The Dedalus Book of Decadence: (Moral Ruins) (19 page)

The supper provided by the ingenious Rambouillet was quite beyond parallel.
Never had he created a more exquisite menu.
The
consommé impromptu
alone would have been sufficient to establish the immortal reputation of any chef.
What, then, can I say of the
Dorade bouillie sauce maréchale,
the
ragoût aux langues de carpes,
the
ramereaux à la charnière,
the
ciboulette de gibier à l’espagnole,
the
paté de cuisses d’oie aux pois de Monsalvie,
the
queues d’agneau au clair de lune,
the
artichauts à la Grecque,
the
charlotte de pommes à Lucy Waters,
the
bombes à la marée,
and the
glaces aux rayons d’or?
A veritable tour de cuisine that surpassed even the famous little suppers given by the Marquis de Réchale at Passy, and which the Abbé Mirliton pronounced “impeccable, and too good to be eaten.”

Ah!
Pierre Antoine Berquin de Rambouillet; you
are worthy of your divine mistress!

Mere hunger quickly gave place to those finer instincts of the pure gourmet, and the strange wines, cooled in buckets of snow, unloosed all the décolleté spirits of astonishing conversation and atrocious laughter.

III

At first there was the fun with the surprise packets that contained myriads of amusing things, then a general criticism of the decorations, everyone finding a delightful meaning in the fall of festoon, turn of twig, and twist of branch.
Pulex, as usual, bore the palm for insight and invention, and to-night he was more brilliant than ever.
He leant across the table and explained to the young page, Macfils de Martaga, what thing was intended by a certain arrangement of roses.
The young page smiled and hummed the refrain of “La petite balette.”
Sporion, too, had delicate perceptions, and was vastly entertained by the disposition of the candelabra.

As the courses advanced, the conversation grew bustling and more personal.
Pulex and Cyril and Marisca and Cathelin opened a fire of raillery.
The infidelities of Cerise, the difficulties of Brancas, Sarmean’s caprices that morning in the lily garden, Thorilliere’s declining strength, Astarte’s affection for Roseola, Felix’s impossible member, Cathelin’s passion for Sulpilia’s poodle, Sola’s passion for herself, the nasty bite that Marisca gave Chloe, the épilatiere of Pulex, Cyril’s diseases, Butor’s illness, Maryx’s tiny cemetery, Lesbia’s profound fourth letter, and a thousand amatory follies of the day were discussed.

From harsh and shrill and clamant, the voices grew blurred and inarticulate.
Bad sentences were helped out by worse gestures, and at one table Scabius could only express himself with his napkin, after the manner of Sir Jolly Jumble in the “Soldier’s Fortune” of Otway.
Basalissa and Lysistrata tried to pronounce each other’s names, and became very affectionate in the attempt, and Tala, the tragedian, robed in ample purple, and wearing plume and buskin, rose to his feet, and with swaying gestures began to recite one of his favourite parts.
He got no further than the first line, but repeated it again and again, with fresh accents and intonations each time, and was only silenced by the approach of the asparagus that was being served by satyrs costumed in white muslin.

Clitor and Sodon had a violent struggle over the beautiful Pella, and nearly upset a chandelier.
Sophie became very intimate with an empty champagne bottle, swore it made her enceinte, and ended by having a mock accouchment on the top of the table; and Belamour pretended to be a dog, and pranced from couch to couch on all fours, biting and barking and licking.
Mellefont crept about dropping love philtres into glasses.
Juventus and Ruella stripped and put on each other’s things, Spelto offered a prize for whoever should come first, and Spelto won it!
Tannhauser, just a little grisé, lay down on the cushions and let Julia do whatever she liked.

I wish I could be allowed to tell you what occurred round table 15, just at this moment.
It would amuse you very much, and would give you a capital idea of the habits of Venus’ retinue.
Indeed, for deplorable reasons, by far the greater part of what was said and done at this supper must remain unrecorded and even unsuggested.

Venus allowed most of the dishes to pass untasted, she was so engaged with the beauty of Tannhauser.
She laid her head many times on his robe, kissing him
passionately; and his skin at once firm and yielding, seemed to those exquisite little teeth of hers, the most incomparable pasture.
Her upper lip curled and trembled with excitement, showing the gums.
Tannhauser, on his side, was no less devoted.
He adored her all over and all the things she had on, and buried his face in the folds and flounces of her linen, and ravished away a score of frills in his excess.
He found her exasperating, and crushed her in his arms, and slaked his parched lips at her mouth.
He caressed her eyelids softly with his finger tips, and pushed aside the curls from her forehead, and did a thousand gracious things, tuning her body as a violinist tunes his instrument before he plays upon it.

Priapusa snorted like an old war horse at the sniff of powder, and tickled Tannhauser and Venus by turns, and slipped her tongue down their throats, and refused to be quiet at all until she had had a mouthful of the Chevalier.
Claude, seizing his chance, dived under the table and came up the other side just under the queen’s couch, and before she could say “One!”
he was taking his coffee “aux deux colonnes.”
Clair was furious at his friend’s success, and sulked for the rest of the evening.

IV

After the fruits and fresh wines had been brought in by a troop of woodland creatures, decked with green leaves and all sorts of Spring flowers, the candles in the orchestra were lit, and in another moment the musicians bustled into their places.
The wonderful Titurel de Schentefleur was the chef d’orchestre, and the most insidious of conductors.
His bâton dived into a phrase and brought out the most magical and magnificent
things, and seemed rather to play every instrument than to lead it.
He could add a grace even to Scarlatti and a wonder to Beethoven.
A delicate, thin, little man with thick lips and a nez retroussé, with long black hair and curled moustache, in the manner of Molière.
What were his amatory tastes, no one in the Venusberg could tell.
He generally passed for a virgin, and Cathos had nicknamed him “The Solitaire.”

To-night, he appeared in a court suit of white silk, brilliant with decorations.
His hair was curled into resplendent ringlets that trembled like springs at the merest gesture of his arm, and in his ears swung the diamonds given him by Venus.

The orchestra was, as usual, in its uniform of red vest and breeches trimmed with gold lace, white stockings and red shoes.
Titurel had written a ballet for the evening’s divertissement, founded upon De Bergerac’s comedy of “Les Bacchanales de Fanfreluche,” in which the action and dances were designed by him as well as the music.

V

The curtain rose upon a scene of rare beauty, a remote Arcadian valley and watered with a dear river as fresh and pastoral as a perfect fifth of this scrap of Tempe.
It was early morning, and the rearisen sun, like the prince in the “Sleeping Beauty,” woke all the earth with his lips.
In that golden embrace the night dews were caught up and made splendid, the trees were awakened from their obscure dreams, the slumber of the birds was broken, and all the flowers of the valley rejoiced, forgetting their fear of the darkness.

Suddenly, to the music of pipe and horn, a troop of satyrs stepped out from the recesses of the woods, bearing in their hands nuts and green boughs and flowers and roots and whatsoever the forest yielded, to heap upon the altar of the mysterious Pan that stood in the middle of the stage; and from the hills came down the shepherds and shepherdesses, leading their flocks and carrying garlands upon their crooks.
Then a rustic priest, white-robed and venerable, came slowly across the valley followed by a choir of radiant children.

The scene was admirably stage-managed, and nothing could have been more varied yet harmonious than this Arcadian group.
The service was quaint and simple, but with sufficient ritual to give the corps-de-ballet an opportunity of showing its dainty skill.
The dancing of the satyrs was received with huge favour, and when the priest raised his hand in final blessing, the whole troop of worshippers made such an intricate and elegant exit that it was generally agreed that Titurel had never before shown so fine an invention.

Scarcely had the stage been empty for a moment, when Sporion entered, followed by a brilliant rout of dandies and smart women.
Sporion was a tall, slim, depraved young man with a slight stoop, a troubled walk, an oval impassable face, with its olive skin drawn tightly over the bone, strong scarlet lips, long Japanese eyes, and a great gilt toupet.
Round his shoulders hung a high-collared satin cape of salmon pink, with long black ribands untied and floating about his body.
His coat of sea-green spotted muslin was caught in at the waist by a scarlet sash with scalloped edges, and frilled out over the hips for about six inches.
His trousers, loose and wrinkled, reached to the end of the calf, and were brocaded down the sides, and ruched magnificently at the ankles.
The stockings were of white kid, with stalls for the toes,
and had delicate red sandles strapped over them.
But his little hands, peeping out from their frills, seemed quite the most insinuating things, such supple fingers tapering to the point, with tiny nails stained pink, such unquenchable palms, lined and mounted like Lord Fanny’s in “Love at all Hazards,” and such blue-veined, hairless backs!
In his left hand he carried a small lace handkerchief broidered with a coronet.

As for his friends and followers they made the most superb and insolent crowd imaginable, but to catalogue the clothes they had on would require a chapter as long as the famous tenth in Pénillière’s history of underlinen.
On the whole they looked a very distinguished chorus.

Sporion stepped forward and explained with swift and various gesture that he and his friends were tired of the amusements, wearied with the poor pleasures offered by the civil world, and had invaded the Arcadian valley hoping to experience a new frisson in the destruction of some shepherd’s or some satyr’s naiveté, and the infusion of their venom among the dwellers of the woods.

The chorus assented with languid but expressive movements.

Curious, and not a little frightened, at the arrival of the wordly company, the sylvans began to peep nervously at those subtle souls through the branches of the trees, and one or two fauns and a shepherd or so crept out warily.
Sporion and all the ladies and gentlemen made enticing sounds and invited the rustic creatures with all the grace in the world to come and join them.
By little batches they came, lured by the strange looks, by the scents and the doings, and by the brilliant clothes, and some ventured quite near, timorously fingering the delicious textures of the stuffs.
Then Sporion and each of his friends took a satyr or a shepherd or something by the hand, and made the preliminary steps of a courtly
measure, for which the most admirable combinations had been invented, and the most charming music written.

The pastoral folk were entirely bewildered when they saw such restrained and graceful movements, and made the most grotesque and futile efforts to imitate them.

Dio mio, a pretty sight!
A charming effect too was obtained by the intermixture of stockinged calf and hairy leg, of rich brocade bodice and plain blouse, of tortured head-dress and loose untutored locks.

When the dance was ended, the servants of Sporion brought on champagne, and, with many pirouettes, poured it magnificently into slender glasses, and tripped about plying those Arcadian mouths that had never before tasted such a royal drink.

**********

Then the curtain fell with a pudic rapidity.

VI

’Twas not long before the invaders began to enjoy the first fruits of their expedition, plucking them in the most seductive manner with their smooth fingers, and feasting lip and tongue and tooth, whilst the shepherds and satyrs and shepherdesses fairly gasped under the new joys, for the pleasure they experienced was almost too keen and too profound for their simple and untilled natures.
Fanfreluche and the rest of the rips and ladies tingled with excitement and frolicked like young lambs in a fresh meadow.
Again and again the wine was danced round, and the valley grew as busy as a market day.
Attracted by the noise and merrymaking, all those sweet infants I told you of, skipped suddenly on to the stage, and began clapping their hands and laughing immoderately at the passion and the disorder and commotion, and mimicking the nervous staccato movements they saw in their pretty childish way.