Yes, madame, Cinti and Malibran, Grisi and Taglioni, Pasta and Ellsler, all who reign or have reigned on the stage, can't be compared, to my mind, with Malaga, who can jump on or off a horse at full gallop, or stand on the point of one foot and fall easily into the saddle, and knit stockings, break eggs, and make an omelette with the horse at full speed, to the admiration of the people,--the real people, peasants and soldiers. Malaga, madame, is dexterity personified; her little wrist or her little foot can rid her of three or four men. She is the goddess of gymnastics."
"She must be stupid--"
"Oh, no," said Paz, "I find her as amusing as the heroine of 'Peveril of the Peak.' Thoughtless as a Bohemian, she says everything that comes into her head; she thinks no more about the future than you do of the sous you fling to the poor. She says grand things sometimes.
You couldn't make her believe that an old diplomatist was a handsome young man, not if you offered her a million of francs. Such love as hers is perpetual flattery to a man. Her health is positively insolent, and she has thirty-two oriental pearls in lips of coral. Her muzzle--that's what she calls the lower part of her face--has, as Shakespeare expresses it, the savor of a heifer's nose. She can make a man unhappy. She likes handsome men, strong men, Alexanders, gymnasts, clowns. Her trainer, a horrible brute, used to beat her to make her supple, and graceful, and intrepid--"
"You are positively intoxicated with Malaga."
"Oh, she is called Malaga only on the posters," said Paz, with a piqued air. "She lives in the rue Saint-Lazare, in a pretty apartment on the third story, all velvet and silk, like a princess. She has two lives, her circus life and the life of a pretty woman."
"Does she love you?"
"She loves me--now you will laugh--solely because I'm a Pole. She saw an engraving of Poles rushing with Poniatowski into the Elster,--for all France persists in thinking that the Elster, where it is impossible to get drowned, is an impetuous flood, in which Poniatowski and his followers were engulfed. But in the midst of all this I am very unhappy, madame."
A tear of rage fell from his eyes and affected the countess.
"You men have such a passion for singularity."
"And you?" said Thaddeus.
"I know Adam so well that I am certain he could forget me for some mountebank like your Malaga. Where did you first see her?"
"At Saint-Cloud, last September, on the fete-day. She was at a corner of a booth covered with flags, where the shows are given. Her comrades, all in Polish costumes, were ****** a horrible racket. I watched her standing there, silent and dumb, and I thought I saw a melancholy expression in her face; in truth there was enough about her to sadden a girl of twenty. That touched me."
The countess was sitting in a delicious attitude, pensive and rather melancholy.
"Poor, poor Thaddeus!" she exclaimed. Then, with the kindliness of a true great lady she added, not without a malicious smile, "Well go, go to your Circus."
Thaddeus took her hand, kissed it, leaving a hot tear upon it, and went out.
Having invented this passion for a circus-rider, he bethought him that he must give it some reality. The only truth in his tale was the momentary attention he had given to Malaga at Saint-Cloud; and he had since seen her name on the posters of the Circus, where the clown, for a tip of five francs, had told him that the girl was a foundling, stolen perhaps. Thaddeus now went to the Circus and saw her again. For ten francs one of the grooms (who take the place in circuses of the dressers at a theatre) informed him that Malaga was named Marguerite Turquet, and lived on the fifth story of a house in the rue des Fosses-du-Temple.
The following day Paz went to the faubourg du Temple, found the house, and asked to see Mademoiselle Turquet, who during the summer was substituting for the leading horsewoman at the Cirque-Olympique, and a supernumerary at a boulevard theatre in winter.
"Malaga!" cried the portress, rushing into the attic, "there's a fine gentleman wanting you. He is getting information from Chapuzot, who is playing him off to give me time to tell you."
"Thank you, M'ame Chapuzot; but what will he think of me if he finds me ironing my gown?"
"Pooh! when a man's in love he loves everything about us."
"Is he an Englishman? they are fond of horses."
"No, he looks to me Spanish."
"That's a pity; they say Spaniards are always poor. Stay here with me, M'ame Chapuzot; I don't want him to think I'm deserted."
"Who is it you are looking for, monsieur?" asked Madame Chapuzot, opening the door for Thaddeus, who had now come upstairs.
"Mademoiselle Turquet."
"My dear," said the portress, with an air of importance, "here is some one to see you."
A line on which the clothes were drying caught the captain's hat and knocked it off.
"What is it you wish, monsieur?" said Malaga, picking up the hat and giving it to him.
"I saw you at the Circus," said Thaddeus, "and you reminded me of a daughter whom I have lost, mademoiselle; and out of affection for my Heloise, whom you resemble in a most striking manner, I should like to be of some service to you, if you will permit me."
"Why, certainly; pray sit down, general," said Madame Chapuzot;
"nothing could be more straightforward, more gallant."
"But I am not gallant, my good lady," exclaimed Paz. "I am an unfortunate father who tries to deceive himself by a resemblance."
"Then am I to pass for your daughter?" said Malaga, slyly, and not in the least suspecting the perfect sincerity of his proposal.
"Yes," said Paz, "and I'll come and see you sometimes. But you shall be lodged in better rooms, comfortably furnished."
"I shall have furniture!" cried Malaga, looking at Madame Chapuzot.
"And servants," said Paz, "and all you want."
Malaga looked at the stranger suspiciously.
"What countryman is monsieur?"
"I am a Pole."
"Oh! then I accept," she said.
Paz departed, promising to return.
