THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN 127tations of the count's favourite flower, the hortensia, 'in every
possible material and every conceivable art-form', and containing
two objects which later must have filled Proust with a special
frisson of amusement and envy: a glass cupboard with 'the tender
pastel shades of a hundred cravats', and above it 'a photograph of
La Rochefoucauld, the acrobat at the Cirque Mollier, in tights
which do full justice to his elegant ephebic figure'.
Montesquiou was tall and thin-"I look like a greyhound in a
greatcoat," he would say complacently. He had abandoned his
former eccentricities of dress, and favoured dark grey suits whose
harmonies and exquisite drapings made him more noticeable than
ever. His hair was black, crisp and artificially waved; he had
beetling black eyebrows like circumflex accents, and a moustache
with upturned pointed ends, like the Kaiser's but larger. His face
was white, long, hawk-like and finely drawn; his cheeks were
rouged and delicately wrinkled, so that Proust, greatly to his
annoyance, compared them to a moss-rose; and his mouth was
small and red, with little black teeth which he hurriedly concealed
with one hand whenever he laughed-a gesture unnecessarily
copied by Proust, whose teeth were beautifully white in his youth.
In these early days he used only a little powder and rouge. Every-
thing in his appearance was studied, for the artist, he felt, should
be himself a work of art. But as this strange, black and white
nobleman chanted, swayed and gesticulated, he acted a whole
series of puppet characters, as if manipulated on wires pulled by
some other self in the ceiling: he was a Spanish hidalgo, a duellist,
his ancestor D' Artagnan, a screeching black macaw, an angry
spinster, the greatest living poet. The sobriety of his colour-
scheme was mitigated by the coquetry of his lilac perfume and
pastel-hued cravats: "I should like admiration for my person to
reach the pitch of physical desire," he confessed.
Montesquiou had inherited from his family great wealth and a
delight in spending it: it was one of the few traits he shared with
his father, Comte Thierry de Montesquiou, who had once
remarked when contemplating marriage with a young heiress:
"She has 500,000 francs a year-with what I have that will make
50,000." The increasing splendour of his apartments and the
receptions he gave in them sometimes involved him in temporary
debt; but, as he said, "It's bad enough not to have any money, it
would be too much if one had to deprive oneself of anything."