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Updated: May 20, 2025
It had been compared, he saw, with Gautier's "Mademoiselle de Maupin;" but was not the beauty of that masterpiece, in comparison with the beauty of this, as the beauty of a leopard-skin to the beauty of a statue of Minerva, withdrawn in a grove of ilex.
All were loved and regretted: but life is made up of oblivion, and the memory of cats dies out like the memory of men." After making mention of an old gray cat who always took his part against his parents, and used to bite Madame Gautier's legs when she presumed to reprove her son, he passes on at once to the romantic period, and the commemoration of Childebrand.
The pictures arise distinct, unsummoned, spontaneous, like the faces and places which are flashed on our eyes between sleeping and waking. Fantastic, too, but with more of a recognisable human setting, is "Golden Wings," which to a slight degree reminds one of Theophile Gautier's Chateau de Souvenir.
It is impossible to read the narrative without feeling that there must have been something really genuine and hearty in Mademoiselle Gautier's nature; and it is a gratifying proof of the honest integrity of her purpose to know that she persevered to the last in the life of humility and seclusion which her conscience had convinced her was the best life that she could lead.
From among the latter, Paliser helped himself to a brandy and soda. It had been dry work. The drink refreshed him. It stimulated too. Also it suggested. He put the glass down and lightly swore at it. "Damn Benny! He has only one thumb." For a moment he eyed the glass. Then taking from a shelf Gautier's very spiritual account of the de Maupin, he eyed that. Not for long though. He put it back.
At eleven o'clock I went to the Rue d'Antin. There was no light in Marguerite's windows. All the same, I rang. The porter asked me where I was going. "To Mlle. Gautier's," I said. "She has not come in." "I will go up and wait for her." "There is no one there." Evidently I could get in, since I had the key, but, fearing foolish scandal, I went away.
"Tiens, but it is droll," said the concierge's friend, "a young girl, and all alone like that." "Oh, it is nothing," said the concierge; "the English are mad all! Their young girls run the streets at all hours, and the Devil guards them." Betty stood in the street. She could not go back to that circle of harpy faces, all eagerly tearing to pieces the details of poor old Madame Gautier's death.
By night I suffered agonies by day I wandered alone through the fields of Indian corn, or, like a wounded bird, sought the deepest recesses of my grandfather's orchard. "One evening there was a party at Mme. Gautier's and various games were played. In one of them I was told to choose first. But I dared not, my heart-beats choked me.
He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. It was Gautier's "Émaux et Camées," Charpentier's Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching.
Suddenly I seemed to see the white figures throwing purple shadows on the sun-baked palæstra; 'bands of nude youths and maidens' you remember Gautier's words 'moving across a background of deep blue as on the frieze of the Parthenon. I began to read Greek eagerly for love of it all, and the more I read the more I was enthralled: Oh what golden hours were for us As we sat together there, While the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a light air; While the cothurns trod majestic Down the deep iambic lines And the rolling anapæstics Curled like vapour over shrines.
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