*Needless to say, the opinions ascribed here to Flaubert’s two famous characters are by no means those of the author.
The Melancholy Summer of Madame de Breyves
Ariadne, my sister, you, wounded by
love,
You died on the shores where you had
been abandoned.
—RACINE: PHAEDRA, ACT I, SCENE 3
That evening, Françoise de Breyves wavered for a long time between Princess Élisabeth d’A.’s party, the Opera, and the Livrays’ play.
At the home where she had just dined with friends, they had left the table over an hour ago. She had to make up her mind.
Her friend Geneviève, who was to drive back with her, was in favor of the princess’s soirée, whereas, without quite knowing why, Madame de Breyves would have preferred either of the two other choices, or even a third: to go home to bed. Her carriage was announced. She was still undecided.
“Honestly,” said Geneviève, “this isn’t nice of you. I understand that Rezké will be singing, and I’d like to hear him. You act as if you’d suffer serious consequences by going to Élisabeth’s soirée. First of all, I have to tell you that you haven’t been to a single one of her grand soirées this year, and considering you’re friends, that’s not very nice of you.”
Since her husband had died four years ago, leaving her a widow at twenty, Françoise had done almost nothing without Geneviève and she liked pleasing her. She did not resist her entreaties much longer, and, after bidding good night to the host and hostess and to the other guests, who were all devastated at having enjoyed so little of one of the most sought-after women in Paris, Françoise told her lackey:
“To Princess d’A.”
The princess’s soirée was very boring. At one point Madame de Breyves asked Geneviève:
“Who is that young man who escorted you to the buffet?”
“That’s Monsieur de Laléande, whom, incidentally, I don’t know at all. Would you like me to introduce him to you? He asked me to, but I was evasive, because he’s very unimportant and boring, and since he finds you very pretty, you won’t be able to get rid of him.”
“Then let’s not!” said Françoise. “Anyway, he’s a bit homely and vulgar, despite his rather beautiful eyes.”
“You’re right,” said Geneviève. “And besides, you’ll be running into him often, so knowing him might be awkward for you.”
Then she humorously added:
“Of course, if you want a more intimate relationship with him, you’re passing up a wonderful opportunity.”
“Yes, a wonderful opportunity,” said Françoise, her mind already elsewhere.
“Still,” said Geneviève, no doubt filled with remorse for being such a disloyal go-between and pointlessly depriving this young man of a pleasure, “it’s one of the last soirées of the season, an introduction wouldn’t carry much weight, and it might be a nice thing to do.”
“Fine then, if he comes back this way.”
He did not come back. He was across from them, at the opposite end of the drawing room.
“We have to leave,” Geneviève soon said.
“One more minute,” said Françoise.
And as a caprice, especially out of a desire to flirt with this young man, who was bound to find her very lovely, she gave him a lingering look, then averted her eyes, then gazed at him again. She tried to make her eyes seem tender; she did not know why, for no reason, for pleasure, the pleasure of charity, of a little vanity, and also gratuity, the pleasure of carving your name into a tree trunk for a passerby whom you will never see, the pleasure of throwing a bottle into the ocean. Time flowed by, it was getting late; Monsieur de Laléande headed toward the door, which remained open after he passed through, so that Madame de Breyves could spot him holding out his ticket at the far end of the cloakroom.
“It’s time we left, you’re right,” she told Geneviève.
They rose. But as luck would have it, a friend needed to say something to Geneviève, who therefore left Françoise alone in the cloakroom. The only other person there was Monsieur de Laléande, who could not find his cane. Françoise, amused, gave him a final look. He came very near her, his elbow slightly grazing hers, and, when closest to her, with radiant eyes, and still appearing to be searching, he said:
“Come to my home, 5 Rue Royale.”
She had hardly foreseen this, and Monsieur de Laléande was now so absorbed in hunting for his cane that afterwards Françoise never knew for certain whether it had not been a hallucination. Above all, she was very frightened, and since Prince d’A. chanced to come along at that moment, she called him over: she wished to make an appointment with him for an outing tomorrow and she talked volubly. During that conversation Monsieur de Laléande left. Geneviève reappeared an instant later, and the two women departed. Madame de Breyves told her friend nothing; she was still shocked and flattered, yet basically very indifferent. Two days after that, when she happened to recall the incident, she began to doubt that Monsieur de Laléande had really spoken those words. She tried but was unable to remember fully; she believed she had heard them as if in a dream and she told herself that the elbow movement had been an accidental blunder. Then she no longer thought spontaneously about Monsieur de Laléande, and when she happened to hear his name mentioned, she swiftly imagined his face and forgot all about the quasi-hallucination in the cloakroom.
She saw him again at the last soirée of the season (toward the end of June), but did not dare ask to meet him; and yet, though finding him almost ugly and knowing he was not intelligent, she would have liked to make his acquaintance. She went over to Geneviève and said:
“Why don’t you present Monsieur de Laléande after all. I don’t like being impolite. But don’t say I suggested it. That will keep it casual.”
“Later, if we see him. He’s not here at the moment.”
“Well, then look for him.”
“He may have left.”
“Oh no,” Françoise blurted out, “he can’t have left, it’s too early. Oh my! Already midnight. Come on, dear Geneviève, it’s not all that difficult. The other evening it was you who wanted it. Please, it’s important to me.”
Geneviève looked at her, a bit astonished, and went searching for Monsieur de Laléande; he was gone.
“You see I was right,” said Geneviève, returning to Françoise.
“I’m bored out of my mind,” said Françoise. “I’ve got a headache. Please, let’s leave immediately.”
Françoise no longer missed a single performance at the Opera; with vague hopes she accepted all the dinners to which she was invited. Two weeks wore by; she had not run into Monsieur de Laléande again and at night she often awoke, trying to hit on ways of finding him. Though repeating to herself that he was boring and not handsome, she was more preoccupied with him than with all the wittiest and most charming men. With the season ended, there would be no opportunity to see him again; she was determined to create an opportunity and she cast about for a possibility.
One evening she said to Geneviève:
“Didn’t you tell me you knew a man named Laléande?”
“Jacques de Laléande? Yes and no. He was introduced to me, but he’s never left me a card, and we’re not in any communication with each other.”
“Let me tell you, I’m a bit interested, very interested, for reasons that don’t concern me and that I probably won’t be able to tell you for another month” (by then she and he would have worked out a lie to avoid exposure, and the thought of sharing a secret with him alone gave her a sweet thrill). “I’m interested in making his acquaintance and meeting with him. Please try to find a way, since the season is over, and I won’t be able to have him introduced to me.”
The practices of close friendship, so purifying when they are sincere, sheltered Geneviève as well as Françoise from the stupid curiosity in which most people in high society take shameful enjoyment. Thus, devoting herself with all her heart and without, for even a moment, intending or desiring to question her friend, much less thinking of doing so, Geneviève searched and was angry only because she came up with nothing.
“It’s unfortunate that Madame d’A. has left town. There’s still Monsieur de Grumello, of course, but actually that won’t get us anywhere—what can we say to him? Wait! I’ve got an idea! Monsieur de Laléande plays the cello quite badly, but that doesn’t matter. Monsieur de Grumello admires him, and besides, he’s so dim-witted and he’ll be so happy to do you a favor. The thing is, you’ve always avoided him, and you don’t like dropping people after making use of their services, but you won’t want to be obligated to invite him next season.”
However, Françoise, flushed with joy, exclaimed:
“Why, it’s all the same to me, I’ll invite all the
