“You dear little innocent rogue!” tenderly ejaculated the old gentleman. “Are you fond of flowers?”
He brought from the adjoining room a porcelain flowerpot containing a narcissus in bloom.
“Oh, what a charming flower!” cried the child, admiringly. “How I wish I might pluck just one!”
“Help yourself, my dear,” returned her host, pushing the plant toward her.
The child daintily broke off one of the snowy blossoms, and, with childlike coquetry, fastened it in the trimming of her chemise.
“What is this beautiful flower called, monsieur?”
“The narcissus.”
At mention of the name the little maid suddenly clapped her hands and cried joyfully:
“Why, that is the name of our palace! Now don’t you know where it is?”
“The ‘Palace of Narcissus’? I have heard of it.”
“Then you will have no trouble finding my home. Oh, you dear good little flower!” and she kissed the snowy blossom rapturously.
The old gentleman surveyed her smilingly for a few moments, then said:
“I will go now, and buy the frock.”
“And while you are away I shall tell Philine the story of Gargantua,” responded the child.
“Lock the door after me, my dear, and do not open it until I mention my name: Alfred Cambray—”
“Oh, I should forget the second one! Just say, ‘Papa Alfred’; I can remember that.”
When the child was certain that the old gentleman had left the house, she began hastily to search the room. She peered into every corner and crevice. Then she went into the adjoining chamber, and opened every drawer and cupboard. In returning to the first room she saw some scraps of paper scattered about the floor. She collected them carefully, placed them on the table, and dexterously fitted the pieces together until the entire note-sheet lay before her. It was covered with writing which had evidently been traced by a hurried hand, yet the child seemed to have no difficulty in reading it.
When she heard the old gentleman’s footstep on the staircase, she brushed the scraps of paper from the table, and hastened to open the door before the signal was given; and when he exhibited his purchase she danced for joy.
“It is just like my ball-gown—exactly like it!” she exclaimed, kissing the hands of her benefactor. Then the old gentleman clothed the child as skilfully as if he were accustomed to such work. When the task was finished he looked about him, and saw the scraps of paper on the floor; he swept them together, and threw them into the fire.
Then, with the hand of his little companion clasped in his own, he descended to the street in quest of a cab to take them to the Palace of Narcissus.
The Palace of Narcissus had originally been the property of the celebrated danseuse, Mlle. Guimard, for whom it had been built by the Duke de Soubise. Like so many other fine houses, it had been confiscated by the Revolution and sold at auction—or, rather, had been disposed of by lottery, a lady who had paid one hundred and twenty francs for her ticket winning it.
The winner of the palace sold it to M. Périgaud, a banker and shrewd speculator, who divided the large dwelling into suites of apartments, which became the favorite lodgings of the young men of fashion. These young men were called the “narcissi,” and later, the “incroyables” and “petits crevés.” The building, however, retained the name of the Palace of Narcissus.
When the fiacre stopped at the door of the palace which led to her mama’s apartment, the little countess alighted with her escort, and said to the coachman:
“You need not wait; the marquis will return home in my mama’s carriage.”
M. Cambray was obliged to submit to be called the “marquis.” The harmless fib was due to the rank of the little countess; she could not have driven through the streets of Paris in the same fiacre with a pékin!
“We will not go up the main staircase,” said the child, taking her companion’s arm and leading him into the palace. “I don’t want to meet any of the servants. We will go directly to mama’s boudoir, and take her by surprise.”
The countess mother, however, was not in her boudoir; only a screaming cockatoo, and a capuchin monkey that grimaced a welcome. Through the folding-doors which opened into an adjoining room came the melancholy tones of a harmonium; and M. Cambray recognized a favorite air—Beethoven’s symphony, “Les adieux, l’absence, et le retour.” He paused a moment to listen to it.
“That is mama playing,” whispered the child. “You go in first, and tell her you have brought me home. Be very careful; mama is very nervous.” M. Cambray softly opened the door, and halted, amazed, on the threshold.
The room into which he had ventured unannounced was a magnificent salon, filled with a brilliant company. Evidently the countess was holding a matinée.
The assembled company were in full toilet. The women, who were chiefly young and handsome, were clad in the modest fashion of that day, which draped the shoulders and bust with embroidered kerchiefs, with priceless lace adorning their gowns and genuine pearls twined among their tresses. The men also wore full dress: Hungarian trousers, short-waisted coat, with large, bright metal buttons, opening over an embroidered waistcoat.
Surrounded by her guests, the mistress of the house, an ideal of beauty, Cythera herself, was seated at the harpsichord, her neck and shoulders hidden by her wonderfully beautiful golden hair. When M. Cambray, in his plain brown coat buttoned to the chin, with black gloves and dull buckle-shoes, appeared in the doorway of the boudoir, which was not open to all the world, every eye was turned in surprise toward him.
The lady at the harpsichord rose, surveyed the intruder with a haughty stare, and was about to speak when a lackey in silver-embroidered livery came hastily toward her and said something in a low tone.
“What?” she ejaculated, with sudden terror. “My daughter lost?”
The guests crowded around her, and a scene of great excitement followed.
Here M. Cambray came forward and said:
“I have found your daughter, countess, and return her to you.”
The lovely woman made one step toward the child, who had followed M. Cambray into the room, then sank to the floor unconscious. She was tenderly lifted and borne into the boudoir. Two physicians, who were of the company, followed.
When the door closed behind them, the entire company remaining in the salon gathered about M. Cambray. The ladies seized his hands; and while a blonde houri on his right sought to attract his attention, a brunette beauty claimed it on his left—both women ignoring the attempts of the men to shake hands with the hero of the hour.
One of the men, an elderly and distinguished-looking personage with a commanding mien, now pressed forward to introduce himself. “Monsieur, I am the Marquis Lyonel de Fervlans,” he repeated in a patronizing tone.
“I am Alfred Cambray,” was the simple response.
“Ah? Pray, have the kindness to tell us—the friends of the countess—what has happened?”
M. Cambray related how and where he had found the lost child, the company listening with eager attention. All were deeply affected. Some of the women wept. When M. Cambray concluded his recital, the marquis grasped both his hands, and, pressing them warmly, said in a trembling voice:
“Thanks, many thanks, you brave, good man! We will never forget your kindness.”
One of the physicians now came from the boudoir, and announced that the countess was better, and desired to speak to the deliverer of her child.
The countess was reclining on an ottoman, half buried in luxurious cushions. Her little daughter was kneeling by her side, her head resting on her mother’s knee. It was a charming tableau.