Alexandre Dumas - The Last Cavalier - Being the Adventures of Count Sainte-Hermine in the Age of Napoleon

The minuet was danced with immense success, and Monsieur Laffitte was leading Mademoiselle de Permon back to her mother when Monsieur de Trénis—late, flustered, out of breath—appeared. Having failed to keep his promise to Mademoiselle Loulou, he was more astonished than furious in encountering the two dancers. The minuet he was supposed to dance—and everyone knew he was supposed to dance the minuet—not only had been danced without him but, as was clear from the bravos just beginning to fade away, had been danced without him triumphantly.

“Ah, monsieur,” Mademoiselle de Permon said in great embarrassment, “I waited until after midnight for you, just look at the clock, and the minuet had been announced for eleven. Finally, at midnight, my mother insisted that I dance with Monsieur Laffitte,” and with a laugh, she added, “and the First Consul gave the order.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Monsieur de Trénis, “Madame de Permon could indeed require such a sacrifice of you since she is the mistress of the house. She owed her guests the minuet and unfortunately, I was late, so she was within her rights. But, as for the First Consul,” said Monsieur de Trénis, turning to Bonaparte and staring down at him, for he was five inches taller than the general, “to give the order to begin a dance which, in reality, cannot be danced consummately except by me, he mistakenly goes beyond his authority. I do not interfere with his doings on the battlefield, so he should leave affairs of the salon to me. I don’t pluck the leaves from his laurels, so he should likewise let mine be.”

Haughtily he walked over to Mademoiselle de Permon and, sitting beside her, said: “I am philosophical enough to be consoled at not having danced that dance with you, especially since it was my fault, late as I was. Neither can I be upset that you did not keep your word, yet there would have been a crown to be won had we danced the queen’s minuet together. I would have danced it gravely, seriously; not sadly as Monsieur Laffitte did. Still, I was pleased to see it, and having seen it, I shall never forget it.”

Around Monsieur de Trénis a large circle had gathered to listen to him expressing his disappointment. Among them was the First Consul, who was tempted to think he was dealing with a crazy man.

“But,” said Mademoiselle de Permon to Monsieur de Trénis, “you worry me. What have I done?”

“What have you done? Why do you ask, mademoiselle, you who dance so well that I am delighted to promise to dance the minuet with you? You who have practiced the minuet with Gardel! Oh, there’s no word to describe it. How you can dance the minuet with a man who is little more on the ballroom floor than a quadrille dancer. I repeat, a quadrille dancer. No, mademoiselle, no. Never in his life will Monsieur Laffitte be able to bow properly and execute the great hat step. No, I say it loud and clear, never, never has he been or will he be able to do that.”

Noticing smiles on several faces, Trénis continued: “So, does that surprise you? Well, I shall tell you why he has never been able to properly perform the bow, the bow by which we all judge a minuet dancer. It’s because he does not know how to put his hat on properly. Putting one’s hat on properly is everything, gentlemen. Ask these ladies who have their hats made by Leroy but who have Charbonnier put them on for them. Ah, ask Monsieur Garel about putting on the hat; he will explain it to you. Anyone can put a hat on. I can even say that everyone can put a hat on, but some do it better than others. But how many can do it with the proper dignity, with the proper composure governing the movement of the arm and forearm? … May I?”

And taking in hand the enormous three-cornered hat, Monsieur de Trénis went to stand before a mirror. Then, singing the music that accompanies the minuet’s bow, he executed the salute with perfect grace and supreme seriousness. After which, he placed the hat back on his head with all the pomp such an occasion requires.

Leaning on Monsieur de Talleyrand’s arm, Bonaparte said to the diplomat, “Ask him how he gets along with Monsieur Laffitte. After that outburst he directed toward me, I dare not ask him myself.”

Monsieur de Talleyrand asked the question with the same gravity he’d assume if he were asking how England and America were getting along since their last war.

“But of course we get along as well as two men of such equal talent can possibly manage,” he answered. “However, I must admit that he is a magnanimous rival, a good sport, never jealous of my much-acknowledged success. It is true that his own successes may make him indulgent. His dances are strong and lively, and he is better than I in the first eight measures of the Panurge gavotte—of that there’s no question. But in the jetés , for example, that is where I crush him. In general, he whips me in the calf muscles, but I stomp him in the marrow!”

“Well,” said Monsieur de Talleyrand, “you can rest easy, Citizen First Consul. There will be no war between Monsieur de Trénis and Monsieur Laffitte. I would like to be able to say as much about France and England.”

While the pause in the ball allowed Monsieur de Trénis the leisure to expand upon the niceties of putting on the hat, Claire undertook negotiations with her mother about a subject she considered far more important than the matter of concern to Monsieur de Talleyrand and the First Consul, whether or not there would be peace between Paris’s two best dancers or between France and the world. The young count, who kept his eyes on her the entire time, saw by the smile on Claire’s face that he had in all probability won his case with her mother.

He was not mistaken.

On the pretext of getting some air in one of the less crowded rooms, Mademoiselle de Sourdis took Mademoiselle de Beauharnais’s arm, and as they passed the Comte de Sainte-Hermine, she whispered these words: “My mother agrees that tomorrow at three in the afternoon you may present yourself at our door.”

The father

The next day, as three o’clock was striking on the pavilion clock, Hector de Sainte-Hermine knocked at the door of the Hôtel de Sourdis, whose lovely terrace, covered with orange trees and rose laurels, looked out over the Quai Voltaire. The door opened onto the Rue de Beaune. It was the great door, the door of honor. Another, smaller door, nearly invisible as it was painted the color of the wall, opened out onto the quay.

The great door opened. The Swiss guard asked for the visitor’s name and allowed him to pass. A valet, alerted no doubt by Madame de Sourdis, was waiting in the antechamber. “Madame,” he said, “is not receiving today. But Mademoiselle is in the garden, and she offers her mother’s excuses to Monsieur le Comte.”

The count followed the valet to the garden gate. “Follow this path,” the valet told him. “Mademoiselle is at the other end, under the jasmine arbor.”

And indeed, beneath the rays of a lovely March sun, Claire, wrapped in an ermine cloak, seemed to be a bloom, like one of those first spring flowers we call snowdrops because they return so early. Spread out under her feet lay a thick Smyrna carpet to protect her light blue velvet slippers from the cold ground. When she noticed Sainte-Hermine, although she had been expecting him and had heard the clock strike three, her cheeks turned pink and hid for an instant how marvelously lily-white they were. She rose with a smile illuminating her face.

Sainte-Hermine walked faster, and when he drew near, she pointed to where her mother was sitting at one of the drawing-room windows overlooking the garden. From there she could keep the two young people in sight, although she would not be able to hear a word they were saying. Sainte-Hermine bowed deeply to her, to show her both his thanks and his respect.