The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858

It was a reunion of only three hundred invitations, selected by my friend Dalton, the intimate and adviser of Honoria. So happy were their combinations, scarce a dozen were absent or declined.

At eleven, the guests began to assemble. Introductions were almost needless. Each person was a recognized member of "society." One-half of the number were women,—many of them young, beautiful, accomplished,– heiresses, "charming widows," poetesses of real celebrity, and, rarer still, of good repute,—wives of millionnaires, flashing in satin and diamonds. The men, on their side, were of all professions and arts, and of every grade of celebrity, from senator to merchant,—each distinguished by some personal attribute or talent; and in all was the gift, so rare, of manners and conversation. It was a company of undoubted gentlemen, as truly entitled to respect and admiration as if they stood about a throne. They were the untitled nobility of Nature, wealth, and genius.

As I stood looking, with placid admiration, from a recess, upon a brilliant tableau of beautiful women and celebrated men that had accidentally arranged itself before me, Dalton touched my arm.

"I have seen," said he, "aristocratic and republican réunions of the purest mode in Paris, the court and the banker's circle of London, conversazioni at Rome and Florence. Every face in this room is intelligent, and nearly all either beautiful, remarkable, or commanding. Observe those five women standing with Denslow and Adonaďs,—grandeur, sweetness, grace, form, purity; each has an attribute. It is a rare assemblage of superior human beings. The world cannot surpass it. And, by the by, the rooms are superb."

They were, indeed, magnificent: two grand suites, on either side a central hall of Gothic structure, in white marble, with light, aërial staircases and gilded balconies. Each suite was a separate miracle: the height, the breadth, the columnal divisions; the wonderful delicacy of the arches, upon which rested ceilings frescoed with incomparable art. In one compartment the arches and caryatides were of black marble; in another, of snowy Parian; in a third, of wood, exquisitely carved, and joined like one piece, as if it were a natural growth; vines rising at the bases of the walls, and spreading under the roof. There was no forced consistency. Forms suitable only for the support of heavy masses of masonry, or for the solemn effects of church interiors, were not here introduced. From straight window-cornices of dark wood, slenderly gilt, but richly carved, fell cataracts of gleaming satin, softened in effect with laces of rare appreciation.

The frescoes and panel-work were a study by themselves, uniting the classic and modern styles in allegorical subjects. The paintings, selected by the taste of Dalton, to overpower the darkness of the rooms by intensity of color, were incorporated with the walls. There were but few mirrors. At the end of each suite, one, of fabulous size, without frame, made to appear, by a cunning arrangement of dark draperies, like a transparent portion of the wall itself, extended the magnificence of the apartments.

Not a flame nor a jet was anywhere visible. Tinted vases, pendent, or resting upon pedestals, distributed harmonies and thoughts of light rather than light itself; and yet all was visible, effulgent. The columns which separated the apartments seemed to be composed of masses of richly-colored flames, compelled, by some ingenious alchemy, to assume the form and office of columns.

In New York, par excellence the city of private gorgeousness and petite magnificence, nothing had yet been seen equal to the rooms of the glorious Denslow Palace. Even Dalton, the most capricious and critical of men, whose nice vision had absorbed the elegancies of European taste, pronounced them superb. The upholstery and ornamentation were composed under the direction of celebrated artists. Palmer was consulted on the marbles. Page (at Rome) advised the cartoons for the frescoes, and gave laws for the colors and disposition of the draperies. The paintings, panelled in the walls, were modern, triumphs of the art and genius of the New World.

Until the hour for dancing, prolonged melodies of themes modulated in the happiest moments of the great composers floated in the perfumed air from a company of unseen musicians, while the guests moved through the vast apartments, charmed or exalted by their splendor, or conversed in groups, every voice subdued and intelligent.

At midnight began the modish music of the dance, and groups of beautiful girls moved like the atoms of Chladni on the vibrating crystal, with their partners, to the sound of harps and violins, in pleasing figures or inebriating spirals.

When supper was served, the ivory fronts of a cabinet of gems divided itself in the centre,—the two halves revolving upon silver hinges,—and discovered a hall of great height and dimensions, walled with crimson damask, supporting pictures of all the masters of modern art. The dome- like roof of this hall was of marble variously colored, and the floor tessellated and mosaicked in grotesque and graceful figures of Vesuvian lavas and painted porcelain.

The tables, couches, chairs, and vis-a-vis in this hall were of plain pattern and neutral dead colors, not to overpower or fade the pictures on the walls, or the gold and Parian service of the cedar tables.

But the chief beauty of this unequalled supper-room was an immense bronze candelabrum, which rose in the centre from a column of black marble. It was the figure of an Italian elm, slender and of thin foliage, embraced, almost enveloped, in a vine, which reached out and supported itself in hanging from all the branches; the twigs bearing fruit, not of grapes, but of a hundred little spheres of crimson, violet, and golden light, whose combination produced a soft atmosphere of no certain color.

Neither Honoria, Dalton, nor myself remained long in the gallery. We retired with a select few, and were served in an antechamber, separated from the grand reception-room by an arch, through which, by putting aside a silk curtain, Honoria could see, at a distance, any that entered, as they passed in from the hall.

My own position was such that I could look over her shoulder and see as she saw. Vis-a-vis with her, and consequently with myself, was Adonaďs, a celebrated author, and person of the beau monde. On his left, Dalton, always mysteriously elegant and dangerously witty. Denslow and Jeffrey Lethal, the critic, completed our circle. The conversation was easy, animated, personal.

"You are fortunate in having a woman of taste to manage your entertainments," said Lethal, in answer to a remark of Denslow's,—"but in bringing these people together she has made a sad blunder."

"And what may that be?" inquired Dalton, mildly.

"Your guests are too well behaved, too fine, and on their guard; there are no butts, no palpable fools or vulgarians; and, worse, there are many distinguished, but no one great man,—no social or intellectual sovereign of the occasion."

Honoria looked inquiringly at Lethal. "Pray, Mr. Lethal, tell me who he is? I thought there was no such person in America," she added, with a look of reproachful inquiry at Dalton and myself, as if we should have found this sovereign and suggested him.

"You are right, my dear queen; Lethal is joking," responded Dalton; "we are a democracy, and have only a queen of"–

"Water ices," interrupted Lethal; "but, as for the king you seek, as democracies finally come to that,"–

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Honoria, raising the curtain, "it must be he that is coming in."

Honoria frowned slightly, rose, and advanced to meet a new-comer, who had entered unannounced, and was advancing alone. Dalton followed to support her. I observed their movements,—Lethal and Adonaďs using my face as a mirror of what was passing beyond the curtain.

The masses of level light from the columns on the left seemed to envelope the stranger, who came toward us from the entrance, as if he had divined the presence of Honoria in the alcove.

He was about the middle height, Napoleonic in form and bearing, with features of marble paleness, firm, and sharply defined. His hair and magnificent Asiatic beard were jetty black, curling, and naturally disposed. Under his dark and solid brows gleamed large eyes of abysmal blackness and intensity.

"Is it Lord N–?" whispered Lethal, moved from his habitual coldness by the astonishment which he read in my face.

"Senator D–, perhaps," suggested Denslow, whose ideas, like his person, aspired to the senatorial.

"Dumas," hinted Adonaďs, an admirer of French literature. "I heard he was expected."

"No," I answered, "but certainly in appearance the most noticeable man living. Let us go out and be introduced."

"Perhaps," said Lethal, "it is the d–."

All rose instantly at the idea, and we went forward, urged by irresistible curiosity.

As we drew near the stranger, who was conversing with Honoria and Dalton, a shudder went through me. It was a thrill of the universal Boswell; I seemed to feel the presence of "the most aristocratic man of the age."

Honoria introduced me. "My Lord Duke, allow me to present my friend, Mr.

De Vere; Mr. De Vere, the Duke of Rosecouleur."

Was I, then, face to face with, nay, touching the hand of a highness,—and that highness the monarch of the ton? And is this a ducal hand, white as the albescent down of the eider-duck, which presses mine with a tender touch, so haughty and so delicately graduated to my standing as "friend" of the exquisite Honoria? It was too much; I could have wept; my senses rather failed.

Dalton fell short of himself; for, though his head stooped to none, unless conventionally, the sudden and unaccountable presence of the Duke of Rosecouleur annoyed and perplexed him. His own sovereignty was threatened.

Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction; the affair seemed to exasperate him. Denslow alone, of the men, was in his element. Pompous and soft, he "cottoned" to the grandeur with the instinct of a born satellite, and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining and rotund, his back more concave. His bon-vivant tones, jolly and conventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear soprano of Honoria, in the harmony of an obsequious welcome.

The Duke of Rosecouleur glanced around him approvingly upon the apartments. I believed that he had never seen anything more beautiful than the petite palace of Honoria, or more ravishing than herself. He said little, in a low voice, and always to one person at a time. His answers and remarks were simple and well-turned.

Dalton allowed the others to move on, and by a slight sign drew me to him.

"It is unexpected," he said, in a thoughtful manner, looking me full in the eyes.

"You knew the Duke of Rosecouleur in Europe?"

"At Paris, yes,—and in Italy he was a travel friend; but we heard lately that he had retired upon his estates in England; and certainly, he is the last person we looked for here."

"Unannounced."

"That is a part of the singularity." "His name was not in the published list of arrivals; but he may have left England incognito. Is a mistake possible?"

"No! there is but one such man in Europe;—a handsomer or a richer does not live."

"An eye of wonderful depth."

"Hands exquisite."

"Feet, ditto."

"And his dress and manner."

"Unapproachable!"

"Not a shadow of pretence;—the essence of good-breeding founded upon extensive knowledge, and a thorough sense of position and its advantages; —in fact, the Napoleon of the parlor."

"But, Dalton," said I, nervously, "no one attends him."

"No,—I thought so at first; but do you see that Mephistophelean figure, in black, who follows the Duke a few paces behind, and is introduced to no one?"

"Yes. A singular creature, truly!—how thin he is!"

"That shadow that follows his Highness is, in fact, the famous valet, Ręve de Noir,—the prince of servants. The Duke goes nowhere without this man as a shadow. He asserts that Ręve de Noir has no soul; and I believe him. The face is that of a demon. It is a separate creation, equally wonderful with the master, but not human. He was condensed out of the atmosphere of the great world."

As we were speaking, we observed a crowd of distinguished persons gathered about and following his Highness, as he moved. He spoke now to one; now to another. Honoria, fascinated, her beauty every instant becoming more radiant, just leaned, with the lightest pressure, upon the Duke's arm. They were promenading through the rooms. The music, soft and low, continued, but the groups of dancers broke up, the loiterers in the gallery came in, and as the sun draws his fifty, perhaps his hundreds of planets, circling around and near him, this noble luminary centred in himself the attention of all. If they could not speak with him, they could at least speak of him. If they could not touch his hand, they could pass before him and give one glance at his eyes. The less aristocratic were even satisfied for the moment with watching the singular being, Ręve de Noir,—who caught no one's eye, seemed to see no one but his master,—and yet was not here nor there, nor in any place,—never in the way, a thing of air, and not tangible, but only black.

At a signal, he would advance and present to his master a perfume, a laced handkerchief, a rose of rubies, a diamond clasp; of many with whom he spoke the liberal Duke begged the acceptance of some little token, as an earnest of his esteem. After interchanging a few words with Jeffrey Lethal,—who dared not utter a sarcasm, though he chafed visibly under the restraint,—the Duke's tasteful generosity suggested a seal ring, with an intaglio head of Swift cut in opal, the mineral emblem of wit, which dulls in the sunlight of fortune, and recovers its fiery points in the shade of adversity;—Ręve de Noir, with a movement so slight, 'twas like the flitting of a bat, placed the seal in the hand of the Duke, who, with a charming and irresistible grace, compelled Lethal to receive it.

To Denslow, Honoria, Dalton, and myself he offered nothing.—Strange?—Not at all. Was he not the guest, and had not I been presented to him by Honoria as her "friend?"—a word of pregnant meaning to a Duke of Rosecouleur!

To Adonaďs he gave a lock of hair of the great novelist, Dumas, in a locket of yellow tourmaline,—a stone usually black. Lethal smiled at this. He felt relieved.

"The Duke," thought he, "must be a humorist."

From my coarse way of describing this, you would suppose that it was a farcical exhibition of vulgar extravagance, and the Duke a madman or an impostor; but the effect was different. It was done with grace, and, in the midst of so much else, it attracted only that side regard, at intervals, which is sure to surprise and excite awe.

Honoria had almost ceased to converse with us. It was painful to her to talk with any person. She followed the Duke with her eyes. When, by some delicate allusion or attention, he let her perceive that she was in his thoughts, a mantling color overspread her features, and then gave way to paleness, and a manner which attracted universal remark. It was then Honoria abdicated that throne of conventional purity which hitherto she had held undisputed. Women who were plain in her presence outshone Honoria, by meeting this ducal apparition, that called itself Rosecouleur,—and which might have been, for aught they knew, a fume of the Infernal, shaped to deceive us all,—with calm and haughty propriety.

The sensation did not subside. The music of the waltz invited a renewal of that intoxicating whirl which isolates friends and lovers, in whispering and sighing pairs, in the midst of a great assemblage. All the world looked on, when Honoria Denslow placed her hand upon the shoulder of the Duke of Rosecouleur, and the noble and beautiful forms began silently and smoothly turning, with a dream-like motion. Soon she lifted her lovely eyes and steadied their rays upon his. She leaned wholly upon his arm, and the gloved hands completed the magnetic circle. At the close of the first waltz, she rested a moment, leaning upon his shoulder, and his hand still held hers,—a liberty often assumed and permitted, but not to the nobles and the monarchs of society. She fell farther, and her ideal beauty faded into a sensuous.

Honoria was lost. Dalton saw it. We retired together to a room apart. He was dispirited; called for and drank rapidly a bottle of Champagne;—it was insufficient.

"De Vere," said he, "affairs go badly."

"Explain."

"This cursed thing that people call a duke—it kills me."

"I saw."

"Of course you did;—the world saw; the servants saw. Honoria has fallen to-night. I shall transfer my allegiance."

"And Denslow?"

"A born sycophant;—he thinks it natural that his wife should love a duke, and a duke love his wife."

"So would you, if you were any other than you are."

"Faugh! it is human nature."

"Not so; would you not as soon strangle this Rosecouleur for making love to your wife in public, as you would another man?"

"Rather."

"Pooh! I give you up. If you had simply said, 'Yes,' it would have satisfied me."

Dalton seemed perplexed. He called a servant and sent him with an order for Nalson, the usher, to come instantly to him.

Nalson appeared, with his white gloves and mahogany face.

"Nalson, you were a servant of the Duke in England?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Is the person now in the rooms the Duke of Rosecouleur?"

"I have not seen him, Sir."

"Go immediately, study the man well,—do you hear?—and come to me. Let no one know your purpose."

Nalson disappeared.

I was alarmed. If "the Duke" should prove to be an impostor, we were indeed ruined.

In five minutes,—an hour, it seemed,—Nalson stood before us.

"Is it he?" said Dalton, looking fixedly upon the face of the usher.

No reply.

"Speak the truth; you need not be afraid."

"I cannot tell, Sir."

"Nonsense! go and look again."

"It is of no use, Mr. Dalton; you, who are as well acquainted with the personal appearance of his Highness as I am, you have been deceived,—if I have."

"Nalson, do you believe that this person is an impostor?" said Dalton, pointing at myself.

"Who? Mr. De Vere, Sir?"

"If, then, you know at sight that this gentleman is my friend Mr. De Vere, why do you hesitate about the other?"

"But the imitation is perfect. And there is Ręve de Noir."

"Yes, did Ręve de Noir recognize you?"

"I have not caught his eye. You know, Sir, that this Ręve is not, and never was, like other men; he is a devil. One knows, and one does not know him."

"Were you at the door when the Duke entered?"

"I think not; at least—I cannot tell. When I first saw him, he was in the room, speaking with Madam Denslow."

"Nalson, you have done wrong; no one should have entered unannounced. Send the doorkeeper to me."

The doorkeeper came; a gigantic negro, magnificently attired.

"Jupiter, you were at the door when the Duke of Rosecouleur entered?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did the Duke and his man come in a carriage?"

"Yes, Sir,—a hack."

"You may go. They are not devils," said Dalton, musingly, "or they would not have come in a carriage."

"You seem to have studied the spiritual mode of locomotion," said I. Dalton frowned. "This is serious, De Vere."

"What mean you?"

"I mean that Denslow is a bankrupt."

"Explain yourself."

"You know what an influence he carries in political circles. The G–rs, the S–es, and their kind, have more talent, but Denslow enjoys the secret of popularity."

"Well, I know it."

"In the middle counties, where he owns vast estates, and has been liberal to debtors and tenants, he carries great favor; both parties respect him for his ignorance and pomposity, which they mistake for simplicity and power, as usual. The estates are mortgaged three deep, and will not hold out a year. The shares of the Millionnaire's Hotel and the Poor Man's Bank in the B–y are worthless. Denslow's railroad schemes have absorbed the capital of those concerns."

"But he had three millions."

"Nominally. This palace has actually sunk his income."

"Madness!"

"Wisdom, if you will listen."

"I am all attention."

"The use of money is to create and hold power. Denslow was certain of the popular and county votes; he needed only the aristocratic support, and the A– people would have made him Senator."

"Fool, why was he not satisfied with his money?"

"Do you call the farmer fool, because he is not satisfied with the soil, but wishes to grow wheat thereon? Money is the soil of power. For much less than a million one may gratify the senses; great fortunes are not for sensual luxuries, but for those of the soul. To the facts, then. The advent of this mysterious duke,—whom I doubt,—hailed by Denslow and Honoria as a piece of wonderful good-fortune, has already shaken him and ruined the prestige of his wife. They are mad and blind."

"Tell me, in plain prose, the how and the why."

"De Vere, you are dull. There are three hundred people in the rooms of the Denslow Palace; these people are the 'aristocracy.' They control the sentiments of the 'better class.' Opinion, like dress, descends from them. They no longer respect Denslow, and their women have seen the weakness of Honoria."

"Yes, but Denslow still has 'the people.'"

"That is not enough. I have calculated the chances, and mustered all our available force. We shall have no support among the 'better class,' since we are disgraced with the 'millionnaires.'"

At this moment Denslow came in.

"Ah! Dalton,—like you! I have been looking for you to show the pictures.

Devil a thing I know about them. The Duke wondered at your absence."

"Where is Honoria?"

"Ill, ill,—fainted. The house is new; smell of new wood and mortar; deused disagreeable in Honoria. If it had not been for the Duke, she would have fallen. That's a monstrous clever fellow, that Rosecouleur. Admires Honoria vastly. Come,—the pictures."

"Mr. John Vanbrugen Denslow, you are an ass!"

The large, smooth, florid millionnaire, dreaming only of senatorial honors, the shouts of the multitude, and the adoration of a party press, cowered like a dog under the lash of the "man of society."

"Rather rough,—ha, De Vere? What have I done? Am I an ass because I know nothing of pictures? Come, Dalton, you are harsh with your old friend."

"Denslow, I have told you a thousand times never to concede position."

"Yes, but this is a duke, man,—a prince!"

"This from you? By Jove, De Vere, I wish you and I could live a hundred years, to see a republican aristocrat. We are still mere provincials," added Dalton, with a sigh.

Denslow perspired with mortification.

"You use me badly,—I tell you, Dalton, this Rosecouleur is a devil. Condescend to him! be haughty and—what do you call it?—urbane to him! I defy you to do it, with all your impudence. Why, his valet, that shadow that glides after him, is too much for me. Try him yourself, man."

"Who, the valet?"

"No, the master,—though I might have said the valet."

"Did I yield in Paris?"

"No, but you were of the embassy, and—and—no one really knew us, you know."

Dalton pressed his lips hard together.

"Come," said he, "De Vere, let us try a fall with this Titan of the carpet."

Denslow hastened back to the Duke. I followed Dalton; but as for me, bah!

I am a cipher.

The room in which we were adjoined Honoria's boudoir, from which a secret passage led down by a spiral to a panel behind hangings; raising these, one could enter the drawing-room unobserved. Dalton paused midway in the secret passage, and through a loop or narrow window concealed by architectural ornaments, and which overlooked the great drawing-rooms, made a reconnaissance of the field.

Nights of Venice! what a scene was there! The vine-branch chandeliers, crystal-fruited, which depended from the slender ribs of the ceiling, cast a rosy dawn of light, deepening the green and crimson of draperies and carpets, making an air like sunrise in the bowers of a forest. Form and order were everywhere visible, though unobtrusive. Arch beyond arch, to fourth apartments, lessening in dimension, with increase of wealth;– groups of beautiful women, on either hand, seated or half reclined; the pure or rich hues of their robes blending imperceptibly, or in gorgeous contrasts, with the soft outlines and colors of their supports; a banquet for the eyes and the mind; the perfect work of art and culture;—gliding about and among these, or, with others, springing and revolving in that monarch of all measures, which blends luxury and purity, until it is either the one or the other, moved the men.