled down over the eyes. Overcome by embarrassment and shame, he stumbled. Some one said quite