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diff --git a/old/13695-0.txt b/old/13695-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..23af289 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13695-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13417 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Love Episode, by Émile Zola + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: A Love Episode + +Author: Émile Zola + +Release Date: October 11, 2004 [eBook #13695] +[Most recently updated: July 9, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Dagny, John Bickers and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVE EPISODE *** + + + + +A LOVE EPISODE + +BY +ÉMILE ZOLA + +ILLUSTRATED BY DANTAN + + +PREPARER’S NOTE: + +This eBook was prepared from the edition published by the Société +des Beaux-Arts in 1905 for the Comedie d'Amour Series. Registered +copy Number 153 of 500. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +CONTENTS + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + + + + +List of Illustrations + + Comedie D'amour Series + Émile Zola + Jeanne's Illness + Malignon Appoints a Rendezvous With Juliette + The Meeting of Hélène and Henri + +[Illustration] + + + + +ZOLA AND HIS WRITINGS + + +Émile Zola was born in Paris, April 2, 1840. His father was Francois +Zola, an Italian engineer, who constructed the Canal Zola in Provence. +Zola passed his early youth in the south of France, continuing his +studies at the Lycée St. Louis, in Paris, and at Marseilles. His sole +patrimony was a lawsuit against the town of Aix. He became a clerk in +the publishing house of Hachette, receiving at first the modest +honorarium of twenty-five francs a week. His journalistic career, +though marked by immense toil, was neither striking nor remunerative. +His essays in criticism, of which he collected and published several +volumes, were not particularly successful. This was evidently not his +field. His first stories, _Les Mystères de Marseilles_ and _Le Voeu +d’Une Morte_ fell flat, disclosing no indication of remarkable talent. +But in 1864 appeared _Les Contes à Ninon_, which attracted wide +attention, the public finding them charming. _Les Confessions de +Claude_ was published in 1865. In this work Zola had evidently struck +his gait, and when _Thérèse Raquin_ followed, in 1867, Zola was fully +launched on his great career as a writer of the school which he called +“Naturalist.” _Thérèse Raquin_ was a powerful study of the effects of +remorse preying upon the mind. In this work the naturalism was +generally characterized as “brutal,” yet many critics admitted that it +was absolutely true to nature. It had, in fact, all the gruesome +accuracy of a clinical lecture. In 1868 came _Madeleine Ferat_, an +exemplification of the doctrine of heredity, as inexorable as the +“Destiny” of the Greek tragedies of old. + +And now dawned in Zola’s teeming brain the vast conception of a +“Naturalistic Comedy of Life.” It was to be Balzac “naturalized,” so to +speak. The great cycle should run through the whole gamut of human +passions, foibles, motives and interests. It should consist of human +documents, of painstaking minuteness of detail and incontrovertible +truth. + +The idea of destiny or heredity permeates all the works of this +portentously ambitious series. Details may be repellant. One should not +“smell” a picture, as the artists say. If one does, he gets an +impression merely of a small blotch of paint. The vast canvas should be +studied as a whole. Frailties are certainly not the whole of human +nature. But they cannot be excluded from a comprehensive view of it. +The “_Rougon-Macquart_ series” did not carry Zola into the Academy. But +the reputation of Moliere has managed to survive a similar exclusion, +and so will the fame of Zola, who will be bracketed with Balzac in +future classifications of artistic excellence. For twenty-two years, +from _La Fortune des Rougon_, in 1871, to _Docteur Pascal_ in 1893, the +series continued to focus the attention of the world, and Zola was the +most talked about man in the literature of the epoch. _La Fortune des +Rougon_ was introductory. _La Curée_ discussed society under the second +Empire. _Le Ventre de Paris_ described the great market of Paris. _La +Conquete de Plassans_ spoke of life in the south of France. _La Faute +de l’Abbé Mouret_ treated of the results of celibacy. _Son Excellence +Eugene Rougon_ dealt with official life. _L’Assommoir_ was a tract +against the vice of drunkenness. Some think this the strongest of the +naturalist series. Its success was prodigious. In this the marvellous +talent of Zola for minute description is evinced. _Une Page d’Amour_ (A +Love Episode) appeared in 1878. Of _Nana_, 1880, three hundred thousand +copies were quickly sold. _Pot-Bouille_ portrayed the lower +_bourgeoisie_ and their servants. _Au Bonheur des Dames_ treated of the +great retail shops. _La Joie de Vivre_ came in 1884. _Germinal_ told of +mining and the misery of the proletariat. _L’Oeuvre_ pictured the life +of artists and authors. _La Terre_ portrayed, with startling realism, +the lowest peasant life. _Le Reve_, which followed, was a reaction. It +was a graceful idyl. _Le Reve_ was termed “a symphony in white,” and +was considered as a concession to the views of the majority of the +French Academy. _La Bete Humaine_ exhausted the details of railway +life. _L’Argent_ treats of financial scandals and panics. _La Debacle_, +1892, is a realistic picture of the desperate struggles of the +Franco-Prussian war. _Le Docteur Pascal_, 1893, a story of the +emotions, wound up the series. Through it all runs the thread of +heredity and environment in their influence on human character. + +But Zola’s work was not finished. A series of three romances on cities +showed a continuance of power. They are _Lourdes_, _Rome_, and _Paris_. +After the books on the three cities Zola planned a sort of tetralogy, +intended to sum up his social philosophy, which he called the “Four +Gospels.” _Feconditie_ is a tract against race suicide. The others of +this series are entitled _Travail_, _Verite_ and _Justice_, the latter +projected but not begun. + +The attitude which Zola took in reference to the wretched Dreyfus +scandal will add greatly to his fame as a man of courage and a lover of +truth. From this filthy mess of perjury and forgery Zola’s intrepidity +and devotion to justice arise clear and white as a lily from a +cesspool. + +Several of Zola’s books have been dramatized. + +Zola died suddenly at his home in Paris, in September, 1902. He +received a public funeral, Anatole France delivering an oration at the +grave. There is every indication that Zola’s great reputation as an +artist and philosopher will increase with the passing of the years. + +C. C. STARKWEATHER. + + + + +A LOVE EPISODE + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + +The night-lamp with a bluish shade was burning on the chimney-piece, +behind a book, whose shadows plunged more than half the chamber in +darkness. There was a quiet gleam of light cutting across the round +table and the couch, streaming over the heavy folds of the velvet +curtains, and imparting an azure hue to the mirror of the rosewood +wardrobe placed between the two windows. The quiet simplicity of the +room, the blue tints on the hangings, furniture, and carpet, served at +this hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness +of cloudland. Facing the windows, and within sweep of the shadow, +loomed the velvet-curtained bed, a black mass, relieved only by the +white of the sheets. With hands crossed on her bosom, and breathing +lightly, lay Hélène, asleep—mother and widow alike personified by the +quiet unrestraint of her attitude. + +In the midst of the silence one o’clock chimed from the timepiece. The +noises of the neighborhood had died away; the dull, distant roar of the +city was the only sign of life that disturbed those Trocadero heights. +Hélène’s breathing, so light and gentle, did not ruffle the chaste +repose of her bosom. She was in a beauteous sleep, peaceful yet sound, +her profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot, and her +head leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep while +eagerly listening. At the farther end of the room the open door of an +adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall. + +Still there was not a sound. The half-hour struck. The pendulum gave +but a feeble tick-tack amid the general drowsiness that brooded over +the whole chamber. Everything was sleeping, night-lamp and furniture +alike; on the table, near an extinguished lamp, some woman’s handiwork +was disposed also in slumber. Hélène in her sleep retained her air of +gravity and kindliness. + +Two o’clock struck, and the stillness was broken. A deep sigh issued +from the darkness of the closet. There was a rustling of linen sheets, +and then silence reigned again. Anon labored breathing broke through +the gloom. Hélène had not moved. Suddenly, however, she started up, for +the moanings and cries of a child in pain had roused her. Dazed with +sleep, she pressed her hands against her temples, but hearing a stifled +sob, she leaped from her couch on to the carpet. + +“Jeanne! my Jeanne! what ails you? tell me, love,” she asked; and as +the child remained silent, she murmured, while running towards the +night-light, “Gracious Heaven! why did I go to bed when she was so +ill?” + +Quickly she entered the closet, where deep silence had again fallen. +The feeble gleam of the lamp threw but a circular patch of light on the +ceiling. Bending over the iron cot, she could at first make out +nothing, but amidst the bed-clothes, tossed about in disorder, the dim +light soon revealed Jeanne, with limbs quite stiff, her head flung +back, the muscles of her neck swollen and rigid. Her sweet face was +distorted, her eyes were open and fixed on the curtain-rod above. + +“My child!” cried Hélène. “My God! my God! she is dying.” + +Setting down the lamp, Hélène touched her daughter with trembling +hands. The throbbing of the pulse and the heart’s action seemed to have +died away. The child’s puny arms and legs were stretched out +convulsively, and the mother grew frantic at the sight. + +“My child is dying! Help, help!” she stammered. “My child! my child!” + +She wandered back to her room, brushing against the furniture, and +unconscious of her movements; then, distracted, she again returned to +the little bed, throwing herself on her knees, and ever appealing for +help. She took Jeanne in her arms, rained kisses on her hair, and +stroked her little body, begging her to answer, and seeking one +word—only one word—from her silent lips. Where was the pain? Would she +have some of the cooling drink she had liked the other day? Perhaps the +fresh air would revive her? So she rattled on, bent on making the child +speak. + +“Speak to me, Jeanne! speak to me, I entreat you!” + +Oh, God! and not to know what to do in this sudden terror born of the +night! There was no light even. Then her ideas grew confused, though +her supplications to the child continued—at one moment she was +beseeching, at another answering in her own person. Thus, the pain +gripped her in the stomach; no, no, it must be in the breast. It was +nothing at all; she need merely keep quiet. Then Hélène tried to +collect her scattered senses; but as she felt her daughter stark and +stiff in her embrace, her heart sickened unto death. She tried to +reason with herself, and to resist the yearning to scream. But all at +once, despite herself, her cry rang out + +“Rosalie, Rosalie! my child is dying. Quick, hurry for the doctor.” + +Screaming out these words, she ran through dining-room and kitchen to a +room in the rear, where the maid started up from sleep, giving vent to +her surprise. Hélène speeded back again. Clad only in her night-dress +she moved about, seemingly not feeling the icy cold of the February +night. Pah! this maid would loiter, and her child would die! Back again +she hurried through the kitchen to the bedroom before a minute had +elapsed. Violently, and in the dark, she slipped on a petticoat, and +threw a shawl over her shoulders. The furniture in her way was +overturned; the room so still and silent was filled with the echoes of +her despair. Then leaving the doors open, she rushed down three flights +of stairs in her slippers, consumed with the thought that she alone +could bring back a doctor. + +After the house-porter had opened the door Hélène found herself upon +the pavement, with a ringing in her ears and her mind distracted. +However, she quickly ran down the Rue Vineuse and pulled the door-bell +of Doctor Bodin, who had already tended Jeanne; but a servant—after an +interval which seemed an eternity—informed her that the doctor was +attending a woman in childbed. Hélène remained stupefied on the +footway; she knew no other doctor in Passy. For a few moments she +rushed about the streets, gazing at the houses. A slight but keen wind +was blowing, and she was walking in slippers through the light snow +that had fallen during the evening. Ever before her was her daughter, +with the agonizing thought that she was killing her by not finding a +doctor at once. Then, as she retraced her steps along the Rue Vineuse, +she rang the bell of another house. She would inquire, at all events; +some one would perhaps direct her. She gave a second tug at the bell; +but no one seemed to come. The wind meanwhile played with her +petticoat, making it cling to her legs, and tossed her dishevelled +hair. + +At last a servant answered her summons. “Doctor Deberle was in bed +asleep.” It was a doctor’s house at which she had rung, so Heaven had +not abandoned her! Straightway, intent upon entering, she pushed the +servant aside, still repeating her prayer: + +“My child, my child is dying! Oh, tell him he must come!” + +The house was small and seemed full of hangings. She reached the first +floor, despite the servant’s opposition, always answering his protest +with the words, “My child is dying!” In the apartment she entered she +would have been content to wait; but the moment she heard the doctor +stirring in the next room she drew near and appealed to him through the +doorway: + +“Oh, sir, come at once, I beseech you. My child is dying!” + +When the doctor at last appeared in a short coat and without a +neckcloth, she dragged him away without allowing him to finish +dressing. He at once recognized her as a resident in the next-door +house, and one of his own tenants; so when he induced her to cross a +garden—to shorten the way by using a side-door between the two +houses—memory suddenly awoke within her. + +“True, you are a doctor!” she murmured, “and I knew it. But I was +distracted. Oh, let us hurry!” + +On the staircase she wished him to go first. She could not have +admitted the Divinity to her home in a more reverent manner. Upstairs +Rosalie had remained near the child, and had lit the large lamp on the +table. After the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and +cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful +rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous +twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face. For a minute he looked on +in silence, his lips compressed. Hélène anxiously watched him, and on +noticing the mother’s imploring glance, he muttered: “It will be +nothing. But she must not lie here. She must have air.” + +Hélène grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on +her shoulder. She could have kissed the doctor’s hand for his good +tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her. Scarcely, +however, had Jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little +frame was again seized with violent convulsions. The doctor had removed +the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming through the +room. Then, opening a window, he ordered Rosalie to drag the bed away +from the curtains. Hélène’s heart was again filled with anguish. “Oh, +sir, she is dying,” she stammered. “Look! look! Ah! I scarcely +recognize her.” + +The doctor did not reply, but watched the paroxysm attentively. + +“Step into the alcove,” he at last exclaimed. “Hold her hands to +prevent her from tearing herself. There now, gently, quietly! Don’t +make yourself uneasy. The fit must be allowed to run its course.” + +They both bent over the bed, supporting and holding Jeanne, whose limbs +shot out with sudden jerks. The doctor had buttoned up his coat to hide +his bare neck, and Hélène’s shoulders had till now been enveloped in +her shawl; but Jeanne in her struggles dragged a corner of the shawl +away, and unbuttoned the top of the coat. Still they did not notice it; +they never even looked at one another. + +[Illustration] + +At last the convulsion ceased, and the little one then appeared to sink +into deep prostration. Doctor Deberle was evidently ill at ease, though +he had assured the mother that there was no danger. He kept his gaze +fixed on the sufferer, and put some brief questions to Hélène as she +stood by the bedside. + +“How old is the child?” + +“Eleven years and six months, sir,” was the reply. + +Silence again fell between them. He shook his head, and stooped to +raise one of Jeanne’s lowered eyelids and examine the mucus. Then he +resumed his questions, but without raising his eyes to Hélène. + +“Did she have convulsions when she was a baby?” + +“Yes, sir; but they left her after she reached her sixth birthday. Ah! +she is very delicate. For some days past she had seemed ill at ease. +She was at times taken with cramp, and plunged in a stupor.” + +“Do you know of any members of your family that have suffered from +nervous affections?” + +“I don’t know. My mother was carried off by consumption.” + +Here shame made her pause. She could not confess that she had a +grandmother who was an inmate of a lunatic asylum.[*] There was +something tragic connected with all her ancestry. + +[*] This is Adelaide Fouque, otherwise Aunt Dide, the ancestress of the +Rougon-Macquart family, whose early career is related in the “Fortune +of the Rougons,” whilst her death is graphically described in the pages +of “Dr. Pascal.” + +“Take care! the convulsions are coming on again!” now hastily exclaimed +the doctor. + +Jeanne had just opened her eyes, and for a moment she gazed around her +with a vacant look, never speaking a word. Her glance then grew fixed, +her body was violently thrown backwards, and her limbs became distended +and rigid. Her skin, fiery-red, all at once turned livid. Her pallor +was the pallor of death; the convulsions began once more. + +“Do not loose your hold of her,” said the doctor. “Take her other +hand!” + +He ran to the table, where, on entering, he had placed a small +medicine-case. He came back with a bottle, the contents of which he +made Jeanne inhale; but the effect was like that of a terrible lash; +the child gave such a violent jerk that she slipped from her mother’s +hands. + +“No, no, don’t give her ether,” exclaimed Hélène, warned by the odor. +“It drives her mad.” + +The two had now scarcely strength enough to keep the child under +control. Her frame was racked and distorted, raised by the heels and +the nape of the neck, as if bent in two. But she fell back again and +began tossing from one side of the bed to the other. Her fists were +clenched, her thumbs bent against the palms of her hands. At times she +would open the latter, and, with fingers wide apart, grasp at phantom +bodies in the air, as though to twist them. She touched her mother’s +shawl and fiercely clung to it. But Hélène’s greatest grief was that +she no longer recognized her daughter. The suffering angel, whose face +was usually so sweet, was transformed in every feature, while her eyes +swam, showing balls of a nacreous blue. + +“Oh, do something, I implore you!” she murmured. “My strength is +exhausted, sir.” + +She had just remembered how the child of a neighbor at Marseilles had +died of suffocation in a similar fit. Perhaps from feelings of pity the +doctor was deceiving her. Every moment she believed she felt Jeanne’s +last breath against her face; for the child’s halting respiration +seemed suddenly to cease. Heartbroken and overwhelmed with terror, +Hélène then burst into tears, which fell on the body of her child, who +had thrown off the bedclothes. + +The doctor meantime was gently kneading the base of the neck with his +long supple fingers. Gradually the fit subsided, and Jeanne, after a +few slight twitches, lay there motionless. She had fallen back in the +middle of the bed, with limbs outstretched, while her head, supported +by the pillow, inclined towards her bosom. One might have thought her +an infant Jesus. Hélène stooped and pressed a long kiss on her brow. + +“Is it over?” she asked in a whisper. “Do you think she’ll have another +fit?” + +The doctor made an evasive gesture, and then replied: + +“In any case the others will be less violent.” + +He had asked Rosalie for a glass and water-bottle. Half-filling the +glass with water, he took up two fresh medicine phials, and counted out +a number of drops. Hélène assisted in raising the child’s head, and the +doctor succeeded in pouring a spoonful of the liquid between the +clenched teeth. The white flame of the lamp was leaping up high and +clear, revealing the disorder of the chamber’s furnishings. Hélène’s +garments, thrown on the back of an arm-chair before she slipped into +bed, had now fallen, and were littering the carpet. The doctor had +trodden on her stays, and had picked them up lest he might again find +them in his way. An odor of vervain stole through the room. The doctor +himself went for the basin, and soaked a linen cloth in it, which he +then pressed to Jeanne’s temples. + +“Oh, madame, you’ll take cold!” expostulated Rosalie as she stood there +shivering. “Perhaps the window might be shut? The air is too raw.” + +“No, no!” cried Hélène; “leave the window open. Should it not be so?” +she appealed to the doctor. + +The wind entered in slight puffs, rustling the curtains to and fro; but +she was quite unconscious of it. Yet the shawl had slipped off her +shoulders, and her hair had become unwound, some wanton tresses +sweeping down to her hips. She had left her arms free and uncovered, +that she might be the more ready; she had forgotten all, absorbed +entirely in her love for her child. And on his side, the doctor, busy +with his work, no longer thought of his unbuttoned coat, or of the +shirt-collar that Jeanne’s clutch had torn away. + +“Raise her up a little,” said he to Hélène. “No, no, not in that way! +Give me your hand.” + +He took her hand and placed it under the child’s head. He wished to +give Jeanne another spoonful of the medicine. Then he called Hélène +close to him, made use of her as his assistant; and she obeyed him +reverently on seeing that her daughter was already more calm. + +“Now, come,” he said. “You must let her head lean against your +shoulder, while I listen.” + +Hélène did as he bade her, and he bent over her to place his ear +against Jeanne’s bosom. He touched her bare shoulder with his cheek, +and as the pulsation of the child’s heart struck his ear he could also +have heard the throbbing of the mother’s breast. As he rose up his +breath mingled with Hélène’s. + +“There is nothing wrong there,” was the quiet remark that filled her +with delight. “Lay her down again. We must not worry her more.” + +However, another, though much less violent, paroxysm followed. From +Jeanne’s lips burst some broken words. At short intervals two fresh +attacks seemed about to convulse her, and then a great prostration, +which again appeared to alarm the doctor, fell on the child. He had +placed her so that her head lay high, with the clothes carefully tucked +under her chin; and for nearly an hour he remained there watching her, +as though awaiting the return of a healthy respiration. On the other +side of the bed Hélène also waited, never moving a limb. + +Little by little a great calm settled on Jeanne’s face. The lamp cast a +sunny light upon it, and it regained its exquisite though somewhat +lengthy oval. Jeanne’s fine eyes, now closed, had large, bluish, +transparent lids, which veiled—one could divine it—a sombre, flashing +glance. A light breathing came from her slender nose, while round her +somewhat large mouth played a vague smile. She slept thus, amidst her +outspread tresses, which were inky black. + +“It has all passed away now,” said the doctor in a whisper; and he +turned to arrange his medicine bottles prior to leaving. + +“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Hélène, approaching him, “don’t leave me yet; wait +a few minutes. Another fit might come on, and you, you alone, have +saved her!” + +He signed to her that there was nothing to fear; yet he tarried, with +the idea of tranquillizing her. She had already sent Rosalie to bed; +and now the dawn soon broke, still and grey, over the snow which +whitened the housetops. The doctor proceeded to close the window, and +in the deep quiet the two exchanged a few whispers. + +“There is nothing seriously wrong with her, I assure you,” said he; +“only with one so young great care must be taken. You must see that her +days are spent quietly and happily, and without shocks of any kind.” + +“She is so delicate and nervous,” replied Hélène after a moment’s +pause. “I cannot always control her. For the most trifling reasons she +is so overcome by joy or sorrow that I grow alarmed. She loves me with +a passion, a jealousy, which makes her burst into tears when I caress +another child.” + +“So, so—delicate, nervous, and jealous,” repeated the doctor as he +shook his head. “Doctor Bodin has attended her, has he not? I’ll have a +talk with him about her. We shall have to adopt energetic treatment. +She has reached an age that is critical in one of her sex.” + +Recognizing the interest he displayed, Hélène gave vent to her +gratitude. “How I must thank you, sir, for the great trouble you have +taken!” + +The loudness of her tones frightened her, however; she might have woke +Jeanne, and she bent down over the bed. But no; the child was sound +asleep, with rosy cheeks, and a vague smile playing round her lips. The +air of the quiet chamber was charged with languor. The whilom +drowsiness, as if born again of relief, once more seized upon the +curtains, furniture, and littered garments. Everything was steeped +restfully in the early morning light as it entered through the two +windows. + +Hélène again stood up close to the bed; on the other side was the +doctor, and between them lay Jeanne, lightly sleeping. + +“Her father was frequently ill,” remarked Hélène softly, continuing her +answer to his previous question. “I myself enjoy the best of health.” + +The doctor, who had not yet looked at her, raised his eyes, and could +scarcely refrain from smiling, so hale and hearty was she in every way. +She greeted his gaze with her own sweet and quiet smile. Her happiness +lay in her good health. + +However, his looks were still bent on her. Never had he seen such +classical beauty. Tall and commanding, she was a nut-brown Juno, of a +nut-brown sunny with gleams of gold. When she slowly turned her head, +its profile showed the severe purity of a statue. Her grey eyes and +pearly teeth lit up her whole face. Her chin, rounded and somewhat +pronounced, proved her to be possessed of commonsense and firmness. But +what astonished the doctor was the superbness of her whole figure. She +stood there, a model of queenliness, chastity, and modesty. + +On her side also she scanned him for a moment. Doctor Deberle’s years +were thirty-five; his face was clean-shaven and a little long; he had +keen eyes and thin lips. As she gazed on him she noticed for the first +time that his neck was bare. Thus they remained face to face, with +Jeanne asleep between them. The distance which but a short time before +had appeared immense, now seemed to be dwindling away. Then Hélène +slowly wrapped the shawl about her shoulders again, while the doctor +hastened to button his coat at the neck. + +“Mamma! mamma!” Jeanne stammered in her sleep. She was waking, and on +opening her eyes she saw the doctor and became uneasy. + +“Mamma, who’s that?” was her instant question; but her mother kissed +her, and replied: “Go to sleep, darling, you haven’t been well. It’s +only a friend.” + +The child seemed surprised; she did not remember anything. Drowsiness +was coming over her once more, and she fell asleep again, murmuring +tenderly: “I’m going to by-by. Good-night, mamma, dear. If he is your +friend he will be mine.” + +The doctor had removed his medicine-case, and, with a silent bow, he +left the room. Hélène listened for a while to the child’s breathing, +and then, seated on the edge of the bed, she became oblivious to +everything around her; her looks and thoughts wandering far away. The +lamp, still burning, was paling in the growing sunlight. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + +Next day Hélène thought it right and proper to pay a visit of thanks to +Doctor Deberle. The abrupt fashion in which she had compelled him to +follow her, and the remembrance of the whole night which he had spent +with Jeanne, made her uneasy, for she realized that he had done more +than is usually compassed within a doctor’s visit. Still, for two days +she hesitated to make her call, feeling a strange repugnance towards +such a step. For this she could give herself no reasons. It was the +doctor himself who inspired her with this hesitancy; one morning she +met him, and shrunk from his notice as though she were a child. At this +excess of timidity she was much annoyed. Her quiet, upright nature +protested against the uneasiness which was taking possession of her. +She decided, therefore, to go and thank the doctor that very day. + +Jeanne’s attack had taken place during the small hours of Wednesday +morning; it was now Saturday, and the child was quite well again. +Doctor Bodin, whose fears concerning her had prompted him to make an +early call, spoke of Doctor Deberle with the respect that an old doctor +with a meagre income pays to another in the same district, who is +young, rich, and already possessed of a reputation. He did not forget +to add, however, with an artful smile, that the fortune had been +bequeathed by the elder Deberle, a man whom all Passy held in +veneration. The son had only been put to the trouble of inheriting +fifteen hundred thousand francs, together with a splendid practice. “He +is, though, a very smart fellow,” Doctor Bodin hastened to add, “and I +shall be honored by having a consultation with him about the precious +health of my little friend Jeanne!” + +About three o’clock Hélène made her way downstairs with her daughter, +and had to take but a few steps along the Rue Vineuse before ringing at +the next-door house. Both mother and daughter still wore deep mourning. +A servant, in dress-coat and white tie, opened the door. Hélène easily +recognized the large entrance-hall, with its Oriental hangings; on each +side of it, however, there were now flower-stands, brilliant with a +profusion of blossoms. The servant having admitted them to a small +drawing-room, the hangings and furniture of which were of a mignonette +hue, stood awaiting their pleasure, and Hélène gave her name—Madame +Grandjean. + +Thereupon the footman pushed open the door of a drawing-room, furnished +in yellow and black, of dazzling effect, and, moving aside, announced: + +“Madame Grandjean!” + +Hélène, standing on the threshold, started back. She had just noticed +at the other end of the room a young woman seated near the fireplace on +a narrow couch which was completely covered by her ample skirts. Facing +her sat an elderly person, who had retained her bonnet and shawl, and +was evidently paying a visit. + +“I beg pardon,” exclaimed Hélène. “I wished to see Doctor Deberle.” + +She had made the child enter the room before her, and now took her by +the hand again. She was both astonished and embarrassed in meeting this +young lady. Why had she not asked for the doctor? She well knew he was +married. + +Madame Deberle was just finishing some story, in a quick and rather +shrill voice. + +“Oh! it’s marvellous, marvellous! She dies with wonderful realism. She +clutches at her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face +turns green. I declare you ought to see her, Mademoiselle Aurelie!” + +Then, rising up, she sailed towards the doorway, rustling her skirts +terribly. + +“Be so kind as to walk in, madame,” she said with charming +graciousness. “My husband is not at home, but I shall be delighted to +receive you, I assure you. This must be the pretty little girl who was +so ill a few nights ago. Sit down for a moment, I beg of you.” + +Hélène was forced to accept the invitation, while Jeanne timidly +perched herself on the edge of another chair. Madame Deberle again sank +down on her little sofa, exclaiming with a pretty laugh, + +“Yes, this is my day. I receive every Saturday, you see, and Pierre +then announces all comers. A week or two ago he ushered in a colonel +suffering from the gout.” + +“How silly you are, my dear Juliette!” expostulated Mademoiselle +Aurelie, the elderly lady, an old friend in straitened circumstances, +who had seen her come into the world. + +There was a short silence, and Hélène gazed round at the luxury of the +apartment, with its curtains and chairs in black and gold, glittering +like constellations. Flowers decorated mantel-shelf, piano, and tables +alike, and the clear light streamed through the windows from the +garden, in which could be seen the leafless trees and bare soil. The +room had almost a hot-house temperature; in the fireplace one large log +was glowing with intense heat. After another glance Hélène recognized +that the gaudy colors had a happy effect. Madame Deberle’s hair was +inky-black, and her skin of a milky whiteness. She was short, plump, +slow in her movements, and withal graceful. Amidst all the golden +decorations, her white face assumed a vermeil tint under her heavy, +sombre tresses. Hélène really admired her. + +“Convulsions are so terrible,” broke in Madame Deberle. “My Lucien had +them when a mere baby. How uneasy you must have been, madame! However, +the dear little thing appears to be quite well now.” + +As she drawled out these words she kept her eyes on Hélène, whose +superb beauty amazed and delighted her. Never had she seen a woman with +so queenly an air in the black garments which draped the widow’s +commanding figure. Her admiration found vent in an involuntary smile, +while she exchanged glances with Mademoiselle Aurelie. Their admiration +was so ingenuously and charmingly expressed, that a faint smile also +rippled over Hélène’s face. + +Then Madame Deberle stretched herself on the sofa. “You were not at the +first night at the Vaudeville yesterday, madame?” she asked, as she +played with the fan that hung from her waist. + +“I never go to the theatre,” was Hélène’s reply. + +“Oh! little Noëmi was simply marvellous! Her death scene is so +realistic! She clutches her bosom like this, throws back her head, and +her face turns green. Oh! the effect is prodigious.” + +Thereupon she entered into a minute criticism of the actress’s playing, +which she upheld against the world; and then she passed to the other +topics of the day—a fine art exhibition, at which she had seen some +most remarkable paintings; a stupid novel about which too much fuss was +being made; a society intrigue which she spoke of to Mademoiselle +Aurelie in veiled language. And so she went on from one subject to +another, without wearying, her tongue ever ready, as though this social +atmosphere were peculiarly her own. Hélène, a stranger to such society, +was content to listen, merely interjecting a remark or brief reply +every now and then. + +At last the door was again thrown open and the footman announced: +“Madame de Chermette! Madame Tissot!” + +Two ladies entered, magnificently dressed. Madame Deberle rose eagerly +to meet them, and the train of her black silk gown, heavily decked with +trimmings, trailed so far behind her that she had to kick it out of her +way whenever she happened to turn round. A confused babel of greetings +in shrill voices arose. + +“Oh! how kind of you! I declare I never see you!” + +“You know we come about that lottery.” + +“Yes: I know, I know.” + +“Oh! we cannot sit down. We have to call at twenty houses yet.” + +“Come now, you are not going to run away at once!” + +And then the visitors finished by sitting down on the edge of a couch; +the chatter beginning again, shriller than ever. + +“Well! what do you think of yesterday at the Vaudeville?” + +“Oh! it was splendid!” + +“You know she unfastens her dress and lets down her hair. All the +effect springs from that.” + +“People say that she swallows something to make her green.” + +“No, no, every action is premeditated; but she had to invent and study +them all, in the first place.” + +“It’s wonderful.” + +The two ladies rose and made their exit, and the room regained its +tranquil peacefulness. From some hyacinths on the mantel-shelf was +wafted an all-pervading perfume. For a time one could hear the noisy +twittering of some sparrows quarrelling on the lawn. Before resuming +her seat, Madame Deberle proceeded to draw down the embroidered tulle +blind of a window facing her, and then returned to her sofa in the +mellowed, golden light of the room. + +“I beg pardon,” she now said. “We have had quite an invasion.” + +Then, in an affectionate way, she entered into conversation with +Hélène. She seemed to know some details of her history, doubtless from +the gossip of her servants. With a boldness that was yet full of tact, +and appeared instinct with much friendliness, she spoke to Hélène of +her husband, and of his sad death at the Hotel du Var, in the Rue de +Richelieu. + +“And you had just arrived, hadn’t you? You had never been in Paris +before. It must be awful to be plunged into mourning, in a strange +room, the day after a long journey, and when one doesn’t know a single +place to go to.” + +Hélène assented with a slow nod. Yes, she had spent some very bitter +hours. The disease which carried off her husband had abruptly declared +itself on the day after their arrival, just as they were going out +together. She knew none of the streets, and was wholly unaware what +district she was in. For eight days she had remained at the bedside of +the dying man, hearing the rumble of Paris beneath her window, feeling +she was alone, deserted, lost, as though plunged in the depths of an +abyss. When she stepped out on the pavement for the first time, she was +a widow. The mere recalling of that bare room, with its rows of +medicine bottles, and with the travelling trunks standing about +unpacked, still made her shudder. + +“Was your husband, as I’ve been told, nearly twice your age?” asked +Madame Deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while +Mademoiselle Aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of +the conversation. + +“Oh, no!” replied Hélène. “He was scarcely six years older.” + +Then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in a +few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with her +while she was living with her father, Monsieur Mouret, a hatter in the +Rue des Petites-Maries, at Marseilles; how the Grandjean family, who +were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on +account of her poverty. She spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret +wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth +existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand +francs a year. It was then that Grandjean, within whom an intense +hatred of Marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to Paris, to +live there for good. + +“And how old were you when you were married?” was Madame Deberle’s next +question. + +“Seventeen.” + +“You must have been very beautiful.” + +The conversation suddenly ceased, for Hélène had not seemed to hear the +remark. + +“Madame Manguelin!” announced the footman. + +A young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in. Madame +Deberle scarcely rose. It was one of her dependents, who had called to +thank her for some service performed. The visitor only remained for a +few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy. + +Madame Deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of Abbé Jouve, +with whom both were acquainted. The Abbé was a meek officiating priest +at Notre-Dame-de-Grace, the parish church of Passy; however, his +charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully +hearkened to than any other priest in the district. + +“Oh, he has such pious eloquence!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, with a +sanctimonious look. + +“He has been very kind to us,” said Hélène. “My husband had formerly +known him at Marseilles. The moment he heard of my misfortune he took +charge of everything. To him we owe our settling in Passy.” + +“He has a brother, hasn’t he?” questioned Juliette. + +“Yes, a step-brother, for his mother married again. Monsieur Rambaud +was also acquainted with my husband. He has started a large business in +the Rue de Rambuteau, where he sells oils and other Southern produce. I +believe he makes a large amount of money by it.” And she added, with a +laugh: “The Abbé and his brother make up my court.” + +Jeanne, sitting on the edge of her chair, and wearied to death, now +cast an impatient look at her mother. Her long, delicate, lamb-like +face wore a pained expression, as if she disliked all this +conversation; and she appeared at times to sniff the heavy, oppressive +odors floating in the room, while casting suspicious side-glances at +the furniture, as though her own exquisite sensibility warned her of +some undefined dangers. Finally, however, she turned a look of +tyrannical worship on her mother. + +Madame Deberle noticed the child’s uneasiness. + +“Here’s a little girl,” she said, “who feels tired at being serious, +like a grown-up person. There are some picture-books on the table, +dear; they will amuse you.” + +Jeanne took up an album, but her eyes strayed from it to glance +imploringly at her mother. Hélène, charmed by her hostess’s excessive +kindness, did not move; there was nothing of the fidget in her, and she +would of her own accord remain seated for hours. However, as the +servant announced three ladies in succession—Madame Berthier, Madame de +Guiraud, and Madame Levasseur—she thought she ought to rise. + +“Oh! pray stop,” exclaimed Madame Deberle; “I must show you my son.” + +The semi-circle round the fireplace was increasing in size. The ladies +were all gossiping at the same time. One of them declared that she was +completely broken down, as for five days she had not gone to bed till +four o’clock in the morning. Another indulged in a diatribe against wet +nurses; she could no longer find one who was honest. Next the +conversation fell on dressmakers. Madame Deberle affirmed no woman +tailor could fit you properly; a man was requisite. Two of the ladies, +however, were mumbling something under their breath, and, a silence +intervening, two or three words became audible. Every one then broke +into a laugh, while languidly waving their fans. + +“Monsieur Malignon!” announced the servant. + +A tall young man, dressed in good style, was ushered in. Some +exclamations greeted him. Madame Deberle, not taking the trouble to +rise, stretched out her hand and inquired: “Well! what of yesterday at +the Vaudeville?” + +“Vile!” was his reply. + +“What! vile! She’s marvellous when she clutches her bosom and throws +back her head—” + +“Stop! stop! The whole thing is loathsome in its realism.” + +And then quite a dispute commenced. It was easy to talk of realism, but +the young man would have no realism at all. + +“I would not have it in anything, you hear!” said he, raising his +voice. “No, not in anything! it degrades art.” + +People would soon be seeing some fine things on the stage, indeed! Why +didn’t Noëmi follow out her actions to their logical conclusion? And he +illustrated his remark with a gesture which quite scandalized the +ladies. Oh, how horrible! However, when Madame Deberle had declared +that the actress produced a great effect, and Madame Levasseur had +related how a lady had fainted in the balcony, everybody agreed that +the affair was a great success; and with this the discussion stopped +short. + +The young man sat in an arm-chair, with his legs stretched out among +the ladies’ flowing skirts. He seemed to be quite at home in the +doctor’s house. He had mechanically plucked a flower from a vase, and +was tearing it to pieces with his teeth. Madame Deberle interrupted +him: + +“Have you read that novel which—” + +He did not allow her to finish, but replied, with a superior air, that +he only read two novels in the year. + +As for the exhibition of paintings at the Art Club, it was not worth +troubling about; and then, every topic being exhausted, he rose and +leaned over Juliette’s little sofa, conversing with her in a low voice, +while the other ladies continued chatting together in an animated +manner. + +At length: “Dear me! he’s gone,” exclaimed Madame Berthier turning +round. “I met him only an hour ago in Madame Robinot’s drawing-room.” + +“Yes, and he is now going to visit Madame Lecomte,” said Madame +Deberle. “He goes about more than any other man in Paris.” She turned +to Hélène, who had been following the scene, and added: “A very +distinguished young fellow he is, and we like him very much. He has +some interest in a stockbroking business; he’s very rich besides, and +well posted in everything.” + +The other ladies, however, were now going off. + +“Good-bye, dear madame. I rely upon you for Wednesday.” + +“Yes, to be sure; Wednesday.” + +“Oh, by the way, will you be at that evening party? One doesn’t know +whom one may meet. If you go, I’ll go.” + +“Ah, well! I’ll go, I promise you. Give my best regards to Monsieur de +Guiraud.” + +When Madame Deberle returned she found Hélène standing in the middle of +the drawing-room. Jeanne had drawn close to her mother, whose hands she +firmly grasped; and thus clinging to her caressingly and almost +convulsively, she was drawing her little by little towards the doorway. + +“Ah, I was forgetting!” exclaimed the lady of the house; and ringing +the bell for the servant, she said to him: “Pierre, tell Miss Smithson +to bring Lucien here.” + +During the short interval of waiting that ensued the door was again +opened, but this time in a familiar fashion and without any formal +announcement. A good-looking girl of some sixteen years of age entered +in company with an old man, short of stature but with a rubicund, +chubby face. + +“Good-day, sister,” was the girl’s greeting, as she kissed Madame +Deberle. + +“Good-day, Pauline! good-day, father!” replied the doctor’s wife. + +Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had not stirred from her seat beside the +fire, rose to exchange greetings with Monsieur Letellier. He owned an +extensive silk warehouse on the Boulevard des Capucines. Since his +wife’s death he had been taking his younger daughter about everywhere, +in search of a rich husband for her. + +“Were you at the Vaudeville last night?” asked Pauline. + +“Oh, it was simply marvellous!” repeated Juliette in parrot-fashion, +as, standing before a mirror, she rearranged a rebellious curl. + +“It is annoying to be so young; one can’t go to anything!” said +Pauline, pouting like a spoiled child. “I went with papa to the +theatre-door at midnight, to find out how the piece had taken.” + +“Yes, and we tumbled upon Malignon,” said the father. + +“He was extremely pleased with it.” + +“Really!” exclaimed Juliette. “He was here a minute ago, and declared +it vile. One never knows how to take him.” + +“Have you had many visitors to-day?” asked Pauline, rushing off to +another subject. + +“Oh, several ladies; quite a crowd! The room was never once empty. I’m +dead-beat—” + +Here she abruptly broke off, remembering she had a formal introduction +to make + +“My father, my sister—Madame Grandjean.” + +The conversation was turning on children and the ailments which give +mothers so much worry when Miss Smithson, an English governess, +appeared with a little boy clinging to her hand. Madame Deberle scolded +her in English for having kept them waiting. + +“Ah! here’s my little Lucien!” exclaimed Pauline as she dropped on her +knees before the child, with a great rustling of skirts. + +“Now, now, leave him alone!” said Juliette. “Come here, Lucien; come +and say good-day to this little lady.” + +The boy came forward very sheepishly. He was no more than seven years +old, fat and dumpy, and dressed as coquettishly as a doll. As he saw +that they were all looking at him with smiles, he stopped short, and +surveyed Jeanne, his blue eyes wide open with astonishment. + +“Go on!” urged his mother. + +He turned his eyes questioningly on her and advanced a step, evincing +all the sullenness peculiar to lads of his age, his head lowered, his +thick lips pouting, and his eyebrows bent into a growing frown. Jeanne +must have frightened him with the serious look she wore standing there +in her black dress. She had not ceased holding her mother’s hand, and +was nervously pressing her fingers on the bare part of the arm between +the sleeve and glove. With head lowered she awaited Lucien’s approach +uneasily, like a young and timid savage, ready to fly from his caress. +But a gentle push from her mother prompted her to step forward. + +“Little lady, you will have to kiss him first,” Madame Deberle said +laughingly. “Ladies always have to begin with him. Oh! the little +stupid.” + +“Kiss him, Jeanne,” urged Hélène. + +The child looked up at her mother; and then, as if conquered by the +bashful looks of the little noodle, seized with sudden pity as she +gazed on his good-natured face, so dreadfully confused—she smiled +divinely. A sudden wave of hidden tenderness rose within her and +brightened her features, and she whispered: “Willingly, mamma!” + +Then, taking Lucien under the armpits, almost lifting him from the +ground, she gave him a hearty kiss on each cheek. He had no further +hesitation in embracing her. + +“Bravo! capital!” exclaimed the onlookers. + +With a bow Hélène turned to leave, accompanied to the door by Madame +Deberle. + +“I beg you, madame,” said she, “to present my heartiest thanks to the +doctor. He relieved me of such dreadful anxiety the other night.” + +“Is Henri not at home?” broke in Monsieur Letellier. + +“No, he will be away some time yet,” was Juliette’s reply. “But you’re +not going away; you’ll dine with us,” she continued, addressing +Mademoiselle Aurelie, who had risen as if to leave with Madame +Grandjean. + +The old maid with each Saturday expected a similar invitation, then +decided to relieve herself of shawl and bonnet. The heat in the +drawing-room was intense, and Monsieur Letellier hastened to open a +window, at which he remained standing, struck by the sight of a lilac +bush which was already budding. Pauline, meantime, had begun playfully +running after Lucien behind the chairs and couches, left in confusion +by the visitors. + +On the threshold Madame Deberle held out her hand to Hélène with a +frank and friendly movement. + +“You will allow me,” said she. “My husband spoke to me about you, and I +felt drawn to you. Your bereavement, your lonely life—in short, I am +very glad to have seen you, and you must not be long in coming back.” + +“I give you my promise, and I am obliged to you,” said Hélène, moved by +these tokens of affection from a woman whom she had imagined rather +flighty. They clasped hands, and each looked into the other’s face with +a happy smile. Juliette’s avowal of her sudden friendship was given +with a caressing air. “You are too lovely not to be loved!” she said. + +Hélène broke into a merry laugh, for her beauty never engaged her +thoughts, and she called Jeanne, whose eyes were busy watching the +pranks of Lucien and Pauline. But Madame Deberle detained the girl for +a moment longer. + +“You are good friends henceforth,” she said; “you must just say _au +revoir_.” + +Thereupon the two children blew one another a kiss with their +finger-tips. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + +Every Tuesday Hélène had Monsieur Rambaud and Abbé Jouve to dine with +her. It was they who, during the early days of her bereavement, had +broken in on her solitude, and drawn up their chairs to her table with +friendly freedom; their object being to extricate her, at least once a +week, from the solitude in which she lived. The Tuesday dinners became +established institutions, and the partakers in these little feasts +appeared punctually at seven o’clock, serenely happy in discharging +what they deemed a duty. + +That Tuesday Hélène was seated at the window, profiting by the last +gleams of the twilight to finish some needle work, pending the arrival +of her guests. She here spent her days in pleasant peacefulness. The +noises of the street died away before reaching such a height. She loved +this large, quiet chamber, with its substantial luxury, its rosewood +furniture and blue velvet curtains. When her friends had attended to +her installation, she not having to trouble about anything, she had at +first somewhat suffered from all this sombre luxury, in preparing which +Monsieur Rambaud had realized his ideal of comfort, much to the +admiration of his brother, who had declined the task. She was not long, +however, in feeling happy in a home in which, as in her heart, all was +sound and simple. Her only enjoyment during her long hours of work was +to gaze before her at the vast horizon, the huge pile of Paris, +stretching its roofs, like billows, as far as the eye could reach. Her +solitary corner overlooked all that immensity. + +“Mamma, I can no longer see,” said Jeanne, seated near her on a low +chair. And then, dropping her work, the child gazed at Paris, which was +darkening over with the shadows of night. She rarely romped about, and +her mother even had to exert authority to induce her to go out. In +accordance with Doctor Bodin’s strict injunction, Hélène made her +stroll with her two hours each day in the Bois de Boulogne, and this +was their only promenade; in eighteen months they had not gone three +times into Paris.[*] Nowhere was Jeanne so evidently happy as in their +large blue room. Her mother had been obliged to renounce her intention +of having her taught music, for the sound of an organ in the silent +streets made her tremble and drew tears from her eyes. Her favorite +occupation was to assist her mother in sewing linen for the children of +the Abbé’s poor. + +[*] Passy and the Trocadero are now well inside Paris, but at the time +fixed for this story they were beyond the _barrieres_. + +Night had quite fallen when the lamp was brought in by Rosalie, who, +fresh from the glare of her range, looked altogether upset. Tuesday’s +dinner was the one event of the week, which put things topsy-turvy. + +“Aren’t the gentlemen coming here to-night, madame?” she inquired. + +Hélène looked at the timepiece: “It’s a quarter to seven; they will be +here soon,” she replied. + +Rosalie was a gift from Abbé Jouve, who had met her at the station on +the day she arrived from Orleans, so that she did not know a single +street in Paris. A village priest, an old schoolmate of Abbé Jouve’s, +had sent her to him. She was dumpy and plump, with a round face under +her narrow cap, thick black hair, a flat nose, and deep red lips; and +she was expert in preparing savory dishes, having been brought up at +the parsonage by her godmother, servant to the village priest. + +“Here is Monsieur Rambaud at last!” she exclaimed, rushing to open the +door before there was even a ring. + +Full and broad-shouldered, Monsieur Rambaud entered, displaying an +expansive countenance like that of a country notary. His forty-five +years had already silvered his hair, but his large blue eyes retained a +wondering, artless, gentle expression, akin to a child’s. + +“And here’s his reverence; everybody has come now!” resumed Rosalie, as +she opened the door once more. + +Whilst Monsieur Rambaud pressed Hélène’s hand and sat down without +speaking, smiling like one who felt quite at home, Jeanne threw her +arms round the Abbé’s neck. + +“Good-evening, dear friend,” said she. “I’ve been so ill!” + +“So ill, my darling?” + +The two men at once showed their anxiety, the Abbé especially. He was a +short, spare man, with a large head and awkward manners, and dressed in +the most careless way; but his eyes, usually half-closed, now opened to +their full extent, all aglow with exquisite tenderness. Jeanne +relinquished one of her hands to him, while she gave the other to +Monsieur Rambaud. Both held her and gazed at her with troubled looks. +Hélène was obliged to relate the story of her illness, and the Abbé was +on the point of quarrelling with her for not having warned him of it. +And then they each questioned her. “The attack was quite over now? She +had not had another, had she?” The mother smiled as she listened. + +“You are even fonder of her than I am, and I think you’ll frighten me +in the end,” she replied. “No, she hasn’t been troubled again, except +that she has felt some pains in her limbs and had some headaches. But +we shall get rid of these very soon.” + +The maid then entered to announce that dinner was ready. + +The table, sideboard, and eight chairs furnishing the dining-room were +of mahogany. The curtains of red reps had been drawn close by Rosalie, +and a hanging lamp of white porcelain within a plain brass ring lighted +up the tablecloth, the carefully-arranged plates, and the tureen of +steaming soup. Each Tuesday’s dinner brought round the same remarks, +but on this particular day Dr. Deberle served naturally as a subject of +conversation. Abbé Jouve lauded him to the skies, though he knew that +he was no church-goer. He spoke of him, however, as a man of upright +character, charitable to a fault, a good father, and a good husband—in +fact, one who gave the best of examples to others. As for Madame +Deberle she was most estimable, in spite of her somewhat flighty ways, +which were doubtless due to her Parisian education. In a word, he +dubbed the couple charming. Hélène seemed happy to hear this; it +confirmed her own opinions; and the Abbé’s remarks determined her to +continue the acquaintance, which had at first rather frightened her. + +“You shut yourself up too much!” declared the priest. + +“No doubt,” echoed his brother. + +Hélène beamed on them with her quiet smile, as though to say that they +themselves sufficed for all her wants, and that she dreaded new +acquaintances. However, ten o’clock struck at last, and the Abbé and +his brother took up their hats. Jeanne had just fallen asleep in an +easy-chair in the bedroom, and they bent over her, raising their heads +with satisfied looks as they observed how tranquilly she slumbered. +They stole from the room on tiptoe, and in the lobby whispered their +good-byes: + +“Till next Tuesday!” + +“O, by the way,” said the Abbé, returning a step or two, “I was +forgetting: Mother Fétu is ill. You should go to see her.” + +“I will go to-morrow,” answered Hélène. + +The Abbé had a habit of commissioning her to visit his poor. They +engaged in all sorts of whispered talk together on this subject, +private business which a word or two enabled them to settle together, +and which they never referred to in the presence of other persons. + +On the morrow Hélène went out alone. She decided to leave Jeanne in the +house, as the child had been troubled with fits of shivering since +paying a visit of charity to an old man who had become paralyzed. Once +out of doors, she followed the Rue Vineuse, turned down the Rue +Raynouard, and soon found herself in the Passage des Eaux, a strange, +steep lane, like a staircase, pent between garden walls, and conducting +from the heights of Passy to the quay. At the bottom of this descent +was a dilapidated house, where Mother Fétu lived in an attic lighted by +a round window, and furnished with a wretched bed, a rickety table, and +a seatless chair. + +“Oh! my good lady, my good lady!” she moaned out, directly she saw +Hélène enter. + +The old woman was in bed. In spite of her wretchedness, her body was +plump, swollen out, as it were, while her face was puffy, and her hands +seemed numbed as she drew the tattered sheet over her. She had small, +keen eyes and a whimpering voice, and displayed a noisy humility in a +rush of words. + +“Ah! my good lady, how I thank you! Ah, ah! oh, how I suffer! It’s just +as if dogs were tearing at my side. I’m sure I have a beast inside +me—see, just there! The skin isn’t broken; the complaint is internal. +But, oh! oh! the pain hasn’t ceased for two days past. Good Lord, how +is it possible to suffer so much? Ah, my good lady, thank you! You +don’t forget the poor. It will be taken into account up above; yes, +yes, it will be taken into account!” + +Hélène had sat down. Noticing on the table a jug of warm _tisane_, she +filled a cup which was near at hand, and gave it to the sufferer. Near +the jug were placed a packet of sugar, two oranges, and some other +comfits. + +“Has any one been to see you?” Hélène asked. + +“Yes, yes,—a little lady. But she doesn’t know. That isn’t the sort of +stuff I need. Oh, if I could get a little meat! My next-door neighbor +would cook it for me. Oh! oh! this pain is something dreadful! A dog is +tearing at me—oh, if only I had some broth!” + +In spite of the pains which were racking her limbs, she kept her sharp +eyes fixed on Hélène, who was now busy fumbling in her pocket, and on +seeing her visitor place a ten-franc piece on the table, she whimpered +all the more, and tried to rise to a sitting posture. Whilst +struggling, she extended her arm, and the money vanished, as she +repeated: + +“Gracious Heaven! this is another frightful attack. Oh! oh! I cannot +stand such agony any longer! God will requite you, my good lady; I will +pray to Him to requite you. Bless my soul, how these pains shoot +through my whole body! His reverence Abbé Jouve promised me you would +come. It’s only you who know what I want. I am going to buy some meat. +But now the pain’s going down into my legs. Help me; I have no strength +left—none left at all!” + +The old woman wished to turn over, and Hélène, drawing off her gloves, +gently took hold of her and placed her as she desired. As she was still +bending over her the door opened, and a flush of surprise mounted to +her cheeks as she saw Dr. Deberle entering. Did he also make visits to +which he never referred? + +“It’s the doctor!” blurted out the old woman. “Oh! Heaven must bless +you both for being so good!” + +The doctor bowed respectfully to Hélène. Mother Fétu had ceased whining +on his entrance, but kept up a sibilant wheeze, like that of a child in +pain. She had understood at once that the doctor and her benefactress +were known to one another; and her eyes never left them, but travelled +from one to the other, while her wrinkled face showed that her mind was +covertly working. The doctor put some questions to her, and sounded her +right side; then, turning to Hélène, who had just sat down, he said: + +“She is suffering from hepatic colic. She will be on her feet again in +a few days.” + +And, tearing from his memorandum book a leaf on which he had written +some lines, he added, addressing Mother Fétu: + +“Listen to me. You must send this to the chemist in the Rue de Passy, +and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught he will +give you.” + +The old woman burst out anew into blessings. Hélène remained seated. +The doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he +bowed and discreetly took his leave. He had not gone down a flight ere +Mother Fétu’s lamentations were renewed. + +“Ah! he’s such a clever doctor! Ah! if his medicine could do me some +good! Dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from +the body. Yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. Have you +known him long? Gracious goodness, how thirsty I am! I feel burning +hot. He has a wife, hasn’t he? He deserves to have a good wife and +beautiful children. Indeed, it’s a pleasure to see kind-hearted people +good acquaintances.” + +Hélène had risen to give her a drink. + +“I must go now, Mother Fétu,” she said. “Good-bye till to-morrow.” + +“Ah! how good you are! If I only had some linen! Look at my +chemise—it’s torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. But that doesn’t +matter. God will requite you, my good lady!” + +Next day, on Hélène’s entering Mother Fétu’s room, she found Dr. +Deberle already there. Seated on the chair, he was writing out a +prescription, while the old woman rattled on with whimpering +volubility. + +“Oh, sir, it now feels like lead in my side—yes, just like lead! It’s +as heavy as a hundred-pound weight, and prevents me from turning +round.” + +Then, having caught sight of Hélène, she went on without a pause: “Ah! +here’s the good lady! I told the kind doctor you would come. Though the +heavens might fall, said I, you would come all the same. You’re a very +saint, an angel from paradise, and, oh! so beautiful that people might +fall on their knees in the streets to gaze on you as you pass! Dear +lady, I am no better; just now I have a heavy feeling here. Oh, I have +told the doctor what you did for me! The emperor could have done no +more. Yes, indeed, it would be a sin not to love you—a great sin.” + +These broken sentences fell from her lips as, with eyes half closed, +she rolled her head on the bolster, the doctor meantime smiling at +Hélène, who felt very ill at ease. + +“Mother Fétu,” she said softly, “I have brought you a little linen.” + +“Oh, thank you, thank you; God will requite you! You’re just like this +kind, good gentleman, who does more good to poor folks than a host of +those who declare it their special work. You don’t know what great care +he has taken of me for four months past, supplying me with medicine and +broth and wine. One rarely finds a rich person so kind to a poor soul! +Oh, he’s another of God’s angels! Dear, dear, I seem to have quite a +house in my stomach!” + +In his turn the doctor now seemed to be embarrassed. He rose and +offered his chair to Hélène; but although she had come with the +intention of remaining a quarter of an hour, she declined to sit down, +on the plea that she was in a great hurry. + +Meanwhile, Mother Fétu, still rolling her head to and fro, had +stretched out her hand, and the parcel of linen had vanished in the +bed. Then she resumed: + +“Oh, what a couple of good souls you are! I don’t wish to offend you; I +only say it because it’s true. When you have seen one, you have seen +the other. Oh, dear Lord! give me a hand and help me to turn round. +Kind-hearted people understand one another. Yes, yes, they understand +one another.” + +“Good-bye, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, leaving the doctor in sole +possession. “I don’t think I shall call to-morrow.” + +The next day, however, found her in the attic again. The old woman was +sound asleep, but scarcely had she opened her eyes and recognized +Hélène in her black dress sitting on the chair than she exclaimed: + +“He has been here—oh, I really don’t know what he gave me to take, but +I am as stiff as a stick. We were talking about you. He asked me all +kinds of questions; whether you were generally sad, and whether your +look was always the same. Oh, he’s such a good man!” + +Her words came more slowly, and she seemed to be waiting to see by the +expression of Hélène’s face what effect her remarks might have on her, +with that wheedling, anxious air of the poor who are desirous of +pleasing people. No doubt she fancied she could detect a flush of +displeasure mounting to her benefactress’s brow, for her huge, +puffed-up face, all eagerness and excitement, suddenly clouded over; +and she resumed, in stammering accents: + +“I am always asleep. Perhaps I have been poisoned. A woman in the Rue +de l’Annonciation was killed by a drug which the chemist gave her in +mistake for another.” + +That day Hélène lingered for nearly half an hour in Mother Fétu’s room, +hearing her talk of Normandy, where she had been born, and where the +milk was so good. During a silence she asked the old woman carelessly: +“Have you known the doctor a long time?” + +Mother Fétu, lying on her back, half-opened her eyes and again closed +them. + +“Oh, yes!” she answered, almost in a whisper. “For instance, his father +attended to me before ’48, and he accompanied him then.” + +“I have been told the father was a very good man.” + +“Yes, but a little cracked. The son is much his superior. When he +touches you you would think his hands were of velvet.” + +Silence again fell. + +“I advise you to do everything he tells you,” at last said Hélène. “He +is very clever; he saved my daughter.” + +“To be sure!” exclaimed Mother Fétu, again all excitement. “People +ought to have confidence in him. Why, he brought a boy to life again +when he was going to be buried! Oh, there aren’t two persons like him; +you won’t stop me from saying that! I am very lucky; I fall in with the +pick of good-hearted people. I thank the gracious Lord for it every +night. I don’t forget either of you. You are mingled together in my +prayers. May God in His goodness shield you and grant your every wish! +May He load you with His gifts! May He keep you a place in Paradise!” + +She was now sitting up in bed with hands clasped, seemingly entreating +Heaven with devout fervor. Hélène allowed her to go on thus for a +considerable time, and even smiled. The old woman’s chatter, in fact, +ended by lulling her into a pleasant drowsiness, and when she went off +she promised to give her a bonnet and gown, as soon as she should be +able to get about again. + +Throughout that week Hélène busied herself with Mother Fétu. Her +afternoon visit became an item in her daily life. She felt a strange +fondness for the Passage des Eaux. She liked that steep lane for its +coolness and quietness and its ever-clean pavement, washed on rainy +days by the water rushing down from the heights. A strange sensation +thrilled her as she stood at the top and looked at the narrow alley +with its steep declivity, usually deserted, and only known to the few +inhabitants of the neighboring streets. Then she would venture through +an archway dividing a house fronting the Rue Raynouard, and trip down +the seven flights of broad steps, in which lay the bed of a pebbly +stream occupying half of the narrow way. The walls of the gardens on +each side bulged out, coated with a grey, leprous growth; umbrageous +trees drooped over, foliage rained down, here and there an ivy plant +thickly mantled the stonework, and the chequered verdure, which only +left glimpses of the blue sky above, made the light very soft and +greeny. Halfway down Hélène would stop to take breath, gazing at the +street-lamp which hung there, and listening to the merry laughter in +the gardens, whose doors she had never seen open. At times an old woman +panted up with the aid of the black, shiny, iron handrail fixed in the +wall to the right; a lady would come, leaning on her parasol as on a +walking-stick; or a band of urchins would run down, with a great +stamping of feet. But almost always Hélène found herself alone, and +this steep, secluded, shady descent was to her a veritable delight—like +a path in the depths of a forest. At the bottom she would raise her +eyes, and the sight of the narrow, precipitous alley she had just +descended made her feel somewhat frightened. + +She glided into the old woman’s room with the quiet and coolness of the +Passage des Eaux clinging to her garments. This woefully wretched den +no longer affected her painfully. She moved about there as if in her +own rooms, opening the round attic window to admit the fresh air, and +pushing the table into a corner if it came in her way. The garret’s +bareness, its whitewashed walls and rickety furniture, realized to her +mind an existence whose simplicity she had sometimes dreamt of in her +girlhood. But what especially charmed her was the kindly emotion she +experienced there. Playing the part of sick nurse, hearing the constant +bewailing of the old woman, all she saw and felt within the four walls +left her quivering with deep pity. In the end she awaited with evident +impatience Doctor Deberle’s customary visit. She questioned him as to +Mother Fétu’s condition; but from this they glided to other subjects, +as they stood near each other, face to face. A closer acquaintance was +springing up between them, and they were surprised to find they +possessed similar tastes. They understood one another without speaking +a word, each heart engulfed in the same overflowing charity. Nothing to +Hélène seemed sweeter than this mutual feeling, which arose in such an +unusual way, and to which she yielded without resistance, filled as she +was with divine pity. At first she had felt somewhat afraid of the +doctor; in her own drawing-room she would have been cold and +distrustful, in harmony with her nature. Here, however, in this garret +they were far from the world, sharing the one chair, and almost happy +in the midst of the wretchedness and poverty which filled their souls +with emotion. A week passed, and they knew one another as though they +had been intimate for years. Mother Fétu’s miserable abode was filled +with sunshine, streaming from this fellowship of kindliness. + +The old woman grew better very slowly. The doctor was surprised, and +charged her with coddling herself when she related that she now felt a +dreadful weight in her legs. She always kept up her monotonous moaning, +lying on her back and rolling her head to and fro; but she closed her +eyes, as though to give her visitors an opportunity for unrestrained +talk. One day she was to all appearance sound asleep, but beneath their +lids her little black eyes continued watching. At last, however, she +had to rise from her bed; and next day Hélène presented her with the +promised bonnet and gown. When the doctor made his appearance that +afternoon the old woman’s laggard memory seemed suddenly stirred. +“Gracious goodness!” said she, “I’ve forgotten my neighbor’s soup-pot; +I promised to attend to it!” + +Then she disappeared, closing the door behind her and leaving the +couple alone. They did not notice that they were shut in, but continued +their conversation. The doctor urged Hélène to spend the afternoon +occasionally in his garden in the Rue Vineuse. + +“My wife,” said he, “must return your visit, and she will in person +repeat my invitation. It would do your daughter good.” + +“But I don’t refuse,” she replied, laughing. “I do not require to be +fetched with ceremony. Only—only—I am afraid of being indiscreet. At +any rate, we will see.” + +Their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of +surprise: “Where on earth can Mother Fétu have gone? It must be a +quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor’s +soup-pot.” + +Hélène then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at the +moment. She continued to talk of Madame Deberle, of whom she spoke +highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced +towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable. + +“It’s very strange that she does not come back!” she remarked in her +turn. + +Their conversation then dropped. Hélène, not knowing what to do, opened +the window; and when she turned round they avoided looking at one +another. The laughter of children came in through the circular window, +which, with its bit of blue sky, seemed like a full round moon. They +could not have been more alone—concealed from all inquisitive looks, +with merely this bit of heaven gazing in on them. The voices of the +children died away in the distance; and a quivering silence fell. No +one would dream of finding them in that attic, out of the world. Their +confusion grew apace, and in the end Hélène, displeased with herself, +gave the doctor a steady glance. + +“I have a great many visits to pay yet,” he at once exclaimed. “As she +doesn’t return, I must leave.” + +He quitted the room, and Hélène then sat down. Immediately afterwards +Mother Fétu returned with many protestations: + +“Oh! oh! I can scarcely crawl; such a faintness came over me! Has the +dear good doctor gone? Well, to be sure, there’s not much comfort here! +Oh, you are both angels from heaven, coming to spend your time with one +so unfortunate as myself! But God in His goodness will requite you. The +pain has gone down into my feet to-day, and I had to sit down on a +step. Oh, I should like to have some chairs! If I only had an +easy-chair! My mattress is so vile too that I am quite ashamed when you +come. The whole place is at your disposal, and I would throw myself +into the fire if you required it. Yes. Heaven knows it; I always repeat +it in my prayers! Oh, kind Lord, grant their utmost desires to these +good friends of mine—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy +Ghost!” + +As Hélène listened she experienced a singular feeling of discomfort. +Mother Fétu’s bloated face filled her with disgust. Never before in +this stifling attic had she been affected in a like way; its sordid +misery seemed to stare her in the face; the lack of fresh air, the +surrounding wretchedness, quite sickened her. So she made all haste to +leave, feeling hurt by the blessings which Mother Fétu poured after +her. + +In the Passage des Eaux an additional sorrow came upon her. Halfway up, +on the right-hand side of the path, the wall was hollowed out, and here +there was an excavation, some disused well, enclosed by a railing. +During the last two days when passing she had heard the wailings of a +cat rising from this well, and now, as she slowly climbed the path, +these wailings were renewed, but so pitifully that they seemed instinct +with the agony of death. The thought that the poor brute, thrown into +the disused well, was slowly dying there of hunger, quite rent Hélène’s +heart. She hastened her steps, resolving that she would not venture +down this lane again for a long time, lest the cat’s death-call should +reach her ears. + +The day was a Tuesday. In the evening, on the stroke of seven, as +Hélène was finishing a tiny bodice, the two wonted rings at the bell +were heard, and Rosalie opened the door. + +“His reverence is first to-night!” she exclaimed. “Oh, here comes +Monsieur Rambaud too!” + +They were very merry at dinner. Jeanne was nearly well again now, and +the two brothers, who spoiled her, were successful in procuring her +permission to eat some salad, of which she was excessively fond, +notwithstanding Doctor Bodin’s formal prohibition. When she was going +to bed, the child in high spirits hung round her mother’s neck and +pleaded: + +“Oh! mamma, darling! let me go with you to-morrow to see the old woman +you nurse!” + +But the Abbé and Monsieur Rambaud were the first to scold her for +thinking of such a thing. They would not hear of her going amongst the +poor, as the sight affected her too grieviously. The last time she had +been on such an expedition she had twice swooned, and for three days +her eyes had been swollen with tears, that had flowed even in her +sleep. + +“Oh! I will be good!” she pleaded. “I won’t cry, I promise.” + +“It is quite useless, my darling,” said her mother, caressing her. “The +old woman is well now. I shall not go out any more; I’ll stay all day +with you!” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + +During the following week Madame Deberle paid a return visit to Madame +Grandjean, and displayed an affability that bordered on affection. + +“You know what you promised me,” she said, on the threshold, as she was +going off. “The first fine day we have, you must come down to the +garden, and bring Jeanne with you. It is the doctor’s strict +injunction.” + +“Very well,” Hélène answered, with a smile, “it is understood; we will +avail ourselves of your kindness.” + +Three days later, on a bright February afternoon, she accompanied her +daughter down to the garden. The porter opened the door connecting the +two houses. At the near end of the garden, in a kind of greenhouse +built somewhat in the style of a Japanese pavilion, they found Madame +Deberle and her sister Pauline, both idling away their time, for some +embroidery, thrown on the little table, lay there neglected. + +“Oh, how good of you to come!” cried Juliette. “You must sit down here. +Pauline, move that table away! It is still rather cool you know to sit +out of doors, but from this pavilion we can keep a watch on the +children. Now, little ones, run away and play; but take care not to +fall!” + +The large door of the pavilion stood open, and on each side were +portable mirrors, whose covers had been removed so that they allowed +one to view the garden’s expanse as from the threshold of a tent. The +garden, with a green sward in the centre, flanked by beds of flowers, +was separated from the Rue Vineuse by a plain iron railing, but against +this grew a thick green hedge, which prevented the curious from gazing +in. Ivy, clematis, and woodbine clung and wound around the railings, +and behind this first curtain of foliage came a second one of lilacs +and laburnums. Even in the winter the ivy leaves and the close network +of branches sufficed to shut off the view. But the great charm of the +garden lay in its having at the far end a few lofty trees, some +magnificent elms, which concealed the grimy wall of a five-story house. +Amidst all the neighboring houses these trees gave the spot the aspect +of a nook in some park, and seemed to increase the dimensions of this +little Parisian garden, which was swept like a drawing-room. Between +two of the elms hung a swing, the seat of which was green with damp. + +Hélène leaned forward the better to view the scene. + +“Oh, it is a hole!” exclaimed Madame Deberle carelessly. “Still, trees +are so rare in Paris that one is happy in having half a dozen of one’s +own.” + +“No, no, you have a very pleasant place,” murmured Hélène. + +The sun filled the pale atmosphere that day with a golden dust, its +rays streaming slowly through the leafless branches of the trees. These +assumed a ruddier tint, and you could see the delicate purple gems +softening the cold grey of the bark. On the lawn and along the walks +the grass and gravel glittered amidst the haze that seemed to ooze from +the ground. No flower was in blossom; only the happy flush which the +sunshine cast upon the soil revealed the approach of spring. + +“At this time of year it is rather dull,” resumed Madame Deberle. “In +June it is as cozy as a nest; the trees prevent any one from looking +in, and we enjoy perfect privacy.” At this point she paused to call: +“Lucien, you must come away from that watertap!” + +The lad, who was doing the honors of the garden, had led Jeanne towards +a tap under the steps. Here he had turned on the water, which he +allowed to splash on the tips of his boots. It was a game that he +delighted in. Jeanne, with grave face, looked on while he wetted his +feet. + +“Wait a moment!” said Pauline, rising. “I’ll go and stop his nonsense!” + +But Juliette held her back. + +“You’ll do no such thing; you are even more of a madcap than he is. The +other day both of you looked as if you had taken a bath. How is it that +a big girl like you cannot remain two minutes seated? Lucien!” she +continued directing her eyes on her son, “turn off the water at once!” + +The child, in his fright, made an effort to obey her. But instead of +turning the tap off, he turned it on all the more, and the water gushed +forth with a force and a noise that made him lose his head. He +recoiled, splashed up to the shoulders. + +“Turn off the water at once!” again ordered his mother, whose cheeks +were flushing with anger. + +Jeanne, hitherto silent, then slowly, and with the greatest caution, +ventured near the tap; while Lucien burst into loud sobbing at sight of +this cold stream, which terrified him, and which he was powerless to +stop. Carefully drawing her skirt between her legs, Jeanne stretched +out her bare hands so as not to wet her sleeves, and closed the tap +without receiving a sprinkle. The flow instantly ceased. Lucien, +astonished and inspired with respect, dried his tears and gazed with +swollen eyes at the girl. + +“Oh, that child puts me beside myself!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, her +complexion regaining its usual pallor, while she stretched herself out, +as though wearied to death. + +Hélène deemed it right to intervene. “Jeanne,” she called, “take his +hand, and amuse yourselves by walking up and down.” + +Jeanne took hold of Lucien’s hand, and both gravely paced the paths +with little steps. She was much taller than her companion, who had to +stretch his arm up towards her; but this solemn amusement, which +consisted in a ceremonious circuit of the lawn, appeared to absorb them +and invest them with a sense of great importance. Jeanne, like a +genuine lady, gazed about, preoccupied with her own thoughts; Lucien +every now and then would venture a glance at her; but not a word was +said by either. + +“How droll they are!” said Madame Deberle, smiling, and again at her +ease. “I must say that your Jeanne is a dear, good child. She is so +obedient, so well behaved—” + +“Yes, when she is in the company of others,” broke in Hélène. “She is a +great trouble at times. Still, she loves me, and does her best to be +good so as not to vex me.” + +Then they spoke of children; how girls were more precocious than boys; +though it would be wrong to deduce too much from Lucien’s unintelligent +face. In another year he would doubtless lose all his gawkiness and +become quite a gallant. Finally, Madame Deberle resumed her embroidery, +making perhaps two stitches in a minute. Hélène, who was only happy +when busy, begged permission to bring her work the next time she came. +She found her companions somewhat dull, and whiled away the time in +examining the Japanese pavilion. The walls and ceiling were hidden by +tapestry worked in gold, with designs showing bright cranes in full +flight, butterflies, and flowers and views in which blue ships were +tossing upon yellow rivers. Chairs, and ironwood flower-stands were +scattered about; on the floor some fine mats were spread; while the +lacquered furnishings were littered with trinkets, small bronzes and +vases, and strange toys painted in all the hues of the rainbow. At the +far end stood a grotesque idol in Dresden china, with bent legs and +bare, protruding stomach, which at the least movement shook its head +with a terrible and amusing look. + +“Isn’t it horribly ugly?” asked Pauline, who had been watching Hélène +as she glanced round. “I say, sister, you know that all these purchases +of yours are so much rubbish! Malignon calls your Japanese museum ‘the +sixpenny bazaar.’ Oh, by the way, talking of him, I met him. He was +with a lady, and such a lady—Florence, of the Varietes Theatre.” + +“Where was it?” asked Juliette immediately. “How I shall tease him!” + +“On the boulevards. He’s coming here to-day, is he not?” + +She was not vouchsafed any reply. The ladies had all at once become +uneasy owing to the disappearance of the children, and called to them. +However, two shrill voices immediately answered: + +“We are here!” + +Half hidden by a spindle tree, they were sitting on the grass in the +middle of the lawn. + +“What are you about?” + +“We have put up at an inn,” answered Lucien. “We are resting in our +room.” + +Greatly diverted, the women watched them for a time. Jeanne seemed +quite contented with the game. She was cutting the grass around her, +doubtless with the intention of preparing breakfast. A piece of wood, +picked up among the shrubs, represented a trunk. And now they were +talking. Jeanne, with great conviction in her tone, was declaring that +they were in Switzerland, and that they would set out to see the +glaciers, which rather astonished Lucien. + +“Ha, here he is!” suddenly exclaimed Pauline. + +Madame Deberle turned, and caught sight of Malignon descending the +steps. He had scarcely time to make his bow and sit down before she +attacked him. + +“Oh,” she said, “it is nice of you to go about everywhere saying that I +have nothing but rubbishy ornaments about me!” + +“You mean this little saloon of yours? Oh yes,” said he, quite at his +ease. “You haven’t anything worth looking at here!” + +“What! not my china figure?” she asked, quite hurt. + +“No, no, everything is quite _bourgeois_. It is necessary for a person +to have some taste. You wouldn’t allow me to select the things—” + +“Your taste, forsooth! just talk about your taste!” she retorted, +flushing crimson and feeling quite angry. “You have been seen with a +lady—” + +“What lady?” he asked, surprised by the violence of the attack. + +“A fine choice, indeed! I compliment you on it. A girl whom the whole +of Paris knows—” + +She suddenly paused, remembering Pauline’s presence. + +“Pauline,” she said, “go into the garden for a minute.” + +“Oh no,” retorted the girl indignantly. “It’s so tiresome; I’m always +being sent out of the way.” + +“Go into the garden,” repeated Juliette, with increased severity in her +tone. + +The girl stalked off with a sullen look, but stopped all at once, to +exclaim: “Well, then, be quick over your talk!” + +As soon as she was gone, Madame Deberle returned to the charge. “How +can you, a gentleman, show yourself in public with that actress +Florence? She is at least forty. She is ugly enough to frighten one, +and all the gentlemen in the stalls thee and thou her on first nights.” + +“Have you finished?” called out Pauline, who was strolling sulkily +under the trees. “I’m not amusing myself here, you know.” + +Malignon, however, defended himself. He had no knowledge of this girl +Florence; he had never in his life spoken a word to her. They had +possibly seen him with a lady: he was sometimes in the company of the +wife of a friend of his. Besides, who had seen him? He wanted proofs, +witnesses. + +“Pauline,” hastily asked Madame Deberle, raising her voice, “did you +not meet him with Florence?” + +“Yes, certainly,” replied her sister. “I met them on the boulevards +opposite Bignon’s.” + +Thereupon, glorying in her victory over Malignon, whose face wore an +embarrassed smile, Madame Deberle called out: “You can come back, +Pauline; I have finished.” + +Malignon, who had a box at the Folies-Dramatiques for the following +night, now gallantly placed it at Madame Deberle’s service, apparently +not feeling the slightest ill-will towards her; moreover, they were +always quarreling. Pauline wished to know if she might go to see the +play that was running, and as Malignon laughed and shook his head, she +declared it was very silly; authors ought to write plays fit for girls +to see. She was only allowed such entertainments as _La Dame Blanche_ +and the classic drama could offer. + +Meantime, the ladies had ceased watching the children, and all at once +Lucien began to raise terrible shrieks. + +“What have you done to him, Jeanne?” asked Hélène. + +“I have done nothing, mamma,” answered the little girl. “He has thrown +himself on the ground.” + +The truth was, the children had just set out for the famous glaciers. +As Jeanne pretended that they were reaching the mountains, they had +lifted their feet very high, as though to step over the rocks. Lucien, +however, quite out of breath with his exertions, at last made a false +step, and fell sprawling in the middle of an imaginary ice-field. +Disgusted, and furious with child-like rage, he no sooner found himself +on the ground than he burst into tears. + +“Lift him up,” called Hélène. + +“He won’t let me, mamma. He is rolling about.” + +And so saying, Jeanne drew back, as though exasperated and annoyed by +such a display of bad breeding. He did not know how to play; he would +certainly cover her with dirt. Her mouth curled, as though she were a +duchess compromising herself by such companionship. Thereupon Madame +Deberle, irritated by Lucien’s continued wailing, requested her sister +to pick him up and coax him into silence. Nothing loth, Pauline ran, +cast herself down beside the child, and for a moment rolled on the +ground with him. He struggled with her, unwilling to be lifted, but she +at last took him up by the arms, and to appease him, said, “Stop +crying, you noisy fellow; we’ll have a swing!” + +Lucien at once closed his lips, while Jeanne’s solemn looks vanished, +and a gleam of ardent delight illumined her face. All three ran towards +the swing, but it was Pauline who took possession of the seat. + +“Push, push!” she urged the children; and they pushed with all the +force of their tiny hands; but she was heavy, and they could scarcely +stir the swing. + +“Push!” she urged again. “Oh, the big sillies, they can’t!” + +In the pavilion, Madame Deberle had just felt a slight chill. Despite +the bright sunshine she thought it rather cold, and she requested +Malignon to hand her a white cashmere burnous that was hanging from the +handle of a window fastening. Malignon rose to wrap the burnous round +her shoulders, and they began chatting familiarly on matters which had +little interest for Hélène. Feeling fidgety, fearing that Pauline might +unwittingly knock the children down, she therefore stepped into the +garden, leaving Juliette and the young man to wrangle over some new +fashion in bonnets which apparently deeply interested them. + +Jeanne no sooner saw her mother than she ran towards her with a +wheedling smile, and entreaty in every gesture. “Oh, mamma, mamma!” she +implored. “Oh, mamma!” + +“No, no, you mustn’t!” replied Hélène, who understood her meaning very +well. “You know you have been forbidden.” + +Swinging was Jeanne’s greatest delight. She would say that she believed +herself a bird; the breeze blowing in her face, the lively rush through +the air, the continued swaying to and fro in a motion as rythmic as the +beating of a bird’s wings, thrilled her with an exquisite pleasure; in +her ascent towards cloudland she imagined herself on her way to heaven. +But it always ended in some mishap. On one occasion she had been found +clinging to the ropes of the swing in a swoon, her large eyes wide +open, fixed in a vacant stare; at another time she had fallen to the +ground, stiff, like a swallow struck by a shot. + +“Oh, mamma!” she implored again. “Only a little, a very, very little!” + +In the end her mother, in order to win peace, placed her on the seat. +The child’s face lit up with an angelic smile, and her bare wrists +quivered with joyous expectancy. Hélène swayed her very gently. + +“Higher, mamma, higher!” she murmured. + +But Hélène paid no heed to her prayer, and retained firm hold of the +rope. She herself was glowing all over, her cheeks flushed, and she +thrilled with excitement at every push she gave to the swing. Her +wonted sedateness vanished as she thus became her daughter’s playmate. + +“That will do,” she declared after a time, taking Jeanne in her arms. + +“Oh, mamma, you must swing now!” the child whispered, as she clung to +her neck. + +She took a keen delight in seeing her mother flying through the air; as +she said, her pleasure was still more intense in gazing at her than in +having a swing herself. Hélène, however, asked her laughingly who would +push her; when she went in for swinging, it was a serious matter; why, +she went higher than the treetops! While she was speaking it happened +that Monsieur Rambaud made his appearance under the guidance of the +doorkeeper. He had met Madame Deberle in Hélène’s rooms, and thought he +would not be deemed presuming in presenting himself here when unable to +find her. Madame Deberle proved very gracious, pleased as she was with +the good-natured air of the worthy man; however, she soon returned to a +lively discussion with Malignon. + +“_Bon ami_[*] will push you, mamma! _Bon ami_ will push you!” Jeanne +called out, as she danced round her mother. + +[*] Literally “good friend;” but there is no proper equivalent for the +expression in English. + +“Be quiet! We are not at home!” said her mother with mock gravity. + +“Bless me! if it will please you, I am at your disposal,” exclaimed +Monsieur Rambaud. “When people are in the country—” + +Hélène let herself be persuaded. When a girl she had been accustomed to +swing for hours, and the memory of those vanished pleasures created a +secret craving to taste them once more. Moreover, Pauline, who had sat +down with Lucien at the edge of the lawn, intervened with the boldness +of a girl freed from the trammels of childhood. + +“Of course he will push you, and he will swing me after you. Won’t you, +sir?” + +This determined Hélène. The youth which dwelt within her, in spite of +the cold demureness of her great beauty, displayed itself in a +charming, ingenuous fashion. She became a thorough school-girl, +unaffected and gay. There was no prudishness about her. She laughingly +declared that she must not expose her legs, and asked for some cord to +tie her skirts securely round her ankles. That done, she stood upright +on the swing, her arms extended and clinging to the ropes. + +“Now, push, Monsieur Rambaud,” she exclaimed delightedly. “But gently +at first!” + +Monsieur Rambaud had hung his hat on the branch of a tree. His broad, +kindly face beamed with a fatherly smile. First he tested the strength +of the ropes, and, giving a look at the trees, determined to give a +slight push. That day Hélène had for the first time abandoned her +widow’s weeds; she was wearing a grey dress set off with mauve bows. +Standing upright, she began to swing, almost touching the ground, and +as if rocking herself to sleep. + +“Quicker! quicker!” she exclaimed. + +Monsieur Rambaud, with his hands ready, caught the seat as it came back +to him, and gave it a more vigorous push. Hélène went higher, each +ascent taking her farther. However, despite the motion, she did not +lose her sedateness; she retained almost an austre demeanor; her eyes +shone very brightly in her beautiful, impassive face; her nostrils only +were inflated, as though to drink in the air. + +Not a fold of her skirts was out of place, but a plait of her hair +slipped down. + +“Quicker! quicker!” she called. + +An energetic push gave her increased impetus. Up in the sunshine she +flew, even higher and higher. A breeze sprung up with her motion, and +blew through the garden; her flight was so swift that they could +scarcely distinguish her figure aright. Her face was now all smiles, +and flushed with a rosy red, while her eyes sparkled here, then there, +like shooting stars. The loosened plait of hair rustled against her +neck. Despite the cords which bound them, her skirts now waved about, +and you could divine that she was at her ease, her bosom heaving in its +free enjoyment as though the air were indeed her natural place. + +“Quicker! quicker!” + +Monsieur Rambaud, his face red and bedewed with perspiration, exerted +all his strength. A cry rang out. Hélène went still higher. + +“Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma!” repeated Jeanne in her ecstasy. + +She was sitting on the lawn gazing at her mother, her little hands +clasped on her bosom, looking as though she herself had drunk in all +the air that was stirring. Her breath failed her; with a rythmical +movement of the shoulders she kept time with the long strokes of the +swing. And she cried, “Quicker! quicker!” while her mother still went +higher, her feet grazing the lofty branches of the trees. + +“Higher, mamma! oh, higher, mamma!” + +But Hélène was already in the very heavens. The trees bent and cracked +as beneath a gale. Her skirts, which were all they could see, flapped +with a tempestuous sound. When she came back with arms stretched out +and bosom distended she lowered her head slightly and for a moment +hovered; but then she rose again and sank backwards, her head tilted, +her eyes closed, as though she had swooned. These ascensions and +descents which made her giddy were delightful. In her flight she +entered into the sunshine—the pale yellow February sunshine that rained +down like golden dust. Her chestnut hair gleamed with amber tints; and +a flame seemed to have leaped up around her, as the mauve bows on her +whitening dress flashed like burning flowers. Around her the springtide +was maturing into birth, and the purple-tinted gems of the trees showed +like delicate lacquer against the blue sky. + +Jeanne clasped her hands. Her mother seemed to her a saint with a +golden glory round her head, winging her way to paradise, and she again +stammered: “Oh, mamma! oh! mamma!” + +Madame Deberle and Malignon had now grown interested, and had stepped +under the trees. Malignon declared the lady to be very bold. + +“I should faint, I’m sure,” said Madame Deberle, with a frightened air. + +Hélène heard them, for she dropped these words from among the branches: +“Oh, my heart is all right! Give a stronger push, Monsieur Rambaud!” + +And indeed her voice betrayed no emotion. She seemed to take no heed of +the two men who were onlookers. They were doubtless nothing to her. Her +tress of hair had become entangled, and the cord that confined her +skirts must have given way, for the drapery flapped in the wind like a +flag. She was going still higher. + +All at once, however, the exclamation rang out: + +“Enough, Monsieur Rambaud, enough!” + +Doctor Deberle had just appeared on the house steps. He came forward, +embraced his wife tenderly, took up Lucien and kissed his brow. Then he +gazed at Hélène with a smile. + +“Enough, enough!” she still continued exclaiming. + +“Why?” asked he. “Do I disturb you?” + +She made no answer; a look of gravity had suddenly come over her face. +The swing, still continuing its rapid flights, owing to the impetus +given to it, would not stop, but swayed to and fro with a regular +motion which still bore Hélène to a great height. The doctor, surprised +and charmed, beheld her with admiration; she looked so superb, so tall +and strong, with the pure figure of an antique statue whilst swinging +thus gently amid the spring sunshine. But she seemed annoyed, and all +at once leaped down. + +“Stop! stop!” they all cried out. + +From Hélène’s lips came a dull moan; she had fallen upon the gravel of +a pathway, and her efforts to rise were fruitless. + +“Good heavens!” exclaimed the doctor, his face turning very pale. “How +imprudent!” + +They all crowded round her. Jeanne began weeping so bitterly that +Monsieur Rambaud, with his heart in his mouth, was compelled to take +her in his arms. The doctor, meanwhile, eagerly questioned Hélène. + +“Is it the right leg you fell on? Cannot you stand upright?” And as she +remained dazed, without answering, he asked: “Do you suffer?” + +“Yes, here at the knee; a dull pain,” she answered, with difficulty. + +He at once sent his wife for his medicine case and some bandages, and +repeated: + +“I must see, I must see. No doubt it is a mere nothing.” + +He knelt down on the gravel and Hélène let him do so; but all at once +she struggled to her feet and said: “No, no!” + +“But I must examine the place,” he said. + +A slight quiver stole over her, and she answered in a yet lower tone: + +“It is not necessary. It is nothing at all.” + +He looked at her, at first astounded. Her neck was flushing red; for a +moment their eyes met, and seemed to read each other’s soul; he was +disconcerted, and slowly rose, remaining near her, but without pressing +her further. + +Hélène had signed to Monsieur Rambaud. “Fetch Doctor Bodin,” she +whispered in his ear, “and tell him what has happened to me.” + +Ten minutes later, when Doctor Bodin made his appearance, she, with +superhuman courage, regained her feet, and leaning on him and Monsieur +Rambaud, contrived to return home. Jeanne followed, quivering with +sobs. + +“I shall wait,” said Doctor Deberle to his brother physician. “Come +down and remove our fears.” + +In the garden a lively colloquy ensued. Malignon was of opinion that +women had queer ideas. Why on earth had that lady been so foolish as to +jump down? Pauline, excessively provoked at this accident, which +deprived her of a pleasure, declared it was silly to swing so high. On +his side Doctor Deberle did not say a word, but seemed anxious. + +“It is nothing serious,” said Doctor Bodin, as he came down again—“only +a sprain. Still, she will have to keep to an easy-chair for at least a +fortnight.” + +Thereupon Monsieur Deberle gave a friendly slap on Malignon’s shoulder. +He wished his wife to go in, as it was really becoming too cold. For +his own part, taking Lucien in his arms, he carried him into the house, +covering him with kisses the while. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + +Both windows of the bedroom were wide open, and in the depths below the +house, which was perched on the very summit of the hill, lay Paris, +rolling away in a mighty flat expanse. Ten o’clock struck; the lovely +February morning had all the sweetness and perfume of spring. + +Hélène reclined in an invalid chair, reading in front of one of the +windows, her knee still in bandages. She suffered no pain; but she had +been confined to her room for a week past, unable even to take up her +customary needlework. Not knowing what to do, she had opened a book +which she had found on the table—she, who indulged in little or no +reading at any time. This book was the one she used every night as a +shade for the night-lamp, the only volume which she had taken within +eighteen months from the small but irreproachable library selected by +Monsieur Rambaud. Novels usually seemed to her false to life and +puerile; and this one, Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe,” had at first +wearied her to death. However, a strange curiosity had grown upon her, +and she was finishing it, at times affected to tears, and at times +rather bored, when she would let it slip from her hand for long minutes +and gaze fixedly at the far-stretching horizon. + +That morning Paris awoke from sleep with a smiling indolence. A mass of +vapor, following the valley of the Seine, shrouded the two banks from +view. This mist was light and milky, and the sun, gathering strength, +was slowly tinging it with radiance. Nothing of the city was +distinguishable through this floating muslin. In the hollows the haze +thickened and assumed a bluish tint; while over certain broad expanses +delicate transparencies appeared, a golden dust, beneath which you +could divine the depths of the streets; and up above domes and steeples +rent the mist, rearing grey outlines to which clung shreds of the haze +which they had pierced. At times cloudlets of yellow smoke would, like +giant birds, heavy of wing, slowly soar on high, and then mingle with +the atmosphere which seemed to absorb them. And above all this +immensity, this mass of cloud, hanging in slumber over Paris, a sky of +extreme purity, of a faint and whitening blue, spread out its mighty +vault. The sun was climbing the heavens, scattering a spray of soft +rays; a pale golden light, akin in hue to the flaxen tresses of a +child, was streaming down like rain, filling the atmosphere with the +warm quiver of its sparkle. It was like a festival of the infinite, +instinct with sovereign peacefulness and gentle gaiety, whilst the +city, chequered with golden beams, still remained lazy and sleepy, +unwilling to reveal itself by casting off its coverlet of lace. + +For eight days it had been Hélène’s diversion to gaze on that mighty +expanse of Paris, and she never wearied of doing so. It was as +unfathomable and varying as the ocean—fair in the morning, ruddy with +fire at night, borrowing all the joys and sorrows of the heavens +reflected in its depths. A flash of sunshine came, and it would roll in +waves of gold; a cloud would darken it and raise a tempest. Its aspect +was ever changing. A complete calm would fall, and all would assume an +orange hue; gusts of wind would sweep by from time to time, and turn +everything livid; in keen, bright weather there would be a shimmer of +light on every housetop; whilst when showers fell, blurring both heaven +and earth, all would be plunged in chaotic confusion. At her window +Hélène experienced all the hopes and sorrows that pertain to the open +sea. As the keen wind blew in her face she imagined it wafted a saline +fragrance; even the ceaseless noise of the city seemed to her like that +of a surging tide beating against a rocky cliff. + +The book fell from her hands. She was dreaming, with a far-away look in +her eyes. When she stopped reading thus it was from a desire to linger +and understand what she had already perused. She took a delight in +denying her curiosity immediate satisfaction. The tale filled her soul +with a tempest of emotion. Paris that morning was displaying the same +vague joy and sorrow as that which disturbed her heart. In this lay a +great charm—to be ignorant, to guess things dimly, to yield to slow +initiation, with the vague thought that her youth was beginning again. + +How full of lies were novels! She was assuredly right in not reading +them. They were mere fables, good for empty heads with no proper +conception of life. Yet she remained entranced, dreaming unceasingly of +the knight Ivanhoe, loved so passionately by two women—Rebecca, the +beautiful Jewess, and the noble Lady Rowena. She herself thought she +could have loved with the intensity and patient serenity of the latter +maiden. To love! to love! She did not utter the words, but they +thrilled her through and through in the very thought, astonishing her, +and irradiating her face with a smile. In the distance some fleecy +cloudlets, driven by the breeze, now floated over Paris like a flock of +swans. Huge gaps were being cleft in the fog; a momentary glimpse was +given of the left bank, indistinct and clouded, like a city of fairydom +seen in a dream; but suddenly a thick curtain of mist swept down, and +the fairy city was engulfed, as though by an inundation. And then the +vapors, spreading equally over every district, formed, as it were, a +beautiful lake, with milky, placid waters. There was but one denser +streak, indicating the grey, curved course of the Seine. And slowly +over those milky, placid waters shadows passed, like vessels with pink +sails, which the young woman followed with a dreamy gaze. To love! to +love! She smiled as her dream sailed on. + +However, she again took up her book. She had reached the chapter +describing the attack on the castle, wherein Rebecca nurses the wounded +Ivanhoe, and recounts to him the incidents of the fight, which she +gazes at from a window. Hélène felt that she was in the midst of a +beautiful falsehood, but roamed through it as through some mythical +garden, whose trees are laden with golden fruit, and where she imbibed +all sorts of fancies. Then, at the conclusion of the scene, when +Rebecca, wrapped in her veil, exhales her love beside the sleeping +knight, Hélène again allowed the book to slip from her hand; her heart +was so brimful of emotion that she could read no further. + +Heavens! could all those things be true? she asked, as she lay back in +her easy-chair, numbed by her enforced quiescence, and gazing on Paris, +shrouded and mysterious, beneath the golden sun. The events of her life +now arose before her, conjured up by the perusal of the novel. She saw +herself a young girl in the house of her father, Mouret, a hatter at +Marseilles. The Rue des Petites-Maries was black and dismal, and the +house, with its vat of steaming water ready to the hand of the hatter, +exhaled a rank odor of dampness, even in fine weather. She also saw her +mother, who was ever an invalid, and who kissed her with pale lips, +without speaking. No gleam of the sun penetrated into her little room. +Hard work went on around her; only by dint of toil did her father gain +a workingman’s competency. That summed up her early life, and till her +marriage nothing intervened to break the monotony of days ever the +same. One morning, returning from market with her mother, a basketful +of vegetables on her arm, she jostled against young Grandjean. Charles +turned round and followed them. The love-romance of her life was in +this incident. For three months she was always meeting him, while he, +bashful and awkward, could not pluck up courage to speak to her. She +was sixteen years of age, and a little proud of her lover, who, she +knew, belonged to a wealthy family. But she deemed him bad-looking, and +often laughed at him, and no thought of him disturbed her sleep in the +large, gloomy, damp house. In the end they were married, and this +marriage yet filled her with surprise. Charles worshipped her, and +would fling himself on the floor to kiss her bare feet. She beamed on +him, her smile full of kindness, as she rebuked him for such +childishness. Then another dull life began. During twelve years no +event of sufficient interest had occurred for her to bear in mind. She +was very quiet and very happy, tormented by no fever either of body or +heart; her whole attention being given to the daily cares of a poor +household. Charles was still wont to kiss her fair white feet, while +she showed herself indulgent and motherly towards him. But other +feeling she had none. Then there abruptly came before her the room in +the Hotel du Var, her husband in his coffin, and her widow’s robe +hanging over a chair. She had wept that day as on the winter’s night +when her mother died. Then once more the days glided on; for two months +with her daughter she had again enjoyed peace and happiness. Heaven! +did that sum up everything? What, then, did that book mean when it +spoke of transcendent loves which illumine one’s existence? + +While she thus reflected prolonged quivers were darting over the +sleeping lake of mist on the horizon. Suddenly it seemed to burst, gaps +appeared, a rending sped from end to end, betokening a complete +break-up. The sun, ascending higher and higher, scattering its rays in +glorious triumph, was victoriously attacking the mist. Little by little +the great lake seemed to dry up, as though some invisible sluice were +draining the plain. The fog, so dense but a moment before, was losing +its consistency and becoming transparent, showing all the bright hues +of the rainbow. On the left bank of the Seine all was of a heavenly +blue, deepening into violet over towards the Jardin des Plantes. Upon +the right bank a pale pink, flesh-like tint suffused the Tuileries +district; while away towards Montmartre there was a fiery glow, carmine +flaming amid gold. Then, farther off, the working-men’s quarters +deepened to a dusty brick-color, changing more and more till all became +a slatey, bluish grey. The eye could not yet distinguish the city, +which quivered and receded like those subaqueous depths divined through +the crystalline waves, depths with awful forests of huge plants, +swarming with horrible things and monsters faintly espied. However, the +watery mist was quickly falling. It became at last no more than a fine +muslin drapery; and bit by bit this muslin vanished, and Paris took +shape and emerged from dreamland. + +To love! to love! Why did these words ring in Hélène’s ears with such +sweetness as the darkness of the fog gave way to light? Had she not +loved her husband, whom she had tended like a child? But a bitter +memory stirred within her—the memory of her dead father, who had hung +himself three weeks after his wife’s decease in a closet where her +gowns still dangled from their hooks. There he had gasped out his last +agony, his body rigid, and his face buried in a skirt, wrapped round by +the clothes which breathed of her whom he had ever worshipped. Then +Hélène’s reverie took a sudden leap. She began thinking of her own +home-life, of the month’s bills which she had checked with Rosalie that +very morning; and she felt proud of the orderly way in which she +regulated her household. During more than thirty years she had lived +with self-respect and strength of mind. Uprightness alone impassioned +her. When she questioned her past, not one hour revealed a sin; in her +mind’s eye she saw herself ever treading a straight and level path. +Truly, the days might slip by; she would walk on peacefully as before, +with no impediment in her way. The very thought of this made her stern, +and her spirit rose in angry contempt against those lying lives whose +apparent heroism disturbs the heart. The only true life was her own, +following its course amidst such peacefulness. But over Paris there now +only hung a thin smoke, a fine, quivering gauze, on the point of +floating away; and emotion suddenly took possession of her. To love! to +love! everything brought her back to that caressing phrase—even the +pride born of her virtue. Her dreaming became so light, she no longer +thought, but lay there, steeped in springtide, with moist eyes. + +At last, as she was about to resume her reading, Paris slowly came into +view. Not a breath of wind had stirred; it was as if a magician had +waved his wand. The last gauzy film detached itself, soared and +vanished in the air; and the city spread out without a shadow, under +the conquering sun. Hélène, with her chin resting on her hand, gazed on +this mighty awakening. + +A far-stretching valley appeared, with a myriad of buildings huddled +together. Over the distant range of hills were scattered close-set +roofs, and you could divine that the sea of houses rolled afar off +behind the undulating ground, into the fields hidden from sight. It was +as the ocean, with all the infinity and mystery of its waves. Paris +spread out as vast as the heavens on high. Burnished with the sunshine +that lovely morning, the city looked like a field of yellow corn; and +the huge picture was all simplicity, compounded of two colors only, the +pale blue of the sky, and the golden reflections of the housetops. The +stream of light from the spring sun invested everything with the beauty +of a new birth. So pure was the light that the minutest objects became +visible. Paris, with its chaotic maze of stonework, shone as though +under glass. From time to time, however, a breath of wind passed +athwart this bright, quiescent serenity; and then the outlines of some +districts grew faint, and quivered as if they were being viewed through +an invisible flame. + +Hélène took interest at first in gazing on the large expanse spread +under her windows, the slope of the Trocadero, and the far-stretching +quays. She had to lean out to distinguish the deserted square of the +Champ-de-Mars, barred at the farther end by the sombre Military School. +Down below, on thoroughfare and pavement on each side of the Seine, she +could see the passers-by—a busy cluster of black dots, moving like a +swarm of ants. A yellow omnibus shone out like a spark of fire; drays +and cabs crossed the bridge, mere child’s toys in the distance, with +miniature horses like pieces of mechanism; and amongst others +traversing the grassy slopes was a servant girl, with a white apron +which set a bright spot in all the greenery. Then Hélène raised her +eyes; but the crowd scattered and passed out of sight, and even the +vehicles looked like mere grains of sand; there remained naught but the +gigantic carcass of the city, seemingly untenanted and abandoned, its +life limited to the dull trepidation by which it was agitated. There, +in the foreground to the left, some red roofs were shining, and the +tall chimneys of the Army Bakehouse slowly poured out their smoke; +while, on the other side of the river, between the Esplanade and the +Champ-de-Mars, a grove of lofty elms clustered, like some patch of a +park, with bare branches, rounded tops, and young buds already bursting +forth, quite clear to the eye. In the centre of the picture, the Seine +spread out and reigned between its grey banks, to which rows of casks, +steam cranes, and carts drawn up in line, gave a seaport kind of +aspect. Hélène’s eyes were always turning towards this shining river, +on which boats passed to and fro like birds with inky plumage. Her +looks involuntarily followed the water’s stately course, which, like a +silver band, cut Paris atwain. That morning the stream rolled liquid +sunlight; no greater resplendency could be seen on the horizon. And the +young woman’s glance encountered first the Pont des Invalides, next the +Pont de la Concorde, and then the Pont Royal. Bridge followed bridge, +they appeared to get closer, to rise one above the other like viaducts +forming a flight of steps, and pierced with all kinds of arches; while +the river, wending its way beneath these airy structures, showed here +and there small patches of its blue robe, patches which became narrower +and narrower, more and more indistinct. And again did Hélène raise her +eyes, and over yonder the stream forked amidst a jumble of houses; the +bridges on either side of the island of La Cité were like mere films +stretching from one bank to the other; while the golden towers of +Notre-Dame sprang up like boundary-marks of the horizon, beyond which +river, buildings, and clumps of trees became naught but sparkling +sunshine. Then Hélène, dazzled, withdrew her gaze from this the +triumphant heart of Paris, where the whole glory of the city appeared +to blaze. + +On the right bank, amongst the clustering trees of the Champs-Elysees +she saw the crystal buildings of the Palace of Industry glittering with +a snowy sheen; farther away, behind the roof of the Madeleine, which +looked like a tombstone, towered the vast mass of the Opera House; then +there were other edifices, cupolas and towers, the Vendome Column, the +church of Saint-Vincent de Paul, the tower of Saint-Jacques; and nearer +in, the massive cube-like pavilions of the new Louvre and the +Tuileries, half-hidden by a wood of chestnut trees. On the left bank +the dome of the Invalides shone with gilding; beyond it the two +irregular towers of Saint-Sulpice paled in the bright light; and yet +farther in the rear, to the right of the new spires of Sainte-Clotilde, +the bluish Panthéon, erect on a height, its fine colonnade showing +against the sky, overlooked the city, poised in the air, as it were, +motionless, with the silken hues of a captive balloon. + +Hélène’s gaze wandered all over Paris. There were hollows, as could be +divined by the lines of roofs; the Butte des Moulins surged upward, +with waves of old slates, while the line of the principal boulevards +dipped downward like a gutter, ending in a jumble of houses whose tiles +even could no longer be seen. At this early hour the oblique sun did +not light up the house-fronts looking towards the Trocadero; not a +window-pane of these threw back its rays. The skylights on some roofs +alone sparkled with the glittering reflex of mica amidst the red of the +adjacent chimney-pots. The houses were mostly of a sombre grey, warmed +by reflected beams; still rays of light were transpiercing certain +districts, and long streets, stretching in front of Hélène, set streaks +of sunshine amidst the shade. It was only on the left that the +far-spreading horizon, almost perfect in its circular sweep, was broken +by the heights of Montmartre and Père-Lachaise. The details so clearly +defined in the foreground, the innumerable denticles of the chimneys, +the little black specks of the thousands of windows, grew less and less +distinct as you gazed farther and farther away, till everything became +mingled in confusion—the pell-mell of an endless city, whose faubourgs, +afar off, looked like shingly beaches, steeped in a violet haze under +the bright, streaming, vibrating light that fell from the heavens. + +Hélène was watching the scene with grave interest when Jeanne burst +gleefully into the room. + +“Oh, mamma! look here!” + +The child had a big bunch of wall-flowers in her hand. She told, with +some laughter, how she had waylaid Rosalie on her return from market to +peep into her basket of provisions. To rummage in this basket was a +great delight to her. + +“Look at it, mamma! It lay at the very bottom. Just smell it; what a +lovely perfume!” + +From the tawny flowers, speckled with purple, there came a penetrating +odor which scented the whole room. Then Hélène, with a passionate +movement, drew Jeanne to her breast, while the nosegay fell on her lap. +To love! to love! Truly, she loved her child. Was not that intense love +which had pervaded her life till now sufficient for her wants? It ought +to satisfy her; it was so gentle, so tranquil; no lassitude could put +an end to its continuance. Again she pressed her daughter to her, as +though to conjure away thoughts which threatened to separate them. In +the meantime Jeanne surrendered herself to the shower of kisses. Her +eyes moist with tears, she turned her delicate neck upwards with a +coaxing gesture, and pressed her face against her mother’s shoulder. +Then she slipped an arm round her waist and thus remained, very demure, +her cheek resting on Hélène’s bosom. The perfume of the wall-flowers +ascended between them. + +For a long time they did not speak; but at length, without moving, +Jeanne asked in a whisper: + +“Mamma, you see that rosy-colored dome down there, close to the river; +what is it?” + +It was the dome of the Institute, and Hélène looked towards it for a +moment as though trying to recall the name. + +“I don’t know, my love,” she answered gently. + +The child appeared content with this reply, and silence again fell. But +soon she asked a second question. + +“And there, quite near, what beautiful trees are those?” she said, +pointing with her finger towards a corner of the Tuileries garden. + +“Those beautiful trees!” said her mother. “On the left, do you mean? I +don’t know, my love.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Jeanne; and after musing for a little while she added +with a pout: “We know nothing!” + +Indeed they knew nothing of Paris. During eighteen months it had lain +beneath their gaze every hour of the day, yet they knew not a stone of +it. Three times only had they gone down into the city; but on returning +home, suffering from terrible headaches born of all the agitation they +had witnessed, they could find in their minds no distinct memory of +anything in all that huge maze of streets. + +However, Jeanne at times proved obstinate. “Ah! you can tell me this!” +said she: “What is that glass building which glitters there? It is so +big you must know it.” + +She was referring to the Palais de l’Industrie. Hélène, however, +hesitated. + +“It’s a railway station,” said she. “No, I’m wrong, I think it is a +theatre.” + +Then she smiled and kissed Jeanne’s hair, at last confessing as before: +“I do not know what it is, my love.” + +So they continued to gaze on Paris, troubling no further to identify +any part of it. It was very delightful to have it there before them, +and yet to know nothing of it; it remained the vast and the unknown. It +was as though they had halted on the threshold of a world which ever +unrolled its panorama before them, but into which they were unwilling +to descend. Paris often made them anxious when it wafted them a hot, +disturbing atmosphere; but that morning it seemed gay and innocent, +like a child, and from its mysterious depths only a breath of +tenderness rose gently to their faces. + +Hélène took up her book again while Jeanne, clinging to her, still +gazed upon the scene. In the dazzling, tranquil sky no breeze was +stirring. The smoke from the Army Bakehouse ascended perpendicularly in +light cloudlets which vanished far aloft. On a level with the houses +passed vibrating waves of life, waves of all the life pent up there. +The loud voices of the streets softened amidst the sunshine into a +languid murmur. But all at once a flutter attracted Jeanne’s notice. A +flock of white pigeons, freed from some adjacent dovecot, sped through +the air in front of the window; with spreading wings like falling snow, +the birds barred the line of view, hiding the immensity of Paris. + +With eyes again dreamily gazing upward, Hélène remained plunged in +reverie. She was the Lady Rowena; she loved with the serenity and +intensity of a noble mind. That spring morning, that great, gentle +city, those early wall-flowers shedding their perfume on her lap, had +little by little filled her heart with tenderness. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + +One morning Hélène was arranging her little library, the various books +of which had got out of order during the past few days, when Jeanne +skipped into the room, clapping her hands. + +“A soldier, mamma! a soldier!” she cried. + +“What? a soldier?” exclaimed her mother. “What do you want, you and +your soldier?” + +But the child was in one of her paroxysms of extravagant delight; she +only jumped about the more, repeating: “A soldier! a soldier!” without +deigning to give any further explanation. She had left the door wide +open behind her, and so, as Hélène rose, she was astonished to see a +soldier—a very little soldier too—in the ante-room. Rosalie had gone +out, and Jeanne must have been playing on the landing, though strictly +forbidden to do so by her mother. + +“What do you want, my lad?” asked Hélène. + +The little soldier was very much confused on seeing this lady, so +lovely and fair, in her dressing-gown trimmed with lace; he shuffled +one foot to and fro over the floor, bowed, and at last precipitately +stammered: “I beg pardon—excuse—” + +But he could get no further, and retreated to the wall, still shuffling +his feet. His retreat was thus cut off, and seeing the lady awaited his +reply with an involuntary smile, he dived into his right-hand pocket, +from which he dragged a blue handkerchief, a knife, and a hunk of +bread. He gazed on each in turn, and thrust them all back again. Then +he turned his attention to the left-hand pocket, from which were +produced a twist of cord, two rusty nails, and some pictures wrapped in +part of a newspaper. All these he pushed back to their resting-place, +and began tapping his thighs with an anxious air. And again he +stammered in bewilderment: + +“I beg pardon—excuse—” + +But all at once he raised his finger to his nose, and exclaimed with a +loud laugh: “What a fool I am! I remember now!” + +He then undid two buttons of his greatcoat, and rummaged in his breast, +into which he plunged his arm up to the elbow. After a time he drew +forth a letter, which he rustled violently before handing to Hélène, as +though to shake some dust from it. + +“A letter for me! Are you sure?” said she. + +On the envelope were certainly inscribed her name and address in a +heavy rustic scrawl, with pothooks and hangers tumbling over one +another. When at last she made it all out, after being repeatedly +baffled by the extraordinary style and spelling, she could not but +smile again. It was a letter from Rosalie’s aunt, introducing Zephyrin +Lacour, who had fallen a victim to the conscription, “in spite of two +masses having been said by his reverence.” However, as Zephyrin was +Rosalie’s “intended” the aunt begged that madame would be so good as to +allow the young folks to see each other on Sundays. In the three pages +which the letter comprised this question was continually cropping up in +the same words, the confusion of the epistle increasing through the +writer’s vain efforts to say something she had not said before. Just +above the signature, however, she seemed to have hit the nail on the +head, for she had written: “His reverence gives his permission”; and +had then broken her pen in the paper, making a shower of blots. + +Hélène slowly folded the letter. Two or three times, while deciphering +its contents, she had raised her head to glance at the soldier. He +still remained close to the wall, and his lips stirred, as though to +emphasize each sentence in the letter by a slight movement of the chin. +No doubt he knew its contents by heart. + +“Then you are Zephyrin Lacour, are you not?” asked Hélène. + +He began to laugh and wagged his head. + +“Come in, my lad; don’t stay out there.” + +He made up his mind to follow her, but he continued standing close to +the door, while Hélène sat down. She had scarcely seen him in the +darkness of the ante-room. He must have been just as tall as Rosalie; a +third of an inch less, and he would have been exempted from service. +With red hair, cut very short, he had a round, freckled, beardless +face, with two little eyes like gimlet holes. His new greatcoat, much +too large for him, made him appear still more dumpy, and with his +red-trousered legs wide apart, and his large peaked cap swinging before +him, he presented both a comical and pathetic sight—his plump, stupid +little person plainly betraying the rustic, although he wore a uniform. + +Hélène desired to obtain some information from him. + +“You left Beauce a week ago?” she asked. + +“Yes, madame!” + +“And here you are in Paris. I suppose you are not sorry?” + +“No, madame.” + +He was losing his bashfulness, and now gazed all over the room, +evidently much impressed by its blue velvet hangings. + +“Rosalie is out,” Hélène began again, “but she will be here very soon. +Her aunt tells me you are her sweetheart.” + +To this the little soldier vouchsafed no reply, but hung his head, +laughing awkwardly, and scraping the carpet with the tip of his boot. + +“Then you will have to marry her when you leave the army?” Hélène +continued questioning. + +“Yes, to be sure!” exclaimed he, his face turning very red. “Yes, of +course; we are engaged!” And, won over by the kindly manners of the +lady, he made up his mind to speak out, his fingers still playing with +his cap. “You know it’s an old story. When we were quite children, we +used to go thieving together. We used to get switched; oh yes, that’s +true! I must tell you that the Lacours and the Pichons lived in the +same lane, and were next-door neighbors. And so Rosalie and myself were +almost brought up together. Then her people died, and her aunt +Marguerite took her in. But she, the minx, was already as strong as a +demon.” + +He paused, realizing that he was warming up, and asked hesitatingly: + +“But perhaps she has told you all this?” + +“Yes, yes; but go on all the same,” said Hélène, who was greatly +amused. + +“In short,” continued he, “she was awfully strong, though she was no +bigger than a tomtit. It was a treat to see her at her work! How she +did get through it! One day she gave a slap to a friend of mine—by +Jove! such a slap! I had the mark of it on my arm for a week! Yes, that +was the way it all came about. All the gossips declared we must marry +one another. Besides, we weren’t ten years old before we had agreed on +that! And, we have stuck to it, madame, we have stuck to it!” + +He placed one hand upon his heart, with fingers wide apart. Hélène, +however, had now become very grave. The idea of allowing a soldier in +her kitchen somewhat worried her. His reverence, no doubt, had given +his sanction, but she thought it rather venturesome. There is too much +license in the country, where lovers indulge in all sorts of +pleasantries. So she gave expression to her apprehensions. When +Zephyrin at last gathered her meaning, his first inclination was to +laugh, but his awe for Hélène restrained him. + +“Oh, madame, madame!” said he, “you don’t know her, I can see! I have +received slaps enough from her! Of course young men like to laugh! +isn’t that so? Sometimes I pinched her, and she would turn round and +hit me right on the nose. Her aunt’s advice always was, ‘Look here, my +girl, don’t put up with any nonsense!’ His reverence, too, interfered +in it, and maybe that had a lot to do with our keeping up +sweethearting. We were to have been married after I had drawn for a +soldier. But it was all my eye! Things turned out badly. Rosalie +declared she would go to service in Paris, to earn a dowry while she +was waiting for me. And so, and so—” + +He swung himself about, dangling his cap, now from one hand now from +the other. But still Hélène never said a word, and he at last fancied +that she distrusted him. This pained him dreadfully. + +“You think, perhaps, that I shall deceive her?” he burst out angrily. +“Even, too, when I tell you we are betrothed? I shall marry her, as +surely as the heaven shines on us. I’m quite ready to pledge my word in +writing. Yes, if you like, I’ll write it down for you.” + +Deep emotion was stirring him. He walked about the room gazing around +in the hope of finding pen and ink. Hélène quickly tried to appease +him, but he still went on: + +“I would rather sign a paper for you. What harm would it do you? Your +mind would be all the easier with it.” + +However, just at that moment Jeanne, who had again run away, returned, +jumping and clapping her hands. + +“Rosalie! Rosalie! Rosalie!” she chanted in a dancing tune of her own +composition. + +Through the open doorway one could hear the panting of the maid as she +climbed up the stairs laden with her basket. Zephyrin started back into +a corner of the room, his mouth wide agape from ear to ear in silent +laughter, and the gimlet holes of his eyes gleaming with rustic +roguery. Rosalie came straight into the room, as was her usual +practice, to show her mistress her morning’s purchase of provisions. + +“Madame,” said she, “I’ve brought some cauliflowers. Look at them! Only +eighteen sous for two; it isn’t dear, is it?” + +She held out the basket half open, but on lifting her head noticed +Zephyrin’s grinning face. Surprise nailed her to the carpet. Two or +three seconds slipped away; she had doubtless at first failed to +recognize him in his uniform. But then her round eyes dilated, her fat +little face blanched, and her coarse black hair waved in agitation. + +“Oh!” she simply said. + +But her astonishment was such that she dropped her basket. The +provisions, cauliflowers, onions, apples, rolled on to the carpet. +Jeanne gave a cry of delight, and falling on her knees, began hunting +for the apples, even under the chairs and the wardrobe. Meanwhile +Rosalie, as though paralyzed, never moved, though she repeated: + +“What! it’s you! What are you doing here? what are you doing here? +Say!” + +Then she turned to Hélène with the question: “Was it you who let him +come in?” + +Zephyrin never uttered a word, but contented himself with winking +slily. Then Rosalie gave vent to her emotion in tears; and, to show her +delight at seeing him again, could hit on nothing better than to quiz +him. + +“Oh! go away!” she began, marching up to him. “You look neat and pretty +I must say in that guise of yours! I might have passed you in the +street, and not even have said: ‘God bless you.’ Oh! you’ve got a nice +rig-out. You just look as if you had your sentry-box on your back; and +they’ve cut your hair so short that folks might take you for the +sexton’s poodle. Good heavens! what a fright you are; what a fright!” + +Zephyrin, very indignant, now made up his mind to speak. “It’s not my +fault, that’s sure! Oh! if you joined a regiment we should see a few +things.” + +They had quite forgotten where they were; everything had vanished—the +room, Hélène and Jeanne, who was still gathering the apples together. +With hands folded over her apron, the maid stood upright in front of +the little soldier. + +“Is everything all right down there?” she asked. + +“Oh, yes, excepting Guignard’s cow is ill. The veterinary surgeon came +and said she’d got the dropsy.” + +“If she’s got the dropsy, she’s done for. Excepting that, is everything +all right?” + +“Yes, yes! The village constable has broken his arm. Old Canivet’s +dead. And, by the way, his reverence lost his purse with thirty sous in +it as he was a-coming back from Grandval. But otherwise, things are all +right.” + +Then silence fell on them, and they looked at one another with +sparkling eyes, their compressed lips slowly making an amorous grimace. +This, indeed, must have been the manner in which they expressed their +love, for they had not even stretched out their hands in greeting. +Rosalie, however, all at once ceased her contemplation, and began to +lament at sight of the vegetables on the floor. Such a nice mess! and +it was he who had caused it all! Madame ought to have made him wait on +the stairs! Scolding away as fast as she could, she dropped on her +knees and began putting the apples, onions, and cauliflowers into the +basket again, much to the disgust of Jeanne, who would fain have done +it all herself. And as she turned, with the object of betaking herself +into her kitchen, never deigning another look in Zephyrin’s direction, +Hélène, conciliated by the healthy tranquillity of the lovers, stopped +her to say: + +“Listen a moment, my girl. Your aunt has asked me to allow this young +man to come and see you on Sundays. He will come in the afternoon, and +you will try not to let your work fall behind too much.” + +Rosalie paused, merely turning her head. Though she was well pleased, +she preserved her doleful air. + +“Oh, madame, he will be such a bother,” she declared. But at the same +time she glanced over her shoulder at Zephyrin, and again made an +affectionate grimace at him. The little soldier remained for a minute +stock-still, his mouth agape from ear to ear with its silent laugh. +Then he retired backwards, with his cap against his heart as he thanked +Hélène profusely. The door had been shut upon him, when on the landing +he still continued bowing. + +“Is that Rosalie’s brother, mamma?” asked Jeanne. + +Hélène was quite embarrassed by the question. She regretted the +permission which she had just given in a sudden impulse of kindliness +which now surprised her. She remained thinking for some seconds, and +then replied, “No, he is her cousin.” + +“Ah!” said the child gravely. + +Rosalie’s kitchen looked out on the sunny expanse of Doctor Deberle’s +garden. In the summer the branches of the elms swayed in through the +broad window. It was the cheeriest room of the suite, always flooded +with light, which was sometimes so blinding that Rosalie had put up a +curtain of blue cotton stuff, which she drew of an afternoon. The only +complaint she made about the kitchen was its smallness; and indeed it +was a narrow strip of a place, with a cooking-range on the right-hand +side, while on the left were the table and dresser. The various +utensils and furnishings, however, had all been so well arranged that +she had contrived to keep a clear corner beside the window, where she +worked in the evening. She took a pride in keeping everything, +stewpans, kettles, and dishes, wonderfully clean; and so, when the sun +veered round to the window, the walls became resplendent, the copper +vessels sparkled like gold, the tin pots showed bright discs like +silver moons, while the white-and-blue tiles above the stove gleamed +pale in the fiery glow. + +On the evening of the ensuing Saturday Hélène heard so great a +commotion in the kitchen that she determined to go and see what was the +matter. + +“What is it?” asked she: “are you fighting with the furniture?” + +“I am scouring, madame,” replied Rosalie, who, sweating and +dishevelled, was squatting on the tiled floor and scrubbing it with all +the strength of her arms. + +This over, she sponged it with clear water. Never had the kitchen +displayed such perfection of cleanliness. A bride might have slept in +it; all was white as for a wedding. So energetically had she exerted +her hands that it seemed as if table and dresser had been freshly +planed. And the good order of everything was a sight to see; stewpans +and pots taking rank by their size, each on its own hook, even the +frying-pan and gridiron shining brightly without one grimy stain. +Hélène looked on for a moment in silence, and then with a smile +disappeared. + +Every Saturday afterwards there was a similar furbishing, a tornado of +dust and water lasting for four hours. It was Rosalie’s wish to display +her neatness to Zephyrin on the Sunday. That was her reception day. A +single cobweb would have filled her with shame; but when everything +shone resplendent around her she became amiable, and burst into song. +At three o’clock she would again wash her hands and don a cap gay with +ribbons. Then the curtain being drawn halfway, so that only the subdued +light of a boudoir came in, she awaited Zephyrin’s arrival amidst all +this primness, through which a pleasant scent of thyme and laurel was +borne. + +At half-past three exactly Zephyrin made his appearance; he would walk +about the street until the clocks of the neighborhood had struck the +half-hour. Rosalie listened to the beat of his heavy shoes on the +stairs, and opened the door the moment he halted on the landing. She +had forbidden him to ring the bell. At each visit the same greeting +passed between them. + +“Is it you?” + +“Yes, it’s me!” + +And they stood face to face, their eyes sparkling and their lips +compressed. Then Zephyrin followed Rosalie; but there was no admission +vouchsafed to him till she had relieved him of shako and sabre. She +would have none of these in her kitchen; and so the sabre and shako +were hidden away in a cupboard. Next she would make him sit down in the +corner she had contrived near the window, and thenceforth he was not +allowed to budge. + +“Sit still there! You can look on, if you like, while I get madame’s +dinner ready.” + +But he rarely appeared with empty hands. He would usually spend the +morning in strolling with some comrades through the woods of Meudon, +lounging lazily about, inhaling the fresh air, which inspired him with +regretful memories of his country home. To give his fingers something +to do he would cut switches, which he tapered and notched with +marvelous figurings, and his steps gradually slackening he would come +to a stop beside some ditch, his shako on the back of his head, while +his eyes remained fixed on the knife with which he was carving the +stick. Then, as he could never make up his mind to discard his +switches, he carried them in the afternoon to Rosalie, who would throw +up her hands, and exclaim that they would litter her kitchen. But the +truth was, she carefully preserved them; and under her bed was gathered +a bundle of these switches, of all sorts and sizes. + +One day he made his appearance with a nest full of eggs, which he had +secreted in his shako under the folds of a handkerchief. Omelets made +from the eggs of wild birds, so he declared, were very nice—a statement +which Rosalie received with horror; the nest, however, was preserved +and laid away in company with the switches. But Zephyrin’s pockets were +always full to overflowing. He would pull curiosities from them, +transparent pebbles found on the banks of the Seine, pieces of old +iron, dried berries, and all sorts of strange rubbish, which not even a +rag-picker would have cared for. His chief love, however, was for +pictures; as he sauntered along he would seize on all the stray papers +that had served as wrappers for chocolate or cakes of soap, and on +which were black men, palm-trees, dancing-girls, or clusters of roses. +The tops of old broken boxes, decorated with figures of languid, blonde +ladies, the glazed prints and silver paper which had once contained +sugar-sticks and had been thrown away at the neighboring fairs, were +great windfalls that filled his bosom with pride. All such booty was +speedily transferred to his pockets, the choicer articles being +enveloped in a fragment of an old newspaper. And on Sunday, if Rosalie +had a moment’s leisure between the preparation of a sauce and the +tending of the joint, he would exhibit his pictures to her. They were +hers if she cared for them; only as the paper around them was not +always clean he would cut them out, a pastime which greatly amused him. +Rosalie got angry, as the shreds of paper blew about even into her +plates; and it was a sight to see with what rustic cunning he would at +last gain possession of her scissors. At times, however, in order to +get rid of him, she would give them up without any asking. + +Meanwhile some brown sauce would be simmering on the fire. Rosalie +watched it, wooden spoon in hand; while Zephyrin, his head bent and his +breadth of shoulder increased by his epaulets, continued cutting out +the pictures. His head was so closely shaven that the skin of his skull +could be seen; and the yellow collar of his tunic yawned widely behind, +displaying his sunburnt neck. For a quarter of an hour at a time +neither would utter a syllable. When Zephyrin raised his head, he +watched Rosalie while she took some flour, minced some parsley, or +salted and peppered some dish, his eyes betraying the while intense +interest. Then, at long intervals, a few words would escape him: + +“By Jove! that does smell nice!” + +The cook, busily engaged, would not vouchsafe an immediate reply; but +after a lengthy silence she perhaps exclaimed: “You see, it must simmer +properly.” + +Their talk never went beyond that. They no longer spoke of their native +place even. When a reminiscence came to them a word sufficed, and they +chuckled inwardly the whole afternoon. This was pleasure enough, and by +the time Rosalie turned Zephyrin out of doors both of them had enjoyed +ample amusement. + +“Come, you will have to go! I must wait on madame,” said she; and +restoring him his shako and sabre, she drove him out before her, +afterwards waiting on madame with cheeks flushed with happiness; while +he walked back to barracks, dangling his arms, and almost intoxicated +by the goodly odors of thyme and laurel which still clung to him. + +During his earlier visits Hélène judged it right to look after them. +She popped in sometimes quite suddenly to give an order, and there was +Zephyrin always in his corner, between the table and the window, close +to the stone filter, which forced him to draw in his legs. The moment +madame made her appearance he rose and stood upright, as though +shouldering arms, and if she spoke to him his reply never went beyond a +salute and a respectful grunt. Little by little Hélène grew somewhat +easier; she saw that her entrance did not disturb them, and that their +faces only expressed the quiet content of patient lovers. + +At this time, too, Rosalie seemed even more wide awake than Zephyrin. +She had already been some months in Paris, and under its influence was +fast losing her country rust, though as yet she only knew three +streets—the Rue de Passy, the Rue Franklin, and the Rue Vineuse. +Zephyrin, soldier though he was, remained quite a lubber. As Rosalie +confided to her mistress, he became more of a blockhead every day. In +the country he had been much sharper. But, added she, it was the +uniform’s fault; all the lads who donned the uniform became sad dolts. +The fact is, his change of life had quite muddled Zephyrin, who, with +his staring round eyes and solemn swagger, looked like a goose. Despite +his epaulets he retained his rustic awkwardness and heaviness; the +barracks had taught him nothing as yet of the fine words and victorious +attitudes of the ideal Parisian fire-eater. “Yes, madame,” Rosalie +would wind up by saying, “you don’t need to disturb yourself; it is not +in him to play any tricks!” + +Thus the girl began to treat him in quite a motherly way. While +dressing her meat on the spit she would preach him a sermon, full of +good counsel as to the pitfalls he should shun; and he in all obedience +vigorously nodded approval of each injunction. Every Sunday he had to +swear to her that he had attended mass, and that he had solemnly +repeated his prayers morning and evening. She strongly inculcated the +necessity of tidiness, gave him a brush down whenever he left her, +stitched on a loose button of his tunic, and surveyed him from head to +foot to see if aught were amiss in his appearance. She also worried +herself about his health, and gave him cures for all sorts of ailments. +In return for her kindly care Zephyrin professed himself anxious to +fill her filter for her; but this proposal was long-rejected, through +the fear that he might spill the water. One day, however, he brought up +two buckets without letting a drop of their contents fall on the +stairs, and from that time he replenished the filter every Sunday. He +would also make himself useful in other ways, doing all the heavy work +and was extremely handy in running to the greengrocer’s for butter, had +she forgotten to purchase any. At last, even, he began to share in the +duties of kitchen-maid. First he was permitted to peel the vegetables; +later on the mincing was assigned to him. At the end of six weeks, +though still forbidden to touch the sauces, he watched over them with +wooden spoon in hand. Rosalie had fairly made him her helpmate, and +would sometimes burst out laughing as she saw him, with his red +trousers and yellow collar, working busily before the fire with a +dishcloth over his arm, like some scullery-servant. + +One Sunday Hélène betook herself to the kitchen. Her slippers deadened +the sound of her footsteps, and she reached the threshold unheard by +either maid or soldier. Zephyrin was seated in his corner over a basin +of steaming broth. Rosalie, with her back turned to the door, was +occupied in cutting some long sippets of bread for him. + +“There, eat away, my dear!” she said. “You walk too much; it is that +which makes you feel so empty! There! have you enough? Do you want any +more?” + +Thus speaking, she watched him with a tender and anxious look. He, with +his round, dumpy figure, leaned over the basin, devouring a sippet with +each mouthful of broth. His face, usually yellow with freckles, was +becoming quite red with the warmth of the steam which circled round +him. + +“Heavens!” he muttered, “what grand juice! What do you put in it?” + +“Wait a minute,” she said; “if you like leeks—” + +However, as she turned round she suddenly caught sight of her mistress. +She raised an exclamation, and then, like Zephyrin, seemed turned to +stone. But a moment afterwards she poured forth a torrent of excuses. + +“It’s my share, madame—oh, it’s my share! I would not have taken any +more soup, I swear it! I told him, ‘If you would like to have my bowl +of soup, you can have it.’ Come, speak up, Zephyrin; you know that was +how it came about!” + +The mistress remained silent, and the servant grew uneasy, thinking she +was annoyed. Then in quavering tones she continued: + +“Oh, he was dying of hunger, madame; he stole a raw carrot for me! They +feed him so badly! And then, you know, he had walked goodness knows +where all along the river-side. I’m sure, madame, you would have told +me yourself to give him some broth!” + +Gazing at the little soldier, who sat with his mouth full, not daring +to swallow, Hélène felt she could no longer remain stern. So she +quietly said: + +“Well, well, my girl, whenever the lad is hungry you must keep him to +dinner—that’s all. I give you permission” + +Face to face with them, she had again felt within her that tender +feeling which once already had banished all thoughts of rigor from her +mind. They were so happy in that kitchen! The cotton curtain, drawn +half-way, gave free entry to the sunset beams. The burnished copper +pans set the end wall all aglow, lending a rosy tint to the twilight +lingering in the room. And there, in the golden shade, the lovers’ +little round faces shone out, peaceful and radiant, like moons. Their +love was instinct with such calm certainty that no neglect was even +shown in keeping the kitchen utensils in their wonted good order. It +blossomed amidst the savory odors of the cooking-stove, which +heightened their appetites and nourished their hearts. + +“Mamma,” asked Jeanne, one evening after considerable meditation, “why +is it Rosalie’s cousin never kisses her?” + +“And why should they kiss one another?” asked Hélène in her turn. “They +will kiss on their birthdays.” + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + +The soup had just been served on the following Tuesday evening, when +Hélène, after listening attentively, exclaimed: + +“What a downpour! Don’t you hear? My poor friends, you will get +drenched to-night!” + +“Oh, it’s only a few drops,” said the Abbé quietly, though his old +cassock was already wet about the shoulders. + +“I’ve got a good distance to go,” said Monsieur Rambaud. “But I shall +return home on foot all the same; I like it. Besides, I have my +umbrella.” + +Jeanne was reflecting as she gazed gravely on her last spoonful of +vermicelli; and at last her thoughts took shape in words: “Rosalie said +you wouldn’t come because of the wretched weather; but mamma said you +would come. You are very kind; you always come.” + +A smile lit up all their faces. Hélène addressed a nod of affectionate +approval to the two brothers. Out of doors the rain was falling with a +dull roar, and violent gusts of wind beat angrily against the +window-shutters. Winter seemed to have returned. Rosalie had carefully +drawn the red repp curtains; and the small, cosy dining-room, illumined +by the steady light of the white hanging-lamp, looked, amidst the +buffeting of the storm, a picture of pleasant, affectionate intimacy. +On the mahogany sideboard some china reflected the quiet light; and +amidst all this indoor peacefulness the four diners leisurely +conversed, awaiting the good pleasure of the servant-maid, as they sat +round the table, where all, if simple, was exquisitely clean. + +“Oh! you are waiting; so much the worse!” said Rosalie familiarly, as +she entered with a dish. “These are fillets of sole _au gratin_ for +Monsieur Rambaud; they require to be lifted just at the last moment.” + +Monsieur Rambaud pretended to be a gourmand, in order to amuse Jeanne, +and give pleasure to Rosalie, who was very proud of her accomplishments +as a cook. He turned towards her with the question: “By the way, what +have you got for us to-day? You are always bringing in some surprise or +other when I am no longer hungry.” + +“Oh,” said she in reply, “there are three dishes as usual, and no more. +After the sole you will have a leg of mutton and then some Brussels +sprouts. Yes, that’s the truth; there will be nothing else.” + +From the corner of his eye Monsieur Rambaud glanced towards Jeanne. The +child was boiling over with glee, her hands over her mouth to restrain +her laughter, while she shook her head, as though to insinuate that the +maid was deceiving them. Monsieur Rambaud thereupon clacked his tongue +as though in doubt, and Rosalie pretended great indignation. + +“You don’t believe me because Mademoiselle Jeanne laughs so,” said she. +“Ah, very well! believe what you like. Stint yourself, and see if you +won’t have a craving for food when you get home.” + +When the maid had left the room, Jeanne, laughing yet more loudly, was +seized with a longing to speak out. + +“You are really too greedy!” she began. “I myself went into the +kitchen—” However, she left her sentence unfinished: “No, no, I won’t +tell; it isn’t right, is it, mamma? There’s nothing more—nothing at +all! I only laughed to cheat you.” + +This interlude was re-enacted every Tuesday with the same unvarying +success. Hélène was touched by the kindliness with which Monsieur +Rambaud lent himself to the fun; she was well aware that, with +Provencal frugality, he had long limited his daily fare to an anchovy +and half-a-dozen olives. As for Abbé Jouve, he never knew what he was +eating, and his blunders and forgetfulness supplied an inexhaustible +fund of amusement. Jeanne, meditating some prank in this respect, was +even now stealthily watching him with her glittering eyes. + +“How nice this whiting is!” she said to him, after they had all been +served. + +“Very nice, my dear,” he answered. “Bless me, you are right—it is +whiting; I thought it was turbot.” + +And then, as every one laughed, he guilelessly asked why. Rosalie, who +had just come into the room again, seemed very much hurt, and burst +out: + +“A fine thing indeed! The priest in my native place knew much better +what he was eating. He could tell the age of the fowl he was carving to +a week or so, and didn’t require to go into the kitchen to find out +what there was for dinner. No, the smell was quite sufficient. Goodness +gracious! had I been in the service of a priest like your reverence, I +should not know yet even how to turn an omelet.” + +The Abbé hastened to excuse himself with an embarrassed air, as though +his inability to appreciate the delights of the table was a failing he +despaired of curing. But, as he said, he had too many other things to +think about. + +“There! that is a leg of mutton!” exclaimed Rosalie, as she placed on +the table the joint referred to. + +Everybody once more indulged in a peal of laughter, the Abbé Jouve +being the first to do so. He bent forward to look, his little eyes +twinkling with glee. + +“Yes, certainly,” said he; “it is a leg of mutton. I think I should +have known it.” + +Despite this remark, there was something about the Abbé that day which +betokened unusual absent-mindedness. He ate quickly, with the haste of +a man who is bored by a long stay at table, and lunches standing when +at home. And, having finished, himself, he would wait the convenience +of the others, plunged in deep thought, and simply smiling in reply to +the questions put to him. At every moment he cast on his brother a look +in which encouragement and uneasiness were mingled. Nor did Monsieur +Rambaud seen possessed of his wonted tranquillity that evening; but his +agitation manifested itself in a craving to talk and fidget on his +chair, which seemed rather inconsistent with his quiet disposition. +When the Brussels sprouts had disappeared, there was a delay in the +appearance of the dessert, and a spell of silence ensued. Out of doors +the rain was beating down with still greater force, rattling noisily +against the house. The dining-room was rather close, and it suddenly +dawned on Hélène that there was something strange in the air—that the +two brothers had some worry of which they did not care to speak. She +looked at them anxiously, and at last spoke: + +“Dear, dear! What dreadful rain! isn’t it? It seems to be influencing +both of you, for you look out of sorts.” + +They protested, however, that such was not the case, doing their utmost +to clear her mind of the notion. And as Rosalie now made her appearance +with an immense dish, Monsieur Rambaud exclaimed, as though to veil his +emotion: “What did I say! Still another surprise!” + +The surprise of the day was some vanilla cream, one of the cook’s +triumphs. And thus it was a sight to see her broad, silent grin, as she +deposited her burden on the table. Jeanne shouted and clapped her +hands. + +“I knew it, I knew it! I saw the eggs in the kitchen!” + +“But I have no more appetite,” declared Monsieur Rambaud, with a look +of despair. “I could not eat any of it!” + +Thereupon Rosalie became grave, full of suppressed wrath. With a +dignified air, she remarked: “Oh, indeed! A cream which I made +specially for you! Well, well! just try not to eat any of it—yes, try!” + +He had to give in and accept a large helping of the cream. Meanwhile +the Abbé remained thoughtful. He rolled up his napkin and rose before +the dessert had come to an end, as was frequently his custom. For a +little while he walked about, with his head hanging down; and when +Hélène in her turn quitted the table, he cast at Monsieur Rambaud a +look of intelligence, and led the young woman into the bedroom.[*] The +door being left open behind them, they could almost immediately +afterwards be heard conversing together, though the words which they +slowly exchanged were indistinguishable. + +[*] Hélène’s frequent use of her bedroom may seem strange to the +English reader who has never been in France. But in the _petite +bourgeoisie_ the bedchamber is often the cosiest of the whole suite of +rooms, and whilst indoors, when not superintending her servant, it is +in the bedroom that madame will spend most of her time. Here, too, she +will receive friends of either sex, and, the French being far less +prudish than ourselves, nobody considers that there is anything wrong +or indelicate in the practice. + +“Oh, do make haste!” said Jeanne to Monsieur Rambaud, who seemed +incapable of finishing a biscuit. “I want to show you my work.” + +However, he evinced no haste, though when Rosalie began to clear the +table it became necessary for him to leave his chair. + +“Wait a little! wait a little!” he murmured, as the child strove to +drag him towards the bedroom, And, overcome with embarrassment and +timidity, he retreated from the doorway. Then, as the Abbé raised his +voice, such sudden weakness came over him that he had to sit down again +at the table. From his pocket he drew a newspaper. + +“Now,” said he, “I’m going to make you a little coach.” + +Jeanne at once abandoned her intention of entering the adjoining room. +Monsieur Rambaud always amazed her by his skill in turning a sheet of +paper into all sorts of playthings. Chickens, boats, bishops’ mitres, +carts, and cages, were all evolved under his fingers. That day, +however, so tremulous were his hands that he was unable to perfect +anything. He lowered his head whenever the faintest sound came from the +adjacent room. Nevertheless, Jeanne took interest in watching him, and +leaned on the table at his side. + +“Now,” said she, “you must make a chicken to harness to the carriage.” + +Meantime, within the bedroom, Abbé Jouve remained standing in the +shadow thrown by the lamp-shade upon the floor. Hélène had sat down in +her usual place in front of the round table; and, as on Tuesdays she +refrained from ceremony with her friends, she had taken up her +needlework, and, in the circular glare of light, only her white hands +could be seen sewing a child’s cap. + +“Jeanne gives you no further worry, does she?” asked the Abbé. + +Hélène shook her head before making a reply. + +“Doctor Deberle seems quite satisfied,” said she. “But the poor darling +is still very nervous. Yesterday I found her in her chair in a fainting +fit.” + +“She needs exercise,” resumed the priest. “You stay indoors far too +much; you should follow the example of other folks and go about more +than you do.” + +He ceased speaking, and silence followed. He now, without doubt, had +what he had been seeking,—a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the +moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself. +Taking a chair, he sat down at Hélène’s side. + +“Hearken to me, my dear child,” he began. “For some time past I have +wished to talk with you seriously. The life you are leading here can +entail no good results. A convent existence such as yours is not +consistent with your years; and this abandonment of worldly pleasures +is as injurious to your child as it is to yourself. You are risking +many dangers—dangers to health, ay, and other dangers, too.” + +Hélène raised her head with an expression of astonishment. “What do you +mean, my friend?” she asked. + +“Dear me! I know the world but little,” continued the priest, with some +slight embarrassment, “yet I know very well that a woman incurs great +risk when she remains without a protecting arm. To speak frankly, you +keep to your own company too much, and this seclusion in which you hide +yourself is not healthful, believe me. A day must come when you will +suffer from it.” + +“But I make no complaint; I am very happy as I am,” she exclaimed with +spirit. + +The old priest gently shook his large head. + +“Yes, yes, that is all very well. You feel completely happy. I know all +that. Only, on the downhill path of a lonely, dreamy life, you never +know where you are going. Oh! I understand you perfectly; you are +incapable of doing any wrong. But sooner or later you might lose your +peace of mind. Some morning, when it is too late, you will find that +blank which you now leave in your life filled by some painful feeling +not to be confessed.” + +As she sat there in the shadow, a blush crimsoned Hélène’s face. Had +the Abbé, then, read her heart? Was he aware of this restlessness which +was fast possessing her—this heart-trouble which thrilled her every-day +life, and the existence of which she had till now been unwilling to +admit? Her needlework fell on her lap. A sensation of weakness pervaded +her, and she awaited from the priest something like a pious complicity +which would allow her to confess and particularize the vague feelings +which she buried in her innermost being. As all was known to him, it +was for him to question her, and she would strive to answer. + +“I leave myself in your hands, my friend,” she murmured. “You are well +aware that I have always listened to you.” + +The priest remained for a moment silent, and then slowly and solemnly +said: + +“My child, you must marry again.” + +She remained speechless, with arms dangling, in a stupor this counsel +brought upon her. She awaited other words, failing, as it were, to +understand him. And the Abbé continued putting before her the arguments +which should incline her towards marriage. + +“Remember, you are still young. You must not remain longer in this +out-of-the-way corner of Paris, scarcely daring to go out, and wholly +ignorant of the world. You must return to the every-day life of +humanity, lest in the future you should bitterly regret your +loneliness. You yourself have no idea how the effects of your isolation +are beginning to tell on you, but your friends remark your pallor, and +feel uneasy.” + +With each sentence he paused, in the hope that she might break in and +discuss his proposition. But no; she sat there as if lifeless, +seemingly benumbed with astonishment. + +“No doubt you have a child,” he resumed. “That is always a delicate +matter to surmount. Still, you must admit that even in Jeanne’s +interest a husband’s arm would be of great advantage. Of course, we +must find some one good and honorable, who would be a true father—” + +However, she did not let him finish. With violent revolt and repulsion +she suddenly spoke out: “No, no; I will not! Oh, my friend, how can you +advise me thus? Never, do you hear, never!” + +Her whole heart was rising; she herself was frightened by the violence +of her refusal. The priest’s proposal had stirred up that dim nook in +her being whose secret she avoided reading, and, by the pain she +experienced, she at last understood all the gravity of her ailment. +With the open, smiling glance of the priest still bent on her, she +plunged into contention. + +“No, no; I do not wish it! I love nobody!” + +And, as he still gazed at her, she imagined he could read her lie on +her face. She blushed and stammered: + +“Remember, too, I only left off my mourning a fortnight ago. No, it +could not be!” + +“My child!” quietly said the priest, “I thought over this a great deal +before speaking. I am sure your happiness is wrapped up in it. Calm +yourself; you need never act against your own wishes.” + +The conversation came to a sudden stop. Hélène strove to keep pent +within her bosom the angry protests that were rushing to her lips. She +resumed her work, and, with head lowered, contrived to put in a few +stitches. And amid the silence, Jeanne’s shrill voice could be heard in +the dining-room. + +“People don’t put a chicken to a carriage; it ought to be a horse! You +don’t know how to make a horse, do you?” + +“No, my dear; horses are too difficult,” said Monsieur Rambaud. “But if +you like I’ll show you how to make carriages.” + +This was always the fashion in which their game came to an end. Jeanne, +all ears and eyes, watched her kindly playfellow folding the paper into +a multitude of little squares, and afterwards she followed his example; +but she would make mistakes and then stamp her feet in vexation. +However, she already knew how to manufacture boats and bishops’ mitres. + +“You see,” resumed Monsieur Rambaud patiently, “you make four corners +like that; then you turn them back—” + +With his ears on the alert, he must during the last moment have heard +some of the words spoken in the next room; for his poor hands were now +trembling more and more, while his tongue faltered, so that he could +only half articulate his sentences. + +Hélène, who was unable to quiet herself, now began the conversation +anew. “Marry again! And whom, pray?” she suddenly asked the priest, as +she laid her work down on the table. “You have some one in view, have +you not?” + +Abbé Jouve rose from his chair and stalked slowly up and down. Without +halting, he nodded assent. + +“Well! tell me who he is,” she said. + +For a moment he lingered before her erect, then, shrugging his +shoulders, said: “What’s the good, since you decline?” + +“No matter, I want to know,” she replied. “How can I make up my mind +when I don’t know?” + +He did not answer her immediately, but remained standing there, gazing +into her face. A somewhat sad smile wreathed his lips. At last he +exclaimed, almost in a whisper: “What! have you not guessed?” + +No, she could not guess. She tried to do so, with increasing wonder, +whereupon he made a simple sign—nodding his head in the direction of +the dining-room. + +“He!” she exclaimed, in a muffled tone, and a great seriousness fell +upon her. She no longer indulged in violent protestations; only sorrow +and surprise remained visible on her face. She sat for a long time +plunged in thought, her gaze turned to the floor. Truly, she had never +dreamed of such a thing; and yet, she found nothing in it to object to. +Monsieur Rambaud was the only man in whose hand she could put her own +honestly and without fear. She knew his innate goodness; she did not +smile at his _bourgeois_ heaviness. But despite all her regard for him, +the idea that he loved her chilled her to the soul. + +Meanwhile the Abbé had again begun walking from one to the other end of +the room, and on passing the dining-room door he gently called Hélène. +“Come here and look!” + +She rose and did as he wished. + +Monsieur Rambaud had ended by seating Jeanne in his own chair; and he, +who had at first been leaning against the table, had now slipped down +at the child’s feet. He was on his knees before her, encircling her +with one of his arms. On the table was the carriage drawn by the +chicken, with some boats, boxes, and bishops’ mitres. + +“Now, do you love me well?” he asked her. “Tell me that you love me +well!” + +“Of course, I love you well; you know it.” + +He stammered and trembled, as though he were making some declaration of +love. + +“And what would you say if I asked you to let me stay here with you +always?” + +“Oh, I should be quite pleased. We would play together, wouldn’t we? +That would be good fun.” + +“Ah, but you know I should always be here.” + +Jeanne had taken up a boat which she was twisting into a gendarme’s +hat. “You would need to get mamma’s leave,” she murmured. + +By this reply all his fears were again stirred into life. His fate was +being decided. + +“Of course,” said he. “But if mamma gave me leave, would you say yes, +too?” + +Jeanne, busy finishing her gendarme’s hat, sang out in a rapturous +strain: “I would say yes! yes! yes! I would say yes! yes! yes! Come, +look how pretty my hat is!” + +Monsieur Rambaud, with tears in his eyes, rose to his knees and kissed +her, while she threw her arms round his neck. He had entrusted the +asking of Hélène’s consent to his brother, whilst he himself sought to +secure that of Jeanne. + +“You see,” said the priest, with a smile, “the child is quite content.” + +Hélène still retained her grave air, and made no further inquiry. The +Abbé, however, again eloquently took up his plea, and emphasized his +brother’s good qualities. Was he not a treasure-trove of a father for +Jeanne? She was well acquainted with him; in trusting him she gave no +hostages to fortune. Then, as she still remained silent, the Abbé with +great feeling and dignity declared that in the step he had taken he had +not thought of his brother, but of her and her happiness. + +“I believe you; I know how you love me,” Hélène promptly answered. +“Wait; I want to give your brother his answer in your presence.” + +The clock struck ten. Monsieur Rambaud made his entry into the bedroom. +With outstretched hands she went to meet him. + +“I thank you for your proposal, my friend,” said she. “I am very +grateful; and you have done well in speaking—” + +She was gazing calmly into his face, holding his big hand in her grasp. +Trembling all over, he dared not lift his eyes. + +“Yet I must have time to consider,” she resumed. “You will perhaps have +to give me a long time.” + +“Oh! as long as you like—six months, a year, longer if you please,” +exclaimed he with a light heart, well pleased that she had not +forthwith sent him about his business. + +His excitement brought a faint smile to her face. “But I intend that we +shall still continue friends,” said she. “You will come here as usual, +and simply give me your promise to remain content till I speak to you +about the matter. Is that understood?” + +He had withdrawn his hand, and was now feverishly hunting for his hat, +signifying his acquiescence by a continuous bobbing of the head. Then, +at the moment of leaving, he found his voice once more. + +“Listen to me,” said he. “You now know that I am there—don’t you? Well, +whatever happens I shall always be there. That’s all the Abbé should +have told you. In ten years, if you like; you will only have to make a +sign. I shall obey you!” + +And it was he who a last time took Hélène’s hand and gripped it as +though he would crush it. On the stairs the two brothers turned round +with the usual good-bye: + +“Till next Tuesday!” + +“Yes, Tuesday,” answered Hélène. + +On returning to her room a fresh downfall of rain beating against the +shutters filled her with grave concern. Good heavens! what an obstinate +downpour, and how wet her poor friends would get! She opened the window +and looked down into the street. Sudden gusts of wind were making the +gaslights flicker, and amid the shiny puddles and shimmering rain she +could see the round figure of Monsieur Rambaud, as he went off with +dancing gait, exultant in the darkness, seemingly caring nothing for +the drenching torrent. + +Jeanne, however, was very grave, for she had overheard some of her +playfellow’s last words. She had just taken off her little boots, and +was sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, in deep +cogitation. On entering the room to kiss her, her mother discovered her +thus. + +“Good-night, Jeanne; kiss me.” + +Then, as the child did not seem to hear her, Hélène sank down in front +of her, and clasped her round the waist, asking her in a whisper: “So +you would be glad if he came to live with us?” + +The question seemed to bring no surprise to Jeanne. She was doubtless +pondering over this very matter. She slowly nodded her head. + +“But you know,” said her mother, “he would be always beside us—night +and day, at table—everywhere!” + +A great trouble dawned in the clear depths of the child’s eyes. She +nestled her cheek against her mother’s shoulder, kissed her neck, and +finally, with a quiver, whispered in her ear: “Mamma, would he kiss +you?” + +A crimson flush rose to Hélène’s brow. In her first surprise she was at +a loss to answer, but at last she murmured: “He would be the same as +your father, my darling!” + +Then Jeanne’s little arms tightened their hold, and she burst into loud +and grievous sobbing. “Oh! no, no!” she cried chokingly. “I don’t want +it then! Oh! mamma, do please tell him I don’t. Go and tell him I won’t +have it!” + +She gasped, and threw herself on her mother’s bosom, covering her with +tears and kisses. Hélène did her utmost to appease her, assuring her +she would make it all right; but Jeanne was bent on having a definite +answer at once. + +“Oh! say no! say no, darling mother! You know it would kill me. Never! +Oh, never! Eh?” + +“Well, I’ll promise it will never be. Now, be good and lie down.” + +For some minutes longer the child, speechless with emotion, clasped her +mother in her arms, as though powerless to tear herself away, and +intent on guarding her against all who might seek to take her from her. +After some time Hélène was able to put her to bed; but for a part of +the night she had to watch beside her. Jeanne would start violently in +her sleep, and every half-hour her eyes would open to make sure of her +mother’s presence, and then she would doze off again, with her lips +pressed to Hélène’s hand. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + +It was a month of exquisite mildness. The April sun had draped the +garden in tender green, light and delicate as lace. Twining around the +railing were the slender shoots of the lush clematis, while the budding +honeysuckle filled the air with its sweet, almost sugary perfume. On +both sides of the trim and close-shaven lawn red geraniums and white +stocks gave the flower beds a glow of color; and at the end of the +garden the clustering elms, hiding the adjacent houses, reared the +green drapery of their branches, whose little leaves trembled with the +least breath of air. + +For more than three weeks the sky had remained blue and cloudless. It +was like a miraculous spring celebrating the new youth and blossoming +that had burst into life in Hélène’s heart. Every afternoon she went +down into the garden with Jeanne. A place was assigned her against the +first elm on the right. A chair was ready for her; and on the morrow +she would still find on the gravel walk the scattered clippings of +thread that had fallen from her work on the previous afternoon. + +“You are quite at home,” Madame Deberle repeated every evening, +displaying for Hélène one of those affections of hers, which usually +lasted some six months. “You will come to-morrow, of course; and try to +come earlier, won’t you?” + +Hélène, in truth, felt thoroughly at her ease there. By degrees she +became accustomed to this nook of greenery, and looked forward to her +afternoon visit with the longing of a child. What charmed her most in +this garden was the exquisite trimness of the lawn and flower beds. Not +a single weed interfered with the symmetry of the plants. Hélène spent +her time there, calmly and restfully. The neatly laid out flower beds, +and the network of ivy, the withered leaves of which were carefully +removed by the gardener, could exercise no disturbing influence on her +spirit. Seated beneath the deep shadow of the elm-trees, in this quiet +spot which Madame Deberle’s presence perfumed with a faint odor of +musk, she could have imagined herself in a drawing-room; and only the +sight of the blue sky, when she raised her head, reminded her that she +was out-of-doors, and prompted her to breathe freely. + +Often, without seeing a soul, the two women would thus pass the +afternoon. Jeanne and Lucien played at their feet. There would be long +intervals of silence, and then Madame Deberle, who disliked reverie, +would chatter for hours, quite satisfied with the silent acquiescence +of Hélène, and rattling off again if the other even so much as nodded. +She would tell endless stories concerning the ladies of her +acquaintance, get up schemes for parties during the coming winter, vent +magpie opinions on the day’s news and the society trifling which filled +her narrow brain, the whole intermingled with affectionate outbursts +over the children, and sentimental remarks on the delights of +friendship. Hélène allowed her to squeeze her hands. She did not always +lend an attentive ear; but, in this atmosphere of unceasing tenderness, +she showed herself greatly touched by Juliette’s caresses, and +pronounced her to be a perfect angel of kindness. + +Sometimes, to Madame Deberle’s intense delight, a visitor would drop +in. Since Easter she had ceased receiving on Saturdays, as was usual at +this time of the year. But she dreaded solitude, and a casual +unceremonious visit paid her in her garden gave her the greatest +pleasure. She was now busily engaged in settling on the watering-place +where she would spend her holiday in August. To every visitor she +retailed the same talk; discoursed on the fact that her husband would +not accompany her to the seaside; and then poured forth a flood of +questions, as she could not make up her mind where to go. She did not +ask for herself, however; no, it was all on Lucien’s account. When the +foppish youth Malignon came he seated himself astride a rustic chair. +He, indeed, loathed the country; one must be mad, he would declare, to +exile oneself from Paris with the idea of catching influenza beside the +sea. However, he took part in the discussions on the merits of the +various watering-places, all of which were horrid, said he; apart from +Trouville there was not a place worthy of any consideration whatever. +Day after day Hélène listened to the same talk, yet without feeling +wearied; indeed, she even derived pleasure from this monotony, which +lulled her into dreaming of one thing only. The last day of the month +came, and still Madame Deberle had not decided where to go. + +As Hélène was leaving one evening, her friend said to her: “I must go +out to-morrow; but that needn’t prevent you from coming down here. Wait +for me; I shan’t be back late.” + +Hélène consented; and, alone in the garden, there spent a delicious +afternoon. Nothing stirred, save the sparrows fluttering in the trees +overhead. This little sunny nook entranced her, and, from that day, her +happiest afternoons were those on which her friend left her alone. + +A closer intimacy was springing up between the Deberles and herself. +She dined with them like a friend who is pressed to stay when the +family sits down to table; when she lingered under the elm-trees and +Pierre came down to announce dinner, Juliette would implore her to +remain, and she sometimes yielded. They were family dinners, enlivened +by the noisy pranks of the children. Doctor Deberle and Hélène seemed +good friends, whose sensible and somewhat reserved natures sympathized +well. Thus it was that Juliette frequently declared: “Oh, you two would +get on capitally! Your composure exasperates me!” + +The doctor returned from his round of visits at about six o’clock every +evening. He found the ladies in the garden, and sat down beside them. +On the earlier occasions, Hélène started up with the idea of leaving +her friends to themselves, but her sudden departure displeased Juliette +greatly, and she now perforce had to remain. She became almost a member +of this family, which appeared to be so closely united. On the doctor’s +arrival his wife held up her cheek to him, always with the same loving +gesture, and he kissed her; then, as Lucien began clambering up his +legs, he kept him on his knees while chatting away. The child would +clap his tiny hands on his father’s mouth, pull his hair, and play so +many pranks that in the upshot he had to be put down, and told to go +and play with Jeanne. The fun would bring a smile to Hélène’s face, and +she neglected her work for the moment, to gaze at father, mother, and +child. The kiss of the husband and wife gave her no pain, and Lucien’s +tricks filled her with soft emotion. It might have been said that she +had found a haven of refuge amidst this family’s quiet content. + +Meanwhile the sun would sink into the west, gilding the tree tops with +its rays. Serene peacefulness fell from the grey heavens. Juliette, +whose curiosity was insatiable, even in company with strangers, plagued +her husband with ceaseless questions, and often lacked the patience to +wait his replies. “Where have you been? What have you been about?” + +Thereupon he would describe his round of visits to them, repeat any +news of what was going on, or speak of some cloth or piece of furniture +he had caught a glimpse of in a shop window. While he was speaking, his +eyes often met those of Hélène, but neither turned away the head. They +gazed into each other’s face for a moment with grave looks, as though +heart were being revealed to heart; but after a little they smiled and +their eyes dropped. Juliette, fidgety and sprightly, though she would +often assume a studied languor, allowed them no opportunity for lengthy +conversation, but burst with her interruptions into any talk whatever. +Still they exchanged a few words, quite commonplace, slowly articulated +sentences which seemed to assume a deep meaning, and to linger in the +air after having been spoken. They approvingly punctuated each word the +other uttered, as though they had thoughts in common. It was an +intimate sympathy that was growing up between them, springing from the +depths of their beings, and becoming closer even when they were silent. +Sometimes Juliette, rather ashamed of monopolizing all the talk, would +cease her magpie chatter. + +“Dear me!” she would exclaim, “you are getting bored, aren’t you? We +are talking of matters which can have no possible interest for you.” + +“Oh, never mind me,” Hélène answered blithely. “I never tire. It is a +pleasure to me to listen and say nothing.” + +She was uttering no untruth. It was during the lengthy periods of +silence that she experienced most delight in being there. With her head +bent over her work, only lifting her eyes at long intervals to exchange +with the doctor those interminable looks that riveted their hearts the +closer, she willingly surrendered herself to the egotism of her +emotion. Between herself and him, she now confessed it, there existed a +secret sentiment, a something very sweet—all the sweeter because no one +in the world shared it with them. But she kept her secret with a +tranquil mind, her sense of honor quite unruffled, for no thought of +evil ever disturbed her. How good he was to his wife and child! She +loved him the more when he made Lucien jump or kissed Juliette on the +cheek. Since she had seen him in his own home their friendship had +greatly increased. She was now as one of the family; she never dreamt +that the intimacy could be broken. And within her own breast she called +him Henri—naturally, too, from hearing Juliette address him so. When +her lips said “Sir,” through all her being “Henri” was re-echoed. + +One day the doctor found Hélène alone under the elms. Juliette now went +out nearly every afternoon. + +“Hello! is my wife not with you?” he exclaimed. + +“No, she has left me to myself,” she answered laughingly. “It is true +you have come home earlier than usual.” + +The children were playing at the other end of the garden. He sat down +beside her. Their _tete-a-tete_ produced no agitation in either of +them. For nearly an hour they spoke of all sorts of matters, without +for a moment feeling any desire to allude to the tenderness which +filled their hearts. What was the good of referring to that? Did they +not well know what might have been said? They had no confession to +make. Theirs was the joy of being together, of talking of many things, +of surrendering themselves to the pleasure of their isolation without a +shadow of regret, in the very spot where every evening he embraced his +wife in her presence. + +That day he indulged in some jokes respecting her devotion to work. “Do +you know,” said he, “I do not even know the color of your eyes? They +are always bent on your needle.” + +She raised her head and looked straight into his face, as was her +custom. “Do you wish to tease me?” she asked gently. + +But he went on. “Ah! they are grey—grey, tinged with blue, are they +not?” + +This was the utmost limit to which they dared go; but these words, the +first that had sprung to his lips, were fraught with infinite +tenderness. From that day onwards he frequently found her alone in the +twilight. Despite themselves, and without their having any knowledge of +it, their intimacy grew apace. They spoke in an altered voice, with +caressing inflections, which were not apparent when others were +present. And yet, when Juliette came in, full of gossip about her day +in town, they could keep up the talk they had already begun without +even troubling themselves to draw their chairs apart. It seemed as +though this lovely springtide and this garden, with its blossoming +lilac, were prolonging within their hearts the first rapture of love. + +Towards the end of the month, Madame Deberle grew excited over a grand +idea. The thought of giving a children’s ball had suddenly struck her. +The season was already far advanced, but the scheme took such hold on +her foolish brain that she hurried on the preparations with reckless +haste. She desired that the affair should be quite perfect; it was to +be a fancy-dress ball. And, in her own home, and in other people’s +houses, everywhere, in short, she now spoke of nothing but her ball. +The conversations on the subject which took place in the garden were +endless. The foppish Malignon thought the project rather stupid, still +he condescended to take some interest in it, and promised to bring a +comic singer with whom he was acquainted. + +One afternoon, while they were all sitting under the trees, Juliette +introduced the grave question of the costumes which Lucien and Jeanne +should wear. + +“It is so difficult to make up one’s mind,” said she. “I have been +thinking of a clown’s dress in white satin.” + +“Oh, that’s too common!” declared Malignon. “There will be a round +dozen of clowns at your ball. Wait, you must have something novel.” +Thereupon he began gravely pondering, sucking the head of his cane all +the while. + +Pauline came up at the moment, and proclaimed her desire to appear as a +soubrette. + +“You!” screamed Madame Deberle, in astonishment. “You won’t appear in +costume at all! Do you think yourself a child, you great stupid? You +will oblige me by coming in a white dress.” + +“Oh, but it would have pleased me so!” exclaimed Pauline, who, despite +her eighteen years and plump girlish figure, liked nothing better than +to romp with a band of little ones. + +Meanwhile Hélène sat at the foot of her tree working away, and raising +her head at times to smile at the doctor and Monsieur Rambaud, who +stood in front of her conversing. Monsieur Rambaud had now become quite +intimate with the Deberle family. + +“Well,” said the doctor, “and how are you going to dress, Jeanne?” + +He got no further, for Malignon burst out: “I’ve got it! I’ve got it! +Lucien must be a marquis of the time of Louis XV.” + +He waved his cane with a triumphant air; but, as no one of the company +hailed his idea with enthusiasm, he appeared astonished. “What, don’t +you see it? Won’t it be for Lucien to receive his little guests? So you +place him, dressed as a marquis, at the drawing-room door, with a large +bouquet of roses on his coat, and he bows to the ladies.” + +“But there will be dozens of marquises at the ball!” objected Juliette. + +“What does that matter?” replied Malignon coolly. “The more marquises +the greater the fun. I tell you it is the best thing you can hit upon. +The master of the house must be dressed as a marquis, or the ball will +be a complete failure.” + +Such was his conviction of his scheme’s success that at last it was +adopted by Juliette with enthusiasm. As a matter of fact, a dress in +the Pompadour style, white satin embroidered with posies, would be +altogether charming. + +“And what about Jeanne?” again asked the doctor. + +The little girl had just buried her head against her mother’s shoulder +in the caressing manner so characteristic of her; and as an answer was +about to cross Hélène’s lips, she murmured: + +“Oh! mamma, you know what you promised me, don’t you?” + +“What was it?” asked those around her. + +Then, as her daughter gave her an imploring look, Hélène laughingly +replied: “Jeanne does not wish her dress to be known.” + +“Yes, that’s so,” said the child; “you don’t create any effect when you +tell your dress beforehand.” + +Every one was tickled with this display of coquetry, and Monsieur +Rambaud thought he might tease the child about it. For some time past +Jeanne had been ill-tempered with him, and the poor man, at his wits’ +end to hit upon a mode of again gaining her favor, thought teasing her +the best method of conciliation. Keeping his eyes on her face, he +several times repeated: “I know; I shall tell, I shall tell!” + +Jeanne, however, became quite livid. Her gentle, sickly face assumed an +expression of ferocious anger; her brow was furrowed by two deep +wrinkles, and her chin drooped with nervous agitation. + +“You!” she screamed excitedly; “you will say nothing!” And, as he still +feigned a resolve to speak, she rushed at him madly, and shouted out: +“Hold your tongue! I will have you hold your tongue! I will! I will!” + +Hélène had been unable to prevent this fit of blind anger, such as +sometimes took possession of the child, and with some harshness +exclaimed: “Jeanne, take care; I shall whip you!” + +But Jeanne paid no heed, never once heard her. Trembling from head to +foot, stamping on the ground, and choking with rage, she again and +again repeated, “I will! I will!” in a voice that grew more and more +hoarse and broken; and her hands convulsively gripped hold of Monsieur +Rambaud’s arm, which she twisted with extraordinary strength. In vain +did Hélène threaten her. At last, perceiving her inability to quell her +by severity, and grieved to the heart by such a display before so many +people, she contented herself by saying gently: “Jeanne, you are +grieving me very much.” + +The child immediately quitted her hold and turned her head. And when +she caught sight of her mother, with disconsolate face and eyes +swimming with repressed tears, she on her side burst into loud sobs, +and threw herself on Hélène’s neck, exclaiming in her grief: “No, +mamma! no, mamma!” + +She passed her hands over her mother’s face, as though to prevent her +weeping. Hélène, however, slowly put her from her, and then the little +one, broken-hearted and distracted, threw herself on a seat a short +distance off, where her sobs broke out louder than ever. Lucien, to +whom she was always held up as an example to follow, gazed at her +surprised and somewhat pleased. And then, as Hélène folded up her work, +apologizing for so regrettable an incident, Juliette remarked to her: + +“Dear me! we have to pardon children everything. Besides, the little +one has the best of hearts, and is grieved so much, poor darling, that +she has been already punished too severely.” + +So saying she called Jeanne to come and kiss her; but the child +remained on her seat, rejecting the offer of forgiveness, and still +choking with tears. + +Monsieur Rambaud and the doctor, however, walked to her side, and the +former, bending over her, asked, in tones husky with emotion: “Tell me, +my pet, what has vexed you? What have I done to you?” + +“Oh!” she replied, drawing away her hands and displaying a face full of +anguish, “you wanted to take my mamma from me!” + +The doctor, who was listening, burst into laughter. Monsieur Rambaud at +first failed to grasp her meaning. + +“What is this you’re talking of?” + +“Yes, indeed, the other Tuesday! Oh! you know very well; you were on +your knees, and asked me what I should say if you were to stay with +us!” + +The smile vanished from the doctor’s face; his lips became ashy pale, +and quivered. A flush, on the other hand, mounted to Monsieur Rambaud’s +cheek, and he whispered to Jeanne: “But you said yourself that we +should always play together?” + +“No, no; I did not know at the time,” the child resumed excitedly. “I +tell you I don’t want it. Don’t ever speak to me of it again, and then +we shall be friends.” + +Hélène was on her feet now, with her needlework in its basket, and the +last words fell on her ear. “Come, let us go up, Jeanne,” she said; +“your tears are not pleasant company.” + +She bowed, and pushed the child before her. The doctor, with livid +face, gazed at her fixedly. Monsieur Rambaud was in dismay. As for +Madame Deberle and Pauline, they had taken hold of Lucien, and were +making him turn between them, while excitedly discussing the question +of his Pompadour dress. + +On the morrow Hélène was left alone under the elms. Madame Deberle was +running about in the interests of her ball, and had taken Lucien and +Jeanne with her. On the doctor’s return home, at an earlier hour than +usual, he hurried down the garden steps. However, he did not seat +himself, but wandered aimlessly round the young woman, at times tearing +strips of bark from the trees with his finger-nails. She lifted her +eyes for a moment, feeling anxious at sight of his agitation; and then +again began plying her needle with a somewhat trembling hand. + +“The weather is going to break up,” said she, feeling uncomfortable as +the silence continued. “The afternoon seems quite cold.” + +“We are only in April, remember,” he replied, with a brave effort to +control his voice. + +Then he appeared to be on the point of leaving her, but turned round, +and suddenly asked: “So you are going to get married?” + +This abrupt question took her wholly by surprise, and her work fell +from her hands. Her face blanched, but by a supreme effort of will +remained unimpassioned, as though she were a marble statue, fixing +dilated eyes upon him. She made no reply, and he continued in imploring +tones: + +“Oh! I pray you, answer me. One word, one only. Are you going to get +married?” + +“Yes, perhaps. What concern is it of yours?” she retorted, in a tone of +icy indifference. + +He made a passionate gesture, and exclaimed: + +“It is impossible!” + +“Why should it be?” she asked, still keeping her eyes fixed on his +face. + +Her glance stayed the words upon his lips, and he was forced to +silence. For a moment longer he remained near her, pressing his hands +to his brow, and then fled away, with a feeling of suffocation in his +throat, dreading lest he might give expression to his despair; while +she, with assumed tranquillity, once more turned to her work. + +But the spell of those delicious afternoons was gone. Next day shone +fair and sunny, and Hélène seemed ill at ease from the moment she found +herself alone with him. The pleasant intimacy, the happy trustfulness, +which sanctioned their sitting side by side in blissful security, and +revelling in the unalloyed joy of being together, no longer existed. +Despite his intense carefulness to give her no cause for alarm, he +would sometimes gaze at her and tremble with sudden excitement, while +his face crimsoned with a rush of blood. From her own heart had fled +its wonted happy calm; quivers ran through her frame; she felt languid; +her hands grew weary, and forsook their work. + +She now no longer allowed Jeanne to wander from her side. Between +himself and her the doctor found this constant onlooker, watching him +with large, clear eyes. But what pained Hélène most was that she now +felt ill at ease in Madame Deberle’s company. When the latter returned +of an afternoon, with her hair swept about by the wind, and called her +“my dear” while relating the incidents of some shopping expedition, she +no longer listened with her former quiet smile. A storm arose from the +depths of her soul, stirring up feelings to which she dared not give a +name. Shame and spite seemed mingled in them. However, her honorable +nature gained the mastery, and she gave her hand to Juliette, but +without being able to repress the shudder which ran through her as she +pressed her friend’s warm fingers. + +The weather had now broken up. Frequent rain forced the ladies to take +refuge in the Japanese pavilion. The garden, with its whilom exquisite +order, became transformed into a lake, and no one dared venture on the +walks, on account of the mud. However, whenever the sun peeped out from +behind the clouds, the dripping greenery soon dried; pearls hung from +each little blossom of the lilac trees; and under the elms big drops +fell splashing on the ground. + +“At last I’ve arranged it; it will be on Saturday,” said Madame Deberle +one day. “My dear, I’m quite tired out with the whole affair. Now, +you’ll be here at two o’clock, won’t you? Jeanne will open the ball +with Lucien.” + +And thereupon, surrendering to a flow of tenderness, in ecstasy over +the preparations for her ball, she embraced both children, and, +laughingly catching hold of Hélène, pressed two resounding kisses on +her cheeks. + +“That’s my reward!” she exclaimed merrily. “You know I deserve it; I +have run about enough. You’ll see what a success it will be!” + +But Hélène remained chilled to the heart, while the doctor, with Lucien +clinging to his neck, gazed at them over the child’s fair head. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + +In the hall of the doctor’s house stood Pierre, in dress coat and white +cravat, throwing open the door as each carriage rolled up. Puffs of +dank air rushed in; the afternoon was rainy, and a yellow light +illumined the narrow hall, with its curtained doorways and array of +green plants. It was only two o’clock, but the evening seemed as near +at hand as on a dismal winter’s day. + +However, as soon as the servant opened the door of the first +drawing-room, a stream of light dazzled the guests. The shutters had +been closed, and the curtains carefully drawn, and no gleam from the +dull sky could gain admittance. The lamps standing here and there on +the furniture, and the lighted candles of the chandelier and the +crystal wall-brackets, gave the apartment somewhat the appearance of a +brilliantly illuminated chapel. Beyond the smaller drawing-room, whose +green hangings rather softened the glare of the light, was the large +black-and-gold one, decorated as magnificently as for the ball which +Madame Deberle gave every year in the month of January. + +The children were beginning to arrive, while Pauline gave her attention +to the ranging of a number of chairs in front of the dining-room +doorway, where the door had been removed from its hinges and replaced +by a red curtain. + +“Papa,” she cried, “just lend me a hand! We shall never be ready.” + +Monsieur Letellier, who, with his arms behind his back, was gazing at +the chandelier, hastened to give the required assistance. Pauline +carried the chairs about herself. She had paid due deference to her +sister’s request, and was robed in white; only her dress opened +squarely at the neck and displayed her bosom. + +“At last we are ready,” she exclaimed: “they can come when they like. +But what is Juliette dreaming about? She has been ever so long dressing +Lucien!” + +Just at that moment Madame Deberle entered, leading the little marquis, +and everybody present began raising admiring remarks. “Oh! what a love! +What a darling he is!” His coat was of white satin embroidered with +flowers, his long waistcoat was embroidered with gold, and his +knee-breeches were of cherry-colored silk. Lace clustered round his +chin, and delicate wrists. A sword, a mere toy with a great rose-red +knot, rattled against his hip. + +“Now you must do the honors,” his mother said to him, as she led him +into the outer room. + +For eight days past he had been repeating his lesson, and struck a +cavalier attitude with his little legs, his powdered head thrown +slightly back, and his cocked hat tucked under his left arm. As each of +his lady-guests was ushered into the room, he bowed low, offered his +arm, exchanged courteous greetings, and returned to the threshold. +Those near him laughed over his intense seriousness in which there was +a dash of effrontery. This was the style in which he received +Marguerite Tissot, a little lady five years old, dressed in a charming +milkmaid costume, with a milk-can hanging at her side; so too did he +greet the Berthier children, Blanche and Sophie, the one masquerading +as Folly, the other dressed in soubrette style; and he had even the +hardihood to tackle Valentine de Chermette, a tall young lady of some +fourteen years, whom her mother always dressed in Spanish costume, and +at her side his figure appeared so slight that she seemed to be +carrying him along. However, he was profoundly embarrassed in the +presence of the Levasseur family, which numbered five girls, who made +their appearance in a row of increasing height, the youngest being +scarcely two years old, while the eldest was ten. All five were arrayed +in Red Riding-Hood costumes, their head-dresses and gowns being in +poppy-colored satin with black velvet bands, with which their lace +aprons strikingly contrasted. At last Lucien, making up his mind, +bravely flung away his three-cornered hat, and led the two elder girls, +one hanging on each arm, into the drawing-room, closely followed by the +three others. There was a good deal of laughter at it, but the little +man never lost his self-possession for a moment. + +In the meantime Madame Deberle was taking her sister to task in a +corner. + +“Good gracious! is it possible! what a fearfully low-necked dress you +are wearing!” + +“Dear, dear! what have I done now? Papa hasn’t said a word,” answered +Pauline coolly. “If you’re anxious, I’ll put some flowers at my +breast.” + +She plucked a handful of blossoms from a flower-stand where they were +growing and allowed them to nestle in her bosom; while Madame Deberle +was surrounded by several mammas in stylish visiting-dresses, who were +already profuse in their compliments about her ball. As Lucien was +passing them, his mother arranged a loose curl of his powdered hair, +while he stood on tip-toe to whisper in her ear: + +“Where’s Jeanne?” + +“She will be here immediately, my darling. Take good care not to fall. +Run away, there comes little Mademoiselle Guiraud. Ah! she is wearing +an Alsatian costume.” + +The drawing-room was now filling rapidly; the rows of chairs fronting +the red curtain were almost all occupied, and a hubbub of children’s +voices was rising. The boys were flocking into the room in groups. +There were already three Harlequins, four Punches, a Figaro, some +Tyrolese peasants, and a few Highlanders. Young Master Berthier was +dressed as a page. Little Guiraud, a mere bantling of two-and-a-half +summers, wore his clown’s costume in so comical a style that every one +as he passed lifted him up and kissed him. + +“Here comes Jeanne,” exclaimed Madame Deberle, all at once. “Oh, she is +lovely!” + +A murmur ran round the room; heads were bent forward, and every one +gave vent to exclamations of admiration. Jeanne was standing on the +threshold of the outer room, awaiting her mother, who was taking off +her cloak in the hall. The child was robed in a Japanese dress of +unusual splendor. The gown, embroidered with flowers and +strange-looking birds, swept to her feet, which were hidden from view; +while beneath her broad waist-ribbon the flaps, drawn aside, gave a +glimpse of a green petticoat, watered with yellow. Nothing could be +more strangely bewitching than her delicate features seen under the +shadow of her hair, coiled above her head with long pins thrust through +it, while her chin and oblique eyes, small and sparkling, pictured to +the life a young lady of Yeddo, strolling amidst the perfume of tea and +benzoin. And she lingered there hesitatingly, with all the sickly +languor of a tropical flower pining for the land of its birth. + +Behind her, however, appeared Hélène. Both, in thus suddenly passing +from the dull daylight of the street into the brilliant glare of the +wax candles, blinked their eyes as though blinded, while their faces +were irradiated with smiles. The rush of warm air and the perfumes, the +scent of violets rising above all else, almost stifled them, and +brought a flush of red to their cheeks. Each guest, on passing the +doorway, wore a similar air of surprise and hesitancy. + +“Why, Lucien! where are you?” exclaimed Madame Deberle. + +The boy had not caught sight of Jeanne. But now he rushed forward and +seized her arm, forgetting to make his bow. And they were so dainty, so +loving, the little marquis in his flowered coat, and the Japanese +maiden in her purple embroidered gown, that they might have been taken +for two statuettes of Dresden china, daintily gilded and painted, into +which life had been suddenly infused. + +“You know, I was waiting for you,” whispered Lucien. “Oh, it is so +nasty to give everybody my arm! Of course, we’ll keep beside each +other, eh?” + +And he sat himself down with her in the first row of chairs, wholly +oblivious of his duties as host. + +“Oh, I was so uneasy!” purred Juliette into Hélène’s ear. “I was +beginning to fear that Jeanne had been taken ill.” + +Hélène proffered apology; dressing children, said she, meant endless +labor. She was still standing in a corner of the drawing-room, one of a +cluster of ladies, when her heart told her that the doctor was +approaching behind her. He was making his way from behind the red +curtain, beneath which he had dived to give some final instructions. +But suddenly he came to a standstill. He, too, had divined her +presence, though she had not yet turned her head. Attired in a dress of +black grenadine, she had never appeared more queenly in her beauty; and +a thrill passed through him as he breathed the cool air which she had +brought with her from outside, and wafted from her shoulders and arms, +gleaming white under their transparent covering. + +“Henri has no eyes for anybody,” exclaimed Pauline, with a laugh. “Ah, +good-day, Henri!” + +Thereupon he advanced towards the group of ladies, with a courteous +greeting. Mademoiselle Aurelie, who was amongst them, engaged his +attention for the moment to point out to him a nephew whom she had +brought with her. He was all complaisance. Hélène, without speaking, +gave him her hand, encased in its black glove, but he dared not clasp +it with marked force. + +“Oh! here you are!” said Madame Deberle, as she appeared beside them. +“I have been looking for you everywhere. It is nearly three o’clock; +they had better begin.” + +“Certainly; at once,” was his reply. + +The drawing-room was now crowded. All round it, in the brilliant glare +thrown from the chandelier, sat the fathers and mothers, their walking +costumes serving to fringe the circle with less vivid colors. Some +ladies, drawing their chairs together, formed groups; men standing +motionless along the walls filled up the gaps; while in the doorway +leading to the next room a cluster of frock-coated guests could be seen +crowding together and peering over each other’s shoulders. The light +fell wholly on the little folks, noisy in their glee, as they rustled +about in their seats in the centre of the large room. There were almost +a hundred children packed together; in an endless variety of gay +costumes, bright with blue and red. It was like a sea of fair heads, +varying from pale yellow to ruddy gold, with here and there bows and +flowers gleaming vividly—or like a field of ripe grain, spangled with +poppies and cornflowers, and waving to and fro as though stirred by a +breeze. At times, amidst this confusion of ribbons and lace, of silk +and velvet, a face was turned round—a pink nose, a pair of blue eyes, a +smiling or pouting little mouth. There were some, no higher than one’s +boots, who were buried out of sight between big lads of ten years of +age, and whom their mothers sought from a distance, but in vain. A few +of the boys looked bored and foolish by the side of girls who were busy +spreading out their skirts. Some, however, were already very +venturesome, jogging the elbows of their fair neighbors with whom they +were unacquainted, and laughing in their faces. But the royalty of the +gathering remained with the girls, some of whom, clustering in groups, +stirred about in such a way as to threaten destruction to their chairs, +and chattered so loudly that the grown-up folks could no longer hear +one another speaking. And all eyes were intently gazing at the red +curtain. + +Slowly was it drawn aside, and in the recess of the doorway appeared a +puppet-show. There was a hushed silence. Then all at once Punch sprang +in, with so ferocious a yell that baby Guiraud could not restrain a +responsive cry of terror and delight. It was one of those bloodthirsty +dramas in which Punch, having administered a sound beating to the +magistrate, murders the policeman, and tramples with ferocious glee on +every law, human and divine. At every cudgelling bestowed on the wooden +heads the pitiless audience went into shrieks of laughter; and the +sharp thrusts delivered by the puppets at each other’s breasts, the +duels in which they beat a tattoo on one another’s skulls as though +they were empty pumpkins, the awful havoc of legs and arms, reducing +the characters to a jelly, served to increase the roars of laughter +which rang out from all sides. But the climax of enjoyment was reached +when Punch sawed off the policeman’s head on the edge of the stage; an +operation provocative of such hysterical mirth that the rows of +juveniles were plunged into confusion, swaying to and fro with glee +till they all but fell on one another. One tiny girl, but four years +old, all pink and white, considered the spectacle so entrancing that +she pressed her little hands devoutly to her heart. Others burst into +applause, while the boys laughed, with mouths agape, their deeper +voices mingling with the shrill peals from the girls. + +“How amused they are!” whispered the doctor. He had returned to his +place near Hélène. She was in high spirits like the children. Behind +her, he sat inhaling the intoxicating perfume which came from her hair. +And as one puppet on the stage dealt another an exceptionally hard +knock she turned to him and exclaimed: “Do you know, it is awfully +funny!” + +The youngsters, crazy with excitement, were now interfering with the +action of the drama. They were giving answers to the various +characters. One young lady, who must have been well up in the plot, was +busy explaining what would next happen. + +“He’ll beat his wife to death in a minute! Now they are going to hang +him!” + +The youngest of the Levasseur girls, who was two years old, shrieked +out all at once: + +“Mamma, mamma, will they put him on bread and water?” + +All sorts of exclamations and reflections followed. Meanwhile Hélène, +gazing into the crowd of children, remarked: “I cannot see Jeanne. Is +she enjoying herself?” + +Then the doctor bent forward, with head perilously near her own, and +whispered: “There she is, between that harlequin and the Norman peasant +maiden! You can see the pins gleaming in her hair. She is laughing very +heartily.” + +He still leaned towards her, her cool breath playing on his cheek. Till +now no confession had escaped them; preserving silence, their intimacy +had only been marred for a few days past by a vague sensation of +discomfort. But amidst these bursts of happy laughter, gazing upon the +little folks before her, Hélène became once more, in sooth, a very +child, surrendering herself to her feelings, while Henri’s breath beat +warm upon her neck. The whacks from the cudgel, now louder than ever, +filled her with a quiver which inflated her bosom, and she turned +towards him with sparkling eyes. + +“Good heavens! what nonsense it all is!” she said each time. “See how +they hit one another!” + +“Oh! their heads are hard enough!” he replied, trembling. + +This was all his heart could find to say. Their minds were fast lapsing +into childhood once more. Punch’s unedifying life was fostering languor +within their breasts. When the drama drew to its close with the +appearance of the devil, and the final fight and general massacre +ensued, Hélène in leaning back pressed against Henri’s hand, which was +resting on the back of her arm-chair; while the juvenile audience, +shouting and clapping their hands, made the very chairs creak with +their enthusiasm. + +The red curtain dropped again, and the uproar was at its height when +Malignon’s presence was announced by Pauline, in her customary style: +“Ah! here’s the handsome Malignon!” + +He made his way into the room, shoving the chairs aside, quite out of +breath. + +“Dear me! what a funny idea to close the shutters!” he exclaimed, +surprised and hesitating. “People might imagine that somebody in the +house was dead.” Then, turning towards Madame Deberle, who was +approaching him, he continued: “Well, you can boast of having made me +run about! Ever since the morning I have been hunting for Perdiguet; +you know whom I mean, my singer fellow. But I haven’t been able to lay +my hands on him, and I have brought you the great Morizot instead.” + +The great Morizot was an amateur who entertained drawing-rooms by +conjuring with juggler-balls. A gipsy table was assigned to him, and on +this he accomplished his most wonderful tricks; but it all passed off +without the spectators evincing the slightest interest. The poor little +darlings were pulling serious faces; some of the tinier mites fell fast +asleep, sucking their thumbs. The older children turned their heads and +smiled towards their parents, who were themselves yawning behind their +hands. There was thus a general feeling of relief when the great +Morizot decided to take his table away. + +“Oh! he’s awfully clever,” whispered Malignon into Madame Deberle’s +neck. + +But the red curtain was drawn aside once again, and an entrancing +spectacle brought all the little folks to their feet. + +Along the whole extent of the dining-room stretched the table, laid and +bedecked as for a grand dinner, and illumined by the bright radiance of +the central lamp and a pair of large candelabra. There were fifty +covers laid; in the middle and at either end were shallow baskets, full +of flowers; between these towered tall _epergnes_, filled to +overflowing with crackers in gilded and colored paper. Then there were +mountains of decorated cakes, pyramids of iced fruits, piles of +sandwiches, and, less prominent, a whole host of symmetrically disposed +plates, bearing sweetmeats and pastry: buns, cream puffs, and +_brioches_ alternating with dry biscuits, cracknals, and fancy almond +cakes. Jellies were quivering in their glass dishes. Whipped creams +waited in porcelain bowls. And round the table sparkled the silver +helmets of champagne bottles, no higher than one’s hand, made specially +to suit the little guests. It all looked like one of those gigantic +feasts which children conjure up in dreamland—a feast served with the +solemnity that attends a repast of grown-up folks—a fairy +transformation of the table to which their own parents sat down, and on +which the horns of plenty of innumerable pastry-cooks and toy dealers +had been emptied. + +“Come, come, give the ladies your arms!” said Madame Deberle, her face +covered with smiles as she watched the delight of the children. + +But the filing off in couples proved a lure. Lucien, who had +triumphantly taken Jeanne’s arm, went first. But the others following +behind fell somewhat into confusion, and the mothers were forced to +come and assign them places, remaining close at hand, especially behind +the babies, whom they watched lest any mischance should befall them. +Truth to tell, the guests at first seemed rather uncomfortable; they +looked at one another, felt afraid to lay hands on the good things, and +were vaguely disquieted by this new social organization in which +everything appeared to be topsy-turvy, the children seated at table +while their parents remained standing. At length the older ones gained +confidence and commenced the attack. And when the mothers entered into +the fray, and cut up the large cakes, helping those in their vicinity, +the feast speedily became very animated and noisy. The exquisite +symmetry of the table was destroyed as though by a tempest. The two +Berthier girls, Blanche and Sophie, laughed at the sight of their +plates, which had been filled with something of everything—jam, +custard, cake, and fruit. The five young ladies of the Levasseur family +took sole possession of a corner laden with dainties, while Valentine, +proud of her fourteen years, acted the lady’s part, and looked after +the comfort of her little neighbors. Lucien, however, impatient to +display his politeness, uncorked a bottle of champagne, but in so +clumsy a way that the whole contents spurted over his cherry silk +breeches. There was quite a to-do about it. + +“Kindly leave the bottles alone! I am to uncork the champagne,” shouted +Pauline. + +She bustled about in an extraordinary fashion, purely for her own +amusement. On the entry of a servant with the chocolate pot, she seized +it and filled the cups with the greatest glee, as active in the +performance as any restaurant waiter. Next she took round some ices and +glasses of syrup and water, set them down for a moment to stuff a +little baby-girl who had been overlooked, and then went off again, +asking every one questions. + +“What is it you wish, my pet? Eh? A cake? Yes, my darling, wait a +moment; I am going to pass you the oranges. Now eat away, you little +stupids, you shall play afterwards.” + +Madame Deberle, calm and dignified, declared that they ought to be left +alone, and would acquit themselves very well. + +At one end of the room sat Hélène and some other ladies laughing at the +scene which the table presented; all the rosy mouths were eating with +the full strength of their beautiful white teeth. And nothing could +eclipse in drollery the occasional lapses from the polished behavior of +well-bred children to the outrageous freaks of young savages. With both +hands gripping their glasses, they drank to the very dregs, smeared +their faces, and stained their dresses. The clamor grew worse. The last +of the dishes were plundered. Jeanne herself began dancing on her chair +as she heard the strains of a quadrille coming from the drawing-room; +and on her mother approaching to upbraid her with having eaten too +much, she replied: “Oh! mamma, I feel so happy to-day!” + +But now the other children were rising as they heard the music. Slowly +the table thinned, until there only remained a fat, chubby infant right +in the middle. He seemingly cared little for the attractions of the +piano; with a napkin round his neck, and his chin resting on the +tablecloth—for he was a mere chit—he opened his big eyes, and protruded +his lips each time that his mamma offered him a spoonful of chocolate. +The contents of the cup vanished, and he licked his lips as the last +mouthful went down his throat, with eyes more agape than ever. + +“By Jove! my lad, you eat heartily!” exclaimed Malignon, who was +watching him with a thoughtful air. + +Now came the division of the “surprise” packets. Each child, on leaving +the table, bore away one of the large gilt paper twists, the coverings +of which were hastily torn off and from them poured forth a host of +toys, grotesque hats made of tissue paper, birds and butterflies. But +the joy of joys was the possession of a cracker. Every “surprise” +packet had its cracker; and these the lads pulled at gallantly, +delighted with the noise, while the girls shut their eyes, making many +tries before the explosion took place. For a time the sharp crackling +of all this musketry alone could be heard; and the uproar was still +lasting when the children returned to the drawing-room, where lively +quadrille music resounded from the piano. + +“I could enjoy a cake,” murmured Mademoiselle Aurelie, as she sat down. + +At the table, which was now deserted, but covered with all the litter +of the huge feast, a few ladies—some dozen or so, who had preferred to +wait till the children had retired—now sat down. As no servant could be +found, Malignon bustled hither and thither in attendance. He poured out +all that remained in the chocolate pot, shook up the dregs of the +bottles, and was even successful in discovering some ices. But amidst +all these gallant doings of his, he could not quit one idea, and that +was—why had they decided on closing the shutters? + +“You know,” he asserted, “the place looks like a cellar.” + +Hélène had remained standing, engaged in conversation with Madame +Deberle. As the latter directed her steps towards the drawing-room, her +companion prepared to follow, when she felt a gentle touch. Behind her +was the doctor, smiling; he was ever near her. + +“Are you not going to take anything?” he asked. And the trivial +question cloaked so earnest an entreaty that her heart was filled with +profound emotion. She knew well enough that each of his words was +eloquent of another thing. The excitement springing from the gaiety +which pulsed around her was slowly gaining on her. Some of the fever of +all these little folks, now dancing and shouting, coursed in her own +veins. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she at first declined. + +“No, thank you, nothing at all.” + +But he pressed her, and in the end, ill at ease and anxious to get rid +of him, she yielded. “Well, then, a cup of tea.” + +He hurried off and returned with the cup, his hands trembling as he +handed it to her. While she was sipping the tea he drew nearer to her, +his lips quivering nervously with the confession springing from his +heart. She in her turn drew back from him, and, returning him the empty +cup, made her escape while he was placing it on a sideboard, thus +leaving him alone in the dining-room with Mademoiselle Aurelie, who was +slowly masticating, and subjecting each dish in succession to a close +scrutiny. + +Within the drawing-room the piano was sending forth its loudest +strains, and from end to end of the floor swept the ball with its +charming drolleries. A circle of onlookers had gathered round the +quadrille party with which Lucien and Jeanne were dancing. The little +marquis became rather mixed over the figures; he only got on well when +he had occasion to take hold of Jeanne; and then he gripped her by the +waist and whirled around. Jeanne preserved her equilibrium, somewhat +vexed by his rumpling her dress; but the delights of the dance taking +full possession of her, she caught hold of him in her turn and lifted +him off his feet. The white satin coat embroidered with nosegays +mingled with the folds of the gown woven with flowers and strange +birds, and the two little figures of old Dresden ware assumed all the +grace and novelty of some whatnot ornaments. The quadrille over, Hélène +summoned Jeanne to her side, in order to rearrange her dress. + +“It is his fault, mamma,” was the little one’s excuse. “He rubs against +me—he’s a dreadful nuisance.” + +Around the drawing-room the faces of the parents were wreathed with +smiles. As soon as the music began again all the little ones were once +more in motion. Seeing, however, that they were observed they felt +distrustful, remained grave, and checked their leaps in order to keep +up appearances. Some of them knew how to dance; but the majority were +ignorant of the steps, and their limbs were evidently a source of +embarrassment to them. But Pauline interposed: “I must see to them! Oh, +you little stupids!” + +She threw herself into the midst of the quadrille, caught hold of two +of them, one grasping her right hand the other her left, and managed to +infuse such life into the dance that the wooden flooring creaked +beneath them. The only sounds now audible rose from the hurrying hither +and thither of tiny feet beating wholly out of time, the piano alone +keeping to the dance measure. Some more of the older people joined in +the fun. Hélène and Madame Deberle, noticing some little maids who were +too bashful to venture forth, dragged them into the thickest of the +throng. It was they who led the figures, pushed the lads forward, and +arranged the dancing in rings; and the mothers passed them the youngest +of the babies, so that they might make them skip about for a moment, +holding them the while by both hands. The ball was now at its height. +The dancers enjoyed themselves to their hearts’ content, laughing and +pushing each other about like some boarding school mad with glee over +the absence of the teacher. Nothing, truly, could surpass in unalloyed +gaiety this carnival of youngsters, this assemblage of miniature men +and women—akin to a veritable microcosm, wherein the fashions of every +people mingled with the fantastic creations of romance and drama. The +ruddy lips and blue eyes, the faces breathing love, invested the +dresses with the fresh purity of childhood. The scene realized to the +mind the merrymaking of a fairy-tale to which trooped Cupids in +disguise to honor the betrothal of some Prince Charming. + +“I’m stifling!” exclaimed Malignon. “I’m off to inhale some fresh air.” + +As he left the drawing-room he threw the door wide open. The daylight +from the street then entered in a lurid stream, bedimming the glare of +lamps and candles. In this fashion every quarter of an hour Malignon +opened the door to let in some fresh air. + +Still there was no cessation of the piano-playing. Little Guiraud, in +her Alsatian costume, with a butterfly of black ribbon in her golden +hair, swung round in the dance with a harlequin twice her height. A +Highlander whirled Marguerite Tissot round so madly that she lost her +milk-pail. The two Berthier girls, Blanche and Sophie, who were +inseparables, were dancing together; the soubrette in the arms of +Folly, whose bells were jingling merrily. A glance could not be thrown +over the assemblage without one of the Levasseur girls coming into +view; the Red Riding-Hoods seemed to increase in number; caps and gowns +of gleaming red satin slashed with black velvet everywhere leaped into +sight. Meanwhile some of the older boys and girls had found refuge in +the adjacent saloon, where they could dance more at their ease. +Valentine de Chermette, cloaked in the mantilla of a Spanish senorita, +was executing some marvellous steps in front of a young gentleman who +had donned evening dress. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter which +drew every one to the sight; behind a door in a corner, baby Guiraud, +the two-year-old clown, and a mite of a girl of his own age, in peasant +costume, were holding one another in a tight embrace for fear of +tumbling, and gyrating round and round like a pair of slyboots, with +cheek pressed to cheek. + +“I’m quite done up,” remarked Hélène, as she leaned against the +dining-room door. + +She fanned her face, flushed with her exertions in the dance. Her bosom +rose and fell beneath the transparent grenadine of her bodice. And she +was still conscious of Henri’s breath beating on her shoulders; he was +still close to her—ever behind her. Now it flashed on her that he would +speak, yet she had no strength to flee from his avowal. He came nearer +and whispered, breathing on her hair: “I love you! oh, how I love you!” + +She tingled from head to foot, as though a gust of flame had beaten on +her. O God! he had spoken; she could no longer feign the pleasurable +quietude of ignorance. She hid behind her fan, her face purple with +blushes. The children, whirling madly in the last of the quadrilles, +were making the floor ring with the beating of their feet. There were +silvery peals of laughter, and bird-like voices gave vent to +exclamations of pleasure. A freshness arose from all that band of +innocents galloping round and round like little demons. + +“I love you! oh, how I love you!” + +She shuddered again; she would listen no further. With dizzy brain she +fled into the dining-room, but it was deserted, save that Monsieur +Letellier sat on a chair, peacefully sleeping. Henri had followed her, +and had the hardihood to seize her wrists even at the risk of a +scandal, his face convulsed with such passion that she trembled before +him. And he still repeated the words: + +“I love you! I love you!” + +“Leave me,” she murmured faintly. “You are mad—” + +And, close by, the dancing still went on, with the trampling of tiny +feet. Blanche Berthier’s bells could be heard ringing in unison with +the softer notes of the piano; Madame Deberle and Pauline were clapping +their hands, by way of beating time. It was a polka, and Hélène caught +a glimpse of Jeanne and Lucien, as they passed by smiling, with arms +clasped round each other. + +But with a sudden jerk she freed herself and fled to an adjacent room—a +pantry into which streamed the daylight. That sudden brightness blinded +her. She was terror-stricken—she dared not return to the drawing-room +with the tale of passion written so legibly on her face. So, hastily +crossing the garden, she climbed to her own home, the noises of the +ball-room still ringing in her ears. + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + +Upstairs, in her own room, in the peaceful, convent-like atmosphere she +found there, Hélène experienced a feeling of suffocation. Her room +astonished her, so calm, so secluded, so drowsy did it seem with its +blue velvet hangings, while she came to it hotly panting with the +emotion which thrilled her. Was this indeed her room, this dreary, +lifeless nook, devoid of air? Hastily she threw open a window, and +leaned out to gaze on Paris. + +The rain had ceased, and the clouds were trooping off like some herd of +monsters hurrying in disorderly array into the gloom of the horizon. A +blue gap, that grew larger by degrees, had opened up above the city. +But Hélène, her elbows trembling on the window-rail, still breathless +from her hasty ascent, saw nothing, and merely heard her heart beating +against her swelling breast. She drew a long breath, but it seemed to +her that the spreading valley with its river, its two millions of +people, its immense city, its distant hills, could not hold air enough +to enable her to breathe peacefully and regularly again. + +For some minutes she remained there distracted by the fever of passion +which possessed her. It seemed as though a torrent of sensations and +confused ideas were pouring down on her, their roar preventing her from +hearing her own voice or understanding aught. There was a buzzing in +her ears, and large spots of light swam slowly before her eyes. Then +she suddenly found herself examining her gloved hands, and remembering +that she had omitted to sew on a button that had come off the left-hand +glove. And afterwards she spoke aloud, repeating several times, in +tones that grew fainter and fainter: “I love you! I love you! oh, how I +love you!” + +Instinctively she buried her face in her hands, and pressed her fingers +to her eyelids as though to intensify the darkness in which she sought +to plunge. It was a wish to annihilate herself, to see no more, to be +utterly alone, girt in by the gloom of night. Her breathing grew +calmer. Paris blew its mighty breath upon her face; she knew it lay +before her, and though she had no wish to look on it, she felt full of +terror at the thought of leaving the window, and of no longer having +beneath her that city whose vastness lulled her to rest. + +Ere long she grew unmindful of all around her. The love-scene and +confession, despite her efforts, again woke to life in her mind. In the +inky darkness Henri appeared to her, every feature so distinct and +vivid that she could perceive the nervous twitching of his lips. He +came nearer and hung over her. And then she wildly darted back. But, +nevertheless, she felt a burning breath on her shoulders and a voice +exclaimed: “I love you! I love you!” With a mighty effort she put the +phantom to flight, but it again took shape in the distance, and slowly +swelled to its whilom proportions; it was Henri once more following her +into the dining-room, and still murmuring: “I love you! I love you!” +These words rang within her breast with the sonorous clang of a bell; +she no longer heard anything but them, pealing their loudest throughout +her frame. Nevertheless, she desired to reflect, and again strove to +escape from the apparition. He had spoken; never would she dare to look +on his face again. The brutal passion of the man had tainted the +tenderness of their love. She conjured up past hours, in which he had +loved her without being so cruel as to say it; hours spent in the +garden amidst the tranquillity of the budding springtime God! he had +spoken—the thought clung to her so stubbornly, lowered on her in such +immensity and with such weight, that the instant destruction of Paris +by a thunderbolt before her eyes would have seemed a trivial matter. +Her heart was rent by feelings of indignant protest and haughty anger, +commingling with a secret and unconquerable pleasure, which ascended +from her inner being and bereft her of her senses. He had spoken, and +was speaking still, he sprang up unceasingly before her, uttering those +passionate words: “I love you! I love you!”—words that swept into +oblivion all her past life as wife and mother. + +In spite of her brooding over this vision, she retained some +consciousness of the vast expanse which stretched beneath her, beyond +the darkness that curtained her sight. A loud rumbling arose, and waves +of life seemed to surge up and circle around her. Echoes, odors, and +even light streamed against her face, though her hands were still +nervously pressed to it. At times sudden gleams appeared to pierce her +closed eyelids, and amidst the radiance she imagined she saw monuments, +steeples, and domes standing out in the diffuse light of dreamland. +Then she lowered her hands and, opening her eyes, was dazzled. The +vault of heaven expanded before her, and Henri had vanished. + +A line of clouds, a seeming mass of crumbling chalk-hills, now barred +the horizon far away. Across the pure, deep blue heavens overhead, +merely a few light, fleecy cloudlets were slowly drifting, like a +flotilla of vessels with full-blown sails. On the north, above +Montmartre, hung a network of extreme delicacy, fashioned as it were of +pale-hued silk, and spread over a patch of sky as though for fishing in +those tranquil waters. Westward, however, in the direction of the +slopes of Meudon, which Hélène could not see, the last drops of the +downpour must still have been obscuring the sun, for, though the sky +above was clear, Paris remained gloomy, dismal beneath the vapor of the +drying house-roofs. It was a city of uniform hue—the bluey-grey of +slate, studded with black patches of trees—but withal very distinct, +with the sharp outlines and innumberable windows of its houses. The +Seine gleamed with the subdued brightness of old silver. The edifices +on either bank looked as though they had been smeared with soot. The +Tower of St. Jacques rose up like some rust-eaten museum curio, whilst +the Panthéon assumed the aspect of a gigantic catafalque above the +darkened district which it overlooked. Gleams of light peeped only from +the gilding of the dome of the Invalides, like lamps burning in the +daytime, sad and vague amidst the crepuscular veil of mourning in which +the city was draped. All the usual effects of distance had vanished; +Paris resembled a huge yet minutely executed charcoal drawing, showing +very vigorously through its cloudy veil, under the limpid heavens. + +Gazing upon this dismal city, Hélène reflected that she really knew +nothing of Henri. She felt strong and brave now that his image no +longer pursued her. A rebellious impulse stirred her soul to reject the +mastery which this man had gained over her within a few weeks. No, she +did not know him. She knew nothing of him, of his actions or his +thoughts; she could not even have determined whether he possessed +talent. Perhaps he was even more lacking in qualities of the heart than +of the mind. And thus she gave way to every imagining, her heart full +of bitterness, ever finding herself confronted by her ignorance, that +barrier which separated her from Henri, and checked her in her efforts +to know him. She knew nothing, she would never know anything. She +pictured him, hissing out those burning words, and creating within her +the one trouble which had, till now, broken in on the quiet happiness +of her life. Whence had he sprung to lay her life desolate in this +fashion? She suddenly thought that but six weeks before she had had no +existence for him, and this thought was insufferable. Angels in heaven! +to live no more for one another, to pass each other without +recognition, perhaps never to meet again! In her despair she clasped +her hands, and her eyes filled with tears. + +Then Hélène gazed fixedly on the towers of Notre-Dame in the far +distance. A ray of light from between two clouds tinged them with gold. +Her brain was heavy, as though surcharged with all the tumultuous +thoughts hurtling within it. It made her suffer; she would fain have +concerned herself with the sight of Paris, and have sought to regain +her life-peace by turning on that sea of roofs the tranquil glances of +past days. To think that at other times, at the same hour, the +infinitude of the city—in the stillness of a lovely twilight—had lulled +her into tender musing! + +At present Paris was brightening in the sunshine. After the first ray +had fallen on Notre-Dame, others had followed, streaming across the +city. The luminary, dipping in the west, rent the clouds asunder, and +the various districts spread out, motly with ever-changing lights and +shadows. For a time the whole of the left bank was of a leaden hue, +while the right was speckled with spots of light which made the verge +of the river resemble the skin of some huge beast of prey. Then these +resemblances varied and vanished at the mercy of the wind, which drove +the clouds before it. Above the burnished gold of the housetops dark +patches floated, all in the same direction and with the same gentle and +silent motion. Some of them were very large, sailing along with all the +majestic grace of an admiral’s ship, and surrounded by smaller ones, +preserving the regular order of a squadron in line of battle. Then one +vast shadow, with a gap yawning like a serpent’s mouth, trailed along, +and for a while hid Paris, which it seemed ready to devour. And when it +had reached the far-off horizon, looking no larger than a worm, a gush +of light streamed from a rift in a cloud, and fell into the void which +it had left. The golden cascade could be seen descending first like a +thread of fine sand, then swelling into a huge cone, and raining in a +continuous shower on the Champs-Elysees district, which it inundated +with a splashing, dancing radiance. For a long time did this shower of +sparks descend, spraying continuously like a fusee. + +Ah, well! this love was her fate, and Hélène ceased to resist. She +could battle no longer against her feelings. And in ceasing to struggle +she tasted immeasurable delight. Why should she grudge herself +happiness any longer? The memory of her past life inspired her with +disgust and aversion. How had she been able to drag on that cold, +dreary existence, of which she was formerly so proud? A vision rose +before her of herself as a young girl living in the Rue des +Petites-Maries, at Marseilles, where she had ever shivered; she saw +herself a wife, her heart’s blood frozen in the companionship of a big +child of a husband, with little to take any interest in, apart from the +cares of her household; she saw herself through every hour of her life +following the same path with the same even tread, without a trouble to +mar her peace; and now this monotony in which she had lived, her heart +fast asleep, enraged her beyond expression. To think that she had +fancied herself happy in thus following her path for thirty years, her +passions silent, with naught but the pride of virtue to fill the blank +in her existence. How she had cheated herself with her integrity and +nice honor, which had girt her round with the empty joys of piety! No, +no; she had had enough of it; she wished to live! And an awful spirit +of ridicule woke within her as she thought of the behests of reason. +Her reason, forsooth! she felt a contemptuous pity for it; during all +the years she had lived it had brought her no joy to be compared with +that she had tasted during the past hour. She had denied the +possibility of stumbling, she had been vain and idiotic enough to think +that she would go on to the end without her foot once tripping against +a stone. Ah, well! to-day she almost longed to fall. Oh that she might +disappear, after tasting for one moment the happiness which she had +never enjoyed! + +Within her soul, however, a great sorrow lingered, a heart-burning and +a consciousness of a gloomy blank. Then argument rose to her lips. Was +she not free? In her love for Henri she deceived nobody; she could deal +as she pleased with her love. Then, did not everything exculpate her? +What had been her life for nearly two years? Her widowhood, her +unrestricted liberty, her loneliness—everything, she realized, had +softened and prepared her for love. Love must have been smouldering +within her during the long evenings spent between her two old friends, +the Abbé and his brother, those simple hearts whose serenity had lulled +it to rest; it had been growing whilst she remained shut up within +those narrow walls, far away from the world, and gazed on Paris +rumbling noisily on the horizon; it had been growing even when she +leaned from that window in the dreamy mood which she had scarce been +conscious of, but which little by little had rendered her so weak. And +a recollection came to her of that radiant spring morning when Paris +had shone out fair and clear, as though in a glass mirror, when it had +worn the pure, sunny hue of childhood, as she lazily surveyed it, +stretched in her easy-chair with a book upon her knees. That morning +love had first awoke—a scarcely perceptible feeling that she had been +unable to define, and against which she had believed herself strongly +armed. To-day she was in the same place, but devoured by overpowering +passion, while before her eyes the dying sun illumined the city with +flame. It seemed to her that one day had sufficed for all, that this +was the ruddy evening following upon that limpid morning; and she +imagined she could feel those fiery beams scorching her heart. + +But a change had come over the sky. The sun, in its descent towards the +slopes of Meudon, had just burst through the last clouds in all its +splendor. The azure vault was illuminated with glory; deep on the +horizon the crumbling ridge of chalk clouds, blotting out the distant +suburbs of Charenton and Choisy-le-Roi, now reared rocks of a tender +pink, outlined with brilliant crimson; the flotilla of cloudlets +drifting slowly through the blue above Paris, was decked with purple +sails; while the delicate network, seemingly fashioned of white silk +thread, above Montmartre, was suddenly transformed into golden cord, +whose meshes would snare the stars as soon as they should rise. + +Beneath the flaming vault of heaven lay Paris, a mass of yellow, +striped with huge shadows. On the vast square below Hélène, in an +orange-tinted haze, cabs and omnibuses crossed in all directions, +amidst a crowd of pedestrians, whose swarming blackness was softened +and irradiated by splashes of light. The students of a seminary were +hurrying in serried ranks along the Quai de Billy, and the trail of +cassocks acquired an ochraceous hue in the diffuse light. Farther away, +vehicles and foot-passengers faded from view; it was only by their +gleaming lamps that you were made aware of the vehicles which, one +behind the other, were crossing some distant bridge. On the left the +straight, lofty, pink chimneys of the Army Bakehouse were belching +forth whirling clouds of flesh-tinted smoke; whilst, across the river, +the beautiful elms of the Quai d’Orsay rose up in a dark mass +transpierced by shafts of light. + +The Seine, whose banks the oblique rays were enfilading, was rolling +dancing wavelets, streaked with scattered splashes of blue, green, and +yellow; but farther up the river, in lieu of this blotchy coloring, +suggestive of an Eastern sea, the waters assumed a uniform golden hue, +which became more and more dazzling. You might have thought that some +ingot were pouring forth from an invisible crucible on the horizon, +broadening out with a coruscation of bright colors as it gradually grew +colder. And at intervals over this brilliant stream, the bridges, with +curves growing ever more slender and delicate, threw, as it were, grey +bars, till there came at last a fiery jumble of houses, above which +rose the towers of Notre-Dame, flaring red like torches. Right and left +alike the edifices were all aflame. The glass roof of the Palais de +l’Industrie appeared like a bed of glowing embers amidst the +Champs-Elysees groves. Farther on, behind the roof of the Madeline, the +huge pile of the Opera House shone out like a mass of burnished copper; +and the summits of other buildings, cupolas, and towers, the Vendome +column, the church of Saint-Vincent de Paul, the tower of +Saint-Jacques, and, nearer in, the pavilions of the new Louvre and the +Tuileries, were crowned by a blaze, which lent them the aspect of +sacrificial pyres. The dome of the Invalides was flaring with such +brilliancy that you instinctively feared lest it should suddenly topple +down and scatter burning flakes over the neighborhood. Beyond the +irregular towers of Saint-Sulpice, the Panthéon stood out against the +sky in dull splendor, like some royal palace of conflagration reduced +to embers. Then, as the sun declined, the pyre-like edifices gradually +set the whole of Paris on fire. Flashes sped over the housetops, while +black smoke lingered in the valleys. Every frontage turned towards the +Trocadero seemed to be red-hot, the glass of the windows glittering and +emitting a shower of sparks, which darted upwards as though some +invisible bellows were ever urging the huge conflagration into greater +activity. Sheaves of flame were also ever rising afresh from the +adjacent districts, where the streets opened, now dark and now all +ablaze. Even far over the plain, from a ruddy ember-like glow suffusing +the destroyed faubourgs, occasional flashes of flame shot up as from +some fire struggling again into life. Ere long a furnace seemed raging, +all Paris burned, the heavens became yet more empurpled, and the clouds +hung like so much blood over the vast city, colored red and gold. + +With the ruddy tints falling upon her, yielding to the passion which +was devouring her, Hélène was still gazing upon Paris all ablaze, when +a little hand was placed on her shoulder, and she gave a start. It was +Jeanne, calling her. “Mamma! mamma!” + +She turned her head, and the child went on: “At last! Didn’t you hear +me before? I have called you at least a dozen times.” + +The little girl, still in her Japanese costume, had sparkling eyes, and +cheeks flushed with pleasure. She gave her mother no time for answer. + +“You ran away from me nicely! Do you know, they were hunting for you +everywhere? Had it not been for Pauline, who came with me to the bottom +of the staircase, I shouldn’t have dared to cross the road.” + +With a pretty gesture, she brought her face close to her mother’s lips, +and, without pausing, whispered the question: “Do you love me?” + +Hélène kissed her somewhat absently. She was amazed and impatient at +her early return. Had an hour really gone by since she had fled from +the ball-room? However, to satisfy the child, who seemed uneasy, she +told her that she had felt rather unwell. The fresh air was doing her +good; she only needed a little quietness. + +“Oh! don’t fear; I’m too tired,” murmured Jeanne. “I am going to stop +here, and be very, very good. But, mamma dear, I may talk, mayn’t I?” + +She nestled close to Hélène, full of joy at the prospect of not being +undressed at once. She was in ecstasies over her embroidered purple +gown and green silk petticoat; and she shook her head to rattle the +pendants hanging from the long pins thrust through her hair. At last +there burst from her lips a rush of hasty words. Despite her seeming +demureness, she had seen everything, heard everything, and remembered +everything; and she now made ample amends for her former assumed +dignity, silence, and indifference. + +“Do you know, mamma, it was an old fellow with a grey beard who made +Punch move his arms and legs? I saw him well enough when the curtain +was drawn aside. Yes, and the little boy Guiraud began to cry. How +stupid of him, wasn’t it? They told him the policeman would come and +put some water in his soup; and at last they had to carry him off, for +he wouldn’t stop crying. And at lunch, too, Marguerite stained her +milkmaid’s dress all over with jam. Her mamma wiped it off and said to +her: ‘Oh, you dirty girl!’ She even had a lot of it in her hair. I +never opened my mouth, but it did amuse me to see them all rush at the +cakes! Were they not bad-mannered, mamma dear?” + +She paused for a few seconds, absorbed in some reminiscence, and then +asked, with a thoughtful air: “I say, mamma, did you eat any of those +yellow cakes with white cream inside? Oh! they were nice! they were +nice! I kept the dish beside me the whole time.” + +Hélène was not listening to this childish chatter. But Jeanne talked to +relieve her excited brain. She launched out again, giving the minutest +details about the ball, and investing each little incident with the +greatest importance. + +“You did not see that my waistband came undone just as we began +dancing. A lady, whose name I don’t know, pinned it up for me. So I +said to her: ‘Madame, I thank you very much.’ But while I was dancing +with Lucien the pin ran into him, and he asked me: ‘What have you got +in front of you that pricks me so?’ Of course I knew nothing about it, +and told him I had nothing there to prick him. However, Pauline came +and put the pin in its proper place. Ah! but you’ve no idea how they +pushed each other about; and one great stupid of a boy gave Sophie a +blow on the back which made her fall. The Levasseur girls jumped about +with their feet close together. I am pretty certain that isn’t the way +to dance. But the best of it all came at the end. You weren’t there; so +you can’t know. We all took one another by the arms, and then whirled +round; it was comical enough to make one die laughing. Besides, some of +the big gentlemen were whirling around as well. It’s true; I am not +telling fibs. Why, don’t you believe me, mamma dear?” + +Hélène’s continued silence was beginning to vex Jeanne. She nestled +closer, and gave her mother’s hand a shake. But, perceiving that she +drew only a few words from her, she herself, by degrees, lapsed into +silence, into thought of the incidents of that ball of which her heart +was full. Both mother and daughter now sat mutely gazing on Paris all +aflame. It seemed to them yet more mysterious than ever, as it lay +there illumined by blood-red clouds, like some city of an old-world +tale expiating its lusts under a rain of fire. + +“Did you have any round dances?” all at once asked Hélène, as if +wakening with a start. + +“Yes, yes!” murmured Jeanne, engrossed in her turn. + +“And the doctor—did he dance!” + +“I should think so; he had a turn with me. He lift me up and asked me: +‘Where is your mamma? where is your mamma?’ and then he kissed me.” + +Hélène unconsciously smiled. What need had she of knowing Henri well? +It appeared sweeter to her not to know him—ay, never to know him +well—and to greet him simply as the one whose coming she had awaited so +long. Why should she feel astonished or disquieted? At the fated hour +he had met her on her life-journey. Her frank nature accepted whatever +might be in store; and quietude, born of the knowledge that she loved +and was beloved, fell on her mind. She told her heart that she would +prove strong enough to prevent her happiness from being marred. + +But night was coming on and a chilly breeze arose. Jeanne, still +plunged in reverie, began to shiver. She reclined her head on her +mother’s bosom, and, as though the question were inseparably connected +with her deep meditation, she murmured a second time: “Do you love me?” + +Then Hélène, her face still glad with smiles, took her head within her +hands and for a moment examined her face closely. Next she pressed a +long kiss near her mouth, over a ruddy spot on her skin. It was there, +she could divine it, that Henri had kissed the child! + +The gloomy ridge of the Meudon hills was already partially concealing +the disc of the sun. Over Paris the slanting beams of light had yet +lengthened. The shadow cast by the dome of the Invalides—increased to +stupendous proportions—covered the whole of the Saint-Germain district; +while the Opera-House, the Saint-Jacques tower, the columns and the +steeples, threw streaks of darkness over the right bank dwellings. The +lines of house-fronts, the yawning streets, the islands of roofs, were +burning with a more sullen glow. The flashes of fire died away in the +darkening windows, as though the houses were reduced to embers. Distant +bells rang out; a rumbling noise fell on the ears, and then subsided. +With the approach of night the expanse of sky grew more vast, spreading +a vault of violet, streaked with gold and purple, above the ruddy city. +But all at once the conflagration flared afresh with formidable +intensity, a last great flame shot up from Paris, illumining its entire +expanse, and even its hitherto hidden suburbs. Then it seemed as if a +grey, ashy dust were falling; and though the clustering districts +remained erect, they wore the gloomy, unsubstantial aspect of coals +which had ceased to burn. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + +One morning in May, Rosalie ran in from the kitchen, dish-cloth in +hand, screaming out in the familiar fashion of a favorite servant: “Oh, +madame, come quick! His reverence the Abbé is digging the ground down +in the doctor’s garden.” + +Hélène made no responsive movement, but Jeanne had already rushed to +have a look. On her return, she exclaimed: + +“How stupid Rosalie is! he is not digging at all. He is with the +gardener, who is putting some plants into a barrow. Madame Deberle is +plucking all her roses.” + +“They must be for the church,” quietly said Hélène, who was busy with +some tapestry-work. + +A few minutes later the bell rang, and Abbé Jouve made his appearance. +He came to say that his presence must not be expected on the following +Tuesday. His evenings would be wholly taken up with the ceremonies +incident to the month of Mary. The parish priest had assigned him the +task of decorating the church. It would be a great success. All the +ladies were giving him flowers. He was expecting two palm-trees about +fourteen feet high, and meant to place them to the right and left of +the altar. + +“Oh! mamma, mamma!” murmured Jeanne, listening, wonderstruck. + +“Well,” said Hélène, with a smile, “since you cannot come to us, my old +friend, we will go to see you. Why, you’ve quite turned Jeanne’s head +with your talk about flowers.” + +She had few religious tendencies; she never even went to mass, on the +plea that her daughter’s health suffered from the shivering fits which +seized her when she came out of a church. In her presence the old +priest avoided all reference to religion. It was his wont to say, with +good-natured indulgence, that good hearts carve out their own salvation +by deeds of loving kindness and charity. God would know when and how to +touch her. + +Till the evening of the following day Jeanne thought of nothing but the +month of Mary. She plagued her mother with questions; she dreamt of the +church adorned with a profusion of white roses, filled with thousands +of wax tapers, with the sound of angels’ voices, and sweet perfumes. +And she was very anxious to go near the altar, that she might have a +good look at the Blessed Virgin’s lace gown, a gown worth a fortune, +according to the Abbé. But Hélène bridled her excitement with a threat +not to take her should she make herself ill beforehand. + +However, the evening came at last, and they set out. The nights were +still cold, and when they reached the Rue de l’Annonciation, where the +church of Notre-Dame-de-Grace stands, the child was shivering all over. + +“The church is heated,” said her mother. “We must secure a place near a +hot-air pipe.” + +She pushed open the padded door, and as it gently swung back to its +place they found themselves in a warm atmosphere, with brilliant lights +streaming on them, and chanting resounding in their ears. The ceremony +had commenced, and Hélène, perceiving that the nave was crowded, +signified her intention of going down one of the aisles. But there +seemed insuperable obstacles in her way; she could not get near the +altar. Holding Jeanne by the hand, she for a time patiently pressed +forward, but at last, despairing of advancing any farther, took the +first unoccupied chairs she could find. A pillar hid half of the choir +from view. + +“I can see nothing,” said the child, grievously discontented. “This is +a very nasty place.” + +However, Hélène signed to her to keep silent, and she lapsed into a fit +of sulks. In front of her she could only perceive the broad back of a +fat old lady. When her mother next turned towards her she was standing +upright on her chair. + +“Will you come down!” said Hélène in a low voice. “You are a nuisance.” + +But Jeanne was stubborn. + +“Hist! mamma,” she said, “there’s Madame Deberle. Look! she is down +there in the centre, beckoning to us.” + +The young woman’s annoyance on hearing this made her very impatient, +and she shook her daughter, who still refused to sit down. During the +three days that had intervened since the ball, Hélène had avoided any +visit to the doctor’s house on the plea of having a great deal to do. + +“Mamma,” resumed Jeanne with a child’s wonted stubbornness, “she is +looking at you; she is nodding good-day to you.” + +At this intimation Hélène was forced to turn round and exchange +greetings; each bowed to the other. Madame Deberle, in a striped silk +gown trimmed with white lace, sat in the centre of the nave but a short +distance from the choir, looking very fresh and conspicuous. She had +brought her sister Pauline, who was now busy waving her hand. The +chanting still continued, the elder members of the congregation pouring +forth a volume of sound of falling scale, while now and then the shrill +voice of the children punctuated the slow, monotonous rhythm of the +canticle. + +“They want us to go over to them, you see,” exclaimed Jeanne, with some +triumph in her remark. + +“It is useless; we shall be all right here.” + +“Oh, mamma, do let us go over to them! There are two chairs empty.” + +“No, no; come and sit down.” + +However, the ladies smilingly persisted in making signs, heedless to +the last degree of the slight scandal they were causing; nay, delighted +at being the observed of all observers. Hélène thus had to yield. She +pushed the gratified Jeanne before her, and strove to make her way +through the congregation, her hands all the while trembling with +repressed anger. It was no easy business. Devout female worshippers, +unwilling to disturb themselves, glared at her with furious looks, +whilst all agape they kept on singing. She pressed on in this style for +five long minutes, the tempest of voices ringing around her with +ever-increasing violence. Whenever she came to a standstill, Jeanne, +squeezing close beside her, gazed at those cavernous, gaping mouths. +However, at last they reached the vacant space in front of the choir, +and then had but a few steps to make. + +“Come, be quick,” whispered Madame Deberle. “The Abbé told me you would +be coming, and I kept two chairs for you.” + +Hélène thanked her, and, to cut the conversation short, at once began +turning over the leaves of her missal. But Juliette was as worldly here +as elsewhere; as much at her ease, as agreeable and talkative, as in +her drawing-room. She bent her head towards Hélène and resumed: + +“You have become quite invisible. I intended to pay you a visit +to-morrow. Surely you haven’t been ill, have you?” + +“No, thank you. I’ve been very busy.” + +“Well, listen to me. You must come and dine with us to-morrow. Quite a +family dinner, you know.” + +“You are very kind. We will see.” + +She seemed to retire within herself, intent on following the service, +and on saying nothing more. Pauline had taken Jeanne beside her that +she might be nearer the hot-air flue over which she toasted herself +luxuriously, as happy as any chilly mortal could be. Steeped in the +warm air, the two girls raised themselves inquisitively and gazed +around on everything, the low ceiling with its woodwork panels, the +squat pillars, connected by arches from which hung chandeliers, and the +pulpit of carved oak; and over the ocean of heads which waved with the +rise and fall of the canticle, their eyes wandered towards the dark +corners of the aisles, towards the chapels whose gilding faintly +gleamed, and the baptistery enclosed by a railing near the chief +entrance. However, their gaze always returned to the resplendent choir, +decorated with brilliant colors and dazzling gilding. A crystal +chandelier, flaming with light, hung from the vaulted ceiling; immense +candelabra, filled with rows of wax tapers, that glittered amidst the +gloom of the church like a profusion of stars in orderly array, brought +out prominently the high altar, which seemed one huge bouquet of +foliage and flowers. Over all, standing amidst a profusion of roses, a +Virgin, dressed in satin and lace, and crowned with pearls, was holding +a Jesus in long clothes on her arm. + +“I say, are you warm?” asked Pauline. “It’s nice, eh?” + +But Jeanne, in ecstasy, was gazing on the Virgin amongst the flowers. +The scene thrilled her. A fear crept over her that she might do +something wrong, and she lowered her eyes in the endeavor to restrain +her tears by fixing her attention on the black-and-white pavement. The +vibrations of the choir-boys’ shrill voices seemed to stir her tresses +like puffs of air. + +Meanwhile Hélène, with face bent over her prayer-book, drew herself +away whenever Juliette’s lace rustled against her. She was in no wise +prepared for this meeting. Despite the vow she had sworn within +herself, to be ever pure in her love for Henri, and never yield to him, +she felt great discomfort at the thought that she was a traitoress to +the confiding, happy woman who sat by her side. She was possessed by +one idea—she would not go to that dinner. She sought for reasons which +would enable her to break off these relations so hateful to her honor. +But the swelling voices of the choristers, so near to her, drove all +reflection from her mind; she could decide on no precise course, and +surrendered herself to the soothing influences of the chant, tasting a +pious joy such as she had never before found inside a church. + +“Have you been told about Madame de Chermette?” asked Juliette, unable +any longer to restrain her craving for a gossip. + +“No, I know nothing.” + +“Well, well; just imagine. You have seen her daughter, so womanish and +tall, though she is only fifteen, haven’t you? There is some talk about +her getting married next year to that dark young fellow who is always +hanging to her mother’s skirts. People are talking about it with a +vengeance.” + +“Ah!” muttered Hélène, who was not paying the least attention. + +Madame Deberle went into particulars, but of a sudden the chant ceased, +and the organ-music died away in a moan. Astounded at the loudness of +her own voice breaking upon the stillness which ensued, she lapsed into +silence. A priest made his appearance at this moment in the pulpit. +There was a rustling, and then he spoke. No, certainly not, Hélène +would not join that dinner-party. With her eyes fixed on the priest she +pictured to herself the next meeting with Henri, that meeting which for +three days she had contemplated with terror; she saw him white with +anger, reproaching her for hiding herself, and she dreaded lest she +might not display sufficient indifference. Amidst her dream the priest +had disappeared, his thrilling tones merely reaching her in casual +sentences: “No hour could be more ineffable than that when the Virgin, +with bent head, answered: ‘I am the handmaiden of the Lord!’” + +Yes, she would be brave; all her reason had returned to her. She would +taste the joy of being loved, but would never avow her love, for her +heart told her that such an avowal would cost her peace. And how +intensely would she love, without confessing it, gratified by a word, a +look from Henri, exchanged at lengthy intervals on the occasion of a +chance meeting! It was a dream that brought her some sense of the +infinite. The church around her became a friend and comforter. The +priest was now exclaiming: + +“The angel vanished and Mary plunged into contemplation of the divine +mystery working within her, her heart bathed in sunshine and love.” + +“He speaks very well,” whispered Madame Deberle, leaning towards her. +“And he’s quite young, too, scarcely thirty, don’t you think?” + +Madame Deberle was affected. Religion pleased her because the emotions +it prompted were in good taste. To present flowers for the decoration +of churches, to have petty dealings with the priests, who were so +polite and discreet, to come to church attired in her best and assume +an air of worldly patronage towards the God of the poor—all this had +for her special delights; the more so as her husband did not interest +himself in religion, and her devotions thus had all the sweetness of +forbidden fruit. Hélène looked at her and answered with a nod; her face +was ashy white with faintness, while the other’s was lit up by smiles. +There was a stirring of chairs and a rustling of handkerchiefs, as the +priest quitted the pulpit with the final adjuration + +“Oh! give wings unto your love, souls imbued with Christian piety. God +has made a sacrifice of Himself for your sakes, your hearts are full of +His presence, your souls overflow with His grace!” + +Of a sudden the organ sounded again, and the litanies of the Virgin +began with their appeals of passionate tenderness. Faint and distant +the chanting rolled forth from the side-aisles and the dark recesses of +the chapels, as though the earth were giving answer to the angel voices +of the chorister-boys. A rush of air swept over the throng, making the +flames of the tapers leap, while amongst the flowers, fading as they +exhaled their last perfume, the Divine Mother seemed to incline her +head to smile on her infant Jesus. + +All at once, seized with an instinctive dread, Hélène turned. “You’re +not ill, Jeanne, are you?” she asked. + +The child, with face ashy white and eyes glistening, her spirit borne +aloft by the fervent strains of the litanies, was gazing at the altar, +where in imagination she could see the roses multiplying and falling in +cascades. + +“No, no, mamma,” she whispered; “I am pleased, I am very well pleased.” +And then she asked: “But where is our dear old friend?” + +She spoke of the Abbé. Pauline caught sight of him; he was seated in +the choir, but Jeanne had to be lifted up in order that she might +perceive him. + +“Oh! He is looking at us,” said she; “he is blinking.” According to +Jeanne, the Abbé blinked when he laughed inwardly. Hélène hastened to +exchange a friendly nod with him. And then the tranquillity within her +seemed to increase, her future serenity appeared to be assured, thus +endearing the church to her and lulling her into a blissful condition +of patient endurance. Censers swung before the altar and threads of +smoke ascended; the benediction followed, and the holy monstrance was +slowly raised and waved above the heads lowered to the earth. Hélène +was still on her knees in happy meditation when she heard Madame +Deberle exclaiming: “It’s over now; let us go.” + +There ensued a clatter of chairs and a stamping of feet which +reverberated along the arched aisles. Pauline had taken Jeanne’s hand, +and, walking away in front with the child, began to question her: + +“Have you ever been to the theatre?” + +“No. Is it finer than this?” + +As she spoke, the little one, giving vent to great gasps of wonder, +tossed her head as though ready to express the belief that nothing +could be finer. To her question, however, Pauline deigned no reply, for +she had just come to a standstill in front of a priest who was passing +in his surplice. And when he was a few steps away she exclaimed aloud, +with such conviction in her tones that two devout ladies of the +congregation turned around: + +“Oh! what a fine head!” + +Hélène, meanwhile, had risen from her knees. She stepped along by the +side of Juliette among the crowd which was making its way out with +difficulty. Her heart was full of tenderness, she felt languid and +enervated, and her soul no longer rebelled at the other being so near. +At one moment their bare hands came in contact and they smiled. They +were almost stifling in the throng, and Hélène would fain have had +Juliette go first. All their old friendship seemed to blossom forth +once more. + +“Is it understood that we can rely on you for to-morrow evening?” asked +Madame Deberle. + +Hélène no longer had the will to decline. She would see whether it were +possible when she reached the street. It finished by their being the +last to leave. Pauline and Jeanne already stood on the opposite +pavement awaiting them. But a tearful voice brought them to a halt. + +“Ah, my good lady, what a time it is since I had the happiness of +seeing you!” + +It was Mother Fétu, who was soliciting alms at the church door. Barring +Hélène’s way, as though she had lain in wait for her, she went on: + +“Oh, I have been so very ill always here, in the stomach, you know. +Just now I feel as if a hammer were pounding away inside me; and I have +nothing at all, my good lady. I didn’t dare to send you word about +it—May the gracious God repay you!” + +Hélène had slipped a piece of money into her hand, and promised to +think about her. + +“Hello!” exclaimed Madame Deberle, who had remained standing within the +porch, “there’s some one talking with Pauline and Jeanne. Why, it is +Henri.” + +“Yes, yes” Mother Fétu hastened to add as she turned her ferret-like +eyes on the ladies, “it is the good doctor. I have seen him there all +through the service; he has never budged from the pavement; he has been +waiting for you, no doubt. Ah! he’s a saint of a man! I swear that to +be the truth in the face of God who hears us. Yes, I know you, madame; +he is a husband who deserves to be happy. May Heaven hearken to your +prayers, may every blessing fall on you! In the name of the Father, the +Son, and the Holy Ghost!” + +Amidst the myriad furrows of her face, which was wrinkled like a +withered apple, her little eyes kept gleaming in malicious unrest, +darting a glance now on Juliette, now on Hélène, so that it was +impossible to say with any certainty whom she was addressing while +speaking of “the good doctor.” She followed them, muttering on without +a stop, mingling whimpering entreaty with devout outbursts. + +Henri’s reserve alike astonished and moved Hélène. He scarcely had the +courage to raise his eyes towards her. On his wife quizzing him about +the opinions which restrained him from entering a church, he merely +explained that to smoke a cigar was his object in coming to meet them; +but Hélène understood that he had wished to see her again, to prove to +her how wrong she was in fearing some fresh outrage. Doubtless, like +herself, he had sworn to keep within the limits of reason. She never +questioned whether his sincerity could be real. She simply experienced +a feeling of unhappiness at seeing him unhappy. Thus it came about, +that on leaving them it the Rue Vineuse, she said cheerfully: + +“Well, it is settled then; to-morrow at seven.” + +In this way the old friendship grew closer than ever, and a charming +life began afresh. To Hélène it seemed as if Henri had never yielded to +that moment of folly; it was but a dream of hers; each loved the other, +but they would never breathe a word of their love, they were content +with knowing its existence. They spent delicious hours, in which, +without their tongues giving evidence of their passion, they displayed +it constantly; a gesture, an inflexion of the voice sufficed, ay, even +a silence. Everything insensibly tended towards their love, plunged +them more and more deeply into a passion which they bore away with them +whenever they parted, which was ever with them, which formed, as it +were, the only atmosphere they could breathe. And their excuse was +their honesty; with eyes wide open they played this comedy of +affection; not even a hand-clasp did they allow each other and their +restraint infused unalloyed delight into the simple greetings with +which they met. + +Every evening the ladies went to church. Madame Deberle was enchanted +with the novel pleasure she was enjoying. It was so different from +evening dances, concerts, and first nights; she adored fresh +sensations, and nuns and priests were now constantly in her company. +The store of religion which she had acquired in her school-days now +found new life in her giddy brain, taking shape in all sorts of trivial +observances, as though she were reviving the games of her childhood. +Hélène, who on her side had grown up without any religious training, +surrendered herself to the bliss of these services of the month of +Mary, happy also in the delight with which they appeared to inspire +Jeanne. They now dined earlier; they gave Rosalie no peace lest she +should cause them to be late, and prevent their securing good seats. +Then they called for Juliette on the way. One day Lucien was taken, but +he behaved so badly that he was afterward left at home. On entering the +warm church, with its glare of wax candles, a feeling of tenderness and +calm, which by degrees grew necessary to Hélène, came over her. When +doubts sprang up within her during the day, and the thought of Henri +filled her with indefinable anxiety, with the evening the church once +more brought her peace. The chants arose overflowing with divine +passion; the flowers, newly culled, made the close atmosphere of the +building still heavier. It was here that she breathed all the first +rapture of springtide, amidst that adoration of woman raised to the +status of a cult; and her senses swam as she contemplated the mystery +of love and purity—Mary, virgin and mother, beaming beneath her wreath +of white roses. Each day she remained longer on her knees. She found +herself at times with hands joined in entreaty. When the ceremony came +to an end, there followed the happiness of the return home. Henri +awaited their appearance at the door; the evenings grew warmer, and +they wended their way through the dark, still streets of Passy, while +scarce a word passed between them. + +“How devout you are getting, my dear!” said Madame Deberle one night, +with a laugh. + +Yes, it was true; Hélène was widely opening the portals of her heart to +pious thoughts. Never could she have fancied that such happiness would +attend her love. She returned to the church as to a spot where her +heart would melt, for under its roof she could give free vent to her +tears, remain thoughtless, plunged in speechless worship. For an hour +each evening she put no restraint on herself. The bursting love within +her, prisoned throughout the day, at length escaped from her bosom on +the wings of prayer, amidst the pious quiver of the throng. The +muttered supplications, the bendings of the knee, the reverences—words +and gestures seemingly interminable—all lulled her to rest; to her they +ever expressed the same thing; it was always the same passion speaking +in the same phrase, or the same gesture. She felt a need of faith, and +basked enraptured by the Divine goodness. + +Hélène was not the only person whom Juliette twitted; she feigned a +belief that Henri himself was becoming religious. What, had he not now +entered the church to wait for them?—he, atheist and scoffer, who had +been wont to assert that he had sought for the soul with his scalpel, +and had not yet discovered its existence! As soon as she perceived him +standing behind a pillar in the shadow of the pulpit, she would +instantly jog Hélène’s arm. + +“Look, look, he is there already! Do you know, he wouldn’t confess when +we got married! See how funny he looks; he gazes at us with so comical +an expression; quick, look!” + +Hélène did not at the moment raise her head. The service was coming to +an end, clouds of incense were rising, and the organ-music pealed forth +joyfully. But her neighbor was not a woman to leave her alone, and she +was forced to speak in answer. + +“Yes, yes, I see him,” she whispered, albeit she never turned her eyes. + +She had on her own side divined his presence amidst the song of praise +that mounted from the worshipping throng. It seemed to her that Henri’s +breath was wafted on the wings of the music and beat against her neck, +and she imagined she could see behind her his glances shedding their +light along the nave and haloing her, as she knelt, with a golden +glory. And then she felt impelled to pray with such fervor that words +failed her. The expression on his face was sober, as unruffled as any +husband might wear when looking for ladies in a church, the same, +indeed, as if he had been waiting for them in the lobby of a theatre. +But when they came together, in the midst of the slowly-moving crowd of +worshippers, they felt that the bonds of their love had been drawn +closer by the flowers and the chanting; and they shunned all +conversation, for their hearts were on their lips. + +A fortnight slipped away, and Madame Deberle grew wearied. She ever +jumped from one thing to the other, consumed with the thirst of doing +what every one else was doing. For the moment charity bazaars had +become her craze; she would toil up sixty flights of stairs of an +afternoon to beg paintings of well-known artists, while her evenings +were spent in presiding over meetings of lady patronesses, with a bell +handy to call noisy members to order. Thus it happened that one +Thursday evening Hélène and her daughter went to church without their +companions. On the conclusion of the sermon, while the choristers were +commencing the _Magnificat_, the young woman, forewarned by some +impulse of her heart, turned her head. Henri was there, in his usual +place. Thereupon she remained with looks riveted to the ground till the +service came to an end, waiting the while for the return home. + +“Oh, how kind of you to come!” said Jeanne, with all a child’s +frankness, as they left the church. “I should have been afraid to go +alone through these dark streets.” + +Henri, however, feigned astonishment, asserting that he had expected to +meet his wife. Hélène allowed the child to answer him, and followed +them without uttering a word. As the trio passed under the porch a +pitiful voice sang out: “Charity, charity! May God repay you!” + +Every night Jeanne dropped a ten-sou piece into Mother Fétu’s hand. +When the latter saw the doctor alone with Hélène, she nodded her head +knowingly, instead of breaking out into a storm of thanks, as was her +custom. The church was now empty, and she began to follow them, +mumbling inaudible sentences. Sometimes, instead of returning by the +Rue de Passy, the ladies, when the night was fine, went homewards by +the Rue Raynouard, the way being thus lengthened by five or six +minutes’ walk. That night also Hélène turned into the Rue Raynouard, +craving for gloom and stillness, and entranced by the loneliness of the +long thoroughfare, which was lighted by only a few gas-lamps, without +the shadow of a single passer-by falling across its pavement. + +At this hour Passy seemed out of the world; sleep had already fallen +over it; it had all the quietude of a provincial town. On each side of +the street loomed mansions, girls’ schools, black and silent, and +dining places, from the kitchens of which lights still streamed. There +was not, however, a single shop to throw the glare of its frontage +across the dimness. To Henri and Hélène the loneliness was pregnant +with intense charm. He had not ventured to offer her his arm. Jeanne +walked between them in the middle of the road, which was gravelled like +a walk in some park. At last the houses came to an end, and then on +each side were walls, over which spread mantling clematis and clusters +of lilac blossoms. Immense gardens parted the mansions, and here and +there through the railings of an iron gate they could catch glimpses of +a gloomy background of verdure, against which the tree-dotted turf +assumed a more delicate hue. The air was filled with the perfume of +irises growing in vases which they could scarce distinguish. All three +paced on slowly through the warm spring night, which was steeping them +in its odors, and Jeanne, with childish artlessness, raised her face to +the heavens, and exclaimed: + +“Oh, mamma, see what a number of stars!” + +But behind them, like an echo of their own, came the footfall of Mother +Fétu. Nearer and nearer she approached, till they could hear her +muttering the opening words of the Angelic Salutation “_Ave Marie, +gratia plena_,” repeating them over and over again with the same +confused persistency. She was telling her beads on her homeward way. + +“I have still something left—may I give it to her?” Jeanne asked her +mother. + +And thereupon, without waiting for a reply, she left them, running +towards the old woman, who was on the point of entering the Passage des +Eaux. Mother Fétu clutched at the coin, calling upon all the angels of +Heaven to bless her. As she spoke, however, she grasped the child’s +hand and detained her by her side, then asking in changed tones: + +“The other lady is ill, is she not?” + +“No,” answered Jeanne, surprised. + +“May Heaven shield her! May it shower its favors on her and her +husband! Don’t run away yet, my dear little lady. Let me say an _Ave +Maria_ for your mother’s sake, and you will join in the ‘Amen’ with me. +Oh! your mother will allow you; you can catch her up.” + +Meanwhile Henri and Hélène trembled as they found themselves suddenly +left alone in the shadow cast by a line of huge chestnut trees that +bordered the road. They quietly took a few steps. The chestnut trees +had strewn the ground with their bloom, and they were walking upon this +rosy-tinted carpet. On a sudden, however, they came to a stop, their +hearts filled with such emotion that they could go no farther. + +“Forgive me,” said Henri simply. + +“Yes, yes,” ejaculated Hélène. “But oh! be silent, I pray you.” + +She had felt his hand touch her own, and had started back. Fortunately +Jeanne ran towards them at the moment. + +“Mamma, mamma!” she cried; “she made me say an _Ave_; she says it will +bring you good luck.” + +The three then turned into the Rue Vineuse, while Mother Fétu crept +down the steps of the Passage des Eaux, busy completing her rosary. + +The month slipped away. Two or three more services were attended by +Madame Deberle. One Sunday, the last one, Henri once more ventured to +wait for Hélène and Jeanne. The walk home thrilled them with joy. The +month had been one long spell of wondrous bliss. The little church +seemed to have entered into their lives to soothe their love and render +its way pleasant. At first a great peace had settled on Hélène’s soul; +she had found happiness in this sanctuary where she imagined she could +without shame dwell on her love; however, the undermining had +continued, and when her holy rapture passed away she was again in the +grip of her passion, held by bonds that would have plucked at her +heartstrings had she sought to break them asunder. Henri still +preserved his respectful demeanor, but she could not do otherwise than +see the passion burning in his face. She dreaded some outburst, and +even grew afraid of herself. + +One afternoon, going homewards after a walk with Jeanne, she passed +along the Rue de l’Annonciation and entered the church. The child was +complaining of feeling very tired. Until the last day she had been +unwilling to admit that the evening services exhausted her, so intense +was the pleasure she derived from them; but her cheeks had grown +waxy-pale, and the doctor advised that she should take long walks. + +“Sit down here,” said her mother. “It will rest you; we’ll only stay +ten minutes.” + +She herself walked towards some chairs a short way off, and knelt down. +She had placed Jeanne close to a pillar. Workmen were busy at the other +end of the nave, taking down the hangings and removing the flowers, the +ceremonials attending the month of Mary having come to an end the +evening before. With her face buried in her hands Hélène saw nothing +and heard nothing; she was eagerly catechising her heart, asking +whether she ought not to confess to Abbé Jouve what an awful life had +come upon her. He would advise her, perhaps restore her lost peace. +Still, within her there arose, out of her very anguish, a fierce flood +of joy. She hugged her sorrow, dreading lest the priest might succeed +in finding a cure for it. Ten minutes slipped away, then an hour. She +was overwhelmed by the strife raging within her heart. + +At last she raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, and saw +Abbé Jouve gazing at her sorrowfully. It was he who was directing the +workmen. Having recognized Jeanne, he had just come forward. + +“Why, what is the matter, my child?” he asked of Hélène, who hastened +to rise to her feet and wipe away her tears. + +She was at a loss what answer to give; she was afraid lest she should +once more fall on her knees and burst into sobs. He approached still +nearer, and gently resumed: + +“I do not wish to cross-question you, but why do you not confide in me? +Confide in the priest and forget the friend.” + +“Some other day,” she said brokenly, “some other day, I promise you.” + +Jeanne meantime had at first been very good and patient, finding +amusement in looking at the stained-glass windows, the statues over the +great doorway, and the scenes of the journey to the Cross depicted in +miniature bas-reliefs along the aisles. By degrees, however, the cold +air of the church had enveloped her as with a shroud; and she remained +plunged in a weariness that even banished thought, a feeling of +discomfort waking within her with the holy quiet and far-reaching +echoes, which the least sound stirred in this sanctuary where she +imagined she was going to die. But a grievous sorrow rankled in her +heart—the flowers were being borne away. The great clusters of roses +were vanishing, and the altar seemed to become more and more bare and +chill. The marble looked icy-cold now that no wax-candle shone on it +and there was no smoking incense. The lace-robed Virgin moreover was +being moved, and after suddenly tottering fell backward into the arms +of two workmen. At the sight Jeanne uttered a faint cry, stretched out +her arms, and fell back rigid; the illness that had been threatening +her for some days had at last fallen upon her. + +And when Hélène, in distraction, carried her child, with the assistance +of the sorrowing Abbé, into a cab, she turned towards the porch with +outstretched, trembling hands. + +“It’s all this church! it’s all this church!” she exclaimed, with a +vehemence instinct with regret and self-reproach as she thought of the +month of devout delight which she herself had tasted there. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + + +When evening came Jeanne was somewhat better. She was able to get up, +and, in order to remove her mother’s fears, persisted in dragging +herself into the dining-room, where she took her seat before her empty +plate. + +“I shall be all right,” she said, trying to smile. “You know very well +that the least thing upsets me. Get on with your dinner, mamma; I want +you to eat.” + +And in the end she pretended an appetite she did not feel, for she +observed that her mother sat watching her paling and trembling, without +being able to swallow a morsel. She promised to take some jam, and +Hélène then hurried through her dinner, while the child, with a +never-fading smile and her head nodding tremblingly, watched her with +worshipping looks. On the appearance of the dessert she made an effort +to carry out her promise, but tears welled into her eyes. + +“You see I can’t get it down my throat,” she murmured. “You mustn’t be +angry with me.” + +The weariness that overwhelmed her was terrible. Her legs seemed +lifeless, her shoulders pained her as though gripped by a hand of iron. +But she was very brave through it all, and choked at their source the +moans which the shooting pains in her neck awakened. At one moment, +however, she forgot herself, her head felt too heavy, and she was bent +double by pain. Her mother, as she gazed on her, so faint and feeble, +was wholly unable to finish the pear which she was trying to force down +her throat. Her sobs choked her, and throwing down her napkin, she +clasped Jeanne in her arms. + +“My child! my child!” she wailed, her heart bursting with sorrow, as +her eyes ranged round the dining-room where her darling, when in good +health, had so often enlivened her by her fondness for tid-bits. + +At last Jeanne woke to life again, and strove to smile as of old. + +“Don’t worry, mamma,” said she; “I shall be all right soon. Now that +you have done you must put me to bed. I only wanted to see you have +your dinner. Oh! I know you; you wouldn’t have eaten as much as a +morsel of bread.” + +Hélène bore her away in her arms. She had brought the little crib close +to her own bed in the blue room. When Jeanne had stretched out her +limbs, and the bedclothes were tucked up under her chin, she declared +she felt much better. There were no more complaints about dull pains at +the back of her head; but she melted into tenderness, and her +passionate love seemed to grow more pronounced. Hélène was forced to +caress her, to avow intense affection for her, and to promise that she +would again kiss her when she came to bed. + +“Never mind if I’m sleeping,” said Jeanne. “I shall know you’re there +all the same.” + +She closed her eyes and fell into a doze. Hélène remained near her, +watching over her slumber. When Rosalie entered on tip-toe to ask +permission to go to bed, she answered “Yes” with a nod. At last eleven +o’clock struck, and Hélène was still watching there, when she imagined +she heard a gentle tapping at the outer door. Bewildered with +astonishment, she took up the lamp and left the room to make sure. + +“Who is there?” + +“’Tis I; open the door,” replied a voice in stifled tones. + +It was Henri’s voice. She quickly opened the door, thinking his coming +only natural. No doubt he had but now been informed of Jeanne’s +illness, and had hastened to her, although she had not summoned him to +her assistance, feeling a certain shame at the thought of allowing him +to share in attending on her daughter. + +However, he gave her no opportunity to speak. He followed her into the +dining-room, trembling, with inflamed visage. + +“I beseech you, pardon me,” he faltered, as he caught hold of her hand. +“I haven’t seen you for three days past, and I cannot resist the +craving to see you.” + +Hélène withdrew her hand. He stepped back, but, with his gaze still +fixed on her, continued: “Don’t be afraid; I love you. I would have +waited at the door had you not opened it. Oh! I know very well it is +simple madness, but I love you, I love you all the same!” + +Her face was grave as she listened, eloquent with a dumb reproach which +tortured him, and impelled him to pour forth his passionate love. + +But Hélène still remained standing, wholly unmoved. At last she spoke. +“You know nothing, then?” asked she. + +He had taken her hand, and was raising it to his lips, when she started +back with a gesture of impatience. + +“Oh! leave me!” she exclaimed. “You see that I am not even listening to +you. I have something far different to think about!” + +Then becoming more composed, she put her question to him a second time. +“You know nothing? Well, my daughter is ill. I am pleased to see you; +you will dispel my fears.” + +She took up the lamp and walked on before him, but as they were passing +through the doorway, she turned, and looking at him, said firmly: + +“I forbid you beginning again here. Oh! you must not!” + +He entered behind her, scarcely understanding what had been enjoined on +him. His temples throbbed convulsively, as he leaned over the child’s +little crib. + +“She is asleep; look at her,” said Hélène in a whisper. + +He did not hear her; his passion would not be silenced. She was hanging +over the bed in front of him, and he could see her rosy neck, with its +wavy hair. He shut his eyes that he might escape the temptation of +kissing her, as she said to him: + +“Doctor, look at her, she is so feverish. Oh, tell me whether it is +serious!” + +Then, yielding to professional habit, despite the tempest raging in his +brain, he mechanically felt Jeanne’s pulse. Nevertheless, so fierce was +the struggle that he remained for a time motionless, seemingly unaware +that he held this wasted little hand in his own. + +“Is it a violent fever?” asked Hélène. + +“A violent fever! Do you think so?” he repeated. + +The little hand was scorching his own. There came another silence; the +physician was awakening within him, and passion was dying from his +eyes. His face slowly grew paler; he bent down uneasily, and examined +Jeanne. + +“You are right; this is a very severe attack,” he exclaimed. “My God! +the poor child!” + +His passion was now dead; he was solely consumed by a desire to be of +service to her. His coolness at once returned; he sat down, and was +questioning the mother respecting the child’s condition previous to +this attack of illness, when Jeanne awoke, moaning loudly. She again +complained of a terrible pain in the head. The pangs which were darting +through her neck and shoulders had attained such intensity that her +every movement wrung a sob from her. Hélène knelt on the other side of +the bed, encouraging her, and smiling on her, though her heart almost +broke at the sight of such agony. + +“There’s some one there, isn’t there, mamma?” Jeanne asked, as she +turned round and caught sight of the doctor. + +“It is a friend, whom you know.” + +The child looked at him for a time with thoughtful eyes, as if in +doubt; but soon a wave of affection passed over her face. “Yes, yes, I +know him; I love him very much.” And with her coaxing air she added: +“You will have to cure me, won’t you, sir, to make mamma happy? Oh, +I’ll be good; I’ll drink everything you give me.” + +The doctor again felt her pulse, while Hélène grasped her other hand; +and, as she lay there between them, her eyes travelled attentively from +one to the other, as though no such advantageous opportunity of seeing +and comparing them had ever occurred before. Then her head shook with a +nervous trembling; she grew agitated; and her tiny hands caught hold of +her mother and the doctor with a convulsive grip. + +“Do not go away; I’m so afraid. Take care of me; don’t let all the +others come near me. I only want you, only you two, near me. Come +closer up to me, together!” she stammered. + +Drawing them nearer, with a violent effort she brought them close to +her, still uttering the same entreaty: “Come close, together, +together!” + +Several times did she behave in the same delirious fashion. Then came +intervals of quiet, when a heavy sleep fell on her, but it left her +breathless and almost dead. When she started out of these short dozes +she heard nothing, saw nothing—a white vapor shrouded her eyes. The +doctor remained watching over her for a part of the night, which proved +a very bad one. He only absented himself for a moment to procure some +medicine. Towards morning, when he was about to leave, Hélène, with +terrible anxiety in her face accompanied him into the ante-room. + +“Well?” asked she. + +“Her condition is very serious,” he answered; “but you must not fear; +rely on me; I will give you every assistance. I shall come back at ten +o’clock.” + +When Hélène returned to the bedroom she found Jeanne sitting up in bed, +gazing round her with bewildered looks. + +“You left me! you left me!” she wailed. “Oh! I’m afraid; I don’t want +to be left all alone.” + +To console her, her mother kissed her, but she still gazed round the +room: + +“Where is he?” she faltered. “Oh! tell him not to go away; I want him +to be here, I want him—” + +“He will come back, my darling!” interrupted Hélène, whose tears were +mingling with Jeanne’s own. “He will not leave us, I promise you. He +loves us too well. Now, be good and lie down. I’ll stay here till he +comes back.” + +“Really? really?” murmured the child, as she slowly fell back into deep +slumber. + +Terrible days now began, three weeks full of awful agony. The fever did +not quit its victim for an hour. Jeanne only seemed tranquil when the +doctor was present; she put one of her little hands in his, while her +mother held the other. She seemed to find safety in their presence; she +gave each of them an equal share of her tyrannical worship, as though +she well knew beneath what passionate kindness she was sheltering +herself. Her nervous temperament, so exquisite in its sensibility, the +keener since her illness, inspired her, no doubt, with the thought that +only a miraculous effort of their love could save her. As the hours +slipped away she would gaze on them with grave and searching looks as +they sat on each side of her crib. Her glances remained instinct with +human passion, and though she spoke not she told them all she desired +by the warm pressure of her hands, with which she besought them not to +leave her, giving them to understand what peace was hers when they were +present. Whenever the doctor entered after having been away her joy +became supreme, and her eyes, which never quitted the door, flashed +with light; and then she would fall quietly asleep, all her fears +fleeing as she heard her mother and him moving around her and speaking +in whispers. + +On the day after the attack Doctor Bodin called. But Jeanne suddenly +turned away her head and refused to allow him to examine her. + +“I don’t want him, mamma,” she murmured, “I don’t want him! I beg of +you.” + +As he made his appearance on the following day, Hélène was forced to +inform him of the child’s dislike, and thus it came about that the +venerable doctor made no further effort to enter the sick-room. Still, +he climbed the stairs every other day to inquire how Jeanne was getting +on, and sometimes chatted with his brother professional, Doctor +Deberle, who paid him all the deference due to an elder. + +Moreover, it was useless to try to deceive Jeanne. Her senses had +become wondrously acute. The Abbé and Monsieur Rambaud paid a visit +every night; they sat down and spent an hour in sad silence. One +evening, as the doctor was going away, Hélène signed to Monsieur +Rambaud to take his place and clasp the little one’s hand, so that she +might not notice the departure of her beloved friend. But two or three +minutes had scarcely passed ere Jeanne opened her eyes and quickly drew +her hand away. With tears flowing she declared that they were behaving +ill to her. + +“Don’t you love me any longer? won’t you have me beside you?” asked +poor Monsieur Rambaud, with tears in his eyes. + +She looked at him, deigning no reply; it seemed as if her heart was set +on knowing him no more. The worthy man, grievously pained, returned to +his corner. He always ended by thus gliding into a window-recess, +where, half hidden behind a curtain, he would remain during the +evening, in a stupor of grief, his eyes the while never quitting the +sufferer. The Abbé was there as well, with his large head and pallid +face showing above his scraggy shoulders. He concealed his tears by +blowing his nose loudly from time to time. The danger in which he saw +his little friend lying wrought such havoc within him that his poor +were for the time wholly forgotten. + +But it was useless for the two brothers to retire to the other end of +the room; Jeanne was still conscious of their presence. They were a +source of vexation to her, and she would turn round with a harassed +look, even though drowsy with fever. Her mother bent over her to catch +the words trembling on her lips. + +“Oh! mamma, I feel so ill. All this is choking me; send everybody +away—quick, quick!” + +Hélène with the utmost gentleness then explained to the two brothers +the child’s wish to fall asleep; they understood her meaning, and +quitted the room with drooping heads. And no sooner had they gone than +Jeanne breathed with greater freedom, cast a glance round the chamber, +and once more fixed a look of infinite tenderness on her mother and the +doctor. + +“Good-night,” she whispered; “I feel well again; stay beside me.” + +For three weeks she thus kept them by her side. Henri had at first paid +two visits each day, but soon he spent the whole night with them, +giving every hour he could spare to the child. At the outset he had +feared it was a case of typhoid fever; but so contradictory were the +symptoms that he soon felt himself involved in perplexity. There was no +doubt he was confronted by a disease of the chlorosis type, presenting +the greatest difficulty in treatment, with the possibility of very +dangerous complications, as the child was almost on the threshold of +womanhood. He dreaded first a lesion of the heart and then the setting +in of consumption. Jeanne’s nervous excitement, wholly beyond his +control, was a special source of uneasiness; to such heights of +delirium did the fever rise, that the strongest medicines were of no +avail. He brought all his fortitude and knowledge to bear on the case, +inspired with the one thought that his own happiness and life were at +stake. On his mind there had now fallen a great stillness; not once +during those three anxious weeks did his passion break its bonds. +Hélène’s breath no longer woke tremors within him, and when their eyes +met they were only eloquent of the sympathetic sadness of two souls +threatened by a common misfortune. + +Nevertheless every moment brought their hearts nearer. They now lived +only with the one idea. No sooner had he entered the bed-chamber than +by a glance he gathered how Jeanne had spent the night; and there was +no need for him to speak for Hélène to learn what he thought of the +child’s condition. Besides, with all the innate bravery of a mother, +she had forced from him a declaration that he would not deceive her, +but allow her to know his fears. Always on her feet, not having had +three hours’ uninterrupted sleep for three weeks past, she displayed +superhuman endurance and composure, and quelled her despair without a +tear in order that she might concentrate her whole soul upon the +struggle with the dread enemy. Within and without her heart there was +nothing but emptiness; the world around her, the usual thoughts of each +hour, the consciousness of life itself, had all faded into darkness. +Existence held nothing for her. Nothing now bound her to life but her +suffering darling and this man who promised her a miracle. It was he, +and he only, to whom she looked, to whom she listened, whose most +trivial words were to her of the first importance, and into whose +breast she would fain have transfused her own soul in order to increase +his energy. Insensibly, and without break, this idea wrought out its +own accomplishment. Almost every evening, when the fever was raging at +its worst and Jeanne lay in imminent peril, they were there beside her +in silence; and as though eager to remind themselves that they stood +shoulder to shoulder struggling against death, their hands met on the +edge of the bed in a caressing clasp, while they trembled with +solicitude and pity till a faint smile breaking over the child’s face, +and the sound of quiet and regular breathing, told them that the danger +was past. Then each encouraged the other by an inclination of the head. +Once again had their love triumphed; and every time the mute caress +grew more demonstrative their hearts drew closer together. + +One night Hélène divined that Henri was concealing something from her. +For ten minutes, without a word crossing his lips, he had been +examining Jeanne. The little one complained of intolerable thirst; she +seemed choking, and there was an incessant wheezing in her parched +throat. Then a purple flush came over her face, and she lapsed into a +stupor which prevented her even from raising her eyelids. She lay +motionless; it might have been imagined she was dead but for the sound +coming from her throat. + +“You consider her very ill, do you not?” gasped Hélène. + +He answered in the negative; there was no change. But his face was +ashy-white, and he remained seated, overwhelmed by his powerlessness. +Thereupon she also, despite the tension of her whole being, sank upon a +chair on the other side of the bed. + +“Tell me everything. You promised to tell me all. Is she beyond hope?” + +He still sat silent, and she spoke again more vehemently: + +“You know how brave I am. Have I wept? have I despaired? Speak: I want +to know the truth.” + +Henri fixed his eyes on her. The words came slowly from his lips. +“Well,” said he, “if in an hour hence she hasn’t awakened from this +stupor, it will be all over.” + +Not a sob broke from Hélène; but icy horror possessed her and raised +her hair on end. Her eyes turned on Jeanne; she fell on her knees and +clasped her in her arms with a superb gesture eloquent of ownership, as +though she could preserve her from ill, nestling thus against her +shoulder. For more than a minute she kept her face close to the +child’s, gazing at her intently, eager to give her breath from her own +nostrils, ay, and her very life too. The labored breathing of the +little sufferer grew shorter and shorter. + +“Can nothing be done?” she exclaimed, as she lifted her head. “Why do +you remain there? Do something!” But he made a disheartened gesture. +“Do something!” she repeated. “There must be something to be done. You +are not going to let her die oh, surely not!” + +“I will do everything possible,” the doctor simply said. + +He rose up, and then a supreme struggle began. All the coolness and +nerve of the practitioner had returned to him. Till now he had not +ventured to try any violent remedies, for he dreaded to enfeeble the +little frame already almost destitute of life. But he no longer +remained undecided, and straightway dispatched Rosalie for a dozen +leeches. And he did not attempt to conceal from the mother that this +was a desperate remedy which might save or kill her child. When the +leeches were brought in, her heart failed her for a moment. + +“Gracious God! gracious God!” she murmured. “Oh, if you should kill +her!” + +He was forced to wring consent from her. + +“Well, put them on,” said she; “but may Heaven guide your hand!” + +She had not ceased holding Jeanne, and refused to alter her position, +as she still desired to keep the child’s little head nestling against +her shoulder. With calm features he meantime busied himself with the +last resource, not allowing a word to fall from his lips. The first +application of the leeches proved unsuccessful. The minutes slipped +away. The only sound breaking the stillness of the shadowy chamber was +the merciless, incessant tick-tack of the timepiece. Hope departed with +every second. In the bright disc of light cast by the lamp, Jeanne lay +stretched among the disordered bedclothes, with limbs of waxen pallor. +Hélène, with tearless eyes, but choking with emotion, gazed on the +little body already in the clutches of death, and to see a drop of her +daughter’s blood appear, would willingly have yielded up all her own. +And at last a ruddy drop trickled down—the leeches had made fast their +hold; one by one they commenced sucking. The child’s life was in the +balance. These were terrible moments, pregnant with anguish. Was that +sigh the exhalation of Jeanne’s last breath, or did it mark her return +to life? For a time Hélène’s heart was frozen within her; she believed +that the little one was dead; and there came to her a violent impulse +to pluck away the creatures which were sucking so greedily; but some +supernatural power restrained her, and she remained there with open +mouth and her blood chilled within her. The pendulum still swung to and +fro; the room itself seemed to wait the issue in anxious expectation. + +At last the child stirred. Her heavy eyelids rose, but dropped again, +as though wonder and weariness had overcome her. A slight quiver passed +over her face; it seemed as if she were breathing. Finally there was a +trembling of the lips; and Hélène, in an agony of suspense, bent over +her, fiercely awaiting the result. + +“Mamma! mamma!” murmured Jeanne. + +Henri heard, and walking to the head of the bed, whispered in the +mother’s ear: “She is saved.” + +“She is saved! she is saved!” echoed Hélène in stammering tones, her +bosom filled with such joy that she fell on the floor close to the bed, +gazing now at her daughter and now at the doctor with distracted looks. +But she rose and giving way to a mighty impulse, threw herself on +Henri’s neck. + +“I love you!” she exclaimed. + +This was her avowal—the avowal imprisoned so long, but at last poured +forth in the crisis of emotion which had come upon her. Mother and +lover were merged in one; she proffered him her love in a fiery rush of +gratitude. + +Through her sobs she spoke to him in endearing words. Her tears, dried +at their source for three weeks, were now rolling down her cheeks. But +at last she fell upon her knees, and took Jeanne in her arms to lull +her to deeper slumber against her shoulder; and at intervals whilst her +child thus rested she raised to Henri’s eyes glistening with passionate +tears. + +Stretched in her cot, the bedclothes tucked under her chin, and her +head, with its dark brown tresses, resting in the centre of the pillow, +Jeanne lay, relieved, but prostrate. Her eyelids were closed, but she +did not sleep. The lamp, placed on the table, which had been rolled +close to the fireplace, lit but one end of the room, and the shade +encompassed Hélène and Henri, seated in their customary places on each +side of the bed. But the child did not part them; on the contrary, she +served as a closer bond between them, and her innocence was +intermingled with their love on this first night of its avowal. At +times Hélène rose on tiptoe to fetch the medicine, to turn up the lamp, +or give some order to Rosalie; while the doctor, whose eyes never +quitted her, would sign to her to walk gently. And when she had sat +down again they smiled at one another. Not a word was spoken; all their +interest was concentrated on Jeanne, who was to them as their love +itself. Sometimes when the coverlet was being pulled up, or the child’s +head was being raised, their hands met and rested together in sweet +forgetfulness. This undesigned, stealthy caress was the only one in +which they indulged. + +“I am not sleeping,” murmured Jeanne. “I know very well you are there.” + +On hearing her speak they were overjoyed. Their hands parted; beyond +this they had no desires. The improvement in the child’s condition was +to them satisfaction and peace. + +“Are you feeling better, my darling?” asked Hélène, when she saw her +stirring. + +Jeanne made no immediate reply, and when she spoke it was dreamingly. + +“Oh, yes! I don’t feel anything now. But I can hear you, and that +pleases me.” + +After the lapse of a moment, she opened her eyes with an effort and +looked at them. Then an angelic smile crossed her face, and her eyelids +dropped once more. + +On the morrow, when the Abbé and Monsieur Rambaud made their +appearance, Hélène gave way to a shrug of impatience. They were now a +disturbing element in her happy nest. As they went on questioning her, +shaking with fear lest they might receive bad tidings, she had the +cruelty to reply that Jeanne was no better. She spoke without +consideration, driven to this strait by the selfish desire of +treasuring for herself and Henri the bliss of having rescued Jeanne +from death, and of alone knowing this to be so. What was their reason +for seeking a share in her happiness? It belonged to Henri and herself, +and had it been known to another would have seemed to her impaired in +value. To her imagination it would have been as though a stranger were +participating in her love. + +The priest, however, approached the bed. + +“Jeanne, ’tis we, your old friends. Don’t you know us?” + +She nodded gravely to them in recognition, but she was unwilling to +speak to them; she was in a thoughtful mood, and she cast a look full +of meaning on her mother. The two poor men went away more heartbroken +than on any previous evening. + +Three days later Henri allowed his patient her first boiled egg. It was +a matter of the highest importance. Jeanne’s mind was made up to eat it +with none present but her mother and the doctor, and the door must be +closed. As it happened, Monsieur Rambaud was present at the moment; and +when Hélène began to spread a napkin, by way of tablecloth, on the bed, +the child whispered in her ear: “Wait a moment—when he has gone.” + +And as soon as he had left them she burst out: “Now, quick! quick! It’s +far nicer when there’s nobody but ourselves.” + +Hélène lifted her to a sitting posture, while Henri placed two pillows +behind her to prop her up; and then, with the napkin spread before her +and a plate on her knees, Jeanne waited, smiling. + +“Shall I break the shell for you?” asked her mother. + +“Yes, do, mamma.” + +“And I will cut you three little bits of bread,” added the doctor. + +“Oh! four; you’ll see if I don’t eat four.” + +It was now the doctor’s turn to be addressed endearingly. When he gave +her the first slice, she gripped his hand, and as she still clasped her +mother’s, she rained kisses on both with the same passionate +tenderness. + +“Come, come; you will have to be good,” entreated Hélène, who observed +that she was ready to burst into tears; “you must please us by eating +your egg.” + +At this Jeanne ventured to begin; but her frame was so enfeebled that +with the second sippet of bread she declared herself wearied. As she +swallowed each mouthful, she would say, with a smile, that her teeth +were tender. Henri encouraged her, while Hélène’s eyes were brimful of +tears. Heaven! she saw her child eating! She watched the bread +disappear, and the gradual consumption of this first egg thrilled her +to the heart. To picture Jeanne stretched dead beneath the sheets was a +vision of mortal terror; but now she was eating, and eating so +prettily, with all an invalid’s characteristic dawdling and hesitancy! + +“You won’t be angry, mamma? I’m doing my best. Why, I’m at my third bit +of bread! Are you pleased?” + +“Yes, my darling, quite pleased. Oh! you don’t know all the joy the +sight gives me!” + +And then, in the happiness with which she overflowed, Hélène +forgetfully leaned against Henri’s shoulder. Both laughed gleefully at +the child, but over her face there suddenly crept a sullen flush; she +gazed at them stealthily, and drooped her head, and refused to eat any +more, her features glooming the while with distrust and anger. At last +they had to lay her back in bed again. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + + +Months slipped away, and Jeanne was still convalescent. August came, +and she had not quitted her bed. When evening fell she would rise for +an hour or two; but even the crossing of the room to the window—where +she reclined on an invalid-chair and gazed out on Paris, flaming with +the ruddy light of the dying sun—seemed too great a strain for her +wearied frame. Her attenuated limbs could scarce bear their burden, and +she would declare with a wan smile that the blood in her veins would +not suffice for a little bird, and that she must have plenty of soup. +Morsels of raw meat were dipped in her broth. She had grown to like +this mixture, as she longed to be able to go down to play in the +garden. + +The weeks and the months which slipped by were ever instinct with the +same delightful monotony, and Hélène forgot to count the days. She +never left the house; at Jeanne’s side she forgot the whole world. No +news from without reached her ears. Her retreat, though it looked down +on Paris, which with its smoke and noise stretched across the horizon, +was as secret and secluded as any cave of holy hermit amongst the +hills. Her child was saved, and the knowledge of it satisfied all her +desires. She spent her days in watching over her return to health, +rejoicing in a shade of bright color returning to her cheeks, in a +lively look, or in a gesture of gladness. Every hour made her daughter +more like what she had been of old, with lovely eyes and wavy hair. The +slower Jeanne’s recovery, the greater joy was yielded to Hélène, who +recalled the olden days when she had suckled her, and, as she gazed on +her gathering strength, felt even a keener emotion than when in the +past she had measured her two little feet in her hand to see if she +would soon be able to walk. + +At the same time some anxiety remained to Hélène. On several occasions +she had seen a shadow come over Jeanne’s face—a shadow of sudden +distrust and sourness. Why was her laughter thus abruptly turned to +sulkiness? Was she suffering? was she hiding some quickening of the old +pain? + +“Tell me, darling, what is the matter? You were laughing just a moment +ago, and now you are nearly crying! Speak to me: do you feel a pain +anywhere?” + +But Jeanne abruptly turned away her head and buried her face in the +pillow. + +“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she answered curtly. “I want to be +left alone.” + +And she would lie brooding the whole afternoon, with her eyes fixed on +the wall, showing no sign of affectionate repentance, but plunged in a +sadness which baffled her forlorn mother. The doctor knew not what to +say; these fits of gloom would always break out when he was there, and +he attributed them to the sufferer’s nervousness. He impressed on +Hélène the necessity of crossing her in nothing. + +One afternoon Jeanne had fallen asleep. Henri, who was pleased with her +progress, had lingered in the room, and was carrying on a whispered +conversation with Hélène, who was once more busy with her everlasting +needlework at her seat beside the window. Since the terrible night when +she had confessed she loved him both had lived on peacefully in the +consciousness of their mutual passions, careless of the morrow, and +without a thought of the world. Around Jeanne’s bed, in this room that +still reverberated with her agony, there was an atmosphere of purity +which shielded them from any outburst. The child’s innocent breath fell +on them with a quieting influence. But as the little invalid slowly +grew well again, their love in very sympathy took new strength, and +they would sit side by side with beating hearts, speaking little, and +then only in whispers, lest the little one might be awakened. Their +words were without significance, but struck re-echoing chords within +the breast of each. That afternoon their love revealed itself in a +thousand ways. + +“I assure you she is much better,” said the doctor. “In a fortnight she +will be able to go down to the garden.” + +Hélène went on stitching quickly. + +“Yesterday she was again very sad,” she murmured, “but this morning she +was laughing and happy. She has given me her promise to be good.” + +A long silence followed. The child was still plunged in sleep, and +their souls were enveloped in a profound peace. When she slumbered +thus, their relief was intense; they seemed to share each other’s +hearts the more. + +“Have you not seen the garden yet?” asked Henri. “Just now it’s full of +flowers.” + +“The asters are out, aren’t they?” she questioned. + +“Yes; the flower-bed looks magnificent. The clematises have wound their +way up into the elms. It is quite a nest of foliage.” + +There was another silence. Hélène ceased sewing, and gave him a smile. +To their fancy it seemed as though they were strolling together along +high-banked paths, dim with shadows, amidst which fell a shower of +roses. As he hung over her he drank in the faint perfume of vervain +that arose from her dressing-gown. However, all at once a rustling of +the sheets disturbed them. + +“She is wakening!” exclaimed Hélène, as she started up. + +Henri drew himself away, and simultaneously threw a glance towards the +bed. Jeanne had but a moment before gripped the pillow with her arms, +and, with her chin buried in it, had turned her face towards them. But +her eyelids were still shut, and judging by her slow and regular +breathing, she had again fallen asleep. + +“Are you always sewing like this?” asked Henri, as he came nearer to +Hélène. + +“I cannot remain with idle hands,” she answered. “It is mechanical +enough, but it regulates my thoughts. For hours I can think of the same +thing without wearying.” + +He said no more, but his eye dwelt on the needle as the stitching went +on almost in a melodious cadence; and it seemed to him as if the thread +were carrying off and binding something of their lives together. For +hours she could have sewn on, and for hours he could have sat there, +listening to the music of the needle, in which, like a lulling refrain, +re-echoed one word that never wearied them. It was their wish to live +their days like this in that quiet nook, to sit side by side while the +child was asleep, never stirring from their places lest they might +awaken her. How sweet was that quiescent silence, in which they could +listen to the pulsing of hearts, and bask in the delight of a dream of +everlasting love! + +“How good you are!” were the words which came several times from his +lips, the joy her presence gave him only finding expression in that one +phrase. + +Again she raised her head, never for a moment deeming it strange that +she should be so passionately worshipped. Henri’s face was near her +own, and for a second they gazed at one another. + +“Let me get on with my work,” she said in a whisper. “I shall never +have it finished.” + +But just then an instinctive dread prompted her to turn round, and +indeed there lay Jeanne, lowering upon them with deadly pale face and +great inky-black eyes. The child had not made the least movement; her +chin was still buried in the downy pillow, which she clasped with her +little arms. She had only opened her eyes a moment before and was +contemplating them. + +“Jeanne, what’s the matter?” asked Hélène. “Are you ill? do you want +anything?” + +The little one made no reply, never stirred, did not even lower the +lids of her great flashing eyes. A sullen gloom was on her brow, and in +her pallid cheeks were deep hollows. She seemed about to throw back her +hands as though a convulsion was imminent. Hélène started up, begging +her to speak; but she remained obstinately stiff, darting such black +looks on her mother that the latter’s face became purple with blushes, +and she murmured: + +“Doctor, see; what is the matter with her?” + +Henri had drawn his chair away from Hélène’s. He ventured near the bed, +and was desirous of taking hold of one of the little hands which so +fiercely gripped the pillow. But as he touched Jeanne she trembled in +every limb, turned with a start towards the wall, and exclaimed: + +“Leave me alone; you, I mean! You are hurting me!” + +She pulled the coverlet over her face, and for a quarter of an hour +they attempted, without success, to soothe her with gentle words. At +last, as they still persevered, she sat up with her hands clasped in +supplication: “Oh, please leave me alone; you are tormenting me! Leave +me alone!” + +Hélène, in her bewilderment, once more sat down at the window, but +Henri did not resume his place beside her. They now understood: Jeanne +was devoured by jealousy. They were unable to speak another word. For a +minute or two the doctor paced up and down in silence, and then slowly +quitted the room, well understanding the meaning of the anxious glances +which the mother was darting towards the bed. As soon as he had gone, +she ran to her daughter’s side and pressed her passionately to her +breast, with a wild outburst of words. + +“Hear me, my pet, I am alone now; look at me, speak to me. Are you in +pain? Have I vexed you then? Tell me everything! Is it I whom you are +angry with? What are you troubled about?” + +But it was useless to pray for an answer, useless to plead with all +sorts of questions; Jeanne declared that she was quite well. Then she +started up with a frenzied cry: “You don’t love me any more, mamma! you +don’t love me any more!” + +She burst into grievous sobbing, and wound her arms convulsively round +her mother’s neck, raining greedy kisses on her face. Hélène’s heart +was rent within her, she felt overwhelmed with unspeakable sadness, and +strained her child to her bosom, mingling her tears with her own, and +vowing to her that she would never love anybody save herself. + +From that day onward a mere word or glance would suffice to awaken +Jeanne’s jealousy. While she was in the perilous grip of death some +instinct had led her to put her trust in the loving tenderness with +which they had shielded and saved her. But now strength was returning +to her, and she would allow none to participate in her mother’s love. +She conceived a kind of spite against the doctor, a spite which +stealthily grew into hate as her health improved. It was hidden deep +within her self-willed brain, in the innermost recesses of her +suspicious and silent nature. She would never consent to explain +things; she herself knew not what was the matter with her; but she felt +ill whenever the doctor drew too near to her mother; and would press +her hands violently to her bosom. Her torment seemed to sear her very +heart, and furious passion choked her and made her cheeks turn pale. +Nor could she place any restraint on herself; she imagined every one +unjust, grew stiff and haughty, and deigned no reply when she was +charged with being very ill-tempered. Hélène, trembling with dismay, +dared not press her to explain the source of her trouble; indeed, her +eyes turned away whenever this eleven-year-old child darted at her a +glance in which was concentrated the premature passion of a woman. + +“Oh, Jeanne, you are making me very wretched!” she would sometimes say +to her, the tears standing in her eyes as she observed her stifling in +her efforts to restrain a sudden bubbling up of mad anger. + +But these words, once so potent for good, which had so often drawn the +child weeping to Hélène’s arms, were now wholly without influence. +There was a change taking place in her character. Her humors varied ten +times a day. Generally she spoke abruptly and imperiously, addressing +her mother as though she were Rosalie, and constantly plaguing her with +the pettiest demands, ever impatient and loud in complaint. + +“Give me a drink. What a time you take! I am left here dying of +thirst!” And when Hélène handed the glass to her she would exclaim: +“There’s no sugar in it; I won’t have it!” + +Then she would throw herself back on her pillow, and a second time push +away the glass, with the complaint that the drink was too sweet. They +no longer cared to attend to her, she would say; they were doing it +purposely. Hélène, dreading lest she might infuriate her to a yet +greater extent, made no reply, but gazed on her with tears trembling on +her cheeks. + +However, Jeanne’s anger was particularly visible when the doctor made +his appearance. The moment he entered the sick-room she would lay +herself flat in bed, or sullenly hang her head in the manner of savage +brutes who will not suffer a stranger to come near. Sometimes she +refused to say a word, allowing him to feel her pulse or examine her +while she remained motionless with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. On +other days she would not even look at him, but clasp her hands over her +eyes with such a gust of passion that to remove them would have +necessitated the violent twisting of her arms. One night, as her mother +was about to give her a spoonful of medicine, she burst out with the +cruel remark: “I won’t have it; it will poison me.” + +Hélène’s heart, pierced to the quick, sank within her, and she dreaded +to elicit what the remark might mean. + +“What are you saying, my child?” she asked. “Do you understand what you +are talking about? Medicine is never nice to take. You must drink +this.” + +But Jeanne lay there in obstinate silence, and averted her head in +order to get rid of the draught. From that day onward she was full of +caprices, swallowing or rejecting her medicines according to the humor +of the moment. She would sniff at the phials and examine them +suspiciously as they stood on the night-table. Should she have refused +to drink the contents of one of them she never forgot its identity, and +would have died rather than allow a drop from it to pass her lips. +Honest Monsieur Rambaud alone could persuade her at times. It was he +whom she now overwhelmed with the most lavish caresses, especially if +the doctor were looking on; and her gleaming eyes were turned towards +her mother to note if she were vexed by this display of affection +towards another. + +“Oh, it’s you, old friend!” she exclaimed the moment he entered. “Come +and sit down near me. Have you brought me any oranges?” + +She sat up and laughingly fumbled in his pockets, where goodies were +always secreted. Then she embraced him, playing quite a love comedy, +while her revenge found satisfaction in the anguish which she imagined +she could read on her mother’s pallid face. Monsieur Rambaud beamed +with joy over his restoration to his little sweetheart’s good graces. +But Hélène, on meeting him in the ante-room, was usually able to +acquaint him with the state of affairs, and all at once he would look +at the draught standing on the table and exclaim: “What! are you having +syrup?” + +Jeanne’s face clouded over, and, in a low voice, she replied: “No, no, +it’s nasty, it’s nauseous; I can’t take it.” + +“What! you can’t drink this?” questioned Monsieur Rambaud gaily. “I can +wager it’s very good. May I take a little of it?” + +Then without awaiting her permission he poured out a large spoonful, +and swallowed it with a grimace that seemed to betoken immeasurable +satisfaction. + +“How delicious!” he murmured. “You are quite wrong; see, just take a +little to try.” + +Jeanne, amused, then made no further resistance. She would drink +whatever Monsieur Rambaud happened to taste. She watched his every +motion greedily, and appeared to study his features with a view to +observing the effects of the medicine. The good man for a month gorged +himself in this way with drugs, and, on Hélène gratefully thanking him, +merely shrugged his shoulders. + +“Oh! it’s very good stuff!” he declared, with perfect conviction, +making it his pleasure to share the little one’s medicines. + +He passed his evenings at her bedside. The Abbé, on the other hand, +came regularly every second day. Jeanne retained them with her as long +as possible, and displayed vexation when she saw them take up their +hats. Her immediate dread lay in being left alone with her mother and +the doctor, and she would fain have always had company in the room to +keep these two apart. Frequently, without reason, she called Rosalie to +her. When they were alone with her, her eyes never quitted them, but +pursued them into every corner of the bedroom. Whenever their hands +came together, her face grew ashy white. If a whispered word was +exchanged between them, she started up in anger, demanding to know what +had been said. It was a grievance to her that her mother’s gown should +sweep against the doctor’s foot. They could not approach or look at one +another without the child falling immediately into violent trembling. +The extreme sensitiveness of her innocent little being induced in her +an exasperation which would suddenly prompt her to turn round, should +she guess that they were smiling at one another behind her. She could +divine the times when their love was at its height by the atmosphere +wafted around her. It was then that her gloom became deeper, and her +agonies were those of nervous women at the approach of a terrible +storm. + +Every one about Hélène now looked on Jeanne as saved, and she herself +had slowly come to recognize this as a certainty. Thus it happened that +Jeanne’s fits were at last regarded by her as the bad humors of a +spoilt child, and as of little or no consequence. A craving to live +sprang up within her after the six weeks of anguish which she had just +spent. Her daughter was now well able to dispense with her care for +hours; and for her, who had so long become unconscious of life, these +hours opened up a vista of delight, of peace, and pleasure. She +rummaged in her drawers, and made joyous discoveries of forgotten +things; she plunged into all sorts of petty tasks, in the endeavor to +resume the happy course of her daily existence. And in this upwelling +of life her love expanded, and the society of Henri was the reward she +allowed herself for the intensity of her past sufferings. In the +shelter of that room they deemed themselves beyond the world’s ken, and +every hindrance in their path was forgotten. The child, to whom their +love had proved a terror, alone remained a bar between them. + +Jeanne became, indeed, a veritable scourge to their affections. An +ever-present barrier, with her eyes constantly upon them, she compelled +them to maintain a continued restraint, an affectation of indifference, +with the result that their hearts were stirred with even greater motion +than before. For days they could not exchange a word; they knew +intuitively that she was listening even when she was seemingly wrapped +in slumber. One evening, when Hélène had quitted the room with Henri, +to escort him to the front door, Jeanne burst out with the cry, “Mamma! +mamma!” in a voice shrill with rage. Hélène was forced to return, for +she heard the child leap from her bed; and she met her running towards +her, shivering with cold and passion. Jeanne would no longer let her +remain away from her. From that day forward they could merely exchange +a clasp of the hand on meeting and parting. Madame Deberle was now +spending a month at the seaside, and the doctor, though he had all his +time at his own command, dared not pass more than ten minutes in +Hélène’s company. Their long chats at the window had come to an end. + +What particularly tortured their hearts was the fickleness of Jeanne’s +humor. One night, as the doctor hung over her, she gave way to tears. +For a whole day her hate changed to feverish tenderness, and Hélène +felt happy once more; but on the morrow, when the doctor entered the +room, the child received him with such a display of sourness that the +mother besought him with a look to leave them. Jeanne had fretted the +whole night in angry regret over her own good-humor. Not a day passed +but what a like scene was enacted. And after the blissful hours the +child brought them in her moods of impassioned tenderness these hours +of misery fell on them with the torture of the lash. + +A feeling of revulsion at last awoke within Hélène. To all seeming her +daughter would be her death. Why, when her illness had been put to +flight, did the ill-natured child work her utmost to torment her? If +one of those intoxicating dreams took possession of her imagination—a +mystic dream in which she found herself traversing a country alike +unknown and entrancing with Henri by her side Jeanne’s face, harsh and +sullen, would suddenly start up before her and thus her heart was ever +being rent in twain. The struggle between her maternal affection and +her passion became fraught with the greatest suffering. + +One evening, despite Hélène’s formal edict of banishment, the doctor +called. For eight days they had been unable to exchange a word +together. She would fain that he had not entered; but he did so on +learning that Jeanne was in a deep sleep. They sat down as of old, near +the window, far from the glare of the lamp, with the peaceful shadows +around them. For two hours their conversation went on in such low +whispers that scarcely a sound disturbed the silence of the large room. +At times they turned their heads and glanced at the delicate profile of +Jeanne, whose little hands, clasped together, were reposing on the +coverlet. But in the end they grew forgetful of their surroundings, and +their talk incautiously became louder. Then, all at once, Jeanne’s +voice rang out. + +“Mamma! mamma!” she cried, seized with sudden agitation, as though +suffering from nightmare. + +She writhed about in her bed, her eyelids still heavy with sleep, and +then struggled to reach a sitting posture. + +“Hide, I beseech you!” whispered Hélène to the doctor in a tone of +anguish. “You will be her death if you stay here.” + +In an instant Henri vanished into the window-recess, concealed by the +blue velvet curtain; but it was in vain, the child still kept up her +pitiful cry: “Oh, mamma! mamma! I suffer so much.” + +“I am here beside you, my darling; where do you feel the pain?” + +“I don’t know. Oh, see, it is here! Oh, it is scorching me!” With eyes +wide open and features distorted, she pressed her little hands to her +bosom. “It came on me in a moment. I was asleep, wasn’t I? But I felt +something like a burning coal.” + +“But it’s all gone now. You’re not pained any longer, are you?” + +“Yes, yes, I feel it still.” + +She glanced uneasily round the room. She was now wholly awake; the +sullen gloom crept over her face once more, and her cheeks became +livid. + +“Are you by yourself, mamma?” she asked. + +“Of course I am, my darling!” + +Nevertheless Jeanne shook her head and gazed about, sniffing the air, +while her agitation visibly increased. “No, you’re not; I know you’re +not. There’s some one—Oh, mamma! I’m afraid, I’m afraid! You are +telling me a story; you are not by yourself.” + +She fell back in bed in an hysterical fit, sobbing loudly and huddling +herself beneath the coverlet, as though to ward off some danger. +Hélène, crazy with alarm, dismissed Henri without delay, despite his +wish to remain and look after the child. But she drove him out +forcibly, and on her return clasped Jeanne in her arms, while the +little one gave vent to the one pitiful cry, with every utterance of +which her sobbing was renewed louder than ever: “You don’t love me any +more! You don’t love me any more!” + +“Hush, hush, my angel! don’t say that,” exclaimed the mother in agony. +“You are all the world to me. You’ll see yet whether I love you or +not.” + +She nursed her until the morning broke, intent on yielding up to her +all her heart’s affections, though she was appalled at realizing how +completely the love of herself possessed this darling child. Next day +she deemed a consultation necessary. Doctor Bodin, dropping in as +though by chance, subjected the patient with many jokes to a careful +examination; and a lengthy discussion ensued between him and Doctor +Deberle, who had remained in the adjacent room. Both readily agreed +that there were no serious symptoms apparent at the moment, but they +were afraid of complex developments, and cross-questioned Hélène for +some time. They realized that they were dealing with one of those +nervous affections which have a family history, and set medical skill +at defiance. She told them, what they already partly knew, that her +grandmother[*] was confined in the lunatic asylum of Les Tulettes at a +short distance from Plassans, and that her mother had died from +galloping consumption, after many years of brain affection and +hysterical fits. She herself took more after her father; she had his +features and the same gravity of temperament. Jeanne, on the other +hand, was the facsimile of her grandmother; but she never would have +her strength, commanding figure, or sturdy, bony frame. The two doctors +enjoined on her once more that the greatest care was requisite. Too +many precautions could not be taken in dealing with chloro-anaemical +affections, which tend to develop a multitude of dangerous diseases. + +[*] Adelaide Fouque, already mentioned, who figures so prominently in +“The Fortune of the Rougons,” and dies under such horrible +circumstances in “Doctor Pascal.” + +Henri had listened to old Doctor Bodin with a deference which he had +never before displayed for a colleague. He besought his advice on +Jeanne’s case with the air of a pupil who is full of doubt. Truth to +tell, this child inspired him with dread; he felt that her case was +beyond his science, and he feared lest she might die under his hands +and her mother be lost to him for ever. A week passed away. He was no +longer admitted by Hélène into the little one’s presence; and in the +end, sad and sick at heart, he broke off his visits of his own accord. + +As the month of August verged on its close, Jeanne recovered sufficient +strength to rise and walk across the room. The lightness of her heart +spoke in her laughter. A fortnight had elapsed since the recurrence of +any nervous attack. The thought that her mother was again all her own +and would ever cling to her had proved remedy enough. At first distrust +had rankled in her mind; while letting Hélène kiss her she had remained +uneasy at her least movement, and had imperiously besought her hand +before she fell asleep, anxious to retain it in her own during her +slumber. But at last, with the knowledge that nobody came near, she had +regained confidence, enraptured by the prospect of a reopening of the +old happy life when they had sat side by side, working at the window. +Every day brought new roses to her cheeks; and Rosalie declared that +she was blossoming brighter and brighter every hour. + +There were times, however, as night fell, when Hélène broke down. Since +her daughter’s illness her face had remained grave and somewhat pale, +and a deep wrinkle, never before visible, furrowed her brow. When +Jeanne caught sight of her in these hours of weariness, despair, and +voidness, she herself would feel very wretched, her heart heavy with +vague remorse. Gently and silently she would then twine her arms around +her neck. + +“Are you happy, mother darling?” came the whisper. + +A thrill ran through Hélène’s frame, and she hastened to answer: “Yes, +of course, my pet.” + +Still the child pressed her question: + +“Are you, oh! are you happy? Quite sure?” + +“Quite sure. Why should I feel unhappy?” + +With this Jeanne would clasp her closer in her little arms, as though +to requite her. She would love her so well, she would say—so well, +indeed, that nowhere in all Paris could a happier mother be found. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + + +During August Doctor Deberle’s garden was like a well of foliage. The +railings were hidden both by the twining branches of the lilac and +laburnum trees and by the climbing plants, ivy, honeysuckle, and +clematis, which sprouted everywhere in luxuriance, and glided and +intermingled in inextricable confusion, drooping down in leafy +canopies, and running along the walls till they reached the elms at the +far end, where the verdure was so profuse that you might have thought a +tent were stretched between the trees, the elms serving as its giant +props. The garden was so small that the least shadow seemed to cover +it. At noon the sun threw a disc of yellow light on the centre, +illumining the lawn and its two flower-beds. Against the garden steps +was a huge rose-bush, laden with hundreds of large tea-roses. In the +evening when the heat subsided their perfume became more penetrating, +and the air under the elms grew heavy with their warm breath. Nothing +could exceed the charm of this hidden, balmy nook, into which no +neighborly inquisition could peep, and which brought one a dream of the +forest primeval, albeit barrel-organs were playing polkas in the Rue +Vineuse, near by. + +“Why, madame, doesn’t mademoiselle go down to the garden?” Rosalie +daily asked. “I’m sure it would do her good to romp about under the +trees.” + +One of the elms had invaded Rosalie’s kitchen with its branches. She +would pull some of the leaves off as she gazed with delight on the +clustering foliage, through which she could see nothing. + +“She isn’t strong enough yet,” was Hélène’s reply. “The cold, shady +garden might be harmful to her.” + +Rosalie was in no wise convinced. A happy thought with her was not +easily abandoned. Madame must surely be mistaken in imagining that it +would be cold or harmful. Perhaps madame’s objection sprang rather from +the fear that she would be in somebody’s way; but that was nonsense. +Mademoiselle would of a truth be in nobody’s way; not a living soul +made any appearance there. The doctor shunned the spot, and as for +madame, his wife, she would remain at the seaside till the middle of +September. This was so certain that the doorkeeper had asked Zephyrin +to give the garden a rake over, and Zephyrin and she herself had spent +two Sunday afternoons there already. Oh! it was lovely, lovelier than +one could imagine. + +Hélène, however, still declined to act on the suggestion. Jeanne seemed +to have a great longing to enjoy a walk in the garden, which had been +the ceaseless topic of her discourse during her illness; but a vague +feeling of embarrassment made her eyes droop and closed her mouth on +the subject in her mother’s presence. At last when Sunday came round +again the maid hurried into the room exclaiming breathlessly: + +“Oh! madame, there’s nobody there, I give you my word! Only myself and +Zephyrin, who is raking! Do let her come. You can’t imagine how fine it +is outside. Come for a little, only a little while, just to see!” + +Her conviction was such that Hélène gave way. She cloaked Jeanne in a +shawl, and told Rosalie to take a heavy wrap with her. The child was in +an ecstasy, which spoke silently from the depths of her large sparkling +eyes; she even wished to descend the staircase without help in order +that her strength might be made plain. However, her mother’s arms were +stretched out behind her, ready to lend support. When they had reached +the foot of the stairs and entered the garden, they both gave vent to +an exclamation. So little did this umbrageous, thicket-girt spot +resemble the trim nook they had seen in the springtime that they failed +to recognize it. + +“Ah! you wouldn’t believe me!” declared Rosalie, in triumphant tones. + +The clumps of shrubbery had grown to great proportions, making the +paths much narrower, and, in walking, their skirts caught in some of +the interwoven branches. To the fancy it seemed some far-away recess in +a wood, arched over with foliage, from which fell a greeny light of +delightful charm and mystery. Hélène directed her steps towards the elm +beneath which she had sat in April. + +“But I don’t wish her to stay here,” said she. “It is shady and +coldish.” + +“Well, well, you will see in a minute,” answered the maid. + +Three steps farther on they emerged from the seeming forest, and, in +the midst of the leafy profusion they found the sun’s golden rays +streaming on the lawn, warm and still as in a woodland clearing. As +they looked up they saw the branches standing out against the blue of +the sky with the delicacy of guipure. The tea-roses on the huge bush, +faint in the heat, dropped slumberously from their stems. The +flower-beds were full of red and white asters, looking with their +old-world air like blossoms woven in some ancient tapestry. + +“Now you’ll see,” said Rosalie. “I’m going to put her all right +myself.” + +She had folded and placed the wrap on the edge of a walk, where the +shadow came to an end. Here she made Jeanne sit down, covering her +shoulders with a shawl, and bidding her stretch out her little legs. In +this fashion the shade fell on the child’s head, while her feet lay in +the sunshine. + +“Are you all right, my darling?” Hélène asked. + +“Oh, yes,” was her answer. “I don’t feel cold a bit, you know. I almost +think I am sweltering before a big fire. Ah! how well one can breathe! +How pleasant it is!” + +Thereupon Hélène, whose eyes had turned uneasily towards the closed +window-shutters of the house, expressed her intention of returning +upstairs for a little while, and loaded Rosalie with a variety of +injunctions. She would have to watch the sun; she was not to leave +Jeanne there for more than half an hour; and she must not lose sight of +her for a moment. + +“Don’t be alarmed, mamma,” exclaimed the child, with a laugh. “There +are no carriages to pass along here.” + +Left to amuse herself, she gathered a handful of gravel from the path +at her side, and took pleasure in letting it fall from her clasped +hands like a shower of rain. Zephyrin meantime was raking. On catching +sight of madame and her daughter he had slipped on his great-coat, +which he had previously hung from the branch of a tree; and in token of +respect had stood stock-still, with his rake idle in his hand. +Throughout Jeanne’s illness he had come every Sunday as usual; but so +great had been the caution with which he had slipped into the kitchen, +that Hélène would scarcely have dreamt of his presence had not Rosalie +on each occasion been deputed as his messenger to inquire about the +invalid’s progress, and convey his condolences. Yes, so ran her +comments, he was now laying claim to good manners; Paris was giving him +some polish! And at present here he was, leaning on his rake, and +mutely addressing Jeanne with a sympathetic nod. As soon as she saw +him, her face broke into smiles. + +“I have been very ill,” she said. + +“Yes, I know, mademoiselle,” he replied as he placed his hand on his +heart. And inspired with the wish to say something pretty or comical, +which might serve to enliven the meeting, he added: “You see, your +health has been taking a rest. Now it will indulge in a snore.” + +Jeanne had again gathered up a handful of gravel, while he, perfectly +satisfied, and opening his mouth wide from ear to ear in a burst of +silent laughter, renewed his raking with all the strength of his arms. +As the rake travelled over the gravel a regular, strident sound arose. +When a few minutes had elapsed Rosalie, seeing her little charge +absorbed in her amusement, seemingly happy and at ease, drew gradually +farther away from her, as though lured by the grating of this rake. +Zephyrin was now working away in the full glare of the sun, on the +other side of the lawn. + +“You are sweating like an ox,” she whispered to him. “Take off your +great-coat. Be quick; mademoiselle won’t be offended.” + +He relieved himself of the garment, and once more suspended it from a +branch. His red trousers, supported by a belt round the waist, reached +almost to his chest, while his shirt of stout, unbleached linen, held +at the neck by a narrow horsehair band, was so stiff that it stuck out +and made him look even rounder than he was. He tucked up his sleeves +with a certain amount of affectation, as though to show Rosalie a +couple of flaming hearts, which, with the inscription “For Ever,” had +been tattooed on them at the barracks. + +“Did you go to mass this morning?” asked Rosalie, who usually tackled +him with this question every Sunday. + +“To mass! to mass!” he repeated, with a chuckle. + +His red ears seemed to stand out from his head, shorn to the very skin, +and the whole of his diminutive barrel-like body expressed a spirit of +banter. + +At last the confession came. “Of course I went to mass.” + +“You are lying,” Rosalie burst out violently. “I know you are lying; +your nose is twitching. Oh, Zephyrin, you are going to the dogs—you +have left off going to church! Beware!” + +His answer, lover-like, was an attempt to put his arm round her waist, +but to all appearance she was shocked, for she exclaimed: + +“I’ll make you put on your coat again if you don’t behave yourself. +Aren’t you ashamed? Why, there’s mademoiselle looking at you!” + +Thereupon Zephyrin turned to his raking once more. In truth, Jeanne had +raised her eyes towards them. Her amusement was palling on her +somewhat; the gravel thrown aside, she had been gathering leaves and +plucking grass; but a feeling of indolence crept over her, and now she +preferred to do nothing but gaze at the sunshine as it fell on her more +and more. A few moments previously only her legs, as far as the knees, +had been bathed in this warm cascade of sunshine, but now it reached +her waist, the heat increasing like an entrancing caress. What +particularly amused her were the round patches of light, of a beautiful +golden yellow, which danced over her shawl, for all the world like +living creatures. She tossed back her head to see if they were +perchance creeping towards her face, and meanwhile clasped her little +hands together in the glare of the sunshine. How thin and transparent +her hands seemed! The sun’s rays passed through them, but all the same +they appeared to her very pretty, pinky like shells, delicate and +attenuated like the tiny hands of an infant Christ. Then too the fresh +air, the gigantic trees around her, and the warmth, had lulled her +somewhat into a trance. Sleep, she imagined, had come upon her, and yet +she could still see and hear. It all seemed to her very nice and +pleasant. + +“Mademoiselle, please draw back a bit,” said Rosalie, who had +approached her. “The sun’s heat is too warm for you.” + +But with a wave of her hand Jeanne declined to stir. For the time her +attention was riveted on the maid and the little soldier. She pretended +to direct her glances towards the ground, with the intention of making +them believe that she did not see them; but in reality, despite her +apparent drowsiness, she kept watching them from beneath her long +eyelashes. + +Rosalie stood near her for a minute or two longer, but was powerless +against the charms of the grating rake. Once more she slowly dragged +herself towards Zephyrin, as if in spite of her will. She resented the +change in manner which he was now displaying, and yet her heart was +bursting with mute admiration. The little soldier had used to good +purpose his long strolls with his comrades in the Jardin des Plantes +and round the Place du Chateau-d’Eau, where his barracks stood, and the +result was the acquisition of the swaying, expansive graces of the +Parisian fire-eater. He had learnt the flowery talk, gallant readiness, +and involved style of language so dear to the hearts of the ladies. At +times she was thrilled with intense pleasure as she listened to the +phrases which he repeated to her with a swagger of the shoulders, +phrases full of incomprehensible words that inflamed her cheeks with a +flush of pride. His uniform no longer sat awkwardly on him; he swung +his arms to and fro with a knowing air, and had an especially +noticeable style of wearing his shako on the back of his head, with the +result that his round face with its tip of a nose became extremely +prominent, while his headgear swayed gently with the rolling of his +body. Besides, he was growing quite free and easy, quaffed his dram, +and ogled the fair sex. With his sneering ways and affectation of +reticence, he now doubtless knew a great deal more than she did. Paris +was fast taking all the remaining rust off him; and Rosalie stood +before him, delighted yet angry, undecided whether to scratch his face +or let him give utterance to foolish prattle. + +Zephyrin, meanwhile, raking away, had turned the corner of the path. He +was now hidden by a big spindle-tree, and was darting side-glances at +Rosalie, luring her on against her will with the strokes of his rake. +When she had got near him, he pinched her roughly. + +“Don’t cry out; that’s only to show you how I love you!” he said in a +husky whisper. “And take that over and above.” + +So saying he kissed her where he could, his lips lighting somewhere on +her ear. Then, as Rosalie gave him a fierce nip in reply, he retaliated +by another kiss, this time on her nose. Though she was well pleased, +her face turned fiery-red; she was furious that Jeanne’s presence +should prevent her from giving him a box on the ear. + +“I have pricked my finger,” she declared to Jeanne as she returned to +her, by way of explaining the exclamation that escaped her lips. + +However, betwixt the spare branches of the spindle-tree the child had +seen the incident. Amid the surrounding greenery the soldier’s red +trousers and greyish shirt were clearly discernible. She slowly raised +her eyes to Rosalie, and looked at her for a moment, while the maid +blushed the more. Then Jeanne’s gaze fell to the ground again, and she +gathered another handful of pebbles, but lacked the will or strength to +play with them, and remained in a dreamy state, with her hands resting +on the warm ground, amidst the vibrations of the sunrays. Within her a +wave of health was swelling and stifling her. The trees seemed to take +Titanic shape, and the air was redolent of the perfume of roses. In +wonder and delight, she dreamt of all sorts of vague things. + +“What are you thinking of, mademoiselle?” asked Rosalie uneasily. + +“I don’t know—of nothing,” was Jeanne’s reply. “Yes, I do know. You +see, I should like to live to be very old.” + +However, she could not explain these words. It was an idea, she said, +that had come into her head. But in the evening, after dinner, as her +dreamy fit fell on her again, and her mother inquired the cause, she +suddenly put the question: + +“Mamma, do cousins ever marry?” + +“Yes, of course,” said Hélène. “Why do you ask me that?” + +“Oh, nothing; only I wanted to know.” + +Hélène had become accustomed to these extraordinary questions. The hour +spent in the garden had so beneficial an effect on the child that every +sunny day found her there. Hélène’s reluctance was gradually dispelled; +the house was still shut up. Henri never ventured to show himself, and +ere long she sat down on the edge of the rug beside Jeanne. However, on +the following Sunday morning she found the windows thrown open, and +felt troubled at heart. + +“Oh! but of course the rooms must be aired,” exclaimed Rosalie, as an +inducement for them to go down. “I declare to you nobody’s there!” + +That day the weather was still warmer. Through the leafy screen the +sun’s rays darted like golden arrows. Jeanne, who was growing strong, +strolled about for ten minutes, leaning on her mother’s arm. Then, +somewhat tired, she turned towards her rug, a corner of which she +assigned to Hélène. They smiled at one another, amused at thus finding +themselves side by side on the ground. Zephyrin had given up his +raking, and was helping Rosalie to gather some parsley, clumps of which +were growing along the end wall. + +All at once there was an uproar in the house, and Hélène was thinking +of flight, when Madame Deberle made her appearance on the garden-steps. +She had just arrived, and was still in her travelling dress, speaking +very loudly, and seemingly very busy. But immediately she caught sight +of Madame Grandjean and her daughter, sitting on the ground in the +front of the lawn, she ran down, overwhelmed them with embraces, and +poured a deafening flood of words into their ears. + +“What, is it you? How glad I am to see you! Kiss me, my little Jeanne! +Poor puss, you’ve been very ill, have you not? But you’re getting +better; the roses are coming back to your cheeks! And you, my dear, how +often I’ve thought of you! I wrote to you: did my letters reach you? +You must have spent a terrible time: but it’s all over now! Will you +let me kiss you?” + +Hélène was now on her feet, and was forced to submit to a kiss on each +cheek and return them. This display of affection, however, chilled her +to the heart. + +“You’ll excuse us for having invaded your garden,” she said. + +“You’re joking,” retorted Juliette impetuously. “Are you not at home +here?” + +But she ran off for a moment, hastened up the stairs, and called across +the open rooms: “Pierre, don’t forget anything; there are seventeen +packages!” + +Then, at once coming back, she commenced chattering about her holiday +adventures. “Oh! such a splendid season! We went to Trouville, you +know. The beach was always thronged with people. It was quite a crush. +and people of the highest spheres, you know. I had visitors too. Papa +came for a fortnight with Pauline. All the same, I’m glad to get home +again. But I haven’t given you all my news. Oh! I’ll tell you later +on!” + +She stooped down and kissed Jeanne again; then suddenly becoming +serious, she asked: + +“Am I browned by the sun?” + +“No; I don’t see any signs of it,” replied Hélène as she gazed at her. + +Juliette’s eyes were clear and expressionless, her hands were plump, +her pretty face was full of amiability; age did not tell on her; the +sea air itself was powerless to affect her expression of serene +indifference. So far as appearances went, she might have just returned +from a shopping expedition in Paris. However, she was bubbling over +with affection, and the more loving her outbursts, the more weary, +constrained, and ill became Hélène. Jeanne meantime never stirred from +the rug, but merely raised her delicate, sickly face, while clasping +her hands with a chilly air in the sunshine. + +“Wait, you haven’t seen Lucien yet,” exclaimed Juliette. “You must see +him; he has got so fat.” + +When the lad was brought on the scene, after the dust of the journey +had been washed from his face by a servant girl, she pushed and turned +him about to exhibit him. Fat and chubby-cheeked, his skin tanned by +playing on the beach in the salt breeze, Lucien displayed exuberant +health, but he had a somewhat sulky look because he had just been +washed. He had not been properly dried, and one check was still wet and +fiery-red with the rubbing of the towel. When he caught sight of Jeanne +he stood stock-still with astonishment. She looked at him out of her +poor, sickly face, as colorless as linen against the background of her +streaming black hair, whose tresses fell in clusters to her shoulders. +Her beautiful, sad, dilated eyes seemed to fill up her whole +countenance; and, despite the excessive heat, she shivered somewhat, +and stretched out her hands as though chilled and seeking warmth from a +blazing fire. + +“Well! aren’t you going to kiss her?” asked Juliette. + +But Lucien looked rather afraid. At length he made up his mind, and +very cautiously protruded his lips so that he might not come too near +the invalid. This done, he started back expeditiously. Hélène’s eyes +were brimming over with tears. What health that child enjoyed! whereas +her Jeanne was breathless after a walk round the lawn! Some mothers +were very fortunate! Juliette all at once understood how cruel Lucien’s +conduct was, and she rated him soundly. + +“Good gracious! what a fool you are! Is that the way to kiss young +ladies? You’ve no idea, my dear, what a nuisance he was at Trouville.” + +She was getting somewhat mixed. But fortunately for her the doctor now +made his appearance, and she extricated herself from her difficulty by +exclaiming: “Oh, here’s Henri.” + +He had not been expecting their return until the evening, but she had +travelled by an earlier train. She plunged into a discursive +explanation, without in the least making her reasons clear. The doctor +listened with a smiling face. “At all events, here you are,” he said. +“That’s all that’s necessary.” + +A minute previously he had bowed to Hélène without speaking. His glance +for a moment fell on Jeanne, but feeling embarrassed he turned away his +head. Jeanne bore his look with a serious face, and unclasping her +hands instinctively grasped her mother’s gown and drew closer to her +side. + +“Ah! the rascal,” said the doctor, as he raised Lucien and kissed him +on each cheek. “Why, he’s growing like magic.” + +“Yes; and am I to be forgotten?” asked Juliette, as she held up her +head. Then, without putting Lucien down, holding him, indeed, on one +arm, the doctor leaned over to kiss his wife. Their three faces were +lit up with smiles. + +Hélène grew pale, and declared she must now go up. Jeanne, however, was +unwilling; she wished to see what might happen, and her glances +lingered for a while on the Deberles and then travelled back to her +mother. When Juliette had bent her face upwards to receive her +husband’s kiss, a bright gleam had come into the child’s eyes. + +“He’s too heavy,” resumed the doctor as he set Lucien down again. +“Well, was the season a good one? I saw Malignon yesterday, and he was +telling me about his stay there. So you let him leave before you, eh?” + +“Oh! he’s quite a nuisance!” exclaimed Juliette, over whose face a +serious, embarrassed expression had now crept. “He tormented us to +death the whole time.” + +“Your father was hoping for Pauline’s sake—He hasn’t declared his +intentions then?” + +“What! Malignon!” said she, as though astonished and offended. And then +with a gesture of annoyance she added, “Oh! leave him alone; he’s +cracked! How happy I am to be home again!” + +Without any apparent transition, she thereupon broke into an amazing +outburst of tenderness, characteristic of her bird-like nature. She +threw herself on her husband’s breast and raised her face towards him. +To all seeming they had forgotten that they were not alone. + +Jeanne’s eyes, however, never quitted them. Her lips were livid and +trembled with anger; her face was that of a jealous and revengeful +woman. The pain she suffered was so great that she was forced to turn +away her head, and in doing so she caught sight of Rosalie and Zephyrin +at the bottom of the garden, still gathering parsley. Doubtless with +the intent of being in no one’s way, they had crept in among the +thickest of the bushes, where both were squatting on the ground. +Zephyrin, with a sly movement, had caught hold of one of Rosalie’s +feet, while she, without uttering a syllable, was heartily slapping +him. Between two branches Jeanne could see the little soldier’s face, +chubby and round as a moon and deeply flushed, while his mouth gaped +with an amorous grin. Meantime the sun’s rays were beating down +vertically, and the trees were peacefully sleeping, not a leaf stirring +among them all. From beneath the elms came the heavy odor of soil +untouched by the spade. And elsewhere floated the perfume of the last +tea-roses, which were casting their petals one by one on the garden +steps. Then Jeanne, with swelling heart, turned her gaze on her mother, +and seeing her motionless and dumb in presence of the Deberles, gave +her a look of intense anguish—a child’s look of infinite meaning, such +as you dare not question. + +But Madame Deberle stepped closer to them, and said: “I hope we shall +see each other frequently now. As Jeanne is feeling better, she must +come down every afternoon.” + +Hélène was already casting about for an excuse, pleading that she did +not wish to weary her too much. But Jeanne abruptly broke in: “No, no; +the sun does me a great deal of good. We will come down, madame. You +will keep my place for me, won’t you?” + +And as the doctor still remained in the background, she smiled towards +him. + +“Doctor, please tell mamma that the fresh air won’t do me any harm.” + +He came forward, and this man, inured to human suffering, felt on his +cheeks a slight flush at being thus gently addressed by the child. + +“Certainly not,” he exclaimed; “the fresh air will only bring you +nearer to good health.” + +“So you see, mother darling, we must come down,” said Jeanne, with a +look of ineffable tenderness, whilst a sob died away in her throat. + +But Pierre had reappeared on the steps and announced the safe arrival +of madame’s seventeen packages. Then, followed by her husband and +Lucien, Juliette retired, declaring that she was frightfully dirty, and +intended to take a bath. When they were alone, Hélène knelt down on the +rug, as though about to tie the shawl round Jeanne’s neck, and +whispered in the child’s ear: + +“You’re not angry any longer with the doctor, then?” + +With a prolonged shake of the head the child replied “No, mamma.” + +There was a silence. Hélène’s hands were seized with an awkward +trembling, and she was seemingly unable to tie the shawl. Then Jeanne +murmured: “But why does he love other people so? I won’t have him love +them like that.” + +And as she spoke, her black eyes became harsh and gloomy, while her +little hands fondled her mother’s shoulders. Hélène would have replied, +but the words springing to her lips frightened her. The sun was now +low, and mother and daughter took their departure. Zephyrin meanwhile +had reappeared to view, with a bunch of parsley in his hand, the stalks +of which he continued pulling off while darting murderous glances at +Rosalie. The maid followed at some distance, inspired with distrust now +that there was no one present. Just as she stooped to roll up the rug +he tried to pinch her, but she retaliated with a blow from her fist +which made his back re-echo like an empty cask. Still it seemed to +delight him, and he was yet laughing silently when he re-entered the +kitchen busily arranging his parsley. + +Thenceforth Jeanne was stubbornly bent on going down to the garden as +soon as ever she heard Madame Deberle’s voice there. All Rosalie’s +tittle-tattle regarding the next-door house she drank in greedily, ever +restless and inquisitive concerning its inmates and their doings; and +she would even slip out of the bedroom to keep watch from the kitchen +window. In the garden, ensconced in a small arm-chair which was brought +for her use from the drawing-room by Juliette’s direction, her eyes +never quitted the family. Lucien she now treated with great reserve, +annoyed it seemed by his questions and antics, especially when the +doctor was present. On those occasions she would stretch herself out as +if wearied, gazing before her with her eyes wide open. For Hélène the +afternoons were pregnant with anguish. She always returned, however, +returned in spite of the feeling of revolt which wrung her whole being. +Every day when, on his arrival home, Henri printed a kiss on Juliette’s +hair, her heart leaped in its agony. And at those moments, if to hide +the agitation of her face she pretended to busy herself with Jeanne, +she would notice that the child was even paler than herself, with her +black eyes glaring and her chin twitching with repressed fury. Jeanne +shared in her suffering. When the mother turned away her head, +heartbroken, the child became so sad and so exhausted that she had to +be carried upstairs and put to bed. She could no longer see the doctor +approach his wife without changing countenance; she would tremble, and +turn on him a glance full of all the jealous fire of a deserted +mistress. + +“I cough in the morning,” she said to him one day. “You must come and +see for yourself.” + +Rainy weather ensued, and Jeanne became quite anxious that the doctor +should commence his visits once more. Yet her health had much improved. +To humor her, Hélène had been constrained to accept two or three +invitations to dine with the Deberles. + +At last the child’s heart, so long torn by hidden sorrow, seemingly +regained quietude with the complete re-establishment of her health. She +would again ask Hélène the old question—“Are you happy, mother +darling?” + +“Yes, very happy, my pet,” was the reply. + +And this made her radiant. She must be pardoned her bad temper in the +past, she said. She referred to it as a fit which no effort of her own +will could prevent, the result of a headache that came on her suddenly. +Something would spring up within her—she wholly failed to understand +what it was. She was tempest-tossed by a multitude of vague +imaginings—nightmares that she could not even have recalled to memory. +However, it was past now; she was well again, and those worries would +nevermore return. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + + +The night was falling. From the grey heaven, where the first of the +stars were gleaming, a fine ashy dust seemed to be raining down on the +great city, raining down without cessation and slowly burying it. The +hollows were already hidden deep in gloom, and a line of cloud, like a +stream of ink, rose upon the horizon, engulfing the last streaks of +daylight, the wavering gleams which were retreating towards the west. +Below Passy but a few stretches of roofs remained visible; and as the +wave rolled on, darkness soon covered all. + +“What a warm evening!” ejaculated Hélène, as she sat at the window, +overcome by the heated breeze which was wafted upwards from Paris. + +“A grateful night for the poor,” exclaimed the Abbé, who stood behind +her. “The autumn will be mild.” + +That Tuesday Jeanne had fallen into a doze at dessert, and her mother, +perceiving that she was rather tired, had put her to bed. She was +already fast asleep in her cot, while Monsieur Rambaud sat at the table +gravely mending a toy—a mechanical doll, a present from himself, which +both spoke and walked, and which Jeanne had broken. He excelled in such +work as this. Hélène on her side feeling the want of fresh air—for the +lingering heats of September were oppressive—had thrown the window wide +open, and gazed with relief on the vast gloomy ocean of darkness that +rolled before her. She had pushed an easy-chair to the window in order +to be alone, but was suddenly surprised to hear the Abbé speaking to +her. “Is the little one warmly covered?” he gently asked. “On these +heights the air is always keen.” + +She made no reply, however; her heart was craving for silence. She was +tasting the delights of the twilight hour, the vanishing of all +surrounding objects, the hushing of every sound. Gleams, like those of +night-lights, tipped the steeples and towers; that on Saint-Augustin +died out first, the Panthéon for a moment retained a bluish light, and +then the glittering dome of the Invalides faded away, similar to a moon +setting in a rising sea of clouds. The night was like the ocean, its +extent seemingly increased by the gloom, a dark abyss wherein you +divined that a world lay hid. From the unseen city blew a mighty yet +gentle wind. There was still a hum; sounds ascended faint yet clear to +Hélène’s ears—the sharp rattle of an omnibus rolling along the quay, +the whistle of a train crossing the bridge of the Point-du-Jour; and +the Seine, swollen by the recent storms, and pulsing with the life of a +breathing soul, wound with increased breadth through the shadows far +below. A warm odor steamed upwards from the scorched roofs, while the +river, amidst this exhalation of the daytime heat, seemed to give forth +a cooling breeze. Paris had vanished, sunk in the dreamy repose of a +colossus whose limbs the night has enveloped, and who lies motionless +for a time, but with eyes wide open. + +Nothing affected Hélène more than this momentary pause in the great +city’s life. For the three months during which she had been a close +prisoner, riveted to Jeanne’s bedside, she had had no other companion +in her vigil than the huge mass of Paris spreading out towards the +horizon. During the summer heats of July and August the windows had +almost always been left open; she could not cross the room, could not +stir or turn her head, without catching a glimpse of the ever-present +panorama. It was there, whatever the weather, always sharing in her +griefs and hopes, like some friend who would never leave her side. She +was still quite ignorant respecting it; never had it seemed farther +away, never had she given less thought to its streets and its citizens, +and yet it peopled her solitude. The sick-room, whose door was kept +shut to the outside world, looked out through its two windows upon this +city. Often, with her eyes fixed on its expanse, Hélène had wept, +leaning on the window-rail in order to hide her tears from her ailing +child. One day, too—the very day when she had imagined her daughter to +be at the point of death—she had remained for a long time, overcome and +choked with grief, watching the smoke which curled up from the Army +Bakehouse. Frequently, moreover, in hours of hopefulness she had here +confided the gladsome feelings of her heart to the dim and distant +suburbs. There was not a single monument which did not recall to her +some sensation of joy or sorrow. Paris shared in her own existence; and +never did she love it better than when the twilight came, and its day’s +work over, it surrendered itself to an hour’s quietude, forgetfulness, +and reverie, whilst waiting for the lighting of its gas. + +“What a multitude of stars!” murmured Abbé Jouve. “There are thousands +of them gleaming.” + +He had just taken a chair and sat down at her side. On hearing him, she +gazed upwards into the summer night. The heaven was studded with golden +lights. On the very verge of the horizon a constellation was sparkling +like a carbuncle, while a dust of almost invisible stars sprinkled the +vault above as though with glittering sand. Charles’s-Wain was slowly +turning its shaft in the night. + +“Look!” said Hélène in her turn, “look at that tiny bluish star! +See—far away up there. I recognize it night after night. But it dies +and fades as the night rolls on.” + +The Abbé’s presence no longer annoyed her. With him by her side, she +imagined the quiet was deepening around. A few words passed between +them after long intervals of silence. Twice she questioned him on the +names of the stars—the sight of the heavens had always interested +her—but he was doubtful and pleaded ignorance. + +“Do you see,” she asked, “that lovely star yonder whose lustre is so +exquisitely clear?” + +“On the left, eh?” he replied, “near another smaller, greenish one? Ah! +there are so many of them that my memory fails me.” + +They again lapsed into silence, their eyes still turned upwards, +dazzled, quivering slightly at the sight of that stupendous swarming of +luminaries. In the vast depths of the heavens, behind thousands of +stars, thousands of others twinkled in ever-increasing multitudes, with +the clear brilliancy of gems. The Milky Way was already whitening, +displaying its solar specks, so innumerable and so distant that in the +vault of the firmament they form but a trailing scarf of light. + +“It fills me with fear,” said Hélène in a whisper; and that she might +see it all no more she bent her head and glanced down on the gaping +abyss in which Paris seemed to be engulfed. In its depths not a light +could yet be seen; night had rolled over it and plunged it into +impenetrable darkness. Its mighty, continuous rumble seemed to have +sunk into a softer key. + +“Are you weeping?” asked the Abbé, who had heard a sound of sobbing. + +“Yes,” simply answered Hélène. + +They could not see each other. For a long time she continued weeping, +her whole being exhaling a plaintive murmur. Behind them, meantime, +Jeanne lay at rest in innocent sleep, and Monsieur Rambaud, his whole +attention engrossed, bent his grizzled head over the doll which he had +dismembered. At times he could not prevent the loosened springs from +giving out a creaking noise, a childlike squeaking which his big +fingers, though plied with the utmost gentleness, drew from the +disordered mechanism. If the doll vented too loud a sound, however, he +at once stopped working, distressed and vexed with himself, and turning +towards Jeanne to see if he had roused her. Then once more he would +resume his repairing, with great precautions, his only tools being a +pair of scissors and a bodkin. + +“Why do you weep, my daughter?” again asked the Abbé. “Can I not afford +you some relief?” + +“Ah! let me be,” said Hélène; “these tears do me good. By-and-by, +by-and-by—” + +A stifling sensation checked any further words. Once before, in this +very place, she had been convulsed by a storm of tears; but then she +had been alone, free to sob in the darkness till the emotion that wrung +her was dried up at its source. However, she knew of no cause of +sorrow; her daughter was well once more, and she had resumed the old +monotonous delightful life. But it was as though a keen sense of awful +grief had abruptly come upon her; it seemed as if she were rolling into +a bottomless abyss which she could not fathom, sinking with all who +were dear to her in a limitless sea of despair. She knew not what +misfortune hung over her head; but she was without hope, and could only +weep. + +Similar waves of feeling had swept over her during the month of the +Virgin in the church laden with the perfume of flowers. And, as +twilight fell, the vastness of Paris filled her with a deep religious +impression. The stretch of plain seemed to expand, and a sadness rose +up from the two millions of living beings who were being engulfed in +darkness. And when it was night, and the city with its subdued rumbling +had vanished from view, her oppressed heart poured forth its sorrow, +and her tears overflowed, in presence of that sovereign peace. She +could have clasped her hands and prayed. She was filled with an intense +craving for faith, love, and a lapse into heavenly forgetfulness; and +the first glinting of the stars overwhelmed her with sacred terror and +enjoyment. + +A lengthy interval of silence ensued, and then the Abbé spoke once +more, this time more pressingly. + +“My daughter, you must confide in me. Why do you hesitate?” + +She was still weeping, but more gently, like a wearied and powerless +child. + +“The Church frightens you,” he continued. “For a time I thought you had +yielded your heart to God. But it has been willed otherwise. Heaven has +its own purposes. Well, since you mistrust the priest, why should you +refuse to confide in the friend?” + +“You are right,” she faltered. “Yes, I am sad at heart, and need your +consolation. I must tell you of it all. When I was a child I seldom, if +ever, entered a church; now I cannot be present at a service without +feeling touched to the very depths of my being. Yes; and what drew +tears from me just now was that voice of Paris, sounding like a mighty +organ, that immeasurable night, and those beauteous heavens. Oh! I +would fain believe. Help me; teach me.” + +Abbé Jouve calmed her somewhat by lightly placing his hand on her own. + +“Tell me everything,” he merely said. + +She struggled for a time, her heart wrung with anguish. + +“There’s nothing to tell, I assure you. I’m hiding nothing from you. I +weep without cause, because I feel stifled, because my tears gush out +of their own accord. You know what my life has been. No sorrow, no sin, +no remorse could I find in it to this hour. I do not know—I do not +know—” + +Her voice died away, and from the priest’s lips slowly came the words, +“You love, my daughter!” + +She started; she dared not protest. Silence fell on them once more. In +the sea of shadows that slumbered before them a light had glimmered +forth. It seemed at their feet, somewhere in the abyss, but at what +precise spot they would have been unable to specify. And then, one by +one, other lights broke through the darkness, shooting into instant +life, and remaining stationary, scintillating like stars. It seemed as +though thousands of fresh planets were rising on the surface of a +gloomy lake. Soon they stretched out in double file, starting from the +Trocadero, and nimbly leaping towards Paris. Then these files were +intersected by others, curves were described, and a huge, strange, +magnificent constellation spread out. Hélène never breathed a word, but +gazed on these gleams of light, which made the heavens seemingly +descend below the line of the horizon, as though indeed the earth had +vanished and the vault of heaven were on every side. And Hélène’s heart +was again flooded with emotion, as a few minutes before when +Charles’s-Wain had slowly begun to revolve round the Polar axis, its +shaft in the air. Paris, studded with lights, stretched out, deep and +sad, prompting fearful thoughts of a firmament swarming with unknown +worlds. + +Meanwhile the priest, in the monotonous, gentle voice which he had +acquired by years of duty in the confessional, continued whispering in +her ear. One evening in the past he had warned her; solitude, he had +said, would be harmful to her welfare. No one could with impunity live +outside the pale of life. She had imprisoned herself too closely, and +the door had opened to perilous thoughts. + +“I am very old now, my daughter,” he murmured, “and I have frequently +seen women come to us weeping and praying, with a craving to find faith +and religion. Thus it is that I cannot be deceiving myself to-day. +These women, who seem to seek God in so zealous a manner, are but souls +rendered miserable by passion. It is a man whom they worship in our +churches.” + +She was not listening; a strife was raging in her bosom, amidst her +efforts to read her innermost thoughts aright. And at last confession +came from her in a broken whisper: + +“Oh! yes, I love, and that is all! Beyond that I know nothing—nothing!” + +He now forbore to interrupt her; she spoke in short feverish sentences, +taking a mournful pleasure in thus confessing her love, in sharing with +that venerable priest the secret which had so long burdened her. + +“I swear I cannot read my thoughts. This has come to me without my +knowing its presence. Perhaps it came in a moment. Only in time did I +realize its sweetness. Besides, why should I deem myself stronger than +I am? I have made no effort to flee from it; I was only too happy, and +to-day I have yet less power of resistance. My daughter was ill; I +almost lost her. Well! my love has been as intense as my sorrow; it +came back with sovereign power after those days of terror—and it +possesses me, I feel transported—” + +She shivered and drew a breath. + +“In short, my strength fails me. You were right, my friend, in thinking +it would be a relief to confide in you. But, I beseech you, tell me +what is happening in the depths of my heart. My life was once so +peaceful; I was so happy. A thunderbolt has fallen on me. Why on me? +Why not on another? I had done nothing to bring it on; I imagined +myself well protected. Ah, if you only knew—I know myself no longer! +Help me, save me!” + +Then as she became silent, the priest, with the wonted freedom of the +confessor, mechanically asked the question: + +“The name? tell me his name?” + +She was hesitating, when a peculiar noise prompted her to turn her +head. It came from the doll which, in Monsieur Rambaud’s hands, was by +degrees renewing its mechanical life, and had just taken three steps on +the table, with a creaking of wheels and springs which showed that +there was still something faulty in its works. Then it had fallen on +its back, and but for the worthy man would have rebounded onto the +ground. He followed all its movements with outstretched hands, ready to +support it, and full of paternal anxiety. The moment he perceived +Hélène turn, he smiled confidently towards her, as if to give her an +assurance that the doll would recover its walking powers. And then he +once more dived with scissors and bodkin into the toy. Jeanne still +slept on. + +Thereupon Hélène, her nerves relaxing under the influence of the +universal quiet, whispered a name in the priest’s ear. He never +stirred; in the darkness his face could not be seen. A silence ensued, +and he responded: + +“I knew it, but I wanted to hear it from your own lips. My daughter, +yours must be terrible suffering.” + +He gave utterance to no truisms on the subject of duty. Hélène, +overcome, saddened to the heart by this unemotional pity, gazed once +more on the lights which spangled the gloomy veil enshrouding Paris. +They were flashing everywhere in myriads, like the sparks that dart +over the blackened refuse of burnt paper. At first these twinkling dots +had started from the Trocadero towards the heart of the city. Soon +another coruscation had appeared on the left in the direction of +Montmartre; then another had burst into view on the right behind the +Invalides, and still another, more distant near the Panthéon. From all +these centres flights of flames were simultaneously descending. + +“You remember our conversation,” slowly resumed the Abbé. “My opinion +has not changed. My daughter, you must marry.” + +“I!” she exclaimed, overwhelmed with amazement. “But I have just +confessed to you—Oh, you know well I cannot—” + +“You must marry,” he repeated with greater decision. “You will wed an +honest man.” + +Within the folds of his old cassock he seemed to have grown more +commanding. His large comical-looking head, which, with eyes +half-closed, was usually inclined towards one shoulder, was now raised +erect, and his eyes beamed with such intensity that she saw them +sparkling in the darkness. + +“You will marry an honest man, who will be a father to Jeanne, and will +lead you back to the path of goodness.” + +“But I do not love him. Gracious Heaven! I do not love him!” + +“You will love him, my daughter. He loves you, and he is good in +heart.” + +Hélène struggled, and her voice sank to a whisper as she heard the +slight noise that Monsieur Rambaud made behind them. He was so patient +and so strong in his hope, that for six months he had not once intruded +his love on her. Disposed by nature to the most heroic self-sacrifice, +he waited in serene confidence. The Abbé stirred, as though about to +turn round. + +“Would you like me to tell him everything? He would stretch out his +hand and save you. And you would fill him with joy beyond compare.” + +She checked him, utterly distracted. Her heart revolted. Both of these +peaceful, affectionate men, whose judgment retained perfect equilibrium +in presence of her feverish passion, were sources of terror to her. +What world could they abide in to be able to set at naught that which +caused her so much agony? The priest, however, waved his hand with an +all-comprehensive gesture. + +“My daughter,” said he, “look on this lovely night, so supremely still +in presence of your troubled spirit. Why do you refuse happiness?” + +All Paris was now illumined. The tiny dancing flames had speckled the +sea of shadows from one end of the horizon to the other, and now, as in +a summer night, millions of fixed stars seemed to be serenely gleaming +there. Not a puff of air, not a quiver of the atmosphere stirred these +lights, to all appearance suspended in space. Paris, now invisible, had +fallen into the depths of an abyss as vast as a firmament. At times, at +the base of the Trocadero, a light—the lamp of a passing cab or +omnibus—would dart across the gloom, sparkling like a shooting star; +and here amidst the radiance of the gas-jets, from which streamed a +yellow haze, a confused jumble of house-fronts and clustering +trees—green like the trees in stage scenery—could be vaguely discerned. +To and fro, across the Pont des Invalides, gleaming lights flashed +without ceasing; far below, across a band of denser gloom, appeared a +marvellous train of comet-like coruscations, from whose lustrous tails +fell a rain of gold. These were the reflections in the Seine’s black +waters of the lamps on the bridge. From this point, however, the +unknown began. The long curve of the river was merely described by a +double line of lights, which ever and anon were coupled to other +transverse lines, so that the whole looked like some glittering ladder, +thrown across Paris, with its ends on the verge of the heavens among +the stars. + +To the left there was another trench excavated athwart the gloom; an +unbroken chain of stars shone forth down the Champs-Elysees from the +Arc-de-Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde, where a new cluster of +Pleiades was flashing; next came the gloomy stretches of the Tuileries +and the Louvre, the blocks of houses on the brink of the water, and the +Hotel-de-Ville away at the extreme end—all these masses of darkness +being parted here and there by bursts of light from some large square +or other; and farther and farther away, amidst the endless confusion of +roofs, appeared scattered gleams, affording faint glimpses of the +hollow of a street below, the corner of some boulevard, or the +brilliantly illuminated meeting-place of several thoroughfares. On the +opposite bank, on the right, the Esplanade alone could be discerned +with any distinctness, its rectangle marked out in flame, like an Orion +of a winter’s night bereft of his baldrick. The long streets of the +Saint-Germain district seemed gloomy with their fringe of infrequent +lamps; but the thickly populated quarters beyond were speckled with a +multitude of tiny flames, clustering like nebulae. Away towards the +outskirts, girdling the whole of the horizon, swarmed street-lamps and +lighted windows, filling these distant parts with a dust, as it were, +of those myriads of suns, those planetary atoms which the naked eye +cannot discover. The public edifices had vanished into the depths of +the darkness; not a lamp marked out their spires and towers. At times +you might have imagined you were gazing on some gigantic festival, some +illuminated cyclopean monument, with staircases, balusters, windows, +pediments, and terraces—a veritable cosmos of stone, whose wondrous +architecture was outlined by the gleaming lights of a myriad lamps. But +there was always a speedy return of the feeling that new constellations +were springing into being, and that the heavens were spreading both +above and below. + +Hélène, in compliance with the all-embracing sweep of the priest’s +hand, cast a lingering look over illumined Paris. Here too she knew not +the names of those seeming stars. She would have liked to ask what the +blaze far below on the left betokened, for she saw it night after +night. There were others also which roused her curiosity, and some of +them she loved, whilst some inspired her with uneasiness or vexation. + +“Father,” said she, for the first time employing that appellation of +affection and respect, “let me live as I am. The loveliness of the +night has agitated me. You are wrong; you would not know how to console +me, for you cannot understand my feelings.” + +The priest stretched out his arms, then slowly dropped them to his side +resignedly. And after a pause he said in a whisper: + +“Doubtless that was bound to be the case. You call for succor and +reject salvation. How many despairing confessions I have received! What +tears I have been unable to prevent! Listen, my daughter, promise me +one thing only; if ever life should become too heavy a burden for you, +think that one honest man loves you and is waiting for you. To regain +content you will only have to place your hand in his.” + +“I promise you,” answered Hélène gravely. + +As she made the avowal a ripple of laughter burst through the room. +Jeanne had just awoke, and her eyes were riveted on her doll pacing up +and down the table. Monsieur Rambaud, enthusiastic over the success of +his tinkering, still kept his hands stretched out for fear lest any +accident should happen. But the doll retained its stability, strutted +about on its tiny feet, and turned its head, whilst at every step +repeating the same words after the fashion of a parrot. + +“Oh! it’s some trick or other!” murmured Jeanne, who was still half +asleep. “What have you done to it—tell me? It was all smashed, and now +it’s walking. Give it me a moment; let me see. Oh, you _are_ a +darling!” + +Meanwhile over the gleaming expanse of Paris a rosy cloud was ascending +higher and higher. It might have been thought the fiery breath of a +furnace. At first it was shadowy-pale in the darkness—a reflected glow +scarcely seen. Then slowly, as the evening progressed, it assumed a +ruddier hue; and, hanging in the air, motionless above the city, +deriving its being from all the lights and noisy life which breathed +from below, it seemed like one of those clouds, charged with flame and +lightning, which crown the craters of volcanoes. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + + +The finger-glasses had been handed round the table, and the ladies were +daintily wiping their hands. A momentary silence reigned, while Madame +Deberle gazed on either side to see if every one had finished; then, +without speaking, she rose, and amidst a noisy pushing back of chairs, +her guests followed her example. An old gentleman who had been seated +at her right hand hastened to offer her his arm. + +“No, no,” she murmured, as she led him towards a doorway. “We will now +have coffee in the little drawing-room.” + +The guests, in couples, followed her. Two ladies and two gentlemen, +however, lagged behind the others, continuing their conversation, +without thought of joining the procession. The drawing-room reached, +all constraint vanished, and the joviality which had marked the dessert +made its reappearance. The coffee was already served on a large lacquer +tray on a table. Madame Deberle walked round like a hostess who is +anxious to satisfy the various tastes of her guests. But it was Pauline +who ran about the most, and more particularly waited on the gentlemen. +There were a dozen persons present, about the regulation number of +people invited to the house every Wednesday, from December onwards. +Later in the evening, at ten o’clock, a great many others would make +their appearance. + +“Monsieur de Guiraud, a cup of coffee,” exclaimed Pauline, as she +halted in front of a diminutive, bald-headed man. “Ah! no, I remember, +you don’t take any. Well, then, a glass of Chartreuse?” + +But she became confused in discharging her duties, and brought him a +glass of cognac. Beaming with smiles, she made the round of the guests, +perfectly self-possessed, and looking people straight in the face, +while her long train dragged with easy grace behind her. She wore a +magnificent gown of white Indian cashmere trimmed with swan’s-down, and +cut square at the bosom. When the gentlemen were all standing up, +sipping their coffee, each with cup in hand and chin high in the air, +she began to tackle a tall young fellow named Tissot, whom she +considered rather handsome. + +Hélène had not taken any coffee. She had seated herself apart, with a +somewhat wearied expression on her face. Her black velvet gown, +unrelieved by any trimming, gave her an air of austerity. In this small +drawing-room smoking was allowed, and several boxes of cigars were +placed beside her on the pier-table. The doctor drew near; as he +selected a cigar he asked her: “Is Jeanne well?” + +“Yes, indeed,” she replied. “We walked to the Bois to-day, and she +romped like a madcap. Oh, she must be sound asleep by now.” + +They were both chatting in friendly tones, with the smiling intimacy of +people who see each other day after day, when Madame Deberle’s voice +rose high and shrill: + +“Stop! stop! Madame Grandjean can tell you all about it. Didn’t I come +back from Trouville on the 10th of September? It was raining, and the +beach had become quite unbearable!” + +Three or four of the ladies were gathered round her while she rattled +on about her holdiday at the seaside. Hélène found it necessary to rise +and join the group. + +“We spent a month at Dinard,” said Madame de Chermette. “Such a +delightful place, and such charming society!” + +“Behind our chalet was a garden, and we had a terrace overlooking the +sea,” went on Madame Deberle. “As you know, I decided on taking my +landau and coachman with me. It was very much handier when I wanted a +drive. Then Madame Levasseur came to see us—” + +“Yes, one Sunday,” interrupted that lady. “We were at Cabourg. Your +establishment was perfect, but a little too dear, I think.” + +“By the way,” broke in Madame Berthier, addressing Juliette, “didn’t +Monsieur Malignon give you lessons in swimming?” + +Hélène noticed a shadow of vexation, of sudden annoyance, pass over +Madame Deberle’s face. Several times already she had fancied that, on +Malignon’s name being brought unexpectedly into the conversation, +Madame Deberle suddenly seemed perturbed. However, the young woman +immediately regained her equanimity. + +“A fine swimmer, indeed!” she exclaimed. “The idea of him ever giving +lessons to any one! For my part, I have a mortal fear of cold water—the +very sight of people bathing curdles my blood.” + +She gave an eloquent shiver, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, as +though she were a duck shaking water from her back. + +“Then it’s a fable?” questioned Madame de Guiraud. + +“Of course; and one, I presume, of his own invention. He detests me +since he spent a month with us down there.” + +People were now beginning to pour in. The ladies, with clusters of +flowers in their hair, and round, plump arms, entered smiling and +nodding; while the men, each in evening dress and hat in hand, bowed +and ventured on some commonplace remark. Madame Deberle, never ceasing +her chatter for a moment, extended the tips of her fingers to the +friends of the house, many of whom said nothing, but passed on with a +bow. However, Mademoiselle Aurelie had just appeared on the scene, and +at once went into raptures over Juliette’s dress, which was of +dark-blue velvet, trimmed with faille silk. At this all the ladies +standing round seemed to catch their first glimpse of the dress, and +declared it was exquisite, truly exquisite. It came, they learned, from +Worth’s, and they discussed it for five minutes. The guests who had +drunk their coffee had placed their empty cups here and there on the +tray and on the pier-tables; only one old gentleman had not yet +finished, as between every mouthful he paused to converse with a lady. +A warm perfume, the aroma of the coffee and the ladies’ dresses +intermingled, permeated the apartment. + +“You know I have had nothing,” remonstrated young Monsieur Tissot with +Pauline, who had been chatting with him about an artist to whose studio +her father had escorted her with a view to examining the pictures. + +“What! have you had nothing? Surely I brought you a cup of coffee?” + +“No, mademoiselle, I assure you.” + +“But I insist on your having something. See, here is some Chartreuse.” + +Madame Deberle had just directed a meaning nod towards her husband. The +doctor, understanding her, thereupon opened the door of a large +drawing-room, into which they all filed, while a servant removed the +coffee-tray. There was almost a chill atmosphere in this spacious +apartment, through which streamed the white light of six lamps and a +chandelier with ten wax candles. There were already some ladies there, +sitting in a semi-circle round the fireplace, but only two or three men +were present, standing amidst the sea of outspread skirts. And through +the open doorway of the smaller drawing-room rang the shrill voice of +Pauline, who had lingered behind in company with young Tissot. + +“Now that I have poured it out, I’m determined you shall drink it. What +would you have me do with it? Pierre has carried off the tray.” + +Then she entered the larger room, a vision in white, with her dress +trimmed with swan’s-down. Her ruddy lips parted, displaying her teeth, +as she smilingly announced: “Here comes Malignon, the exquisite!” + +Hand-shaking and bowing were now the order of the day. Monsieur Deberle +had placed himself near the door. His wife, seated with some other +ladies on an extremely low couch, rose every other second. When +Malignon made his appearance, she affected to turn away her head. He +was dressed to perfection; his hair had been curled, and was parted +behind, down to his very neck. On the threshold he had stuck an +eye-glass in his right eye with a slight grimace, which, according to +Pauline, was just the thing; and now he cast a glance around the room. +Having nonchalantly and silently shaken hands with the doctor, he made +his way towards Madame Deberle, in front of whom he respectfully bent +his tall figure. + +“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to be heard by +everybody. “It seems you go in for swimming now.” + +He did not guess her meaning, but nevertheless replied, by way of a +joke: + +“Certainly; I once saved a Newfoundland dog from drowning.” + +The ladies thought this extremely funny, and even Madame Deberle seemed +disarmed. + +“Well, I’ll allow you to save Newfoundlands,” she answered, “but you +know very well I did not bathe once at Trouville.” + +“Oh! you’re speaking of the lesson I gave you!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I +tell you one night in your dining-room how to move your feet and hands +about?” + +All the ladies were convulsed with mirth—he was delightful! Juliette +shrugged her shoulders; it was impossible to engage him in a serious +talk. Then she rose to meet a lady whose first visit this was to her +house, and who was a superb pianist. Hélène, seated near the fire, her +lovely face unruffled by any emotion, looked on and listened. Malignon, +especially, seemed to interest her. She saw him execute a strategical +movement which brought him to Madame Deberle’s side, and she could hear +the conversation that ensued behind her chair. Of a sudden there was a +change in the tones, and she leaned back to gather the drift of what +was being said. + +“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” asked Malignon. “I waited for you till +six o’clock.” + +“Nonsense; you are mad,” murmured Juliette. + +Thereupon Malignon loudly lisped: “Oh! you don’t believe the story +about my Newfoundland! Yet I received a medal for it, and I’ll show it +to you.” + +Then he added, in a whisper: “You gave me your promise—remember.” + +A family group now entered the drawing-room, and Juliette broke into +complimentary greetings, while Malignon reappeared amongst the ladies, +glass in eye. Hélène had become quite pale since overhearing those +hastily spoken words. It was as though a thunderbolt, or something +equally unforeseen and horrible, had fallen on her. How could thoughts +of treachery enter into the mind of that woman whose life was so happy, +whose face betrayed no signs of sorrow, whose cheeks had the freshness +of the rose? She had always known her to be devoid of brains, +displaying an amiable egotism which seemed a guarantee that she would +never commit a foolish action. And over such a fellow as Malignon, too! +The scenes in the garden of an afternoon flashed back on her memory—she +recalled Juliette smiling lovingly as the doctor kissed her hair. Their +love for one another had seemed real enough. An inexplicable feeling of +indignation with Juliette now pervaded Hélène, as though some wrong had +been done herself. She felt humiliated for Henri’s sake; she was +consumed with jealous rage; and her perturbed feelings were so plainly +mirrored in her face that Mademoiselle Aurelie asked her: “What is the +matter with you? Do you feel ill?” + +The old lady had sunk into a seat beside her immediately she had +observed her to be alone. She had conceived a lively friendship for +Hélène, and was charmed with the kindly manner in which so sedate and +lovely a woman would listen for hours to her tittle-tattle. + +But Hélène made no reply. A wild desire sprang up within her to gaze on +Henri, to know what he was doing, and what was the expression of his +face. She sat up, and glancing round the drawing-room, at last +perceived him. He stood talking with a stout, pale man, and looked +completely at his ease, his face wearing its customary refined smile. +She scanned him for a moment, full of a pity which belittled him +somewhat, though all the while she loved him the more with an affection +into which entered some vague idea of watching over him. Her feelings, +still in a whirl of confusion, inspired her with the thought that she +ought to bring him back the happiness he had lost. + +“Well, well!” muttered Mademoiselle Aurelie; “it will be pleasant if +Madame de Guiraud’s sister favors us with a song. It will be the tenth +time I have heard her sing the ‘Turtle-Doves.’ That is her stock song +this winter. You know that she is separated from her husband. Do you +see that dark gentleman down there, near the door? They are most +intimate together, I believe. Juliette is compelled to have him here, +for otherwise she wouldn’t come!” + +“Indeed!” exclaimed Hélène. + +Madame Deberle was bustling about from one group to another, requesting +silence for a song from Madame de Guiraud’s sister. The drawing-room +was now crowded, some thirty ladies being seated in the centre +whispering and laughing together; two, however, had remained standing, +and were talking loudly and shrugging their shoulders in a pretty way, +while five or six men sat quite at home amongst the fair ones, almost +buried beneath the folds of their skirts and trains. A low “Hush!” ran +round the room, the voices died away, and a stolid look of annoyance +crept into every face. Only the fans could be heard rustling through +the heated atmosphere. + +Madame de Guiraud’s sister sang, but Hélène never listened. Her eyes +were now riveted on Malignon, who feigned an intense love of music, and +appeared to be enraptured with the “Turtle Doves.” Was it possible? +Could Juliette have turned a willing ear to the amorous chatter of the +young fop? It was at Trouville, no doubt, that some dangerous game had +been played. Malignon now sat in front of Juliette, marking the time of +the music by swaying to and fro with the air of one who is enraptured. +Madame Deberle’s face beamed in admiring complacency, while the doctor, +good-natured and patient, silently awaited the last notes of the song +in order to renew his talk with the stout, pale man. + +There was a murmur of applause as the singer’s voice died away, and two +or three exclaimed in tones of transport: “Delightful! magnificent!” + +Malignon, however, stretching his arms over the ladies’ head-dresses, +noiselessly clapped his gloved hands, and repeated “Brava! brava!” in a +voice that rose high above the others. + +The enthusiasm promptly came to an end, every face relaxed and smiled, +and a few of the ladies rose, while, with the feeling of general +relief, the buzz of conversation began again. The atmosphere was +growing much warmer, and the waving fans wafted an odor of musk from +the ladies’ dresses. At times, amidst the universal chatter, a peal of +pearly laughter would ring out, or some word spoken in a loud tone +would cause many to turn round. Thrice already had Juliette swept into +the smaller drawing-room to request some gentleman who had escaped +thither not to desert the ladies in so rude a fashion. They returned at +her request, but ten minutes afterwards had again vanished. + +“It’s intolerable,” she muttered, with an air of vexation; “not one of +them will stay here.” + +In the meantime Mademoiselle Aurelie was running over the ladies’ names +for Hélène’s benefit, as this was only the latter’s second evening +visit to the doctor’s house. The most substantial people of Passy, some +of them rolling in riches, were present. And the old maid leaned +towards Hélène and whispered in her ear: “Yes, it seems it’s all +arranged. Madame de Chermette is going to marry her daughter to that +tall fair fellow with whom she has flirted for the last eighteen +months. Well, never mind, that will be one mother-in-law who’ll be fond +of her son-in-law.” + +She stopped short, and then burst out in a tone of intense surprise: +“Good gracious! there’s Madame Levasseur’s husband speaking to that +man. I thought Juliette had sworn never to have them here together.” + +Hélène’s glances slowly travelled round the room. Even amongst such +seemingly estimable and honest people as these could there be women of +irregular conduct? With her provincial austerity she was astounded at +the manner in which wrongdoing was winked at in Paris. She railed at +herself for her own painful repugnance when Juliette had shaken hands +with her. Madame Deberle had now seemingly become reconciled with +Malignon; she had curled up her little plump figure in an easy-chair, +where she sat listening gleefully to his jests. Monsieur Deberle +happened to pass them. + +“You’re surely not quarrelling to-night?” asked he. + +“No,” replied Juliette, with a burst of merriment. “He’s talking too +much silly nonsense. If you had heard all the nonsense he’s been +saying!” + +There now came some more singing, but silence was obtained with greater +difficulty. The aria selected was a duet from _La Favorita_, sung by +young Monsieur Tissot and a lady of ripened charms, whose hair was +dressed in childish style. Pauline, standing at one of the doors, +amidst a crowd of black coats, gazed at the male singer with a look of +undisguised admiration, as though she were examining a work of art. + +“What a handsome fellow!” escaped from her lips, just as the +accompaniment subsided into a softer key, and so loud was her voice +that the whole drawing-room heard the remark. + +As the evening progressed the guests’ faces began to show signs of +weariness. Ladies who had occupied the same seat for hours looked +bored, though they knew it not,—they were even delighted at being able +to get bored here. In the intervals between the songs, which were only +half listened to, the murmur of conversation again resounded, and it +seemed as though the deep notes of the piano were still echoing. +Monsieur Letellier related how he had gone to Lyons for the purpose of +inspecting some silk he had ordered, and how he had been greatly +impressed by the fact that the Saone did not mingle its waters with +those of the Rhone. Monsieur de Guiraud, who was a magistrate, gave +vent to some sententious observations on the need of stemming the vice +of Paris. There was a circle round a gentleman who was acquainted with +a Chinaman, and was giving some particulars of his friend. In a corner +two ladies were exchanging confidences about the failings of their +servants; whilst literature was being discussed by those among whom +Malignon sat enthroned. Madame Tissot declared Balzac to be unreadable, +and Malignon did not deny it, but remarked that here and there, at +intervals far and few, some very fine passages occurred in Balzac. + +“A little silence, please!” all at once exclaimed Pauline; “she’s just +going to play.” + +The lady whose talent as a musician had been so much spoken of had just +sat down to the piano. In accordance with the rules of politeness, +every head was turned towards her. But in the general stillness which +ensued the deep voices of the men conversing in the small drawing-room +could be heard. Madame Deberle was in despair. + +“They are a nuisance!” she muttered. “Let them stay there, if they +don’t want to come in; but at least they ought to hold their tongues!” + +She gave the requisite orders to Pauline, who, intensely delighted, ran +into the adjacent apartment to carry out her instructions. + +“You must know, gentlemen, that a lady is going to play,” she said, +with the quiet boldness of a maiden in queenly garb. “You are requested +to keep silence.” + +She spoke in a very loud key, her voice being naturally shrill. And, as +she lingered with the men, laughing and quizzing, the noise grew more +pronounced than ever. There was a discussion going on among these +males, and she supplied additional matter for argument. In the larger +drawing-room Madame Deberle was in agony. The guests, moreover, had +been sated with music, and no enthusiasm was displayed; so the pianist +resumed her seat, biting her lips, notwithstanding the laudatory +compliments which the lady of the house deemed it her duty to lavish on +her. + +Hélène was pained. Henri scarcely seemed to see her; he had made no +attempt to approach her, and only at intervals smiled to her from afar. +At the earlier part of the evening she had felt relieved by his prudent +reserve; but since she had learnt the secret of the two others she +wished for something—she knew not what—some display of affection, or at +least interest, on his part. Her breast was stirred with confused +yearnings, and every imaginable evil thought. Did he no longer care for +her, that he remained so indifferent to her presence? Oh! if she could +have told him everything! If she could apprise him of the unworthiness +of the woman who bore his name! Then, while some short, merry catches +resounded from the piano, she sank into a dreamy state. She imagined +that Henri had driven Juliette from his home, and she was living with +him as his wife in some far-away foreign land, the language of which +they knew not. + +All at once a voice startled her. + +“Won’t you take anything?” asked Pauline. + +The drawing-room had emptied, and the guests were passing into the +dining-room to drink some tea. Hélène rose with difficulty. She was +dazed; she thought she had dreamt it all—the words she had heard, +Juliette’s secret intrigue, and its consequences. If it had all been +true, Henri would surely have been at her side and ere this both would +have quitted the house. + +“Will you take a cup of tea?” + +She smiled and thanked Madame Deberle, who had kept a place for her at +the table. Plates loaded with pastry and sweetmeats covered the cloth, +while on glass stands arose two lofty cakes, flanking a large +_brioche_. The space was limited, and the cups of tea were crowded +together, narrow grey napkins with long fringes lying between each two. +The ladies only were seated. They held biscuits and preserved fruits +with the tips of their ungloved fingers, and passed each other the +cream-jugs and poured out the cream with dainty gestures. Three or +four, however, had sacrificed themselves to attend on the men, who were +standing against the walls, and, while drinking, taking all conceivable +precautions to ward off any push which might be unwittingly dealt them. +A few others lingered in the two drawing-rooms, waiting for the cakes +to come to them. This was the hour of Pauline’s supreme delight. There +was a shrill clamor of noisy tongues, peals of laughter mingled with +the ringing clatter of silver plate, and the perfume of musk grew more +powerful as it blended with the all-pervading fragrance of the tea. + +“Kindly pass me some cake,” said Mademoiselle Aurelie to Hélène, close +to whom she happened to find herself. “These sweetmeats are frauds!” + +She had, however, already emptied two plates of them. And she +continued, with her mouth full: + +“Oh! some of the people are beginning to go now. We shall be a little +more comfortable.” + +In truth, several ladies were now leaving, after shaking hands with +Madame Deberle. Many of the gentlemen had already wisely vanished, and +the room was becoming less crowded. Now came the opportunity for the +remaining gentlemen to sit down at table in their turn. Mademoiselle +Aurelie, however, did not quit her place, though she would much have +liked to secure a glass of punch. + +“I will get you one,” said Hélène, starting to her feet. + +“No, no, thank you. You must not inconvenience yourself so much.” + +For a short time Hélène had been watching Malignon. He had just shaken +hands with the doctor, and was now bidding farewell to Juliette at the +doorway. She had a lustrous face and sparkling eyes, and by her +complacent smile it might have been imagined that she was receiving +some commonplace compliments on the evening’s success. While Pierre was +pouring out the punch at a sideboard near the door, Hélène stepped +forward in such wise as to be hidden from view by the curtain, which +had been drawn back. She listened. + +[Illustration] + +“I beseech you,” Malignon was saying, “come the day after to-morrow. I +shall wait for you till three o’clock.” + +“Why cannot you talk seriously,” replied Madame Deberle, with a laugh. +“What foolish things you say!” + +But with greater determination he repeated: “I shall wait for you—the +day after to-morrow.” + +Then she hurriedly gave a whispered reply: + +“Very well—the day after to-morrow.” + +Malignon bowed and made his exit. Madame de Chermette followed in +company with Madame Tissot. Juliette, in the best of spirits, walked +with them into the hall, and said to the former of these ladies with +her most amiable look: + +“I shall call on you the day after to-morrow. I have a lot of calls to +make that day.” + +Hélène stood riveted to the floor, her face quite white. Pierre, in the +meanwhile, had poured out the punch, and now handed the glass to her. +She grasped it mechanically and carried it to Mademoiselle Aurelie, who +was making an inroad on the preserved fruits. + +“Oh, you are far too kind!” exclaimed the old maid. “I should have made +a sign to Pierre. I’m sure it’s a shame not offering the punch to +ladies. Why, when people are my age—” + +She got no further, however, for she observed the ghastliness of +Hélène’s face. “You surely are in pain! You must take a drop of punch!” + +“Thank you, it’s nothing. The heat is so oppressive—” + +She staggered, and turned aside into the deserted drawing-room, where +she dropped into an easy-chair. The lamps were shedding a reddish +glare; and the wax candles in the chandelier, burnt to their sockets, +threatened imminent destruction to the crystal sconces. From the +dining-room were wafted the farewells of the departing guests. Hélène +herself had lost all thoughts of going; she longed to linger where she +was, plunged in thought. So it was no dream after all; Juliette would +visit that man the day after to-morrow—she knew the day. Then the +thought struck her that she ought to speak to Juliette and warn her +against sin. But this kindly thought chilled her to the heart, and she +drove it from her mind as though it were out of place, and deep in +meditation gazed at the grate, where a smouldering log was crackling. +The air was still heavy and oppressive with the perfumes from the +ladies’ hair. + +“What! you are here!” exclaimed Juliette as she entered. “Well, you are +kind not to run away all at once. At last we can breathe!” + +Hélène was surprised, and made a movement as though about to rise; but +Juliette went on: “Wait, wait, you are in no hurry. Henri, get me my +smelling-salts.” + +Three or four persons, intimate friends, had lingered behind the +others. They sat before the dying fire and chatted with delightful +freedom, while the vast room wearily sank into a doze. The doors were +open, and they saw the smaller drawing-room empty, the dining-room +deserted, the whole suite of rooms still lit up and plunged in unbroken +silence. Henri displayed a tender gallantry towards his wife; he had +run up to their bedroom for her smelling-salts, which she inhaled with +closed eyes, whilst he asked her if she had not fatigued herself too +much. Yes, she felt somewhat tired; but she was delighted—everything +had gone off so well. Next she told them that on her reception nights +she could not sleep, but tossed about till six o’clock in the morning. +Henri’s face broke into a smile, and some quizzing followed. Hélène +looked at them, and quivered amidst the benumbing drowsiness which +little by little seemed to fall upon the whole house. + +However, only two guests now remained. Pierre had gone in search of a +cab. Hélène remained the last. One o’clock struck. Henri, no longer +standing on ceremony, rose on tiptoe and blew out two candles in the +chandelier which were dangerously heating their crystal sconces. As the +lights died out one by one, it seemed like a bedroom scene, the gloom +of an alcove spreading over all. + +“I am keeping you up!” exclaimed Hélène, as she suddenly rose to her +feet. “You must turn me out.” + +A flush of red dyed her face; her blood, racing through her veins, +seemed to stifle her. They walked with her into the hall, but the air +there was chilly, and the doctor was somewhat alarmed for his wife in +her low dress. + +“Go back; you will do yourself harm. You are too warm.” + +“Very well; good-bye,” said Juliette, embracing Hélène, as was her wont +in her most endearing moments. “Come and see me oftener.” + +Henri had taken Hélène’s fur coat in his hand, and held it outstretched +to assist her in putting it on. When she had slipped her arms into the +sleeves, he turned up the collar with a smile, while they stood in +front of an immense mirror which covered one side of the hall. They +were alone, and saw one another in the mirror’s depths. For three +months, on meeting and parting they had simply shaken hands in friendly +greeting; they would fain that their love had died. But now Hélène was +overcome, and sank back into his arms. The smile vanished from his +face, which became impassioned, and, still clasping her, he kissed her +on the neck. And she, raising her head, returned his kiss. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + + +That night Hélène was unable to sleep. She turned from side to side in +feverish unrest, and whenever a drowsy stupor fell on her senses, the +old sorrows would start into new life within her breast. As she dozed +and the nightmare increased, one fixed thought tortured her—she was +eager to know where Juliette and Malignon would meet. This knowledge, +she imagined, would be a source of relief to her. Where, where could it +be? Despite herself, her brain throbbed with the thought, and she +forgot everything save her craving to unravel this mystery, which +thrilled her with secret longings. + +When day dawned and she began to dress, she caught herself saying +loudly: “It will be to-morrow!” + +With one stocking on, and hands falling helpless to her side, she +lapsed for a while into a fresh dreamy fit. “Where, where was it that +they had agreed to meet?” + +“Good-day, mother, darling!” just then exclaimed Jeanne who had +awakened in her turn. + +As her strength was now returning to her, she had gone back to sleep in +her cot in the closet. With bare feet and in her nightdress she came to +throw herself on Hélène’s neck, as was her every-day custom; then back +again she rushed, to curl herself up in her warm bed for a little while +longer. This jumping in and out amused her, and a ripple of laughter +stole from under the clothes. Once more she bounded into the bedroom, +saying: “Good-morning, mammy dear!” + +And again she ran off, screaming with laughter. Then she threw the +sheet over her head, and her cry came, hoarse and muffled, from beneath +it: “I’m not there! I’m not there!” + +But Hélène was in no mood for play, as on other mornings; and Jeanne, +dispirited, fell asleep again. The day was still young. About eight +o’clock Rosalie made her appearance to recount the morning’s chapter of +accidents. Oh! the streets were awful outside; in going for the milk +her shoes had almost come off in the muddy slush. All the ice was +thawing; and it was quite mild too, almost oppressive. Oh! by the way, +she had almost forgotten! an old woman had come to see madame the night +before. + +“Why!” she said, as there came a pull at the bell, “I expect that’s +she!” + +It was Mother Fétu, but Mother Fétu transformed, magnificent in a clean +white cap, a new gown, and tartan shawl wrapped round her shoulders. +Her voice, however, still retained its plaintive tone of entreaty. + +“Dear lady, it’s only I, who have taken the liberty of calling to ask +you about something!” + +Hélène gazed at her, somewhat surprised by her display of finery. + +“Are you better, Mother Fétu?” + +“Oh yes, yes; I feel better, if I may venture to say so. You see I +always have something queer in my inside; it knocks me about +dreadfully, but still I’m better. Another thing, too; I’ve had a stroke +of luck; it was a surprise, you see, because luck hasn’t often come in +my way. But a gentleman has made me his housekeeper—and oh! it’s such a +story!” + +Her words came slowly, and her small keen eyes glittered in her face, +furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. She seemed to be waiting for Hélène to +question her; but the young woman sat close to the fire which Rosalie +had just lit, and paid scant attention to her, engrossed as she was in +her own thoughts, with a look of pain on her features. + +“What do you want to ask me?” she at last said to Mother Fétu. + +The old lady made no immediate reply. She was scrutinizing the room, +with its rosewood furniture and blue velvet hangings. Then, with the +humble and fawning air of a pauper, she muttered: “Pardon me, madame, +but everything is so beautiful here. My gentleman has a room like this, +but it’s all in pink. Oh! it’s such a story! Just picture to yourself a +young man of good position who has taken rooms in our house. Of course, +it isn’t much of a place, but still our first and second floors are +very nice. Then, it’s so quiet, too! There’s no traffic; you could +imagine yourself in the country. The workmen have been in the house for +a whole fortnight; they have made such a jewel of his room!” + +She here paused, observing that Hélène’s attention was being aroused. + +“It’s for his work,” she continued in a drawling voice; “he says it’s +for his work. We have no doorkeeper, you know, and that pleases him. +Oh! my gentleman doesn’t like doorkeepers, and he is quite right, too!” + +Once more she came to a halt, as though an idea had suddenly occurred +to her. + +“Why, wait a minute; you must know him—of course you must. He visits +one of your lady friends!” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Hélène, with colorless face. + +“Yes, to be sure; the lady who lives close by—the one who used to go +with you to church. She came the other day.” + +Mother Fétu’s eyes contracted, and from under the lids she took note of +her benefactress’s emotion. But Hélène strove to question her in a tone +that would not betray her agitation. + +“Did she go up?” + +“No, she altered her mind; perhaps she had forgotten something. But I +was at the door. She asked for Monsieur Vincent, and then got back into +her cab again, calling to the driver to return home, as it was too +late. Oh! she’s such a nice, lively, and respectable lady. The gracious +God doesn’t send many such into the world. Why, with the exception of +yourself, she’s the best—well, well, may Heaven bless you all!” + +In this way Mother Fétu rambled on with the pious glibness of a devotee +who is perpetually telling her beads. But the twitching of the myriad +wrinkles of her face showed that her mind was still working, and soon +she beamed with intense satisfaction. + +“Ah!” she all at once resumed in inconsequent fashion, “how I should +like to have a pair of good shoes! My gentleman has been so very kind, +I can’t ask him for anything more. You see I’m dressed; still I must +get a pair of good shoes. Look at those I have; they are all holes; and +when the weather’s muddy, as it is to-day, one’s apt to get very ill. +Yes, I was down with colic yesterday; I was writhing all the afternoon, +but if I had a pair of good shoes—” + +“I’ll bring you a pair, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, waving her towards +the door. + +Then, as the old woman retired backwards, with profuse curtseying and +thanks, she asked her: “At what hour are you alone?” + +“My gentleman is never there after six o’clock,” she answered. “But +don’t give yourself the trouble; I’ll come myself, and get them from +your doorkeeper. But you can do as you please. You are an angel from +heaven. God on high will requite you for all your kindness!” + +When she had reached the landing she could still be heard giving vent +to her feelings. Hélène sat a long time plunged in the stupor which the +information, supplied by this woman with such fortuitous +seasonableness, had brought upon her. She now knew the place of +assignation. It was a room, with pink decorations, in that old +tumbledown house! She once more pictured to herself the staircase +oozing with damp, the yellow doors on each landing, grimy with the +touch of greasy hands, and all the wretchedness which had stirred her +heart to pity when she had gone during the previous winter to visit +Mother Fétu; and she also strove to conjure up a vision of that pink +chamber in the midst of such repulsive, poverty-stricken surroundings. +However, whilst she was still absorbed in her reverie, two tiny warm +hands were placed over her eyes, which lack of sleep had reddened, and +a laughing voice inquired: “Who is it? who is it?” + +It was Jeanne, who had slipped into her clothes without assistance. +Mother Fétu’s voice had awakened her; and perceiving that the closet +door had been shut, she had made her toilet with the utmost speed in +order to give her mother a surprise. + +“Who is it? who is it?” she again inquired, convulsed more and more +with laughter. + +She turned to Rosalie, who entered at the moment with the breakfast. + +“You know; don’t you speak. Nobody is asking you any question.” + +“Be quiet, you little madcap!” exclaimed Hélène. “I suppose it’s you!” + +The child slipped on to her mother’s lap, and there, leaning back and +swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she +resumed: + +“Well, it might have been another little girl! Eh? Perhaps some little +girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her mamma. +And she might have covered your eyes, too!” + +“Don’t be silly,” exclaimed Hélène, as she set her on the floor. “What +are you talking about? Rosalie, let us have breakfast.” + +The maid’s eyes, however, were riveted on the child, and she commented +upon her little mistress being so oddly dressed. To tell the truth, so +great had been Jeanne’s haste that she had not put on her shoes. She +had drawn on a short flannel petticoat which allowed a glimpse of her +chemise, and had left her morning jacket open, so that you could see +her delicate, undeveloped bosom. With her hair streaming behind her, +stamping about in her stockings, which were all awry, she looked +charming, all in white like some child of fairyland. + +She cast down her eyes to see herself, and immediately burst into +laughter. + +“Look, mamma, I look nice, don’t I? Won’t you let me be as I am? It is +nice!” + +Repressing a gesture of impatience, Hélène, as was her wont every +morning, inquired: “Are you washed?” + +“Oh, mamma!” pleaded the child, her joy suddenly dashed. “Oh, mamma! +it’s raining; it’s too nasty!” + +“Then, you’ll have no breakfast. Wash her, Rosalie.” + +She usually took this office upon herself, but that morning she felt +altogether out of sorts, and drew nearer to the fire, shivering, +although the weather was so balmy. Having spread a napkin and placed +two white china bowls on a small round table, Rosalie had brought the +latter close to the fireplace. The coffee and milk steamed before the +fire in a silver pot, which had been a present from Monsieur Rambaud. +At this early hour the disorderly, drowsy room seemed delightfully +homelike. + +“Mamma, mamma!” screamed Jeanne from the depths of the closet, “she’s +rubbing me too hard. It’s taking my skin off. Oh dear! how awfully +cold!” + +Hélène, with eyes fixed on the coffee-pot, remained engrossed in +thought. She desired to know everything, so she would go. The thought +of that mysterious place of assignation in so squalid a nook of Paris +was an ever-present pain and vexation. She judged such taste hateful, +but in it she identified Malignon’s leaning towards romance. + +“Mademoiselle,” declared Rosalie, “if you don’t let me finish with you, +I shall call madame.” + +“Stop, stop: you are poking the soap into my eyes,” answered Jeanne, +whose voice was hoarse with sobs. “Leave me alone; I’ve had enough of +it. The ears can wait till to-morrow.” + +But the splashing of water went on, and the squeezing of the sponge +into the basin could be heard. There was a clamor and a struggle, the +child was sobbing; but almost immediately afterward she made her +appearance, shouting gaily: “It’s over now; it’s over now!” + +Her hair was still glistening with wet, and she shook herself, her face +glowing with the rubbing it had received and exhaling a fresh and +pleasant odor. In her struggle to get free her jacket had slipped from +her shoulders, her petticoat had become loosened, and her stockings had +tumbled down, displaying her bare legs. According to Rosalie, she +looked like an infant Jesus. Jeanne, however, felt very proud that she +was clean; she had no wish to be dressed again. + +“Look at me, mamma; look at my hands, and my neck, and my ears. Oh! you +must let me warm myself; I am so comfortable. You don’t say anything; +surely I’ve deserved my breakfast to-day.” + +She had curled herself up before the fire in her own little easy-chair. +Then Rosalie poured out the coffee and milk. Jeanne took her bowl on +her lap, and gravely soaked her toast in its contents with all the airs +of a grown-up person. Hélène had always forbidden her to eat in this +way, but that morning she remained plunged in thought. She did not +touch her own bread, and was satisfied with drinking her coffee. Then +Jeanne, after swallowing her last morsel, was stung with remorse. Her +heart filled, she put aside her bowl, and gazing on her mother’s pale +face, threw herself on her neck: “Mamma, are you ill now? I haven’t +vexed you, have I?—say.” + +“No, no, my darling, quite the contrary; you’re very good,” murmured +Hélène as she embraced her. “I’m only a little wearied; I haven’t slept +well. Go on playing: don’t be uneasy.” + +The thought occurred to her that the day would prove a terribly long +one. What could she do whilst waiting for the night? For some time past +she had abandoned her needlework; sewing had become a terrible +weariness. For hours she lingered in her seat with idle hands, almost +suffocating in her room, and craving to go out into the open air for +breath, yet never stirring. It was this room which made her ill; she +hated it, in angry exasperation over the two years which she had spent +within its walls; its blue velvet and the vast panorama of the mighty +city disgusted her, and her thoughts dwelt on a lodging in some busy +street, the uproar of which would have deafened her. Good heavens! how +long were the hours! She took up a book, but the fixed idea that +engrossed her mind continually conjured up the same visions between her +eyes and the page of print. + +In the meantime Rosalie had been busy setting the room in order; +Jeanne’s hair also had been brushed, and she was dressed. While her +mother sat at the window, striving to read, the child, who was in one +of her moods of obstreperous gaiety, began playing a grand game. She +was all alone; but this gave her no discomfort; she herself represented +three or four persons in turn with comical earnestness and gravity. At +first she played the lady going on a visit. She vanished into the +dining-room, and returned bowing and smiling, her head nodding this way +and that in the most coquettish style. + +“Good-day, madame! How are you, madame? How long it is since I’ve seen +you! A marvellously long time, to be sure! Dear me, I’ve been so ill, +madame! Yes; I’ve had the cholera; it’s very disagreeable. Oh! it +doesn’t show; no, no, it makes you look younger, on my word of honor. +And your children, madame? Oh! I’ve had three since last summer!” + +So she rattled on, never ceasing her curtseying to the round table, +which doubtless represented the lady she was visiting. Next she +ventured to bring the chairs closer together, and for an hour carried +on a general conversation, her talk abounding in extraordinary phrases. + +“Don’t be silly,” said her mother at intervals, when the chatter put +her out of patience. + +“But, mamma, I’m paying my friend a visit. She’s speaking to me, and I +must answer her. At tea nobody ought to put the cakes in their pockets, +ought they?” + +Then she turned and began again: + +“Good-bye, madame; your tea was delicious. Remember me most kindly to +your husband.” + +The next moment came something else. She was going out shopping in her +carriage, and got astride of a chair like a boy. + +“Jean, not so quick; I’m afraid. Stop! stop! here is the milliner’s! +Mademoiselle, how much is this bonnet? Three hundred francs; that isn’t +dear. But it isn’t pretty. I should like it with a bird on it—a bird +big like that! Come, Jean, drive me to the grocer’s. Have you some +honey? Yes, madame, here is some. Oh, how nice it is! But I don’t want +any of it; give me two sous’ worth of sugar. Oh! Jean, look, take care! +There! we have had a spill! Mr. Policeman, it was the cart which drove +against us. You’re not hurt, madame, are you? No, sir, not in the +least. Jean, Jean! home now. Gee-up! gee-up. Wait a minute; I must +order some chemises. Three dozen chemises for madame. I want some boots +too and some stays. Gee-up! gee-up! Good gracious, we shall never get +back again.” + +Then she fanned herself, enacting the part of the lady who has returned +home and is finding fault with her servants. She never remained quiet +for a moment; she was in a feverish ecstasy, full of all sorts of +whimsical ideas; all the life she knew surged up in her little brain +and escaped from it in fragments. Morning and afternoon she thus moved +about, dancing and chattering; and when she grew tired, a footstool or +parasol discovered in a corner, or some shred of stuff lying on the +floor, would suffice to launch her into a new game in which her +effervescing imagination found fresh outlet. Persons, places, and +incidents were all of her own creation, and she amused herself as much +as though twelve children of her own age had been beside her. + +But evening came at last. Six o’clock was about to strike. And Hélène, +rousing herself from the troubled stupor in which she had spent the +afternoon, hurriedly threw a shawl over her shoulders. + +“Are you going out, mamma?” asked Jeanne in her surprise. + +“Yes, my darling, just for a walk close by. I won’t be long; be good.” + +Outside it was still thawing. The footways were covered with mud. In +the Rue de Passy, Hélène entered a boot shop, to which she had taken +Mother Fétu on a previous occasion. Then she returned along the Rue +Raynouard. The sky was grey, and from the pavement a mist was rising. +The street stretched dimly before her, deserted and fear-inspiring, +though the hour was yet early. In the damp haze the infrequent +gas-lamps glimmered like yellow spots. She quickened her steps, keeping +close to the houses, and shrinking from sight as though she were on the +way to some assignation. However, as she hastily turned into the +Passage des Eaux, she halted beneath the archway, her heart giving way +to genuine terror. The passage opened beneath her like some black gulf. +The bottom of it was invisible; the only thing she could see in this +black tunnel was the quivering gleam of the one lamp which lighted it. +Eventually she made up her mind, and grasped the iron railing to +prevent herself from slipping. Feeling her way with the tip of her +boots she landed successively on the broad steps. The walls, right and +left, grew closer, seemingly prolonged by the darkness, while the bare +branches of the trees above cast vague shadows, like those of gigantic +arms with closed or outstretched hands. She trembled as she thought +that one of the garden doors might open and a man spring out upon her. +There were no passers-by, however, and she stepped down as quickly as +possible. Suddenly from out of the darkness loomed a shadow which +coughed, and she was frozen with fear; but it was only an old woman +creeping with difficulty up the path. Then she felt less uneasy, and +carefully raised her dress, which had been trailing in the mud. So +thick was the latter that her boots were constantly sticking to the +steps. At the bottom she turned aside instinctively. From the branches +the raindrops dripped fast into the passage, and the lamp glimmered +like that of some miner, hanging to the side of a pit which +infiltrations have rendered dangerous. + +Hélène climbed straight to the attic she had so often visited at the +top of the large house abutting on the Passage. But nothing stirred, +although she rapped loudly. In considerable perplexity she descended +the stairs again. Mother Fétu was doubtless in the rooms on the first +floor, where, however, Hélène dared not show herself. She remained five +minutes in the entry, which was lighted by a petroleum lamp. Then again +she ascended the stairs hesitatingly, gazing at each door, and was on +the point of going away, when the old woman leaned over the balusters. + +“What! it’s you on the stairs, my good lady!” she exclaimed. “Come in, +and don’t catch cold out there. Oh! it is a vile place—enough to kill +one.” + +“No, thank you,” said Hélène; “I’ve brought you your pair of shoes, +Mother Fétu.” + +She looked at the door which Mother Fétu had left open behind her, and +caught a glimpse of a stove within. + +“I’m all alone, I assure you,” declared the old woman. “Come in. This +is the kitchen here. Oh! you’re not proud with us poor folks; we can +talk to you!” + +Despite the repugnance which shame at the purpose of her coming created +within her, Hélène followed her. + +“God in Heaven! how can I thank you! Oh, what lovely shoes! Wait, and +I’ll put them on. There’s my whole foot in; it fits me like a glove. +Bless the day! I can walk with these without being afraid of the rain. +Oh! my good lady, you are my preserver; you’ve given me ten more years +of life. No, no, it’s no flattery; it’s what I think, as true as +there’s a lamp shining on us. No, no, I don’t flatter!” + +She melted into tears as she spoke, and grasping Hélène’s hands kissed +them. In a stewpan on the stove some wine was being heated, and on the +table, near the lamp, stood a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux with its +tapering neck. The only other things placed there were four dishes, a +glass, two saucepans, and an earthenware pot. It could be seen that +Mother Fétu camped in this bachelor’s kitchen, and that the fires were +lit for herself only. Seeing Hélène’s glance turn towards the stewpan, +she coughed, and once more put on her dolorous expression. + +“It’s gripping me again,” she groaned. “Oh! it’s useless for the doctor +to talk; I must have some creature in my inside. And then, a drop of +wine relieves me so. I’m greatly afflicted, my good lady. I wouldn’t +have a soul suffer from my trouble; it’s too dreadful. Well, I’m +nursing myself a bit now; and when a person has passed through so much, +isn’t it fair she should do so? I have been so lucky in falling in with +a nice gentleman. May Heaven bless him!” + +With this outburst she dropped two large lumps of sugar into her wine. +She was now getting more corpulent than ever, and her little eyes had +almost vanished from her fat face. She moved slowly with a beatifical +expression of felicity. Her life’s ambition was now evidently +satisfied. For this she had been born. When she put her sugar away +again Hélène caught a glimpse of some tid-bits secreted at the bottom +of a cupboard—a jar of preserves, a bag of biscuits, and even some +cigars, all doubtless pilfered from the gentleman lodger. + +“Well, good-bye, Mother Fétu, I’m going away,” she exclaimed. + +The old lady, however, pushed the saucepan to one side of the stove and +murmured: “Wait a minute; this is far too hot, I’ll drink it by-and-by. +No, no; don’t go out that way. I must beg pardon for having received +you in the kitchen. Let us go round the rooms.” + +She caught up the lamp, and turned into a narrow passage. Hélène, with +beating heart, followed close behind. The passage, dilapidated and +smoky, was reeking with damp. Then a door was thrown open, and she +found herself treading a thick carpet. Mother Fétu had already advanced +into a room which was plunged in darkness and silence. + +“Well?” she asked, as she lifted up the lamp; “it’s very nice, isn’t +it?” + +There were two rooms, each of them square, communicating with one +another by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by +curtains. Both were hung with pink cretonne of a Louis Quinze pattern, +picturing chubby-checked cupids disporting themselves amongst garlands +of flowers. In the first apartment there was a round table, two +lounges, and some easy-chairs; and in the second, which was somewhat +smaller, most of the space was occupied by the bed. Mother Fétu drew +attention to a crystal lamp with gilt chains, which hung from the +ceiling. To her this lamp was the veritable acme of luxury. + +Then she began explaining things: “You can’t imagine what a funny +fellow he is! He lights it up in mid-day, and stays here, smoking a +cigar and gazing into vacancy. But it amuses him, it seems. Well, it +doesn’t matter; I’ve an idea he must have spent a lot of money in his +time.” + +Hélène went through the rooms in silence. They seemed to her in bad +taste. There was too much pink everywhere; the furniture also looked +far too new. + +“He calls himself Monsieur Vincent,” continued the old woman, rambling +on. “Of course, it’s all the same to me. As long as he pays, my +gentleman—” + +“Well, good-bye, Mother Fétu,” said Hélène, in whose throat a feeling +of suffocation was gathering. + +She was burning to get away, but on opening a door she found herself +threading three small rooms, the bareness and dirt of which were +repulsive. The paper hung in tatters from the walls, the ceilings were +grimy, and old plaster littered the broken floors. The whole place was +pervaded by a smell of long prevalent squalor. + +“Not that way! not that way!” screamed Mother Fétu. “That door is +generally shut. These are the other rooms which they haven’t attempted +to clean. My word! it’s cost him quite enough already! Yes, indeed, +these aren’t nearly so nice! Come this way, my good lady—come this +way!” + +On Hélène’s return to the pink boudoir, she stopped to kiss her hand +once more. + +“You see, I’m not ungrateful! I shall never forget the shoes. How well +they fit me! and how warm they are! Why, I could walk half-a-dozen +miles with them. What can I beg Heaven to grant you? O Lord, hearken to +me, and grant that she may be the happiest of women—in the name of the +Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!” A devout enthusiasm had suddenly +come upon Mother Fétu; she repeated the sign of the cross again and +again, and bowed the knee in the direction of the crystal lamp. This +done, she opened the door conducting to the landing, and whispered in a +changed voice into Hélène’s ear: + +“Whenever you like to call, just knock at the kitchen door; I’m always +there!” + +Dazed, and glancing behind her as though she were leaving a place of +dubious repute, Hélène hurried down the staircase, reascended the +Passage des Eaux, and regained the Rue Vineuse, without consciousness +of the ground she was covering. The old woman’s last words still rang +in her ears. In truth, no; never again would she set foot in that +house, never again would she bear her charity thither. Why should she +ever rap at the kitchen door again? At present she was satisfied; she +had seen what was to be seen. And she was full of scorn for herself—for +everybody. How disgraceful to have gone there! The recollection of the +place with its tawdry finery and squalid surroundings filled her with +mingled anger and disgust. + +“Well, madame,” exclaimed Rosalie, who was awaiting her return on the +staircase, “the dinner will be nice. Dear, oh dear! it’s been burning +for half an hour!” + +At table Jeanne plagued her mother with questions. Where had she been? +what had she been about? However, as the answers she received proved +somewhat curt, she began to amuse herself by giving a little dinner. +Her doll was perched near her on a chair, and in a sisterly fashion she +placed half of her dessert before it. + +“Now, mademoiselle, you must eat like a lady. See, wipe your mouth. Oh, +the dirty little thing! She doesn’t even know how to wear her napkin! +There, you’re nice now. See, here is a biscuit. What do you say? You +want some preserve on it. Well, I should think it better as it is! Let +me pare you a quarter of this apple!” + +She placed the doll’s share on the chair. But when she had emptied her +own plate she took the dainties back again one after the other and +devoured them, speaking all the time as though she were the doll. + +“Oh! it’s delicious! I’ve never eaten such nice jam! Where did you get +this jam, madame? I shall tell my husband to buy a pot of it. Do those +beautiful apples come from your garden, madame?” + +She fell asleep while thus playing, and stumbled into the bedroom with +the doll in her arms. She had given herself no rest since morning. Her +little legs could no longer sustain her—she was helpless and wearied to +death. However, a ripple of laughter passed over her face even in +sleep; in her dreams she must have been still continuing her play. + +At last Hélène was alone in her room. With closed doors she spent a +miserable evening beside the dead fire. Her will was failing her; +thoughts that found no utterance were stirring within the innermost +recesses of her heart. At midnight she wearily sought her bed, but +there her torture passed endurance. She dozed, she tossed from side to +side as though a fire were beneath her. She was haunted by visions +which sleeplessness enlarged to a gigantic size. Then an idea took root +in her brain. In vain did she strive to banish it; it clung to her, +surged and clutched her at the throat till it entirely swayed her. +About two o’clock she rose, rigid, pallid, and resolute as a +somnambulist, and having again lighted the lamp she wrote a letter in a +disguised hand; it was a vague denunciation, a note of three lines, +requesting Doctor Deberle to repair that day to such a place at such an +hour; there was no explanation, no signature. She sealed the envelope +and dropped the letter into the pocket of her dress which was hanging +over an arm-chair. Then returning to bed, she immediately closed her +eyes, and in a few minutes was lying there breathless, overpowered by +leaden slumber. + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + + +It was nearly nine o’clock the next morning before Rosalie was able to +serve the coffee. Hélène had risen late. She was weary and pale with +the nightmare that had broken her rest. She rummaged in the pocket of +her dress, felt the letter there, pressed it to the very bottom, and +sat down at the table without opening her lips. Jeanne too was +suffering from headache, and had a pale, troubled face. She quitted her +bed regretfully that morning, without any heart to indulge in play. +There was a sooty color in the sky, and a dim light saddened the room, +while from time to time sudden downpours of rain beat against the +windows. + +“Mademoiselle is in the blues,” said Rosalie, who monopolized all the +talk. “She can’t keep cheerful for two days running. That’s what comes +of dancing about too much yesterday.” + +“Do you feel ill, Jeanne?” asked Hélène. + +“No, mamma,” answered the child. “It’s only the nasty weather.” + +Hélène lapsed once more into silence. She finished her coffee, and sat +in her chair, plunged in thought, with her eyes riveted on the flames. +While rising she had reflected that it was her duty to speak to +Juliette and bid her renounce the afternoon assignation. But how? She +could not say. Still, the necessity of the step was impressed on her, +and now her one urgent, all-absorbing thought was to attempt it. Ten +o’clock struck, and she began to dress. Jeanne gazed at her, and, on +seeing her take up her bonnet, clasped her little hands as though +stricken with cold, while over her face crept a pained look. It was her +wont to take umbrage whenever her mother went out; she was unwilling to +quit her side, and craved to go with her everywhere. + +“Rosalie,” said Hélène, “make haste and finish the room. Don’t go out. +I’ll be back in a moment.” + +She stooped and gave Jeanne a hasty kiss, not noticing her vexation. +But the moment she had gone a sob broke from the child, who had +hitherto summoned all her dignity to her aid to restrain her emotion. + +“Oh, mademoiselle, how naughty!” exclaimed the maid by way of +consolation. “Gracious powers! no one will rob you of your mamma. You +must allow her to see after her affairs. You can’t always be hanging to +her skirts!” + +Meanwhile Hélène had turned the corner of the Rue Vineuse, keeping +close to the wall for protection against the rain. It was Pierre who +opened the door; but at sight of her he seemed somewhat embarrassed. + +“Is Madame Deberle at home?” + +“Yes, madame; but I don’t know whether—” + +Hélène, in the character of a family friend, was pushing past him +towards the drawing-room; but he took the liberty of stopping her. + +“Wait, madame; I’ll go and see.” + +He slipped into the room, opening the door as little as he could; and +immediately afterwards Juliette could be heard speaking in a tone of +irritation. “What! you’ve allowed some one to come in? Why, I forbade +it peremptorily. It’s incredible!! I can’t be left quiet for an +instant!” + +Hélène, however, pushed open the door, strong in her resolve to do that +which she imagined to be her duty. + +“Oh, it’s you!” said Juliette, as she perceived her. “I didn’t catch +who it was!” + +The look of annoyance did not fade from her face, however, and it was +evident that the visit was ill-timed. + +“Do I disturb you?” asked Hélène. + +“Not at all, not at all,” answered the other. “You’ll understand in a +moment. We have been getting up a surprise. We are rehearsing +_Caprice_[*] to play it on one of my Wednesdays. We had selected this +morning for rehearsal, thinking nobody would know of it. But you’ll +stay now? You will have to keep silence about it, that’s all.” + +[*] One of Alfred de Musset’s plays. + +Then, clapping her hands and addressing herself to Madame Berthier, who +was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, she began once more, +without paying any further attention to Hélène: “Come, come; we must +get on. You don’t give sufficient point to the sentence ‘To make a +purse unknown to one’s husband would in the eyes of most people seem +rather more than romantic.’ Say that again.” + +Intensely surprised at finding her engaged in this way, Hélène had sat +down. The chairs and tables had been pushed against the wall, the +carpet thus being left clear. Madame Berthier, a delicate blonde, +repeated her soliloquy, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling in her +effort to recall the words; while plump Madame de Guiraud, a beautiful +brunette, who had assumed the character of Madame de Lery, reclined in +an arm-chair awaiting her cue. The ladies, in their unpretentious +morning gowns, had doffed neither bonnets nor gloves. Seated in front +of them, her hair in disorder and a volume of Musset in her hand, was +Juliette, in a dressing-gown of white cashmere. Her face wore the +serious expression of a stage-manager tutoring his actors as to the +tones they should speak in and the by-play they should introduce. The +day being dull, the small curtains of embroidered tulle had been pulled +aside and swung across the knobs of the window-fastenings, so that the +garden could be seen, dark and damp. + +“You don’t display sufficient emotion,” declared Juliette. “Put a +little more meaning into it. Every word ought to tell. Begin again: +‘I’m going to finish your toilette, my dear little purse.’” + +“I shall be an awful failure,” said Madame Berthier languidly. “Why +don’t you play the part instead of me? You would make a delicious +Mathilda.” + +“I! Oh, no! In the first place, one needs to be fair. Besides, I’m a +very good teacher, but a bad pupil. But let us get on—let us get on!” + +Hélène sat still in her corner. Madame Berthier, engrossed in her part, +had not even turned round. Madame de Guiraud had merely honored her +with a slight nod. She realized that she was in the way, and that she +ought to have declined to stay. If she still remained, it was no longer +through the sense of a duty to be fulfilled, but rather by reason of a +strange feeling stirring vaguely in her heart’s depth’s—a feeling which +had previously thrilled her in this selfsame spot. The unkindly +greeting which Juliette had bestowed on her pained her. However, the +young woman’s friendships were usually capricious; she worshipped +people for three months, threw herself on their necks, and seemed to +live for them alone; then one morning, without affording any +explanation, she appeared to lose all consciousness of being acquainted +with them. Without doubt, in this, as in everything else, she was +simply yielding to a fashionable craze, an inclination to love the +people who were loved by her own circle. These sudden veerings of +affection, however, deeply wounded Hélène, for her generous and +undemonstrative heart had its ideal in eternity. She often left the +Deberles plunged in sadness, full of despair when she thought how +fragile and unstable was the basis of human love. And on this occasion, +in this crisis in her life, the thought brought her still keener pain. + +“We’ll skip the scene with Chavigny,” said Juliette. “He won’t be here +this morning. Let us see Madame de Lery’s entrance. Now, Madame de +Guiraud, here’s your cue.” Then she read from her book: “‘Just imagine +my showing him this purse.’” + +“‘Oh! it’s exceedingly pretty. Let me look at it,’” began Madame de +Guiraud in a falsetto voice, as she rose with a silly expression on her +face. + +When the servant had opened the door to her, Hélène had pictured a +scene entirely different from this. She had imagined that she would +find Juliette displaying excessive nervousness, with pallid cheeks, +hesitating and yet allured, shivering at the very thought of +assignation. She had pictured herself imploring her to reflect, till +the young woman, choked with sobs, threw herself into her arms. Then +they would have mingled their tears together, and Hélène would have +quitted her with the thought that Henri was henceforward lost to her, +but that she had secured his happiness. However, there had been nothing +of all this; she had merely fallen on this rehearsal, which was wholly +unintelligible to her; and she saw Juliette before her with unruffled +features, like one who has had a good night’s rest, and with her mind +sufficiently at ease to discuss Madame Berthier’s by-play, without +troubling herself in the least degree about what she would do in the +afternoon. This indifference and frivolity chilled Hélène, who had come +to the house with passion consuming her. + +A longing to speak fell on her. At a venture she inquired: “Who will +play the part of Chavigny?” + +“Why, Malignon, of course,” answered Juliette, turning round with an +air of astonishment. “He played Chavigny all last winter. It’s a +nuisance he can’t come to the rehearsals. Listen, ladies; I’m going to +read Chavigny’s part. Unless that’s done, we shall never get on.” + +Thereupon she herself began acting the man’s part, her voice deepening +unconsciously, whilst she assumed a cavalier air in harmony with the +situation. Madame Berthier renewed her warbling tones, and Madame de +Guiraud took infinite pains to be lively and witty. When Pierre came in +to put some more wood on the fire he slyly glanced at the ladies, who +amused him immensely. + +Hélène, still fixed in her resolve, despite some heart-shrinking, +attempted however to take Juliette aside. + +“Only a minute. I’ve something to say to you.” + +“Oh, impossible, my dear! You see how much I am engaged. To-morrow, if +you have the time.” + +Hélène said no more. The young woman’s unconcern displeased her. She +felt anger growing within her as she observed how calm and collected +Juliette was, when she herself had endured such intense agony since the +night before. At one moment she was on the point of rising and letting +things take their course. It was exceedingly foolish of her to wish to +save this woman; her nightmare began once more; her hands slipped into +her pocket, and finding the letter there, clasped it in a feverish +grasp. Why should she have any care for the happiness of others, when +they had no care for her and did not suffer as she did? + +“Oh! capital, capital,” exclaimed Juliette of a sudden. + +Madame Berthier’s head was now reclining on Madame de Guiraud’s +shoulder, and she was declaring through her sobs: “‘I am sure that he +loves her; I am sure of it!’” + +“Your success will be immense,” said Juliette. “Say that once more: ‘I +am sure that he loves her; I am sure of it.’ Leave your head as it is. +You’re divine. Now, Madame de Guiraud, your turn.” + +“‘No, no, my child, it cannot be; it is a caprice, a fancy,’” replied +the stout lady. + +“Perfect! but oh, the scene is a long one, isn’t it? Let us rest a +little while. We must have that incident in proper working order.” + +Then they all three plunged into a discussion regarding the arrangement +of the drawing-room. The dining-room door, to the left, would serve for +entrances and exits; an easy-chair could be placed on the right, a +couch at the farther end, and the table could be pushed close to the +fireplace. Hélène, who had risen, followed them about, as though she +felt an interest in these scenic arrangements. She had now abandoned +her idea of eliciting an explanation, and merely wished to make a last +effort to prevent Juliette from going to the place of meeting. + +“I intended asking you,” she said to her, “if it isn’t to-day that you +mean to pay Madame de Chermette a visit?” + +“Yes, this afternoon.” + +“Then, if you’ll allow me, I’ll go with you; it’s such a long time +since I promised to go to see her.” + +For a moment Juliette betrayed signs of embarrassment, but speedily +regained her self-possession. + +“Of course, I should be very happy. Only I have so many things to look +after; I must do some shopping first, and I have no idea at what time I +shall be able to get to Madame de Chermette’s.” + +“That doesn’t matter,” said Hélène; “it will enable me to have a walk.” + +“Listen; I will speak to you candidly. Well, you must not press me. You +would be in my way. Let it be some other Monday.” + +This was said without a trace of emotion, so flatly and with so quiet a +smile that Hélène was dumbfounded and uttered not another syllable. She +was obliged to lend some assistance to Juliette, who suddenly decided +to bring the table close to the fireplace. Then she drew back, and the +rehearsal began once more. In a soliloquy which followed the scene, +Madame de Guiraud with considerable power spoke these two sentences: +“‘But what a treacherous gulf is the heart of man! In truth, we are +worth more than they!’” + +And Hélène, what ought she to do now? Within her breast the question +raised a storm that stirred her to vague thoughts of violence. She +experienced an irresistible desire to be revenged on Juliette’s +tranquillity, as if that self-possession were an insult directed +against her own fevered heart. She dreamed of facilitating her fall, +that she might see whether she would always retain this unruffled +demeanor. And she thought of herself scornfully as she recalled her +delicacy and scruples. Twenty times already she ought to have said to +Henri: “I love you; let us go away together.” Could she have done so, +however, without the most intense emotion? Could she have displayed the +callous composure of this woman, who, three hours before her first +assignation, was rehearsing a comedy in her own home? Even at this +moment she trembled more than Juliette; what maddened her was the +consciousness of her own passion amidst the quiet cheerfulness of this +drawing-room; she was terrified lest she should burst out into some +angry speech. Was she a coward, then? + +But all at once a door opened, and Henri’s voice reached her ear: “Do +not disturb yourselves. I’m only passing.” + +The rehearsal was drawing to a close. Juliette, who was still reading +Chavigny’s part, had just caught hold of Madame de Guiraud’s hand. +“Ernestine, I adore you!” she exclaimed with an outburst of passionate +earnestness. + +“Then Madame de Blainville is no longer beloved by you?” inquired +Madame de Guiraud. + +However, so long as her husband was present Juliette declined to +proceed. There was no need of the men knowing anything about it. The +doctor showed himself most polite to the ladies; he complimented them +and predicted an immense success. With black gloves on his hands and +his face clean-shaven he was about to begin his round of visits. On his +entry he had merely greeted Hélène with a slight bow. At the Comedie +Francais he had seen some very great actress in the character of Madame +de Lery, and he acquainted Madame de Guiraud with some of the usual +by-play of the scene. + +“At the moment when Chavigny is going to throw himself at your feet, +you fling the purse into the fire. Dispassionately, you know, without +any anger, like a woman who plays with love.” + +“All right; leave us alone,” said Juliette. “We know all about it.” + +At last, when they had heard him close his study door, she began once +more: “Ernestine, I adore you!” + +Prior to his departure Henri had saluted Hélène with the same slight +bow. She sat dumb, as though awaiting some catastrophe. The sudden +appearance of the husband had seemed to her ominous; but when he had +gone, his courtesy and evident blindness made him seem to her +ridiculous. So he also gave attention to this idiotic comedy! And there +was no loving fire in his eye as he looked at her sitting there! The +whole house had become hateful and cold to her. Here was a downfall; +there was nothing to restrain her any longer, for she abhorred Henri as +much as Juliette. Within her pocket she held the letter in her +convulsive grasp. At last, murmuring “Good-bye for the present,” she +quitted the room, her head swimming and the furniture seeming to dance +around her. And in her ears rang these words, uttered by Madame de +Guiraud: + +“Adieu. You will perhaps think badly of me to-day, but you will have +some kindly feeling for me to-morrow, and, believe me, that is much +better than a caprice.” + +When Hélène had shut the house door and reached the pavement, she drew +the letter with a violent, almost mechanical gesture from her pocket, +and dropped it into the letter-box. Then she stood motionless for a few +seconds, still dazed, her eyes glaring at the narrow brass plate which +had fallen back again in its place. + +“It is done,” she exclaimed in a whisper. + +Once more she pictured the rooms hung with pink cretonne. Malignon and +Juliette were there together; but all of a sudden the wall was riven +open, and the husband entered. She was conscious of no more, and a +great calm fell on her. Instinctively she looked around to see if any +one had observed her dropping the letter in the box. But the street was +deserted. Then she turned the corner and went back home. + +“Have you been good, my darling?” she asked as she kissed Jeanne. + +The child, still seated on the same chair, raised a gloomy face towards +her, and without answering threw both arms around her neck, and kissed +her with a great gasp. Her grief indeed had been intense. + +At lunch-time Rosalie seemed greatly surprised. “Madame surely went for +a long walk!” said she. + +“Why do you think so?” asked Hélène. + +“Because madame is eating with such an appetite. It is long since +madame ate so heartily.” + +It was true; she was very hungry; with her sudden relief she had felt +her stomach empty. She experienced a feeling of intense peace and +content. After the shocks of these last two days a stillness fell upon +her spirit, her limbs relaxed and became as supple as though she had +just left a bath. The only sensation that remained to her was one of +heaviness somewhere, an indefinable load that weighed upon her. + +When she returned to her bedroom her eyes were at once directed towards +the clock, the hands of which pointed to twenty-five minutes past +twelve. Juliette’s assignation was for three o’clock. Two hours and a +half must still elapse. She made the reckoning mechanically. Moreover, +she was in no hurry; the hands of the clock were moving on, and no one +in the world could stop them. She left things to their own +accomplishment. A child’s cap, long since begun, was lying unfinished +on the table. She took it up and began to sew at the window. The room +was plunged in unbroken silence. Jeanne had seated herself in her usual +place, but her arms hung idly beside her. + +“Mamma,” she said, “I cannot work; it’s no fun at all.” + +“Well, my darling, don’t do anything. Oh! wait a minute, you can thread +my needles!” + +In a languid way the child silently attended to the duty assigned her. +Having carefully cut some equal lengths of cotton, she spent a long +time in finding the eyes of the needles, and was only just ready with +one of them threaded when her mother had finished with the last. + +“You see,” said the latter gently, “this will save time. The last of my +six little caps will be finished to-night.” + +She turned round to glance at the clock—ten minutes past one. Still +nearly two hours. Juliette must now be beginning to dress. Henri had +received the letter. Oh! he would certainly go. The instructions were +precise; he would find the place without delay. But it all seemed so +far off still, and she felt no emotional fever, but went on sewing with +regular stitches as industriously as a work-girl. The minutes slipped +by one by one. At last two o’clock struck. + +A ring at the bell came as a surprise. + +“Who can it be, mother darling?” asked Jeanne, who had jumped on her +chair. “Oh! it’s you!” she continued, as Monsieur Rambaud entered the +room. “Why did you ring so loudly? You gave me quite a fright.” + +The worthy man was in consternation—to tell the truth, his tug at the +bell had been a little too violent. + +“I am not myself to-day, I’m ill,” the child resumed. “You must not +frighten me.” + +Monsieur Rambaud displayed the greatest solicitude. What was the matter +with his poor darling? He only sat down, relieved, when Hélène had +signed to him that the child was in her dismals, as Rosalie was wont to +say. A call from him in the daytime was a rare occurrence, and so he at +once set about explaining the object of his visit. It concerned some +fellow-townsman of his, an old workman who could find no employment +owing to his advanced years, and who lived with his paralytic wife in a +tiny little room. Their wretchedness could not be pictured. He himself +had gone up that morning to make a personal investigation. Their +lodging was a mere hole under the tiles, with a swing window, through +whose broken panes the wind beat in. Inside, stretched on a mattress, +he had found a woman wrapped in an old curtain, while the man squatted +on the floor in a state of stupefaction, no longer finding sufficient +courage even to sweep the place. + +“Oh! poor things, poor things!” exclaimed Hélène, moved to tears. + +It was not the old workman who gave Monsieur Rambaud any uneasiness. He +would remove him to his own house and find him something to do. But +there was the wife with palsied frame, whom the husband dared not leave +for a moment alone, and who had to be rolled up like a bundle; where +could she be put? what was to be done with her? + +“I thought of you,” he went on. “You must obtain her instant admission +to an asylum. I should have gone straight to Monsieur Deberle, but I +imagined you knew him better and would have greater influence with him. +If he would be kind enough to interest himself in the matter, it could +all be arranged to-morrow.” + +Trembling with pity, her cheeks white, Jeanne listened to the tale. + +“Oh, mamma!” she murmured with clasped hands, “be kind—get the +admission for the poor woman!” + +“Yes, yes, of course!” said Hélène, whose emotion was increasing. “I +will speak to the doctor as soon as I can; he will himself take every +requisite step. Give me their names and the address, Monsieur Rambaud.” + +He scribbled a line on the table, and said as he rose: “It is +thirty-five minutes past two. You would perhaps find the doctor at home +now.” + +She had risen at the same time, and as she looked at the clock a fierce +thrill swept through her frame. In truth it was already thirty-five +minutes past two, and the hands were still creeping on. She stammered +out that the doctor must have started on his round of visits. Her eyes +were riveted on the dial. Meantime, Monsieur Rambaud remained standing +hat in hand, and beginning his story once more. These poor people had +sold everything, even their stove, and since the setting in of winter +had spent their days and nights alike without a fire. At the close of +December they had been four days without food. Hélène gave vent to a +cry of compassion. The hands of the clock now marked twenty minutes to +three. Monsieur Rambaud devoted another two minutes to his farewell: +“Well, I depend on you,” he said. And stooping to kiss Jeanne, he +added: “Good-bye, my darling.” + +“Good-bye; don’t worry; mamma won’t forget. I’ll make her remember.” + +When Hélène came back from the ante-room, whither she had gone in +company with Monsieur Rambaud, the hands of the clock pointed to a +quarter to three. Another quarter of an hour and all would be over. As +she stood motionless before the fireplace, the scene which was about to +be enacted flashed before her eyes: Juliette was already there; Henri +entered and surprised her. She knew the room; she could see the scene +in its minutest details with terrible vividness. And still affected by +Monsieur Rambaud’s awful story she felt a mighty shudder rise from her +limbs to her face. A voice cried out within her that what she had +done—the writing of that letter, that cowardly denunciation—was a +crime. The truth came to her with dazzling clearness. Yes, it was a +crime she had committed! She recalled to memory the gesture with which +she had flung the letter into the box; she recalled it with a sense of +stupor such as might come over one on seeing another commit an evil +action, without thought of intervening. She was as if awaking from a +dream. What was it that had happened? Why was she here, with eyes ever +fixed on the hands of that dial? Two more minutes had slipped away. + +“Mamma,” said Jeanne, “if you like, we’ll go to see the doctor together +to-night. It will be a walk for me. I feel stifling to-day.” + +Hélène, however, did not hear; thirteen minutes must yet elapse. But +she could not allow so horrible a thing to take place! In this stormy +awakening of her rectitude she felt naught but a furious craving to +prevent it. She must prevent it; otherwise she would be unable to live. +In a state of frenzy she ran about her bedroom. + +“Ah, you’re going to take me!” exclaimed Jeanne joyously. “We’re going +to see the doctor at once, aren’t we, mother darling?” + +“No, no,” Hélène answered, while she hunted for her boots, stooping to +look under the bed. + +They were not to be found; but she shrugged her shoulders with supreme +indifference when it occurred to her that she could very well run out +in the flimsy house-slippers she had on her feet. She was now turning +the wardrobe topsy-turvy in her search for her shawl. Jeanne crept up +to her with a coaxing air: “Then you’re not going to the doctor’s, +mother darling?” + +“No.” + +“Say that you’ll take me all the same. Oh! do take me; it will be such +a pleasure!” + +But Hélène had at last found her shawl, and she threw it over her +shoulders. Good heavens! only twelve minutes left—just time to run. She +would go—she would do something, no matter what. She would decide on +the way. + +“Mamma dear, do please take me with you,” said Jeanne in tones that +grew lower and more imploring. + +“I cannot take you,” said Hélène; “I’m going to a place where children +don’t go. Give me my bonnet.” + +Jeanne’s face blanched. Her eyes grew dim, her words came with a gasp. +“Where are you going?” she asked. + +The mother made no reply—she was tying the strings of her bonnet. + +Then the child continued: “You always go out without me now. You went +out yesterday, you went out to-day, and you are going out again. Oh, +I’m dreadfully grieved, I’m afraid to be here all alone. I shall die if +you leave me here. Do you hear, mother darling? I shall die.” + +Then bursting into loud sobs, overwhelmed by a fit of grief and rage, +she clung fast to Hélène’s skirts. + +“Come, come, leave me; be good, I’m coming back,” her mother repeated. + +“No, no! I won’t have it!” the child exclaimed through her sobs. “Oh! +you don’t love me any longer, or you would take me with you. Yes, yes, +I am sure you love other people better. Take me with you, take me with +you, or I’ll stay here on the floor; you’ll come back and find me on +the floor.” + +She wound her little arms round her mother’s legs; she wept with face +buried in the folds of her dress; she clung to her and weighed upon her +to prevent her making a step forward. And still the hands of the clock +moved steadily on; it was ten minutes to three. Then Hélène thought +that she would never reach the house in time, and, nearly distracted, +she wrenched Jeanne from her grasp, exclaiming: “What an unbearable +child! This is veritable tyranny! If you sob any more, I’ll have +something to say to you!” + +She left the room and slammed the door behind her. Jeanne had staggered +back to the window, her sobs suddenly arrested by this brutal +treatment, her limbs stiffened, her face quite white. She stretched her +hands towards the door, and twice wailed out the words: “Mamma! mamma!” +And then she remained where she had fallen on a chair, with eyes +staring and features distorted by the jealous thought that her mother +was deceiving her. + +On reaching the street, Hélène hastened her steps. The rain had ceased, +but great drops fell from the housetops on to her shoulders. She had +resolved that she would reflect outside and fix on some plan. But now +she was only inflamed with a desire to reach the house. When she +reached the Passage des Eaux, she hesitated for just one moment. The +descent had become a torrent; the water of the gutters of the Rue +Raynouard was rushing down it. And as the stream bounded over the +steps, between the close-set walls, it broke here and there into foam, +whilst the edges of the stones, washed clear by the downpour, shone out +like glass. A gleam of pale light, falling from the grey sky, made the +Passage look whiter between the dusky branches of the trees. Hélène +went down it, scarcely raising her skirts. The water came up to her +ankles. She almost lost her flimsy slippers in the puddles; around her, +down the whole way, she heard a gurgling sound, like the murmuring of +brooklets coursing through the grass in the depths of the woods. + +All at once she found herself on the stairs in front of the door. She +stood there, panting in a state of torture. Then her memory came back, +and she decided to knock at the kitchen. + +“What! is it you?” exclaimed Mother Fétu. + +There was none of the old whimper in her voice. Her little eyes were +sparkling, and a complacent grin had spread over the myriad wrinkles of +her face. All the old deference vanished, and she patted Hélène’s hands +as she listened to her broken words. The young woman gave her twenty +francs. + +“May God requite you!” prayed Mother Fétu in her wonted style. +“Whatever you please, my dear!” + + + + + CHAPTER XIX. + + +Leaning back in an easy-chair, with his legs stretched out before the +huge, blazing fire, Malignon sat waiting. He had considered it a good +idea to draw the window-curtains and light the wax candles. The outer +room, in which he had seated himself, was brilliantly illuminated by a +small chandelier and a pair of candelabra; whilst the other apartment +was plunged in shadow, the swinging crystal lamp alone casting on the +floor a twilight gleam. Malignon drew out his watch. + +“The deuce!” he muttered. “Is she going to keep me waiting again?” + +He gave vent to a slight yawn. He had been waiting for an hour already, +and it was small amusement to him. However, he rose and cast a glance +over his preparations. + +The arrangement of the chairs did not please him, and he rolled a couch +in front of the fireplace. The cretonne hangings had a ruddy glow, as +they reflected the light of the candles; the room was warm, silent, and +cozy, while outside the wind came and went in sudden gusts. All at once +the young man heard three hurried knocks at the door. It was the +signal. + +“At last!” he exclaimed aloud, his face beaming jubilantly. + +He ran to open the door, and Juliette entered, her face veiled, her +figure wrapped in a fur mantle. While Malignon was gently closing the +door, she stood still for a moment, with the emotion that checked the +words on her lips undetected. + +However, before the young man had had time to take her hand, she raised +her veil, and displayed a smiling face, rather pale, but quite +unruffled. + +“What! you have lighted up the place!” she exclaimed. “Why? I thought +you hated candles in broad daylight!” + +Malignon, who had been making ready to clasp her with a passionate +gesture that he had been rehearsing, was put somewhat out of +countenance by this remark, and hastened to explain that the day was +too wretched, and that the windows looked on to waste patches of +ground. Besides, night was his special delight. + +“Well, one never knows how to take you,” she retorted jestingly. “Last +spring, at my children’s ball, you made such a fuss, declaring that the +place was like some cavern, some dead-house. However, let us say that +your taste has changed.” + +She seemed to be paying a mere visit, and affected a courage which +slightly deepened her voice. This was the only indication of her +uneasiness. At times her chin twitched somewhat, as though she felt +some uneasiness in her throat. But her eyes were sparkling, and she +tasted to the full the keen pleasure born of her imprudence. She +thought of Madame de Chermette, of whom such scandalous stories were +related. Good heavens! it seemed strange all the same. + +“Let us have a look round,” she began. + +And thereupon she began inspecting the apartment. He followed in her +footsteps, while she gazed at the furniture, examined the walls, looked +upwards, and started back, chattering all the time. + +“I don’t like your cretonne; it is so frightfully common!” said she. +“Where did you buy that abominable pink stuff? There’s a chair that +would be nice if the wood weren’t covered with gilding. Not a picture, +not a nick-nack—only your chandelier and your candelabra, which are by +no means in good style! Ah well, my dear fellow; I advise you to +continue laughing at my Japanese pavilion!” + +She burst into a laugh, thus revenging herself on him for the old +affronts which still rankled in her breast. + +“Your taste is a pretty one, and no mistake! You don’t know that my +idol is worth more than the whole lot of your things! A draper’s +shopman wouldn’t have selected that pink stuff. Was it your idea to +fascinate your washerwoman?” + +Malignon felt very much hurt, and did not answer. He made an attempt to +lead her into the inner room; but she remained on the threshold, +declaring that she never entered such gloomy places. Besides, she could +see quite enough; the one room was worthy of the other. The whole of it +had come from the Saint-Antoine quarter. + +But the hanging lamp was her special aversion. She attacked it with +merciless raillery—what a trashy thing it was, such as some little +work-girl with no furniture of her own might have dreamt of! Why, lamps +in the same style could be bought at all the bazaars at seven francs +fifty centimes apiece. + +“I paid ninety francs for it,” at last ejaculated Malignon in his +impatience. + +Thereupon she seemed delighted at having angered him. + +On his self-possession returning, he inquired: “Won’t you take off your +cloak?” + +“Oh, yes, I will,” she answered; “it is dreadfully warm here.” + +She took off her bonnet as well, and this with her fur cloak he +hastened to deposit in the next room. When he returned, he found her +seated in front of the fire, still gazing round her. She had regained +her gravity, and was disposed to display a more conciliatory demeanor. + +“It’s all very ugly,” she said; “still, you are not amiss here. The two +rooms might have been made very pretty.” + +“Oh! they’re good enough for my purpose!” he thoughtlessly replied, +with a careless shrug of the shoulders. + +The next moment, however, he bitterly regretted these silly words. He +could not possibly have been more impertinent or clumsy. Juliette hung +her head, and a sharp pang darted through her bosom. Then he sought to +turn to advantage the embarrassment into which he had plunged her. + +“Juliette!” he said pleadingly, as he leaned towards her. + +But with a gesture she forced him to resume his seat. It was at the +seaside, at Trouville, that Malignon, bored to death by the constant +sight of the sea, had hit upon the happy idea of falling in love. One +evening he had taken hold of Juliette’s hand. She had not seemed +offended; in fact, she had at first bantered him over it. Soon, though +her head was empty and her heart free, she imagined that she loved him. +She had, so far, done nearly everything that her friends did around +her; a lover only was lacking, and curiosity and a craving to be like +the others had impelled her to secure one. However, Malignon was vain +enough to imagine that he might win her by force of wit, and allowed +her time to accustom herself to playing the part of a coquette. So, on +the first outburst, which took place one night when they stood side by +side gazing at the sea like a pair of lovers in a comic opera, she had +repelled him, in her astonishment and vexation that he should spoil the +romance which served as an amusement to her. + +On his return to Paris Malignon had vowed that he would be more skilful +in his attack. He had just reacquired influence over her, during a fit +of boredom which had come on with the close of a wearying winter, when +the usual dissipations, dinners, balls, and first-night performances +were beginning to pall on her with their dreary monotony. And at last, +her curiosity aroused, allured by the seeming mystery and piquancy of +an intrigue, she had responded to his entreaties by consenting to meet +him. However, so wholly unruffled were her feelings, that she was as +little disturbed, seated here by the side of Malignon, as when she paid +visits to artists’ studios to solicit pictures for her charity bazaars. + +“Juliette! Juliette!” murmured the young man, striving to speak in +caressing tones. + +“Come, be sensible,” she merely replied; and taking a Chinese fan from +the chimney-piece, she resumed—as much at her ease as though she had +been sitting in her own drawing-room: “You know we had a rehearsal this +morning. I’m afraid I have not made a very happy choice in Madame +Berthier. Her ‘Mathilda’ is a snivelling, insufferable affair. You +remember that delightful soliloquy when she addresses the purse—‘Poor +little thing, I kissed you a moment ago’? Well! she declaims it like a +school-girl who has learnt a complimentary greeting. It’s so +vexatious!” + +“And what about Madame de Guiraud?” he asked, as he drew his chair +closer and took her hand. + +“Oh! she is perfection. I’ve discovered in her a ‘Madame de Lery,’ with +some sarcasm and animation.” + +While speaking she surrendered her hand to the young man, and he kissed +it between her sentences without her seeming to notice it. + +“But the worst of it all, you know,” she resumed, “is your absence. In +the first place, you might say something to Madame Berthier; and +besides, we shall not be able to get a good _ensemble_ if you never +come.” + +He had now succeeded in passing his arm round her waist. + +“But as I know my part,” he murmured. + +“Yes, that’s all very well; but there’s the arrangement of the scenes +to look after. It is anything but obliging on your part to refuse to +give us three or four mornings.” + +She was unable to continue, for he was raining a shower of kisses on +her neck. At this she could feign ignorance no longer, but pushed him +away, tapping him the while with the Chinese fan which she still +retained in her hand. Doubtless, she had registered a vow that she +would not allow any further familiarity. Her face was now flushed by +the heat reflected from the fire, and her lips pouted with the very +expression of an inquisitive person whom her feelings astonish. +Moreover, she was really getting frightened. + +“Leave me alone,” she stammered, with a constrained smile. “I shall get +angry.” + +But he imagined that he had moved her, and once more took hold of her +hands. To her, however, a voice seemed to be crying out, “No!” It was +she herself protesting before she had even answered her own heart. + +“No, no!” she said again. “Let me go; you are hurting me!” And +thereupon, as he refused to release her, she twisted herself violently +from his grasp. She was acting in obedience to some strange emotion; +she felt angry with herself and with him. In her agitation some +disjointed phrases escaped her lips. Yes, indeed, he rewarded her badly +for her trust. What a brute he was! She even called him a coward. Never +in her life would she see him again. But he allowed her to talk on, and +ran after her with a wicked and brutal laugh. And at last she could do +no more than gasp in the momentary refuge which she had sought behind a +chair. They were there, gazing at one another, her face transformed by +shame and his by passion, when a noise broke through the stillness. At +first they did not grasp its significance. A door had opened, some +steps crossed the room, and a voice called to them: + +“Fly! fly! You will be caught!” + +It was Hélène. Astounded, they both gazed at her. So great was their +stupefaction that they lost consciousness of their embarrassing +situation. Juliette indeed displayed no sign of confusion. + +“Fly! fly!” said Hélène again. “Your husband will be here in two +minutes.” + +“My husband!” stammered the young woman; “my husband!—why—for what +reason?” + +She was losing her wits. Her brain was in a turmoil. It seemed to her +prodigious that Hélène should be standing there speaking to her of her +husband. + +But Hélène made an angry gesture. + +“Oh! if you think I’ve time to explain,” said she,—“he is on the way +here. I give you warning. Disappear at once, both of you.” + +Then Juliette’s agitation became extraordinary. She ran about the rooms +like a maniac, screaming out disconnected sentences. + +“My God! my God!—I thank you.—Where is my cloak?—How horrid it is, this +room being so dark!—Give me my cloak.—Bring me a candle, to help me to +find my cloak.—My dear, you mustn’t mind if I don’t stop to thank +you.—I can’t get my arms into the sleeves—no, I can’t get them in—no, I +can’t!” + +She was paralyzed with fear, and Hélène was obliged to assist her with +her cloak. She put her bonnet on awry, and did not even tie the +ribbons. The worst of it, however, was that they lost quite a minute in +hunting for her veil, which had fallen on the floor. Her words came +with a gasp; her trembling hands moved about in bewilderment, fumbling +over her person to ascertain whether she might be leaving anything +behind which might compromise her. + +“Oh, what a lesson! what a lesson! Thank goodness, it is well over!” + +Malignon was very pale, and made a sorry appearance. His feet beat a +tattoo on the ground, as he realized that he was both scorned and +ridiculous. His lips could only give utterance to the wretched +question: + +“Then you think I ought to go away as well?” + +Then, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he took up his cane, and went on +talking by way of affecting perfect composure. They had plenty of time, +said he. It happened that there was another staircase, a small +servants’ staircase, now never used, but which would yet allow of their +descent. Madame Deberle’s cab had remained at the door; it would convey +both of them away along the quays. And again he repeated: “Now calm +yourself. It will be all right. See, this way.” + +He threw open a door, and the three dingy, dilapidated, little rooms, +which had not been repaired and were full of dirt, appeared to view. A +puff of damp air entered the boudoir. Juliette, ere she stepped through +all that squalor, gave final expression to her disgust. + +“How could I have come here?” she exclaimed in a loud voice. “What a +hole! I shall never forgive myself.” + +“Be quick, be quick!” urged Hélène, whose anxiety was as great as her +own. + +She pushed Juliette forward, but the young woman threw herself sobbing +on her neck. She was in the throes of a nervous reaction. She was +overwhelmed with shame, and would fain have defended herself, fain have +given a reason for being found in that man’s company. Then +instinctively she gathered up her skirts, as though she were about to +cross a gutter. With the tip of his boot Malignon, who had gone on +first, was clearing away the plaster which littered the back staircase. +The doors were shut once more. + +Meantime, Hélène had remained standing in the middle of the +sitting-room. Silence reigned there, a warm, close silence, only +disturbed by the crackling of the burnt logs. There was a singing in +her ears, and she heard nothing. But after an interval, which seemed to +her interminable, the rattle of a cab suddenly resounded. It was +Juliette’s cab rolling away. + +Then Hélène sighed, and she made a gesture of mute gratitude. The +thought that she would not be tortured by everlasting remorse for +having acted despicably filled her with pleasant and thankful feelings. +She felt relieved, deeply moved, and yet so weak, now that this awful +crisis was over, that she lacked the strength to depart in her turn. In +her heart she thought that Henri was coming, and that he must meet some +one in this place. There was a knock at the door, and she opened it at +once. + +The first sensation on either side was one of bewilderment. Henri +entered, his mind busy with thoughts of the letter which he had +received, and his face pale and uneasy. But when he caught sight of her +a cry escaped his lips. + +“You! My God! It was you!” + +The cry betokened more astonishment than pleasure. But soon there came +a furious awakening of his love. + +“You love me, you love me!” he stammered. “Ah! it was you, and I did +not understand.” + +He stretched out his arm as he spoke; but Hélène, who had greeted his +entrance with a smile, now started back with wan cheeks. Truly she had +waited for him; she had promised herself that they would be together +for a moment, and that she would invent some fiction. Now, however, +full consciousness of the situation flashed upon her; Henri believed it +to be an assignation. Yet she had never for one moment desired such a +thing, and her heart rebelled. + +“Henri, I pray you, release me,” said she. + +He had grasped her by the wrists, and was drawing her slowly towards +him, as though to kiss her. The love that had been surging within him +for months, but which had grown less violent owing to the break in +their intimacy, now burst forth more fiercely than ever. + +“Release me,” she resumed. “You are frightening me. I assure you, you +are mistaken.” + +His surprise found voice once more. + +“Was it not you then who wrote to me?” he asked. + +She hesitated for a second. What could she say in answer? + +“Yes,” she whispered at last. + +She could not betray Juliette after having saved her. An abyss lay +before her into which she herself was slipping. Henri was now glancing +round the two rooms in wonderment at finding them illumined and +furnished in such gaudy style. He ventured to question her. + +“Are these rooms yours?” he asked. + +But she remained silent. + +“Your letter upset me so,” he continued. “Hélène, you are hiding +something from me. For mercy’s sake, relieve my anxiety!” + +She was not listening to him; she was reflecting that he was indeed +right in considering this to be an assignation. Otherwise, what could +she have been doing there? Why should she have waited for him? She +could devise no plausible explanation. She was no longer certain +whether she had not given him this rendezvous. A network of chance and +circumstance was enveloping her yet more tightly; there was no escape +from it. Each second found her less able to resist. + +“You were waiting for me, you were waiting for me!” he repeated +passionately, as he bent his head to kiss her. And then as his lips met +hers she felt it beyond her power to struggle further; but, as though +in mute acquiescence, fell, half swooning and oblivious of the world, +upon his neck. + + +[Illustration] + + + + + CHAPTER XX. + + +Jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the door, remained plunged in grief over +her mother’s sudden departure. She gazed around her; the room was empty +and silent; but she could still hear the waning sounds of hurrying +footsteps and rustling skirts, and last the slamming of the outer door. +Then nothing stirred, and she was alone. + +All alone, all alone. Over the bed hung her mother’s dressing-gown, +flung there at random, the skirt bulging out and a sleeve lying across +the bolster, so that the garment looked like some person who had fallen +down overwhelmed with grief, and sobbing in misery. There was some +linen scattered about, and a black neckerchief lay on the floor like a +blot of mourning. The chairs were in disorder, the table had been +pushed in front of the wardrobe, and amidst it all she was quite alone. +She felt her tears choking her as she looked at the dressing-gown which +no longer garmented her mother, but was stretched there with the +ghastly semblance of death. She clasped her hands, and for the last +time wailed, “Mamma! mamma!” The blue velvet hangings, however, +deadened the sound. It was all over, and she was alone. + +Then the time slipped away. The clock struck three. A dismal, dingy +light came in through the windows. Dark clouds were sailing over the +sky, which made it still gloomier. Through the panes of glass, which +were covered with moisture, Paris could only be dimly seen; the watery +vapor blurred it; its far-away outskirts seemed hidden by thick smoke. +Thus the city even was no longer there to keep the child company, as on +bright afternoons, when, on leaning out a little, it seemed to her as +though she could touch each district with her hand. + +What was she to do? Her little arms tightened in despair against her +bosom. This desertion seemed to her mournful, passing all bounds, +characterized by an injustice and wickedness that enraged her. She had +never known anything so hateful; it struck her that everything was +going to vanish; nothing of the old life would ever come back again. +Then she caught sight of her doll seated near her on a chair, with its +back against a cushion, and its legs stretched out, its eyes staring at +her as though it were a human being. It was not her mechanical doll, +but a large one with a pasteboard head, curly hair, and eyes of enamel, +whose fixed look sometimes frightened her. What with two years’ +constant dressing and undressing, the paint had got rubbed off the chin +and cheeks, and the limbs, of pink leather stuffed with sawdust, had +become limp and wrinkled like old linen. The doll was just now in its +night attire, arrayed only in a bed-gown, with its arms twisted, one in +the air and the other hanging downwards. When Jeanne realized that +there was still some one with her, she felt for an instant less +unhappy. She took the doll in her arms and embraced it ardently, while +its head swung back, for its neck was broken. Then she chattered away +to it, telling it that it was Jeanne’s best-behaved friend, that it had +a good heart, for it never went out and left Jeanne alone. It was, said +she, her treasure, her kitten, her dear little pet. Trembling with +agitation, striving to prevent herself from weeping again, she covered +it all over with kisses. + +This fit of tenderness gave her some revengeful consolation, and the +doll fell over her arm like a bundle of rags. She rose and looked out, +with her forehead against a window-pane. The rain had ceased falling, +and the clouds of the last downpour, driven before the wind, were +nearing the horizon towards the heights of Père-Lachaise, which were +wrapped in gloom; and against this stormy background Paris, illumined +by a uniform clearness, assumed a lonely, melancholy grandeur. It +seemed to be uninhabited, like one of those cities seen in a +nightmare—the reflex of a world of death. To Jeanne it certainly +appeared anything but pretty. She was now idly dreaming of those she +had loved since her birth. Her oldest sweetheart, the one of her early +days at Marseilles, had been a huge cat, which was very heavy; she +would clasp it with her little arms, and carry it from one chair to +another without provoking its anger in the least; but it had +disappeared, and that was the first misfortune she remembered. She had +next had a sparrow, but it died; she had picked it up one morning from +the bottom of its cage. That made two. She never reckoned the toys +which got broken just to grieve her, all kinds of wrongs which had +caused her much suffering because she was so sensitive. One doll in +particular, no higher than one’s hand, had driven her to despair by +getting its head smashed; she had cherished it to a such a degree that +she had buried it by stealth in a corner of the yard; and some time +afterwards, overcome by a craving to look on it once more, she had +disinterred it, and made herself sick with terror whilst gazing on its +blackened and repulsive features. + +However, it was always the others who were the first to fail in their +love. They got broken; they disappeared. The separation, at all events, +was invariably their fault. Why was it? She herself never changed. When +she loved any one, her love lasted all her life. Her mind could not +grasp the idea of neglect and desertion; such things seemed to her +monstrously wicked, and never occurred to her little heart without +giving it a deadly pang. She shivered as a host of vague ideas slowly +awoke within her. So people parted one day; each went his own way, +never to meet or love each other again. With her eyes fixed on the +limitless and dreary expanse of Paris, she sat chilled by all that her +childish passion could divine of life’s hard blows. + +Meantime her breath was fast dimming the glass. With her hands she +rubbed away the vapor that prevented her from looking out. Several +monuments in the distance, wet with the rain, glittered like browny +ice. There were lines of houses, regular and distinct, which, with +their fronts standing out pale amidst the surrounding roofs, looked +like outstretched linen—some tremendous washing spread to dry on fields +of ruddy grass. The sky was clearing, and athwart the tail of the cloud +which still cloaked the city in gloom the milky rays of the sun were +beginning to stream. A brightness seemed to be hesitating over some of +the districts; in certain places the sky would soon begin to smile. +Jeanne gazed below, over the quay and the slopes of the Trocadero; the +street traffic was about to begin afresh after that violent downpour. +The cabs again passed by at a jolting crawl, while the omnibuses +rattled along the still lonely streets with a louder noise than usual. +Umbrellas were being shut up, and wayfarers, who had taken shelter +beneath the trees, ventured from one foot pavement to another through +muddy streams which were rushing into the gutters. + +Jeanne noticed with special interest a lady and a little girl, both of +them fashionably dressed, who were standing beneath the awning of a +toy-shop near the bridge. Doubtless they had been caught in the shower, +and had taken refuge there. The child would fain have carried away the +whole shop, and had pestered her mother to buy her a hoop. Both were +now leaving, however, and the child was running along full of glee, +driving the hoop before her. At this Jeanne’s melancholy returned with +intensified force; her doll became hideous. She longed to have a hoop +and to be down yonder and run along, while her mother slowly walked +behind her and cautioned her not to go too far. Then, however, +everything became dim again. At each minute she had to rub the glass +clear. She had been enjoined never to open the window; but she was full +of rebellious thoughts; she surely might gaze out of the window, if she +were not to be taken for a walk. So she opened it, and leaned out like +a grown-up person—in imitation of her mother when she ensconced herself +there and lapsed into silence. + +The air was mild, and moist in its mildness, which seemed to her +delightful. A darkness slowly rising over the horizon induced her to +lift her head. To her imagination it seemed as if some gigantic bird +with outstretched wings were hovering on high. At first she saw +nothing; the sky was clear; but at last, at the angle of the roof, a +gloomy cloud made its appearance, sailing on and speedily enveloping +the whole heaven. Another squall was rising before a roaring west wind. +The daylight was quickly dying away, and the city grew dark, amidst a +livid shimmer, which imparted to the house-fronts a rusty tinge. + +Almost immediately afterwards the rain fell. The streets were swept by +it; the umbrellas were again opened; and the passers-by, fleeing in +every direction, vanished like chaff. One old lady gripped her skirts +with both hands, while the torrent beat down on her bonnet as though it +were falling from a spout. And the rain travelled on; the cloud kept +pace with the water ragefully falling upon Paris; the big drops +enfiladed the avenues of the quays, with a gallop like that of a +runaway horse, raising a white dust which rolled along the ground at a +prodigious speed. They also descended the Champs-Elysees, plunged into +the long narrow streets of the Saint-Germain district, and at a bound +filled up all the open spaces and deserted squares. In a few seconds, +behind this veil which grew thicker and thicker, the city paled and +seemed to melt away. It was as though a curtain were being drawn +obliquely from heaven to earth. Masses of vapor arose too; and the +vast, splashing pit-a-pat was as deafening as any rattle of old iron. + +Jeanne, giddy with the noise, started back. A leaden wall seemed to +have been built up before her. But she was fond of rain; so she +returned, leaned out again, and stretched out her arms to feel the big, +cold rain-drops splashing on her hands. This gave her some amusement, +and she got wet to the sleeves. Her doll must, of course, like herself, +have a headache, and she therefore hastened to put it astride the +window-rail, with its back against the side wall. She thought, as she +saw the drops pelting down upon it, that they were doing it some good. +Stiffly erect, its little teeth displayed in a never-fading smile, the +doll sat there, with one shoulder streaming with water, while every +gust of wind lifted up its night-dress. Its poor body, which had lost +some of its sawdust stuffing, seemed to be shivering. + +What was the reason that had prevented her mother from taking her with +her? wondered Jeanne. The rain that beat down on her hands seemed a +fresh inducement to be out. It must be very nice, she argued, in the +street. Once more there flashed on her mind’s eye the little girl +driving her hoop along the pavement. Nobody could deny that she had +gone out with her mamma. Both of them had even seemed to be exceedingly +well pleased. This was sufficient proof that little girls were taken +out when it rained. + +But, then, willingness on her mother’s part was requisite. Why had she +been unwilling? Then Jeanne again thought of her big cat which had gone +away over the houses opposite with its tail in the air, and of the poor +little sparrow which she had tempted with food when it was dead, and +which had pretended that it did not understand. That kind of thing +always happened to her; nobody’s love for her was enduring enough. Oh! +she would have been ready in a couple of minutes; when she chose she +dressed quickly enough; it was only a question of her boots, which +Rosalie buttoned, her jacket, her hat, and it was done. Her mother +might easily have waited two minutes for her. When she left home to see +her friends, she did not turn her things all topsy-turvy as she had +done that afternoon; when she went to the Bois de Boulogne, she led her +gently by the hand, and stopped with her outside every shop in the Rue +de Passy. + +Jeanne could not get to the bottom of it; her black eyebrows frowned, +and her delicate features put on a stern, jealous expression which made +her resemble some wicked old maid. She felt in a vague way that her +mother had gone to some place where children never go. She had not been +taken out because something was to be hidden from her. This thought +filled her with unutterable sadness, and her heart throbbed with pain. + +The rain was becoming finer, and through the curtain which veiled Paris +glimpses of buildings were occasionally afforded. The dome of the +Invalides, airy and quivering, was the first to reappear through the +glittering vibration of the downpour. Next, some of the districts +emerged into sight as the torrent slackened; the city seemed to rise +from a deluge that had overwhelmed it, its roofs all streaming, and +every street filled with a river of water from which vapor still +ascended. But suddenly there was a burst of light; a ray of sunshine +fell athwart the shower. For a moment it was like a smile breaking +through tears. + +The rain had now ceased to fall over the Champs-Elysees district; but +it was sabring the left bank, the Cité, and the far-away suburbs; in +the sunshine the drops could be seen flashing down like innumerable +slender shafts of steel. On the right a rainbow gleamed forth. As the +gush of light streamed across the sky, touches of pink and blue +appeared on the horizon, a medley of color, suggestive of a childish +attempt at water-color painting. Then there was a sudden blaze—a fall +of golden snow, as it were, over a city of crystal. But the light died +away, a cloud rolled up, and the smile faded amidst tears; Paris +dripped and dripped, with a prolonged sobbing noise, beneath the +leaden-hued sky. + +Jeanne, with her sleeves soaked, was seized with a fit of coughing. But +she was unconscious of the chill that was penetrating her; she was now +absorbed in the thought that her mother had gone into Paris. She had +come at last to know three buildings—the Invalides, the Panthéon, and +the Tower of St.-Jacques. She now slowly went over their names, and +pointed them out with her finger without attempting to think what they +might be like were she nearer to them. Without doubt, however, her +mother was down there; and she settled in her mind that she was in the +Panthéon, because it astonished her the most, huge as it was, towering +up through the air, like the city’s head-piece. Then she began to +question herself. Paris was still to her the place where children never +go; she was never taken there. She would have liked to know it, +however, that she might have quietly said to herself: “Mamma is there; +she is doing such and such a thing.” But it all seemed to her too +immense; it was impossible to find any one there. Then her glance +travelled towards the other end of the plain. Might her mother not +rather be in one of that cluster of houses on the hill to the left? or +nearer in, beneath those huge trees, whose bare branches seemed as dead +as firewood? Oh! if she could only have lifted up the roofs! What could +that gloomy edifice be? What was that street along which something of +enormous bulk seemed to be running? And what could that district be at +sight of which she always felt frightened, convinced as she was that +people fought one another there? She could not see it distinctly, but, +to tell the truth, its aspects stirred one; it was very ugly, and must +not be looked at by little girls. + +A host of indefinable ideas and suppositions, which brought her to the +verge of weeping, awoke trouble in Jeanne’s ignorant, childish mind. +From the unknown world of Paris, with its smoke, its endless noises, +its powerful, surging life, an odor of wretchedness, filth, and crime +seemed to be wafted to her through the mild, humid atmosphere, and she +was forced to avert her head, as though she had been leaning over one +of those pestilential pits which breathe forth suffocation from their +unseen horrors. The Invalides, the Panthéon, the Tower of +Saint-Jacques—these she named and counted; but she knew nothing of +anything else, and she sat there, terrified and ashamed, with the +all-absorbing thought that her mother was among those wicked places, at +some spot which she was unable to identify in the depths yonder. + +Suddenly Jeanne turned round. She could have sworn that somebody had +walked into the bedroom, that a light hand had even touched her +shoulder. But the room was empty, still in the same disorder as when +Hélène had left. The dressing-gown, flung across the pillow, still lay +in the same mournful, weeping attitude. Then Jeanne, with pallid +cheeks, cast a glance around, and her heart nearly burst within her. +She was alone! she was alone! And, O Heaven, her mother, in forsaking +her, had pushed her with such force that she might have fallen to the +floor. The thought came back to her with anguish; she again seemed to +feel the pain of that outrage on her wrists and shoulders. Why had she +been struck? She had been good, and had nothing to reproach herself +with. She was usually spoken to with such gentleness that the +punishment she had received awoke feelings of indignation within her. +She was thrilled by a sensation of childish fear, as in the old times +when she was threatened with the approach of the wolf, and looked for +it and saw it not: it was lingering in some shady corner, with many +other things that were going to overwhelm her. However, she was full of +suspicion; her face paled and swelled with jealous fury. Of a sudden, +the thought that her mother must love those whom she had gone to see +far more than she loved her came upon her with such crushing force that +her little hands clutched her bosom. She knew it now; yes, her mother +was false to her. + +Over Paris a great sorrow seemed to be brooding, pending the arrival of +a fresh squall. A murmur travelled through the darkened air, and heavy +clouds were hovering overhead. Jeanne, still at the window, was +convulsed by another fit of coughing; but in the chill she experienced +she felt herself revenged; she would willingly have had her illness +return. With her hands pressed against her bosom, she grew conscious of +some pain growing more intense within her. It was an agony to which her +body abandoned itself. She trembled with fear, and did not again +venture to turn round; she felt quite cold at the idea of glancing into +the room any more. To be little means to be without strength. What +could this new complaint be which filled her with mingled shame and +bitter pleasure? With stiffened body, she sat there as if waiting—every +one of her pure and innocent limbs in an agony of revulsion. From the +innermost recesses of her being all her woman’s feelings were aroused, +and there darted through her a pang, as though she had received a blow +from a distance. Then with failing heart she cried out chokingly: +“Mamma! mamma!” No one could have known whether she called to her +mother for aid, or whether she accused her of having inflicted on her +the pain which seemed to be killing her. + +At that moment the tempest burst. Through the deep and ominous +stillness the wind howled over the city, which was shrouded in +darkness; and afterwards there came a long-continued +crashing—window-shutters beating to and fro, slates flying, +chimney-tops and gutter-pipes rattling on to the pavements. For a few +seconds a calm ensued; then there blew another gust, which swept along +with such mighty strength that the ocean of roofs seemed convulsed, +tossing about in waves, and then disappearing in a whirlpool. For a +moment chaos reigned. Some enormous clouds, like huge blots of ink, +swept through a host of smaller ones, which were scattered and floated +like shreds of rag which the wind tore to pieces and carried off thread +by thread. A second later two clouds rushed upon one another, and rent +one another with crashing reports, which seemed to sprinkle the coppery +expanse with wreckage; and every time the hurricane thus veered, +blowing from every point of the compass, the thunder of opposing navies +resounded in the atmosphere, and an awful rending and sinking followed, +the hanging fragments of the clouds, jagged like huge bits of broken +walls, threatening Paris with imminent destruction. The rain was not +yet falling. But suddenly a cloud burst above the central quarters, and +a water-spout ascended the Seine. The river’s green ribbon, riddled and +stirred to its depths by the splashing drops, became transformed into a +stream of mud; and one by one, behind the downpour, the bridges +appeared to view again, slender and delicately outlined in the mist; +while, right and left, the trees edging the grey pavements of the +deserted quays were shaken furiously by the wind. Away in the +background, over Notre-Dame, the cloud divided and poured down such a +torrent of water that the island of La Cité seemed submerged. Far above +the drenched houses the cathedral towers alone rose up against a patch +of clear sky, like floating waifs. + +On every side the water now rushed down from the heavens. Three times +in succession did the right bank appear to be engulfed. The first fall +inundated the distant suburbs, gradually extending its area, and +beating on the turrets of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul and Saint-Jacques, +which glistened in the rain. Then two other downpours, following in hot +haste one upon the other, streamed over Montmartre and the +Champs-Elysees. At times a glimpse could be obtained of the glass roof +of the Palace of Industry, steaming, as it were, under the splashing +water; of Saint-Augustin, whose cupola swam in a kind of fog like a +clouded moon; of the Madeleine, which spread out its flat roof, looking +like some ancient court whose flagstones had been freshly scoured; +while, in the rear, the huge mass of the Opera House made one think of +a dismasted vessel, which with its hull caught between two rocks, was +resisting the assaults of the tempest. + +On the left bank of the Seine, also hidden by a watery veil, you +perceived the dome of the Invalides, the spires of Sainte-Clotilde, and +the towers of Saint-Sulpice, apparently melting away in the moist +atmosphere. Another cloud spread out, and from the colonnade of the +Panthéon sheets of water streamed down, threatening to inundate what +lay below. And from that moment the rain fell upon the city in all +directions; one might have imagined that the heavens were precipitating +themselves on the earth; streets vanished, sank into the depths, and +men reappeared, drifting on the surface, amidst shocks whose violence +seemed to foretell the end of the city. A prolonged roar ascended—the +roar of all the water rushing along the gutters and falling into the +drains. And at last, above muddy-looking Paris, which had assumed with +the showers a dingy-yellow hue, the livid clouds spread themselves out +in uniform fashion, without stain or rift. The rain was becoming finer, +and was falling sharply and vertically; but whenever the wind again +rose, the grey hatching was curved into mighty waves, and the +raindrops, driven almost horizontally, could be heard lashing the walls +with a hissing sound, till, with the fall of the wind, they again fell +vertically, peppering the soil with a quiet obstinacy, from the heights +of Passy away to the level plain of Charenton. Then the vast city, as +though overwhelmed and lifeless after some awful convulsion, seemed but +an expanse of stony ruins under the invisible heavens. + +Jeanne, who had sunk down by the window, had wailed out once more, +“Mamma! mamma!” A terrible weariness deprived her limbs of their +strength as she lingered there, face to face with the engulfing of +Paris. Amidst her exhaustion, whilst the breeze played with her +tresses, and her face remained wet with rain, she preserved some taste +of the bitter pleasure which had made her shiver, while within her +heart there was a consciousness of some irretrievable woe. Everything +seemed to her to have come to an end; she realized that she was getting +very old. The hours might pass away, but now she did not even cast a +glance into the room. It was all the same to her to be forgotten and +alone. Such despair possessed the child’s heart that all around her +seemed black. If she were scolded, as of old, when she was ill, it +would surely be very wrong. She was burning with fever; something like +a sick headache was weighing on her. Surely too, but a moment ago, +something had snapped within her. She could not prevent it; she must +inevitably submit to whatever might be her fate. Besides, weariness was +prostrating her. She had joined her hands over the window-bar, on which +she rested her head, and, though at times she opened her eyes to gaze +at the rain, drowsiness was stealing over her. + +And still and ever the rain kept beating down; the livid sky seemed +dissolving in water. A final blast of wind had passed by; a monotonous +roar could be heard. Amidst a solemn quiescence the sovereign rain +poured unceasingly upon the silent, deserted city it had conquered; and +behind this sheet of streaked crystal Paris showed like some phantom +place, with quivering outlines, which seemed to be melting away. To +Jeanne the scene now brought nothing beyond sleepiness and horrid +dreams, as though all the mystery and unknown evil were rising up in +vapor to pierce her through and make her cough. Every time she opened +her eyes she was seized with a fit of coughing, and would remain for a +few seconds looking at the scene; which as her head fell back once +more, clung to her mind, and seemed to spread over her and crush her. + +The rain was still falling. What hour might it be now? Jeanne could not +have told. Perhaps the clock had ceased going. It seemed to her too +great a fatigue to turn round. It was surely at least a week since her +mother had quitted her. She had abandoned all expectation of her +return; she was resigned to the prospect of never seeing her again. +Then she became oblivious of everything—the wrongs which had been done +her, the pain which she had just experienced, even the loneliness in +which she was suffered to remain. A weight, chilly like stone, fell +upon her. This only was certain: she was very unhappy—ah! as unhappy as +the poor little waifs to whom she gave alms as they huddled together in +gateways. Ah! Heaven! how coughing racked one, and how penetrating was +the cold when there was no nobody to love one! She closed her heavy +eyelids, succumbing to a feverish stupor; and the last of her thoughts +was a vague memory of childhood, of a visit to a mill, full of yellow +wheat, and of tiny grains slipping under millstones as huge as houses. + +Hours and hours passed away; each minute was a century. The rain beat +down without ceasing, with ever the same tranquil flow, as though all +time and eternity were allowed it to deluge the plain. Jeanne had +fallen asleep. Close by, her doll still sat astride the iron +window-bar; and, with its legs in the room and its head outside, its +nightdress clinging to its rosy skin, its eyes glaring, and its hair +streaming with water, it looked not unlike a drowned child; and so +emaciated did it appear in its comical yet distressing posture of +death, that it almost brought tears of pity to the eyes. Jeanne coughed +in her sleep; but now she never once opened her eyes. Her head swayed +to and fro on her crossed arms, and the cough spent itself in a wheeze +without awakening her. Nothing more existed for her. She slept in the +darkness. She did not even withdraw her hand, from whose cold, red +fingers bright raindrops were trickling one by one into the vast +expanse which lay beneath the window. This went on for hours and hours. +Paris was slowly waning on the horizon, like some phantom city; heaven +and earth mingled together in an indistinguishable jumble; and still +and ever with unflagging persistency did the grey rain fall. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI. + + +Night had long gathered in when Hélène returned. From her umbrella the +water dripped on step after step, whilst clinging to the balusters she +ascended the staircase. She stood for a few seconds outside her door to +regain her breath; the deafening rush of the rain still sounded in her +ears; she still seemed to feel the jostling of hurrying +foot-passengers, and to see the reflections from the street-lamps +dancing in the puddles. She was walking in a dream, filled with the +surprise of the kisses that had been showered upon her; and as she +fumbled for her key she believed that her bosom felt neither remorse +nor joy. Circumstances had compassed it all; she could have done naught +to prevent it. But the key was not to be found; it was doubtless +inside, in the pocket of her other gown. At this discovery her vexation +was intense; it seemed as though she were denied admission to her own +home. It became necessary that she should ring the bell. + +“Oh! it’s madame!” exclaimed Rosalie as she opened the door. “I was +beginning to feel uneasy.” + +She took the umbrella, intending to place it in the kitchen sink, and +then rattled on: + +“Good gracious! what torrents! Zephyrin, who has just come, was +drenched to the skin. I took the liberty, madame, of keeping him to +dinner. He has leave till ten o’clock.” + +Hélène followed her mechanically. She felt a desire to look once more +on everything in her home before removing her bonnet. + +“You have done quite right, my girl,” she answered. + +For a moment she lingered on the kitchen threshold, gazing at the +bright fire. Then she instinctively opened the door of a cupboard, and +promptly shut it again. Everything was in its place, chairs and tables +alike; she found them all again, and their presence gave her pleasure. +Zephyrin had, in the meantime, struggled respectfully to his feet. She +nodded to him, smiling. + +“I didn’t know whether to put the roast on,” began the maid. + +“Why, what time is it?” asked Hélène. + +“Oh, it’s close on seven o’clock, madame.” + +“What! seven o’clock!” + +Astonishment riveted her to the floor; she had lost all consciousness +of time, and seemed to awaken from a dream. + +“And where’s Jeanne?” she asked. + +“Oh! she has been very good, madame. I even think she must have fallen +asleep, for I haven’t heard her for some time.” + +“Haven’t you given her a light?” + +Embarrassment closed Rosalie’s lips; she was unwilling to relate that +Zephyrin had brought her some pictures which had engrossed her +attention. Mademoiselle had never made the least stir, so she could +scarcely have wanted anything. Hélène, however, paid no further heed to +her, but ran into the room, where a dreadful chill fell upon her. + +“Jeanne! Jeanne!” she called. + +No answer broke the stillness. She stumbled against an arm-chair. From +the dining-room, the door of which she had left ajar, some light +streamed across a corner of the carpet. She felt a shiver come over +her, and she could have declared that the rain was falling in the room, +with its moist breath and continuous streaming. Then, on turning her +head, she at once saw the pale square formed by the open window and the +gloomy grey of the sky. + +“Who can have opened this window?” she cried. “Jeanne! Jeanne!” + +Still no answering word. A mortal terror fell on Hélène’s heart. She +must look out of this window; but as she felt her way towards it, her +hands lighted on a head of hair—it was Jeanne’s. And then, as Rosalie +entered with a lamp, the child appeared with blanched face, sleeping +with her cheek upon her crossed arms, while the big raindrops from the +roof splashed upon her. Her breathing was scarcely perceptible, so +overcome she was with despair and fatigue. Among the lashes of her +large, bluey eyelids there were still two heavy tears. + +“The unhappy child!” stammered Hélène. “Oh, heavens! she’s icy cold! To +fall asleep there, at such a time, when she had been expressly +forbidden to touch the window! Jeanne, Jeanne, speak to me; wake up, +Jeanne!” + +Rosalie had prudently vanished. The child, on being raised in her +mother’s embrace, let her head drop as though she were unable to shake +off the leaden slumber that had seized upon her. At last, however, she +raised her eyelids; but the glare of the lamp dazzled her, and she +remained benumbed and stupid. + +“Jeanne, it’s I! What’s wrong with you? See, I’ve just come back,” said +Hélène. + +But the child seemingly failed to understand her; in her stupefaction +she could only murmur: “Oh! Ah!” + +She gazed inquiringly at her mother, as though she failed to recognize +her. And suddenly she shivered, growing conscious of the cold air of +the room. Her memory was awakening, and the tears rolled from her +eyelids to her cheeks. Then she commenced to struggle, in the evident +desire to be left alone. + +“It’s you, it’s you! Oh, leave me; you hold me too tight! I was so +comfortable.” + +She slipped from her mother’s arms with affright in her face. Her +uneasy looks wandered from Hélène’s hands to her shoulders; one of +those hands was ungloved, and she started back from the touch of the +moist palm and warm fingers with a fierce resentment, as though fleeing +from some stranger’s caress. The old perfume of vervain had died away; +Hélène’s fingers had surely become greatly attenuated, and her hand was +unusually soft. This skin was no longer hers, and its touch exasperated +Jeanne. + +“Come, I’m not angry with you,” pleaded Hélène. “But, indeed, have you +behaved well? Come and kiss me.” + +Jeanne, however, still recoiled from her. She had no remembrance of +having seen her mother dressed in that gown or cloak. Besides, she +looked so wet and muddy. Where had she come from dressed in that dowdy +style. + +“Kiss me, Jeanne,” repeated Hélène. + +But her voice also seemed strange; in Jeanne’s ears it sounded louder. +Her old heartache came upon her once more, as when an injury had been +done her; and unnerved by the presence of what was unknown and horrible +to her, divining, however, that she was breathing an atmosphere of +falsehood, she burst into sobs. + +“No, no, I entreat you! You left me all alone; and oh! I’ve been so +miserable!” + +“But I’m back again, my darling. Don’t weep any more; I’ve come home!” + +“Oh no, no! it’s all over now! I don’t wish for you any more! Oh, I +waited and waited, and have been so wretched!” + +Hélène took hold of the child again, and gently sought to draw her to +her bosom; but she resisted stubbornly, plaintively exclaiming: + +“No, no; it will never be the same! You are not the same!” + +“What! What are you talking of, child?” + +“I don’t know; you are not the same.” + +“Do you mean to say that I don’t love you any more?” + +“I don’t know; you are no longer the same! Don’t say no. You don’t feel +the same! It’s all over, over, over. I wish to die!” + +With blanching face Hélène again clasped her in her arms. Did her +looks, then, reveal her secret? She kissed her, but a shudder ran +through the child’s frame, and an expression of such misery crept into +her face that Hélène forbore to print a second kiss upon her brow. She +still kept hold of her, but neither of them uttered a word. Jeanne’s +sobbing fell to a whisper, a nervous revolt stiffening her limbs the +while. Hélène’s first thought was that much notice ought not to be paid +to a child’s whims; but to her heart there stole a feeling of secret +shame, and the weight of her daughter’s body on her shoulder brought a +blush to her cheeks. She hastened to put Jeanne down, and each felt +relieved. + +“Now, be good, and wipe your eyes,” said Hélène. “We’ll make everything +all right.” + +The child acquiesced in all gentleness, but seemed somewhat afraid and +glanced covertly at her mother. All at once her frame was shaken by a +fit of coughing. + +“Good heavens! why, you’ve made yourself ill now! I cannot stay away +from you a moment. Did you feel cold? + +“Yes, mamma; in the back.” + +“See here; put on this shawl. The dining-room stove is lighted, and +you’ll soon feel warm. Are you hungry?” + +Jeanne hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to speak the truth +and say no; but she darted a side glance at her mother, and, recoiling, +answered in a whisper: “Yes, mamma.” + +“Ah, well, it will be all right,” exclaimed Hélène, desirous of +tranquillizing herself. “Only, I entreat you, you naughty child, don’t +frighten me like this again.” + +On Rosalie re-entering the room to announce that dinner was ready, +Hélène severely scolded her. The little maid’s head drooped; she +stammered out that it was all very true, for she ought to have looked +better after mademoiselle. Then, hoping to mollify her mistress, she +busied herself in helping her to change her clothes. “Good gracious! +madame was in a fine state!” she remarked, as she assisted in removing +each mud-stained garment, at which Jeanne glared suspiciously, still +racked by torturing thoughts. + +“Madame ought to feel comfortable now,” exclaimed Rosalie when it was +all over. “It’s awfully nice to get into dry clothes after a +drenching.” + +Hélène, on finding herself once more in her blue dressing-gown, gave +vent to a slight sigh, as though a new happiness had welled up within +her. She again regained her old cheerfulness; she had rid herself of a +burden in throwing off those bedraggled garments. She washed her face +and hands; and while she stood there, still glistening with moisture, +her dressing-gown buttoned up to her chin, she was slowly approached by +Jeanne, who took one of her hands and kissed it. + +At table, however, not a word passed between mother and daughter. The +fire flared with a merry roar, and there was a look of happiness about +the little dining-room, with its bright mahogany and gleaming china. +But the old stupor which drove away all thought seemed to have again +fallen on Hélène; she ate mechanically, though with an appearance of +appetite. Jeanne sat facing her, and quietly watched her over her +glass, noting each of her movements. But all at once the child again +coughed, and her mother, who had become unconscious of her presence, +immediately displayed lively concern. + +“Why, you’re coughing again! Aren’t you getting warm?” + +“Oh, yes, mamma; I’m very warm.” + +Hélène leaned towards her to feel her hand and ascertain whether she +was speaking the truth. Only then did she perceive that her plate was +still full. + +“Why, you said you were hungry. Don’t you like what you have there?” + +“Oh, yes, mamma; I’m eating away.” + +With an effort Jeanne swallowed a mouthful. Hélène looked at her for a +time, but soon again began dreaming of the fatal room which she had +come from. It did not escape the child that her mother took little +interest in her now. As the dinner came to an end, her poor wearied +frame sank down on the chair, and she sat there like some bent, aged +woman, with the dim eyes of one of those old maids for whom love is +past and gone. + +“Won’t mademoiselle have any jam?” asked Rosalie. “If not, can I remove +the cloth?” + +Hélène still sat there with far-away looks. + +“Mamma, I’m sleepy,” exclaimed Jeanne in a changed voice. “Will you let +me go to bed? I shall feel better in bed.” + +Once more her mother seemed to awake with a start to consciousness of +her surroundings. + +“You are suffering, my darling! where do you feel the pain? Tell me.” + +“No, no; I told you I’m all right! I’m sleepy, and it’s already time +for me to go to bed.” + +She left her chair and stood up, as though to prove that there was no +illness threatening her: but her benumbed feet tottered over the floor +on her way to the bedroom. She leaned against the furniture, and her +hardihood was such that not a tear came from her, despite the feverish +fire darting through her frame. Her mother followed to assist her to +bed; but the child had displayed such haste in undressing herself that +she only arrived in time to tie up her hair for the night. Without need +of any helping hand Jeanne slipped between the sheets, and quickly +closed her eyes. + +“Are you comfortable?” asked Hélène, as she drew up the bedclothes and +carefully tucked her in. + +“Yes, quite comfortable. Leave me alone, and don’t disturb me. Take +away the lamp.” + +Her only yearning was to be alone in the darkness, that she might +reopen her eyes and chew the cud of her sorrows, with no one near to +watch her. When the light had been carried away, her eyes opened quite +wide. + +Nearby, in the meantime, Hélène was pacing up and down her room. She +was seized with a wondrous longing to be up and moving about; the idea +of going to bed seemed to her insufferable. She glanced at the +clock—twenty minutes to nine; what was she to do? she rummaged about in +a drawer, but forgot what she was seeking for. Then she wandered to her +bookshelves, glancing aimlessly over the books; but the very reading of +the titles wearied her. A buzzing sprang up in her ears with the room’s +stillness; the loneliness, the heavy atmosphere, were as an agony to +her. She would fain have had some bustle going on around her, have had +some one there to speak to—something, in short, to draw her from +herself. She twice listened at the door of Jeanne’s little room, from +which, however, not even a sound of breathing came. Everything was +quiet; so she turned back once more, and amused herself by taking up +and replacing whatever came to her hand. Then suddenly the thought +flashed across her mind that Zephyrin must still be with Rosalie. It +was a relief to her; she was delighted at the idea of not being alone, +and stepped in her slippers towards the kitchen. + +She was already in the ante-room, and was opening the glass door of the +inner passage, when she detected the re-echoing clap of a swinging box +on the ears, and the next moment Rosalie could be heard exclaiming: + +“Ha, ha! you think you’ll nip me again, do you? Take your paws off!” + +“Oh! that’s nothing, my charmer!” exclaimed Zephyrin in his husky, +guttural voice. “That’s to show how I love you—in this style, you +know—” + +But at that moment the door creaked, and Hélène, entering, discovered +the diminutive soldier and the servant maid seated very quietly at +table, with their noses bent over their plates. They had assumed an air +of complete indifference; their innocence was certain. Yet their faces +were red with blushes, and their eyes aflame, and they wriggled +restlessly on their straw-bottomed chairs. Rosalie started up and +hurried forward. + +“Madame wants something?” + +Hélène had no pretext ready to her tongue. She had come to see them, to +chat with them, and have their company. However, she felt a sudden +shame, and dared not say that she required nothing. + +“Have you any hot water?” she asked, after a silence. + +“No, madame; and my fire is nearly out. Oh, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll +give you some in five minutes. It boils in no time.” + +She threw on some charcoal, and then set the kettle in place; but +seeing that her mistress still lingered in the doorway, she said: + +“I’ll bring the water to you in five minutes, madame.” + +Hélène responded with a wave of the hand. + +“I’m not in a hurry for it; I’ll wait. Don’t disturb yourself, my girl; +eat away, eat away. There’s a lad who’ll have to go back to barracks.” + +Rosalie thereupon sat down again. Zephyrin, who had also been standing, +made a military salute, and returned to the cutting of his meat, with +his elbows projecting as though to show that he knew how to conduct +himself at table. Thus eating together, after madame had finished +dinner, they did not even draw the table into the middle of the +kitchen, but contented themselves with sitting side by side, with their +noses turned towards the wall. A glorious prospect of stewpans was +before them. A bunch of laurel and thyme hung near, and a spice-box +exhaled a piquant perfume. Around them—the kitchen was not yet +tidied—was all the litter of the things cleared away from the +dining-room; however, the spot seemed a charming one to these hungry +sweethearts, and especially to Zephyrin, who here feasted on such +things as were never seen within the walls of his barracks. The +predominant odor was one of roast meat, seasoned with a dash of +vinegar—the vinegar of the salad. In the copper pans and iron pots the +reflected light from the gas was dancing; and as the heat of the fire +was beyond endurance, they had set the window ajar, and a cool breeze +blew in from the garden, stirring the blue cotton curtain. + +“Must you be in by ten o’clock exactly?” asked Hélène. + +“I must, madame, with all deference to you,” answered Zephyrin. + +“Well, it’s along way off. Do you take the ‘’bus’?” + +“Oh, yes, madame, sometimes. But you see a good swinging walk is much +the best.” + +She had taken a step into the kitchen, and leaning against the dresser, +her arms dangling and her hands clasped over her dressing-gown, she +began gossiping away about the wretched weather they had had that day, +about the food which was rationed out in barracks, and the high price +of eggs. As soon, however, as she had asked a question and their answer +had been given the conversation abruptly fell. They experienced some +discomfort with her standing thus behind their backs. They did not turn +round, but spoke into their plates, their shoulders bent beneath her +gaze, while, to conform to propriety, each mouthful they swallowed was +as small as possible. On the other hand, Hélène had now regained her +tranquillity, and felt quite happy there. + +“Don’t fret, madame,” said Rosalie; “the kettle is singing already. I +wish the fire would only burn up a little better!” + +She wanted to see to it, but Hélène would not allow her to disturb +herself. It would be all right by-and-by. An intense weariness now +pervaded the young woman’s limbs. Almost mechanically she crossed the +kitchen and approached the window, where she observed the third chair, +which was very high, and when turned over became a stepladder. However, +she did not sit down on it at once, for she had caught sight of a +number of pictures heaped up on a corner of the table. + +“Dear me!” she exclaimed, as she took them in her hand, inspired with +the wish of gratifying Zephyrin. + +The little soldier gaped with a silent chuckle. His face beamed with +smiles, and his eyes followed each picture, his head wagging whenever +something especially lovely was being examined by madame. + +“That one there,” he suddenly remarked, “I found in the Rue du Temple. +She’s a beautiful woman, with flowers in her basket.” + +Hélène sat down and inspected the beautiful woman who decorated the +gilt and varnished lid of a box of lozenges, every stain on which had +been carefully wiped off by Zephyrin. On the chair a dish-cloth was +hanging, and she could not well lean back. She flung it aside, however, +and once more lapsed into her dreaming. Then the two sweethearts +remarked madame’s good nature, and their restraint vanished—in the end, +indeed, her very presence was forgotten by them. One by one the +pictures had dropped from her hands on to her knees, and, with a vague +smile playing on her face, she examined the sweethearts and listened to +their talk. + +“I say, my dear,” whispered the girl, “won’t you have some more +mutton?” + +He answered neither yes nor no, but swung backwards and forwards on his +chair as though he had been tickled, then contentedly stretched +himself, while she placed a thick slice on his plate. His red epaulets +moved up and down, and his bullet-shaped head, with its huge projecting +ears, swayed to and fro over his yellow collar as though it were the +head of some Chinese idol. His laughter ran all over him, and he was +almost bursting inside his tunic, which he did not unbutton, however, +out of respect for madame. + +“This is far better than old Rouvet’s radishes!” he exclaimed at last, +with his mouth full. + +This was a reminiscence of their country home; and at thought of it +they both burst into immoderate laughter. Rosalie even had to hold on +to the table to prevent herself from falling. One day, before their +first communion, it seemed, Zephyrin had filched three black radishes +from old Rouvet. They were very tough radishes indeed—tough enough to +break one’s teeth; but Rosalie all the same had crunched her share of +the spoil at the back of the schoolhouse. Hence it was that every time +they chanced to be taking a meal together Zephyrin never omitted to +ejaculate: “Yes; this is better than old Rouvet’s radishes!” + +And then Rosalie’s laughter would become so violent that nine times out +of ten her petticoat-string would give way with an audible crack. + +“Hello! has it parted?” asked the little soldier, with triumph in his +tone. + +But Rosalie responded with a good slap. + +“It’s disgusting to make me break the string like this!” said she. “I +put a fresh one on every week.” + +However, he came nearer to her, intent on some joke or other, by way of +revenging the blow; but with a furious glance she reminded him that her +mistress was looking on. This seemed to trouble him but little, for he +replied with a rakish wink, as much as to say that no woman, not even a +lady, disliked a little fun. To be sure, when folks are sweethearting, +other people always like to be looking on. + +“You have still five years to serve, haven’t you?” asked Hélène, +leaning back on the high wooden-seated chair, and yielding to a feeling +of tenderness. + +“Yes, madame; perhaps only four if they don’t need me any longer.” + +It occurred to Rosalie that her mistress was thinking of her marriage, +and with assumed anger, she broke in: + +“Oh! madame, he can stick in the army for another ten years if he +likes! I sha’n’t trouble myself to ask the Government for him. He is +becoming too much of a rake; yes, I believe he’s going to the dogs. Oh! +it’s useless for you to laugh—that won’t take with me. When we go +before the mayor to get married, we’ll see on whose side the laugh is!” + +At this he chuckled all the more, in order that he might show himself a +lady-killer before madame, and the maid’s annoyance then became real. + +“Oh!” said she, “we know all about that! You know, madame, he’s still a +booby at heart. You’ve no idea how stupid that uniform makes them all! +That’s the way he goes on with his comrades; but if I turned him out, +you would hear him sobbing on the stairs. Oh, I don’t care a fig for +you, my lad! Why, whenever I please, won’t you always be there to do as +I tell you?” + +She bent forward to observe him closely; but, on seeing that his +good-natured, freckled face was beginning to cloud over, she was +suddenly moved, and prattled on, without any seeming transition: + +“Ah! I didn’t tell you that I’ve received a letter from auntie. The +Guignard lot want to sell their house—aye, and almost for nothing too. +We might perhaps be able to take it later on.” + +“By Jove!” exclaimed Zephyrin, brightening, “we should be quite at home +there. There’s room enough for two cows.” + +With this idea they lapsed into silence. They were now having some +dessert. The little soldier licked the jam on his bread with a child’s +greedy satisfaction, while the servant girl carefully pared an apple +with a maternal air. + +“Madame!” all at once exclaimed Rosalie, “there’s the water boiling +now.” + +Hélène, however, never stirred. She felt herself enveloped by an +atmosphere of happiness. She gave a continuance to their dreams, and +pictured them living in the country in the Guignards’ house and +possessed of two cows. A smile came to her face as she saw Zephyrin +sitting there to all appearance so serious, though in reality he was +patting Rosalie’s knee under the table, whilst she remained very stiff, +affecting an innocent demeanor. Then everything became blurred. Hélène +lost all definite sense of her surroundings, of the place where she +was, and of what had brought her there. The copper pans were flashing +on the walls; feelings of tenderness riveted her to the spot; her eyes +had a far-away look. She was not affected in any way by the disorderly +state of the kitchen; she had no consciousness of having demeaned +herself by coming there; all she felt was a deep pleasure, as when a +longing has been satisfied. Meantime the heat from the fire was +bedewing her pale brow with beads of perspiration, and behind her the +wind, coming in through the half-open window, quivered delightfully on +her neck. + +“Madame, your water is boiling,” again said Rosalie. “There will be +soon none left in the kettle.” + +She held the kettle before her, and Hélène, for the moment astonished, +was forced to rise. “Oh, yes! thank you!” + +She no longer had an excuse to remain, and went away slowly and +regretfully. When she reached her room she was at a loss what to do +with the kettle. Then suddenly within her there came a burst of +passionate love. The torpor which had held her in a state of +semi-unconsciousness gave way to a wave of glowing feeling, the rush of +which thrilled her as with fire. She quivered, and memories returned to +her—memories of her passion and of Henri. + +While she was taking off her dressing-gown and gazing at her bare arms, +a noise broke on her anxious ear. She thought she had heard Jeanne +coughing. Taking up the lamp she went into the closet, but found the +child with eyelids closed, seemingly fast asleep. However, the moment +the mother, satisfied with her examination, had turned her back, +Jeanne’s eyes again opened widely to watch her as she returned to her +room. There was indeed no sleep for Jeanne, nor had she any desire to +sleep. A second fit of coughing racked her bosom, but she buried her +head beneath the coverlet and stifled every sound. She might go away +for ever now; her mother would never miss her. Her eyes were still wide +open in the darkness; she knew everything as though knowledge had come +with thought, and she was dying of it all, but dying without a murmur. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII. + + +Next day all sorts of practical ideas took possession of Hélène’s mind. +She awoke impressed by the necessity of keeping watch over her +happiness, and shuddering with fear lest by some imprudent step she +might lose Henri. At this chilly morning hour, when the room still +seemed asleep, she felt that she idolized him, loved him with a +transport which pervaded her whole being. Never had she experienced +such an anxiety to be diplomatic. Her first thought was that she must +go to see Juliette that very morning, and thus obviate the need of any +tedious explanations or inquiries which might result in ruining +everything. + +On calling upon Madame Deberle at about nine o’clock she found her +already up, with pallid cheeks and red eyes like the heroine of a +tragedy. As soon as the poor woman caught sight of her, she threw +herself sobbing upon her neck exclaiming that she was her good angel. +She didn’t love Malignon, not in the least, she swore it! Gracious +heavens! what a foolish affair! It would have killed her—there was no +doubt of that! She did not now feel herself to be in the least degree +qualified for ruses, lies, and agonies, and the tyranny of a sentiment +that never varied. Oh, how delightful did it seem to her to find +herself free again! She laughed contentedly; but immediately afterwards +there was another outburst of tears as she besought her friend not to +despise her. Beneath her feverish unrest a fear lingered; she imagined +that her husband knew everything. He had come home the night before +trembling with agitation. She overwhelmed Hélène with questions; and +Hélène, with a hardihood and facility at which she herself was amazed, +poured into her ears a story, every detail of which she invented +offhand. She vowed to Juliette that her husband doubted her in nothing. +It was she, Hélène, who had become acquainted with everything, and, +wishing to save her, had devised that plan of breaking in upon their +meeting. Juliette listened to her, put instant credit in the fiction, +and, beaming through her tears, grew sunny with joy. She threw herself +once more on Hélène’s neck. Her caresses brought no embarrassment to +the latter; she now experienced none of the honorable scruples that had +at one time affected her. When she left her lover’s wife after +extracting a promise from her that she would try to be calm, she +laughed in her sleeve at her own cunning; she was in a transport of +delight. + +Some days slipped away. Hélène’s whole existence had undergone a +change; and in the thoughts of every hour she no longer lived in her +own home, but with Henri. The only thing that existed for her was that +next-door house in which her heart beat. Whenever she could find an +excuse to do so she ran thither, and forgot everything in the content +of breathing the same air as her lover. In her first rapture the sight +of Juliette even flooded her with tenderness; for was not Juliette one +of Henri’s belongings? He had not, however, again been able to meet her +alone. She appeared loth to give him a second assignation. One evening, +when he was leading her into the hall, she even made him swear that he +would never again visit the house in the Passage des Eaux, as such an +act might compromise her. + +Meantime, Jeanne was shaken by a short, dry cough, that never ceased, +but became severer towards evening every day. She would then be +slightly feverish, and she grew weak with the perspiration that bathed +her in her sleep. When her mother cross-questioned her, she answered +that she wasn’t ill, that she felt no pain. Doubtless her cold was +coming to an end. Hélène, tranquillized by the explanation, and having +no adequate idea of what was going on around her, retained, however, in +her bosom, amidst the rapture that made up her life, a vague feeling of +sorrow, of some weight that made her heart bleed despite herself. At +times, when she was plunged in one of those causeless transports which +made her melt with tenderness, an anxious thought would come to her—she +imagined that some misfortune was hovering behind her. She turned +round, however, and then smiled. People are ever in a tremble when they +are too happy. There was nothing there. Jeanne had coughed a moment +before, but she had some _tisane_ to drink; there would be no ill +effects. + +However, one afternoon old Doctor Bodin, who visited them in the +character of a family friend, prolonged his stay, and stealthily, but +carefully, examined Jeanne with his little blue eyes. He questioned her +as though he were having some fun with her, and on this occasion +uttered no warning word. Two days later, however, he made his +appearance again; and this time, not troubling to examine Jeanne, he +talked away merrily in the fashion of a man who has seen many years and +many things, and turned the conversation on travelling. He had once +served as a military surgeon; he knew every corner of Italy. It was a +magnificent country, said he, which to be admired ought to be seen in +spring. Why didn’t Madame Grandjean take her daughter there? From this +he proceeded by easy transitions to advising a trip to the land of the +sun, as he styled it. Hélène’s eyes were bent on him fixedly. “No, no,” +he exclaimed, “neither of you is ill! Oh, no, certainly not! Still, a +change of air would mean new strength!” Her face had blanched, a mortal +chill had come over her at the thought of leaving Paris. Gracious +heavens! to go away so far, so far! to lose Henri in a moment, their +love to droop without a morrow! Such was the agony which the thought +gave her that she bent her head towards Jeanne to hide her emotion. Did +Jeanne wish to go away? The child, with a chilly gesture, had +intertwined her little fingers. Oh! yes, she would so like to go! She +would so like to go away into the sunny land, quite alone, she and her +mother, quite alone! And over her poor attenuated face with its cheeks +burning with fever, there swept the bright hope of a new life. But +Hélène would listen to no more; indignation and distrust led her to +imagine that all of them—the Abbé, Doctor Bodin, Jeanne herself—were +plotting to separate her from Henri. When the old doctor noticed the +pallor of her cheeks, he imagined that he had not spoken so cautiously +as he might have done, and hastened to declare that there was no hurry, +albeit he silently resolved to return to the subject at another time. + +It happened that Madame Deberle intended to stop at home that day. As +soon as the doctor had gone Hélène hastened to put on her bonnet. +Jeanne, however, refused to quit the house; she felt better beside the +fire; she would be very good, and would not open the window. For some +time past she had not teased her mother to be allowed to go with her; +still she gazed after her as she went out with a longing look. Then, +when she found herself alone, she shrunk into her chair and sat for +hours motionless. + +“Mamma, is Italy far away?” she asked as Hélène glided towards her to +kiss her. + +“Oh! very far away, my pet!” + +Jeanne clung round her neck, and not letting her rise again at the +moment, whispered: “Well, Rosalie could take care of everything here. +We should have no need of her. A small travelling-trunk would do for +us, you know! Oh! it would be delightful, mother dear! Nobody but us +two! I should come back quite plump—like this!” + +She puffed out her cheeks and pictured how stout her arms would be. +Hélène’s answer was that she would see; and then she ran off with a +final injunction to Rosalie to take good care of mademoiselle. + +The child coiled herself up in the chimney-corner, gazing at the ruddy +fire and deep in reverie. From time to time she moved her hands forward +mechanically to warm them. The glinting of the flames dazzled her large +eyes. So absorbed was she in her dreaming that she did not hear +Monsieur Rambaud enter the room. His visits had now become very +frequent; he came, he would say, in the interests of the poor paralytic +woman for whom Doctor Deberle had not yet been able to secure admission +into the Hospital for Incurables. Finding Jeanne alone, he took a seat +on the other side of the fireplace, and chatted with her as though she +were a grown-up person. It was most regrettable; the poor woman had +been waiting a week; however, he would go down presently to see the +doctor, who might perhaps give him an answer. Meanwhile he did not +stir. + +“Why hasn’t your mother taken you with her?” he asked. + +Jeanne shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of weariness. It disturbed +her to go about visiting other people. Nothing gave her any pleasure +now. + +“I am getting old,” she added, “and I can’t be always amusing myself. +Mamma finds entertainment out of doors, and I within; so we are not +together.” + +Silence ensued. The child shivered, and held her hands out towards the +fire which burnt steadily with a pinky glare; and, indeed, muffled as +she was in a huge shawl, with a silk handkerchief round her neck and +another encircling her head, she did look like some old dame. Shrouded +in all these wraps, it struck one that she was no larger than an ailing +bird, panting amidst its ruffled plumage. Monsieur Rambaud, with hands +clasped over his knees, was gazing at the fire. Then, turning towards +Jeanne, he inquired if her mother had gone out the evening before. She +answered with a nod, yes. And did she go out the evening before that +and the previous day? The answer was always yes, given with a nod of +the head; her mother quitted her every day. + +At this the child and Monsieur Rambaud gazed at one another for a long +time, their faces pale and serious, as though they shared some great +sorrow. They made no reference to it—a chit like her and an old man +could not talk of such a thing together; but they were well aware why +they were so sad, and why it was a pleasure to them to sit like this on +either side of the fireplace when they were alone in the house. It was +a comfort beyond telling. They loved to be near one another that their +forlornness might pain them less. A wave of tenderness poured into +their hearts; they would fain have embraced and wept together. + +“You are cold, my dear old friend, I’m certain of it,” said Jeanne; +“come nearer the fire.” + +“No, no, my darling; I’m not cold.” + +“Oh! you’re telling a fib; your hands are like ice! Come nearer, or I +shall get vexed.” + +It was now his turn to display his anxious care. + +“I could lay a wager they haven’t left you any drink. I’ll run and make +some for you; would you like it? Oh! I’m a good hand at making it. You +would see, if I were your nurse, you wouldn’t be without anything you +wanted.” + +He did not allow himself any more explicit hint. Jeanne somewhat +sharply declared she was disgusted with _tisane_; she was compelled to +drink too much of it. However, now and then she would allow Monsieur +Rambaud to flutter round her like a mother; he would slip a pillow +under her shoulders, give her the medicine that she had almost +forgotten, or carry her into the bedroom in his arms. These little acts +of devotion thrilled both with tenderness. As Jeanne eloquently +declared with her sombre eyes, whose flashes disturbed the old man so +sorely, they were playing the parts of the father and the little girl +while her mother was absent. Then, however, sadness would all at once +fall upon them; their talk died away, and they glanced at one another +stealthily with pitying looks. + +That afternoon, after a lengthy silence, the child asked the question +which she had already put to her mother: “Is Italy far away?” + +“Oh! I should think so,” replied Monsieur Rambaud. “It’s away over +yonder, on the other side of Marseilles, a deuce of a distance! Why do +you ask me such a question?” + +“Oh! because—” she began gravely. But she burst into loud complaints at +her ignorance. She was always ill, and she had never been sent to +school. Then they both became silent again, lulled into forgetfulness +by the intense heat of the fire. + +In the meantime Hélène had found Madame Deberle and her sister Pauline +in the Japanese pavilion where they so frequently whiled away the +afternoon. Inside it was very warm, a heating apparatus filled it with +a stifling atmosphere. + +The large windows were shut, and a full view could be had of the little +garden, which, in its winter guise, looked like some large sepia +drawing, finished with exquisite delicacy, the little black branches of +the trees showing clear against the brown earth. The two sisters were +carrying on a sharp controversy. + +“Now, be quiet, do!” exclaimed Juliette; “it is evidently our interest +to support Turkey.” + +“Oh! I’ve had a talk about it with a Russian,” replied Pauline, who was +equally excited. “We are much liked at St. Petersburg, and it is only +there that we can find our proper allies.” + +Juliette’s face assumed a serious look, and, crossing her arms, she +exclaimed: “Well, and what will you do with the balance of power in +Europe?” + +The Eastern crisis was the absorbing topic in Paris at that moment;[*] +it was the stock subject of conversation, and no woman who pretended to +any position could speak with propriety of anything else. Thus, for two +days past, Madame Deberle had with passionate fervor devoted herself to +foreign politics. Her ideas were very pronounced on the various +eventualities which might arise; and Pauline greatly annoyed her by her +eccentricity in advocating Russia’s cause in opposition to the clear +interests of France. Juliette’s first desire was to convince her of her +folly, but she soon lost her temper. + +[*] The reader may be reminded that the period of the story is that of +the Crimean war. + +“Pooh! hold your tongue; you are talking foolishly! Now, if you had +only studied the matter carefully with me—” + +But she broke off to greet Hélène, who entered at this moment. + +“Good-day, my dear! It is very kind of you to call. I don’t suppose you +have any news. This morning’s paper talked of an ultimatum. There has +been a very exciting debate in the English House of Commons!” + +“No, I don’t know anything,” answered Hélène, who was astounded by the +question. “I go out so little!” + +However, Juliette had not waited for her reply, but was busy explaining +to Pauline why it was necessary to neutralize the Black Sea; and her +talk bristled with references to English and Russian generals, whose +names she mentioned in a familiar way and with faultless pronunciation. +However, Henri now made his appearance with several newspapers in his +hand. Hélène at once realized that he had come there for her sake; for +their eyes had sought one another and exchanged a long, meaning glance. +And when their hands met it was in a prolonged and silent clasp that +told how the personality of each was lost in the other. + +“Is there anything in the papers?” asked Juliette feverishly. + +“In the papers, my dear?” repeated the doctor; “no there’s never +anything.” + +For a time the Eastern Question dropped into the background. There were +frequent allusions to some one whom they were expecting, but who did +not make his appearance. Pauline remarked that it would soon be three +o’clock. Oh he would come, declared Madame Deberle; he had given such a +definite promise; but she never hinted at any name. Hélène listened +without understanding; things which had no connection with Henri did +not in the least interest her. She no longer brought her work when she +now came down into the garden; and though her visits would last a +couple of hours, she would take no part in the conversation, for her +mind was ever filled with the same childish dream wherein all others +miraculously vanished, and she was left alone with him. However, she +managed to reply to Juliette’s questions, while Henri’s eyes, riveted +on her own, thrilled her with a delicious languor. At last he stepped +behind her with the intention of pulling up one of the blinds, and she +fully divined that he had come to ask another meeting, for she noticed +the tremor that seized him when he brushed against her hair. + +“There’s a ring at the bell; that must be he!” suddenly exclaimed +Pauline. + +Then the faces of the two sisters assumed an air of indifference. It +was Malignon who made his appearance, dressed with greater care than +ever, and having a somewhat serious look. He shook hands; but eschewed +his customary jocularity, thus returning, in a ceremonious manner, to +this house where for some time he had not shown his face. + +While the doctor and Pauline were expostulating with him on the rarity +of his visits, Juliette bent down and whispered to Hélène, who, despite +her supreme indifference, was overcome with astonishment: + +“Ah! you are surprised? Dear me! I am not angry with him at all! he’s +such a good fellow at heart that nobody could long be angry with him! +Just fancy! he has unearthed a husband for Pauline. It’s splendid, +isn’t it?” + +“Oh! no doubt,” answered Hélène complaisantly. + +“Yes, one of his friends, immensely rich, who did not think of getting +married, but whom he has sworn to bring here! We were waiting for him +to-day to have some definite reply. So, as you will understand, I had +to pass over a lot of things. Oh! there’s no danger now; we know one +another thoroughly.” + +Her face beamed with a pretty smile, and she blushed slightly at the +memories she conjured up; but she soon turned round and took possession +of Malignon. Hélène likewise smiled. These accommodating circumstances +in life seemed to her sufficient excuse for her own delinquencies. It +was absurd to think of tragic melodramas; no, everything wound up with +universal happiness. However, while she had thus been indulging in the +cowardly, but pleasing, thought that nothing was absolutely +indefensible, Juliette and Pauline had opened the door of the pavilion, +and were now dragging Malignon in their train into the garden. And, all +at once, Hélène heard Henri speaking to her in a low and passionate +voice: + +“I beseech you, Hélène! Oh! I beseech you—” + +She started to her feet, and gazed around her with sudden anxiety. They +were quite alone; she could see the three others walking slowly along +one of the walks. Henri was bold enough to lay his hand on her +shoulder, and she trembled as she felt its pressure. + +“As you wish,” she stammered, knowing full well what question it was +that he desired to ask. + +Then, hurriedly, they exchanged a few words. + +“At the house in the Passage des Eaux,” said he. + +“No, it is impossible—I have explained to you, and you swore to me—” + +“Well, wherever you like, so that I may see you! In your own house—this +evening. Shall I call?” + +The idea was repellant to her. But she could only refuse with a sign, +for fear again came upon her as she observed the two ladies and +Malignon returning. Madame Deberle had taken the young man away under +pretext of showing him some clumps of violets which were in full +blossom notwithstanding the cold weather. Hastening her steps, she +entered the pavilion before the others, her face illumined by a smile. + +“It’s all arranged,” she exclaimed. + +“What’s all arranged?” asked Hélène, who was still trembling with +excitement and had forgotten everything. + +“Oh, that marriage! What a riddance! Pauline was getting a bit of a +nuisance. However, the young man has seen her and thinks her charming! +To-morrow we’re all going to dine with papa. I could have embraced +Malignon for his good news!” + +With the utmost self-possession Henri had contrived to put some +distance between Hélène and himself. He also expressed his sense of +Malignon’s favor, and seemed to share his wife’s delight at the +prospect of seeing their little sister settled at last. Then he turned +to Hélène, and informed her that she was dropping one of her gloves. +She thanked him. They could hear Pauline laughing and joking in the +garden. She was leaning towards Malignon, murmuring broken sentences in +his ear, and bursting into loud laughter as he gave her whispered +answers. No doubt he was chatting to her confidentially about her +future husband. Standing near the open door of the pavilion, Hélène +meanwhile inhaled the cold air with delight. + +It was at this moment that in the bedroom up above a silence fell on +Jeanne and Monsieur Rambaud, whom the intense heat of the fire filled +with languor. The child woke up from the long-continued pause with a +sudden suggestion which seemed to be the outcome of her dreamy fit: + +“Would you like to go into the kitchen? We’ll see if we can get a +glimpse of mamma!” + +“Very well; let us go,” replied Monsieur Rambaud. + +Jeanne felt stronger that day, and reaching the kitchen without any +assistance pressed her face against a windowpane. Monsieur Rambaud also +gazed into the garden. The trees were bare of foliage, and through the +large transparent windows of the Japanese pavilion they could make out +every detail inside. Rosalie, who was busy attending to the soup, +reproached mademoiselle with being inquisitive. But the child had +caught sight of her mother’s dress; and pointed her out, whilst +flattening her face against the glass to obtain a better view. Pauline +meanwhile looked up, and nodded vigorously. Then Hélène also made her +appearance, and signed to the child to come down. + +“They have seen you, mademoiselle,” said the servant girl. “They want +you to go down.” + +Monsieur Rambaud opened the window, and every one called to him to +carry Jeanne downstairs. Jeanne, however, vanished into her room, and +vehemently refused to go, accusing her worthy friend of having +purposely tapped on the window. It was a great pleasure to her to look +at her mother, but she stubbornly declared she would not go near that +house; and to all Monsieur Rambaud’s questions and entreaties she would +only return a stern “Because!” which was meant to explain everything. + +“It is not you who ought to force me,” she said at last, with a gloomy +look. + +But he told her that she would grieve her mother very much, and that it +was not right to insult other people. He would muffle her up well, she +would not catch cold; and, so saying, he wound the shawl round her +body, and taking the silk handkerchief from her head, set a knitted +hood in its place. Even when she was ready, however, she still +protested her unwillingness; and when in the end she allowed him to +carry her down, it was with the express proviso that he would take her +up again the moment she might feel poorly. The porter opened the door +by which the two houses communicated, and when they entered the garden +they were hailed with exclamations of joy. Madame Deberle, in +particular, displayed a vast amount of affection for Jeanne; she +ensconced her in a chair near the stove, and desired that the windows +might be closed, for the air she declared was rather sharp for the dear +child. Malignon had now left. As Hélène began smoothing the child’s +dishevelled hair, somewhat ashamed to see her in company muffled up in +a shawl and a hood, Juliette burst out in protest: + +“Leave her alone! Aren’t we all at home here? Poor Jeanne! we are glad +to have her!” + +She rang the bell, and asked if Miss Smithson and Lucien had returned +from their daily walk. No, they had not yet returned. It was just as +well, she declared; Lucien was getting beyond control, and only the +night before had made the five Levasseur girls sob with grief. + +“Would you like to play at _pigeon vole_?” asked Pauline, who seemed to +have lost her head with the thought of her impending marriage. “That +wouldn’t tire you.” + +But Jeanne shook her head in refusal. Beneath their drooping lids her +eyes wandered over the persons who surrounded her. The doctor had just +informed Monsieur Rambaud that admission to the Hospital for Incurables +had been secured for his _protégée_, and in a burst of emotion the +worthy man clasped his hands as though some great personal favor had +been conferred on him. They were all lounging on their chairs, and the +conversation became delightfully friendly. Less effort was shown in +following up remarks, and there were at times intervals of silence. +While Madame Deberle and her sister were busily engaged in discussion, +Hélène said to the two men: + +“Doctor Bodin has advised us to go to Italy.” + +“Ah! that is why Jeanne was questioning me!” exclaimed Monsieur +Rambaud. “Would it give you any pleasure to go away there?” + +Without vouchsafing any answer, the child clasped her little hands upon +her bosom, while her pale face flushed with joy. Then, stealthily, and +with some fear, she looked towards the doctor; it was he, she +understood it, whom her mother was consulting. He started slightly, but +retained all his composure. Suddenly, however, Juliette joined in the +conversation, wishing, as usual, to have her finger in every pie. + +“What’s that? Are you talking about Italy? Didn’t you say you had an +idea of going to Italy? Well, it’s a droll coincidence! Why, this very +morning, I was teasing Henri to take me to Naples! Just fancy, for ten +years now I have been dreaming of seeing Naples! Every spring he +promises to take me there, but he never keeps his word!” + +“I didn’t tell you that I would not go,” murmured the doctor. + +“What! you didn’t tell me? Why, you refused flatly, with the excuse +that you could not leave your patients!” + +Jeanne was listening eagerly. A deep wrinkle now furrowed her pale +brow, and she began twisting her fingers mechanically one after the +other. + +“Oh! I could entrust my patients for a few weeks to the care of a +brother-physician,” explained the doctor. “That’s to say, if I thought +it would give you so much pleasure—” + +“Doctor,” interrupted Hélène, “are you also of opinion that such a +journey would benefit Jeanne?” + +“It would be the very thing; it would thoroughly restore her to health. +Children are always the better for a change.” + +“Oh! then,” exclaimed Juliette, “we can take Lucien, and we can all go +together. That will be pleasant, won’t it?” + +“Yes, indeed; I’ll do whatever you wish,” he answered, smiling. + +Jeanne lowered her face, wiped two big tears of passionate anger and +grief from her eyes, and fell back in her chair as though she would +fain hear and see no more; while Madame Deberle, filled with ecstasy by +the idea of such unexpected pleasure, began chattering noisily. Oh! how +kind her husband was! She kissed him for his self-sacrifice. Then, +without the loss of a moment, she busied herself with sketching the +necessary preparations. They would start the very next week. Goodness +gracious! she would never have time to get everything ready! Next she +wanted to draw out a plan of their tour; they would need to visit this +and that town certainly; they could stay a week at Rome; they must stop +at a little country place that Madame de Guiraud had mentioned to her; +and she wound up by engaging in a lively discussion with Pauline, who +was eager that they should postpone their departure till such time as +she could accompany them with her husband. + +“Not a bit of it!” exclaimed Juliette; “the wedding can take place when +we come back.” + +Jeanne’s presence had been wholly forgotten. Her eyes were riveted on +her mother and the doctor. The proposed journey, indeed, now offered +inducements to Hélène, as it must necessarily keep Henri near her. In +fact, a keen delight filled her heart at the thought of journeying +together through the land of the sun, living side by side, and +profiting by the hours of freedom. Round her lips wreathed a smile of +happy relief; she had so greatly feared that she might lose him; and +deemed herself fortunate in the thought that she would carry her love +along with her. While Juliette was discoursing of the scenes they would +travel through, both Hélène and Henri, indeed, indulged in the dream +that they were already strolling through a fairy land of perennial +spring, and each told the other with a look that their passion would +reign there, aye, wheresoever they might breathe the same air. + +In the meantime, Monsieur Rambaud, who with unconscious sadness had +slowly lapsed into silence, observed Jeanne’s evident discomfort. + +“Aren’t you well, my darling?” he asked in a whisper. + +“No! I’m quite ill! Carry me up again, I implore you.” + +“But we must tell your mamma.” + +“Oh, no, no! mamma is busy; she hasn’t any time to give to us. Carry me +up, oh! carry me up again.” + +He took her in his arms, and told Hélène that the child felt tired. In +answer she requested him to wait for her in her rooms; she would hasten +after them. The little one, though light as a feather, seemed to slip +from his grasp, and he was forced to come to a standstill on the second +landing. She had leaned her head against his shoulder, and each gazed +into the other’s face with a look of grievous pain. Not a sound broke +upon the chill silence of the staircase. Then in a low whisper he asked +her: + +“You’re pleased, aren’t you, to go to Italy?” + +But she thereupon burst into sobs, declaring in broken words that she +no longer had any craving to go, and would rather die in her own room. +Oh! she would not go, she would fall ill, she knew it well. She would +go nowhere—nowhere. They could give her little shoes to the poor. Then +amidst tears she whispered to him: + +“Do you remember what you asked me one night?” + +“What was it, my pet?” + +“To stay with mamma always—always—always! Well, if you wish so still, I +wish so too!” + +The tears welled into Monsieur Rambaud’s eyes. He kissed her lovingly, +while she added in a still lower tone: + +“You are perhaps vexed by my getting so angry over it. I didn’t +understand, you know. But it’s you whom I want! Oh! say that it will be +soon. Won’t you say that it will be soon? I love you more than the +other one.” + +Below in the pavilion, Hélène had begun to dream once more. The +proposed journey was still the topic of conversation; and she now +experienced an unconquerable yearning to relieve her overflowing heart, +and acquaint Henri with all the happiness which was stifling her. So, +while Juliette and Pauline were wrangling over the number of dresses +that ought to be taken, she leaned towards him and gave him the +assignation which she had refused but an hour before. + +“Come to-night; I shall expect you.” + +But as she at last ascended to her own rooms, she met Rosalie flying +terror-stricken down the stairs. The moment she saw her mistress, the +girl shrieked out: + +“Madame! madame! Oh! make haste, do! Mademoiselle is very ill! She’s +spitting blood!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII. + + +On rising from the dinner-table the doctor spoke to his wife of a +confinement case, in close attendance on which he would doubtless have +to pass the night. He quitted the house at nine o’clock, walked down to +the riverside, and paced along the deserted quays in the dense +nocturnal darkness. A slight moist wind was blowing, and the swollen +Seine rolled on in inky waves. As soon as eleven o’clock chimed, he +walked up the slopes of the Trocadero, and began to prowl round the +house, the huge square pile of which seemed but a deepening of the +gloom. Lights could still be seen streaming through the dining-room +windows of Hélène’s lodging. Walking round, he noted that the kitchen +was also brilliantly lighted up. And at this sight he stopped short in +astonishment, which slowly developed into uneasiness. Shadows traversed +the blinds; there seemed to be considerable bustle and stir up there. +Perhaps Monsieur Rambaud had stayed to dine? But the worthy man never +left later than ten o’clock. He, Henri, dared not go up; for what would +he say should Rosalie open the door? At last, as it was nearing +midnight, mad with impatience and throwing prudence to the winds, he +rang the bell, and walked swiftly past the porter’s room without giving +his name. At the top of the stairs Rosalie received him. + +“It’s you, sir! Come in. I will go and announce you. Madame must be +expecting you.” + +She gave no sign of surprise on seeing him at this hour. As he entered +the dining-room without uttering a word, she resumed distractedly: “Oh! +mademoiselle is very ill, sir. What a night! My legs are sinking under +me!” Thereupon she left the room, and the doctor mechanically took a +seat. He was oblivious of the fact that he was a medical man. Pacing +along the quay he had conjured up a vision of a very different +reception. And now he was there, as though he were paying a visit, +waiting with his hat on his knees. A grievous coughing in the next room +alone broke upon the intense silence. + +At last Rosalie made her appearance once more, and hurrying across the +dining-room with a basin in her hand, merely remarked: “Madame says you +are not to go in.” + +He sat on, powerless to depart. Was their meeting to be postponed till +another day, then? He was dazed, as though such a thing had seemed to +him impossible. Then the thought came to him that poor Jeanne had very +bad health; children only brought on sorrow and vexation. The door, +however, opened once more, and Doctor Bodin entered, with a thousand +apologies falling from his lips. For some time he chattered away: he +had been sent for, but he would always be exceedingly pleased to enter +into consultation with his renowned fellow-practitioner. + +“Oh! no doubt, no doubt,” stammered Doctor Deberle, whose ears were +buzzing. + +The elder man, his mind set at rest with regard to all questions of +professional etiquette, then began to affect a puzzled manner, and +expressed his doubts of the meaning of the symptoms. He spoke in a +whisper, and described them in technical phraseology, frequently +pausing and winking significantly. There was coughing without +expectoration, very pronounced weakness, and intense fever. Perhaps it +might prove a case of typhoid fever. But in the meantime he gave no +decided opinion, as the anaemic nervous affection, for which the +patient had been treated so long, made him fear unforeseen +complications. + +“What do you think?” he asked, after delivering himself of each remark. + +Doctor Deberle answered with evasive questions. While the other was +speaking, he felt ashamed at finding himself in that room. Why had he +come up? + +“I have applied two blisters,” continued the old doctor. “I’m waiting +the result. But, of course, you’ll see her. You will then give me your +opinion.” + +So saying he led him into the bedroom. Henri entered it with a shudder +creeping through his frame. It was but faintly lighted by a lamp. There +thronged into his mind the memories of other nights, when there had +been the same warm perfume, the same close, calm atmosphere, the same +deepening shadows shrouding the furniture and hangings. But there was +no one now to come to him with outstretched hands as in those olden +days. Monsieur Rambaud lay back in an arm-chair exhausted, seemingly +asleep. Hélène was standing in front of the bed, robed in a white +dressing-gown, but did not turn her head; and her figure, in its +death-like pallor, appeared to him extremely tall. Then for a moment’s +space he gazed on Jeanne. Her weakness was so great that she could not +open her eyes without fatigue. Bathed in sweat, she lay in a stupor, +her face ghastly, save that a burning flush colored each cheek. + +“It’s galloping consumption,” he exclaimed at last, speaking aloud in +spite of himself, and giving no sign of astonishment, as though he had +long foreseen what would happen. + +Hélène heard him and looked at him. She seemed to be of ice, her eyes +were dry, and she was terribly calm. + +“You think so, do you?” rejoined Doctor Bodin, giving an approving nod +in the style of a man who had not cared to be the first to express this +opinion. + +He sounded the child once more. Jeanne, her limbs quite lifeless, +yielded to the examination without seemingly knowing why she was being +disturbed. A few rapid sentences were exchanged between the two +physicians. The old doctor murmured some words about amphoric +breathing, and a sound such as a cracked jar might give out. +Nevertheless, he still affected some hesitation, and spoke, +suggestively, of capillary bronchitis. Doctor Deberle hastened to +explain that an accidental cause had brought on the illness; doubtless +it was due to a cold; however, he had already noticed several times +that an anaemical tendency would produce chest diseases. Hélène stood +waiting behind him. + +“Listen to her breathing yourself,” said Doctor Bodin, giving way to +Henri. + +He leaned over the child, and seemed about to take hold of her. She had +not raised her eyelids; but lay there in self-abandonment, consumed by +fever. Her open nightdress displayed her childish breast, where as yet +there were but slight signs of coming womanhood; and nothing could be +more chaste or yet more harrowing than the sight of this dawning +maturity on which the Angel of Death had already laid his hand. She had +displayed no aversion when the old doctor had touched her. But the +moment Henri’s fingers glanced against her body she started as if she +had received a shock. In a transport of shame she awoke from the coma +in which she had been plunged, and, like a maiden in alarm, clasped her +poor puny little arms over her bosom, exclaiming the while in quavering +tones: “Mamma! mamma!” + +Then she opened her eyes, and on recognizing the man who was bending +over her, she was seized with terror. Sobbing with shame, she drew the +bed-cover over her bosom. It seemed as though she had grown older by +ten years during her short agony, and on the brink of death had +attained sufficient womanhood to understand that this man, above all +others, must not lay hands on her. She wailed out again in piteous +entreaty: “Mamma! mamma! I beseech you!” + +Hélène, who had hitherto not opened her lips, came close to Henri. Her +eyes were bent on him fixedly; her face was of marble. She touched him, +and merely said in a husky voice: “Go away!” + +Doctor Bodin strove to appease Jeanne, who now shook with a fresh fit +of coughing. He assured her that nobody would annoy her again, that +every one would go away, to prevent her being disturbed. + +“Go away,” repeated Hélène, in a deep whisper in her lover’s ear. “You +see very well that we have killed her!” + +Then, unable to find a word in reply, Henri withdrew. He lingered for a +moment longer in the dining-room, awaiting he knew not what, something +that might possibly take place. But seeing that Doctor Bodin did not +come out, he groped his way down the stairs without even Rosalie to +light him. He thought of the awful speed with which galloping +consumption—a disease to which he had devoted earnest study—carried off +its victims; the miliary tubercles would rapidly multiply, the stifling +sensation would become more and more pronounced; Jeanne would certainly +not last another three weeks. + +The first of these passed by. In the mighty expanse of heaven before +the window, the sun rose and set above Paris, without Hélène being more +than vaguely conscious of the pitiless, steady advance of time. She +grasped the fact that her daughter was doomed; she lived plunged in a +stupor, alive only to the terrible anguish that filled her heart. It +was but waiting on in hopelessness, in certainty that death would prove +merciless. She could not weep, but paced gently to and fro, tending the +sufferer with slow, regulated movements. At times, yielding to fatigue, +she would fall upon a chair, whence she gazed at her for hours. Jeanne +grew weaker and weaker; painful vomiting was followed by exhaustion; +the fever never quitted her. When Doctor Bodin called, he examined her +for a little while and left some prescription; but his drooping +shoulders, as he left the room, were eloquent of such powerlessness +that the mother forbore to accompany him to ask even a question. + +On the morning after the illness had declared itself, Abbé Jouve had +made all haste to call. He and his brother now again came every +evening, exchanging a mute clasp of the hand with Hélène, and never +venturing to ask any news. They had offered to watch by the bedside in +succession, but she sent them away when ten o’clock struck; she would +have no one in the bedroom during the night. One evening the Abbé, who +had seemed absorbed by some idea since the previous day, took her +aside. + +“There is one thing I’ve thought of,” he whispered. “Her health has put +obstacles in the darling child’s way; but her first communion might +take place here.” + +His meaning at first did not seem to dawn on Hélène. The thought that, +despite all his indulgence, he should now allow his priestly character +the ascendant and evince no concern but in spiritual matters, came on +her with surprise, and even wounded her somewhat. With a careless +gesture she exclaimed: “No, no; I would rather she wasn’t worried. If +there be a heaven, she will have no difficulty in entering its gates.” + +That evening, however, Jeanne experienced one of those deceptive +improvements in health which fill the dying with illusions as to their +condition. Her hearing, rendered more acute by illness, had enabled her +to catch the Abbé’s words. + +“It’s you, dear old friend!” said she. “You spoke about the first +communion. It will be soon, won’t it?” + +“No doubt, my darling,” he answered. + +Then she wanted him to come near to speak to her. Her mother had +propped her up with the pillow, and she reclined there, looking very +little, with a smile on her fever-burnt lips, and the shadow of death +already passing over her brilliant eyes. + +“Oh! I’m getting on very well,” she began. “I could get up if I wanted. +But tell me: should I have a white gown and flowers? Will the church be +as beautiful as it was in the Month of Mary?” + +“More beautiful, my pet.” + +“Really? Will there be as many flowers, and will there be such sweet +chants? It will be soon, soon—you promise me, won’t you?” + +She was wrapt in joy. She gazed on the curtains of the bed, and +murmured in her transport that she was very fond of the good God, and +had seen Him while she was listening to the canticles. Even now she +could hear organs pealing, see lights that circled round, and flowers +in great vases hovering like butterflies before her eyes. Then another +fit of coughing threw her back on the pillow. However, her face was +still flushed with a smile; she seemed to be unconscious of her cough, +but continued: + +“I shall get up to-morrow. I shall learn my catechism without a +mistake, and we’ll be all very happy.” + +A sob came from Hélène as she stood at the foot of the bed. She had +been powerless to weep, but a storm of tears rushed up from her bosom +as Jeanne’s laughter fell on her ear. Then, almost stifling, she fled +into the dining-room, that she might hide her despair. The Abbé +followed her. Monsieur Rambaud had at once started up to engage the +child’s attention. + +“Oh dear! mamma cried out! Has she hurt herself?” she asked. + +“Your mamma?” he answered. “No, she didn’t cry out; she was laughing +because you are feeling so well.” + +In the dining-room, her head bowed dejectedly on the table, Hélène +strove to stifle her sobs with her clasped hands. The Abbé hung over +her, and prayed her to restrain her emotion. But she raised her face, +streaming with tears, and bitterly accused herself. She declared to him +that she herself had killed her daughter, and a full confession escaped +from her lips in a torrent of broken words. She would never have +succumbed to that man had Jeanne remained beside her. It had been fated +that she should meet him in that chamber of mystery. God in Heaven! she +ought to die with her child; she could live no longer. The priest, +terrified, sought to calm her with the promise of absolution. + +But there was a ring at the bell, and a sound of voices came from the +lobby. Hélène dried her tears as Rosalie made her appearance. + +“Madame, it’s Dr. Deberle, who—” + +“I don’t wish him to come in.” + +“He is asking after mademoiselle.” + +“Tell him she is dying.” + +The door had been left open, and Henri had heard everything. Without +awaiting the return of the servant girl, he walked down the stairs. He +came up every day, received the same answer, and then went away. + +The visits which Hélène received quite unnerved her. The few ladies +whose acquaintance she had made at the Deberles’ house deemed it their +duty to tender her their sympathy. Madame de Chermette, Madame +Levasseur, Madame de Guiraud, and others also presented themselves. +They made no request to enter, but catechised Rosalie in such loud +voices that they could be heard through the thin partitions. Giving way +to impatience, Hélène would then receive them in the dining-room, +where, without sitting down, she spoke with them very briefly. She went +about all day in her dressing-gown, careless of her attire, with her +lovely hair merely gathered up and twisted into a knot. Her eyes often +closed with weariness; her face was flushed; she had a bitter taste in +her mouth; her lips were clammy, and she could scarcely articulate. +When Juliette called, she could not exclude her from the bedroom, but +allowed her to stay for a little while beside the bed. + +“My dear,” Madame Deberle said to her one day in friendly tones, “you +give way too much. Keep up your spirits.” + +Hélène was about to reply, when Juliette, wishing to turn her thoughts +from her grief, began to chat about the things which were occupying the +gossips of Paris: “We are certainly going to have a war. I am in a nice +state about it, as I have two cousins who will have to serve.” + +In this style she would drop in upon them on returning from her rambles +through Paris, her brain bursting with all the tittle-tattle collected +in the course of the afternoon, and her long skirts whirling and +rustling as she sailed through the stillness of the sick-room. It was +altogether futile for her to lower her voice and assume a pitiful air; +her indifference peeped through all disguise; it could be seen that she +was happy, quite joyous indeed, in the possession of perfect health. +Hélène was very downcast in her company, her heart rent by jealous +anguish. + +“Madame,” said Jeanne one evening, “why doesn’t Lucien come to play +with me?” + +Juliette was embarrassed for a moment, and merely answered with a +smile. + +“Is he ill too?” continued the child. + +“No, my darling, he isn’t ill; he has gone to school.” + +Then, as Hélène accompanied her into the ante-room, she wished to +apologize for her prevarication. + +“Oh! I would gladly bring him; I know that there’s no infection. But +children get frightened with the least thing, and Lucien is such a +stupid. He would just burst out sobbing when he saw your poor angel—” + +“Yes, indeed; you are quite right,” interrupted Hélène, her heart ready +to break with the thought of this woman’s gaiety, and her happiness in +possessing a child who enjoyed robust health. + +A second week had passed away. The disease was following its usual +course, robbing Jeanne every hour of some of her vitality. Fearfully +rapid though it was, however, it evinced no haste, but, in +accomplishing the destruction of that delicate, lovable flesh, passed +in turn through each foreseen phase, without skipping a single one of +them. Thus the spitting of blood had ceased, and at intervals the cough +disappeared. But such was the oppressive feeling which stifled the +child that you could detect the ravages of the disease by the +difficulty she experienced in breathing. Such weakness could not +withstand so violent an attack; and the eyes of the Abbé and Monsieur +Rambaud constantly moistened with tears as they heard her. Day and +night under the shelter of the curtains the sound of oppressed +breathing arose; the poor darling, whom the slightest shock seemed +likely to kill, was yet unable to die, but lived on and on through the +agony which bathed her in sweat. Her mother, whose strength was +exhausted, and who could no longer bear to hear that rattle, went into +the adjoining room and leaned her head against the wall. + +Jeanne was slowly becoming oblivious to her surroundings. She no longer +saw people, and her face bore an unconscious and forlorn expression, as +though she had already lived all alone in some unknown sphere. When +they who hovered round her wished to attract her attention, they named +themselves that she might recognize them; but she would gaze at them +fixedly, without a smile, then turn herself round towards the wall with +a weary look. A gloominess was settling over her; she was passing away +amidst the same vexation and sulkiness as she had displayed in past +days of jealous outbursts. Still, at times the whims characteristic of +sickness would awaken her to some consciousness. One morning she asked +her mother: + +“To-day is Sunday, isn’t it?” + +“No, my child,” answered Hélène; “this is only Friday. Why do you wish +to know?” + +Jeanne seemed to have already forgotten the question she had asked. But +two days later, while Rosalie was in the room, she said to her in a +whisper: “This is Sunday. Zephyrin is here; ask him to come and see +me.” + +The maid hesitated, but Hélène, who had heard, nodded to her in token +of consent. The child spoke again: + +“Bring him; come both of you; I shall be so pleased.” + +When Rosalie entered the sick-room with Zephyrin, she raised herself on +her pillow. The little soldier, with bare head and hands spread out, +swayed about to hide his intense emotion. He had a great love for +mademoiselle, and it grieved him unutterably to see her “shouldering +arms on the left,” as he expressed it in the kitchen. So, in spite of +the previous injunctions of Rosalie, who had instructed him to put on a +bright expression, he stood speechless, with downcast face, on seeing +her so pale and wasted to a skeleton. He was still as tender-hearted as +ever, despite his conquering airs. He could not even think of one of +those fine phrases which nowadays he usually concocted so easily. The +maid behind him gave him a pinch to make him laugh. But he could only +stammer out: + +“I beg pardon—mademoiselle and every one here—” + +Jeanne was still raising herself with the help of her tiny arms. She +widely opened her large, vacant eyes; she seemed to be looking for +something; her head shook with a nervous trembling. Doubtless the +stream of light was blinding her as the shadows of death gathered +around. + +“Come closer, my friend,” said Hélène to the soldier. “It was +mademoiselle who asked to see you.” + +The sunshine entered through the window in a slanting ray of golden +light, in which the dust rising from the carpet could be seen circling. +March had come, and the springtide was already budding out of doors. +Zephyrin took one step forward, and appeared in the sunshine; his +little round, freckled face had a golden hue, as of ripe corn, while +the buttons on his tunic glittered, and his red trousers looked as +sanguineous as a field of poppies. At last Jeanne became aware of his +presence there; but her eye again betrayed uneasiness, and she glanced +restlessly from one corner to another. + +“What do you want, my child?” asked her mother. “We are all here.” She +understood, however, in a moment. “Rosalie, come nearer. Mademoiselle +wishes to see you.” + +Then Rosalie, in her turn, stepped into the sunlight. She wore a cap, +whose strings, carelessly tossed over her shoulders, flapped round her +head like the wings of a butterfly. A golden powder seemed to fall on +her bristly black hair and her kindly face with its flat nose and thick +lips. And for Jeanne there were only these two in the room—the little +soldier and the servant girl, standing elbow to elbow under the ray of +sunshine. She gazed at them. + +“Well, my darling,” began Hélène again, “you do not say anything to +them! Here they are together.” + +Jeanne’s eyes were still fixed on them, and her head shook with the +tremor of a very aged woman. They stood there like man and wife, ready +to take each other’s arm and return to their country-side. The spring +sun threw its warmth on them, and eager to brighten mademoiselle they +ended by smiling into each other’s face with a look of mingled +embarrassment and tenderness. The very odor of health was exhaled from +their plump round figures. Had they been alone, Zephyrin without doubt +would have caught hold of Rosalie, and would have received for his +pains a hearty slap. Their eyes showed it. + +“Well, my darling, have you nothing to say to them?” + +Jeanne gazed at them, her breathing growing yet more oppressed. And +still she said not a word, but suddenly burst into tears. Zephyrin and +Rosalie had at once to quit the room. + +“I beg pardon—mademoiselle and every one—” stammered the little +soldier, as he went away in bewilderment. + +This was one of Jeanne’s last whims. She lapsed into a dull stupor, +from which nothing could rouse her. She lay there in utter loneliness, +unconscious even of her mother’s presence. When Hélène hung over the +bed seeking her eyes, the child preserved a stolid expression, as +though only the shadow of the curtain had passed before her. Her lips +were dumb; she showed the gloomy resignation of the outcast who knows +that she is dying. Sometimes she would long remain with her eyelids +half closed, and nobody could divine what stubborn thought was thus +absorbing her. Nothing now had any existence for her save her big doll, +which lay beside her. They had given it to her one night to divert her +during her insufferable anguish, and she refused to give it back, +defending it with fierce gestures the moment they attempted to take it +from her. With its pasteboard head resting on the bolster, the doll was +stretched out like an invalid, covered up to the shoulders by the +counterpane. There was little doubt the child was nursing it, for her +burning hands would, from time to time, feel its disjointed limbs of +flesh-tinted leather, whence all the sawdust had exuded. For hours her +eyes would never stray from those enamel ones which were always fixed, +or from those white teeth wreathed in an everlasting smile. She would +suddenly grow affectionate, clasp the doll’s hands against her bosom +and press her cheek against its little head of hair, the caressing +contact of which seemed to give her some relief. Thus she sought +comfort in her affection for her big doll, always assuring herself of +its presence when she awoke from a doze, seeing nothing else, chatting +with it, and at times summoning to her face the shadow of a smile, as +though she had heard it whispering something in her ear. + +The third week was dragging to an end. One morning the old doctor came +and remained. Hélène understood him: her child would not live through +the day. Since the previous evening she had been in a stupor that +deprived her of the consciousness even of her own actions. There was no +longer any struggle with death; it was but a question of hours. As the +dying child was consumed by an awful thirst, the doctor had merely +recommended that she should be given some opiate beverage, which would +render her passing less painful; and the relinquishing of all attempts +at cure reduced Hélène to a state of imbecility. So long as the +medicines had littered the night-table she still had entertained hopes +of a miraculous recovery. But now bottles and boxes had vanished, and +her last trust was gone. One instinct only inspired her now—to be near +Jeanne, never leave her, gaze at her unceasingly. The doctor, wishing +to distract her attention from the terrible sight, strove, by assigning +some little duties to her, to keep her at a distance. But she ever and +ever returned, drawn to the bedside by the physical craving to see. She +waited, standing erect, her arms hanging beside her, and her face +swollen by despair. + +About one o’clock Abbé Jouve and Monsieur Rambaud arrived. The doctor +went to meet them, and muttered a few words. Both grew pale, and stood +stock-still in consternation, while their hands began to tremble. +Hélène had not turned round. + +The weather was lovely that day; it was one of those sunny afternoons +typical of early April. Jeanne was tossing in her bed. Her lips moved +painfully at times with the intolerable thirst which consumed her. She +had brought her poor transparent hands from under the coverlet, and +waved them gently to and fro. The hidden working of the disease was +accomplished, she coughed no more, and her dying voice came like a +faint breath. For a moment she turned her head, and her eyes sought the +light. Doctor Bodin threw the window wide open, and then Jeanne at once +became tranquil, with her cheek resting on the pillow and her looks +roving over Paris, while her heavy breathing grew fainter and slower. + +During the three weeks of her illness she had thus many times turned +towards the city that stretched away to the horizon. Her face grew +grave, she was musing. At this last hour Paris was smiling under the +glittering April sunshine. Warm breezes entered from without, with +bursts of urchin’s laughter and the chirping of sparrows. On the brink +of the grave the child exerted her last strength to gaze again on the +scene, and follow the flying smoke which soared from the distant +suburbs. She recognized her three friends, the Invalides, the Panthéon, +and the Tower of Saint-Jacques; then the unknown began, and her weary +eyelids half closed at sight of the vast ocean of roofs. Perhaps she +was dreaming that she was growing much lighter and lighter, and was +fleeting away like a bird. Now, at last, she would soon know all; she +would perch herself on the domes and steeples; seven or eight flaps of +her wings would suffice, and she would be able to gaze on the forbidden +mysteries that were hidden from children. But a fresh uneasiness fell +upon her, and her hands groped about; she only grew calm again when she +held her large doll in her little arms against her bosom. It was +evidently her wish to take it with her. Her glances wandered far away +amongst the chimneys glinting with the sun’s ruddy light. + +Four o’clock struck, and the bluish shadows of evening were already +gathering. The end was at hand; there was a stifling, a slow and +passive agony. The dear angel no longer had strength to offer +resistance. Monsieur Rambaud, overcome, threw himself on his knees, +convulsed with silent sobbing, and dragged himself behind a curtain to +hide his grief. The Abbé was kneeling at the bedside, with clasped +hands, repeating the prayers for the dying. + +“Jeanne! Jeanne!” murmured Hélène, chilled to the heart with a horror +which sent an icy thrill through her very hair. + +She had repulsed the doctor and thrown herself on the ground, leaning +against the bed to gaze into her daughter’s face. Jeanne opened her +eyes, but did not look at her mother. She drew her doll—her last +love—still closer. Her bosom heaved with a big sigh, followed by two +fainter ones. Then her eyes paled, and her face for a moment gave signs +of a fearful anguish. But speedily there came relief; her mouth +remained open, she breathed no more. + +“It is over,” said the doctor, as he took her hand. + +Jeanne’s big, vacant eyes were fixed on Paris. The long, thin, +lamb-like face was still further elongated, there was a sternness on +its features, a grey shadow falling from its contracted brows. Thus +even in death she retained the livid expression of a jealous woman. The +doll, with its head flung back, and its hair dishevelled, seemed to lie +dead beside her. + +“It is over,” again said the doctor, as he allowed the little cold hand +to drop. + +Hélène, with a strained expression on her face, pressed her hands to +her brow as if she felt her head splitting open. No tears came to her +eyes; she gazed wildly in front of her. Then a rattling noise mounted +in her throat; she had just espied at the foot of the bed a pair of +shoes that lay forgotten there. It was all over. Jeanne would never put +them on again; the little shoes could be given to the poor. And at the +sight Hélène’s tears gushed forth; she still knelt on the floor, her +face pressed against the dead child’s hand, which had slipped down. +Monsieur Rambaud was sobbing. The Abbé had raised his voice, and +Rosalie, standing at the door of the dining-room, was biting her +handkerchief to check the noise of her grief. + +At this very moment Doctor Deberle rang the bell. He was unable to +refrain from making inquiries. + +“How is she now?” he asked. + +“Oh, sir!” wailed Rosalie, “she is dead.” + +He stood motionless, stupefied by the announcement of the end which he +had been expecting daily. At last he muttered: “O God! the poor child! +what a calamity!” + +He could only give utterance to those commonplace but heartrending +words. The door shut once more, and he went down the stairs. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV. + + +When Madame Deberle was apprised of Jeanne’s death she wept, and gave +way to one of those outbursts of emotion that kept her in a flutter for +eight-and-forty hours. Hers was a noisy and immoderate grief. She came +and threw herself into Hélène’s arms. Then a phrase dropped in her +hearing inspired her with the idea of imparting some affecting +surroundings to the child’s funeral, and soon wholly absorbed her. She +offered her services, and declared her willingness to undertake every +detail. The mother, worn out with weeping, sat overwhelmed in her +chair; Monsieur Rambaud, who was acting in her name, was losing his +head. So he accepted the offer with profuse expressions of gratitude. +Hélène merely roused herself for a moment to express the wish that +there should be some flowers—an abundance of flowers. + +Without losing a minute, Madame Deberle set about her task. She spent +the whole of the next day in running from one lady friend to another, +bearing the woeful tidings. It was her idea to have a following of +little girls all dressed in white. She needed at least thirty, and did +not return till she had secured the full number. She had gone in person +to the Funeral Administration, discussed the various styles, and chosen +the necessary drapery. She would have the garden railings hung with +white, and the body might be laid out under the lilac trees, whose +twigs were already tipped with green. It would be charming. + +“If only it’s a fine day to-morrow!” she giddily remarked in the +evening when her scurrying to and fro had come to an end. + +The morning proved lovely; there was a blue sky and a flood of +sunshine, the air was pure and invigorating as only the air of spring +can be. The funeral was to take place at ten o’clock. By nine the +drapery had been hung up. Juliette ran down to give the workmen her +ideas of what should be done. She did not wish the trees to be +altogether covered. The white cloth, fringed with silver, formed a kind +of porch at the garden gate, which was thrown back against the lilac +trees. However, Juliette soon returned to her drawing-room to receive +her lady guests. They were to assemble there to prevent Madame +Grandjean’s two rooms from being filled to overflowing. Still she was +greatly annoyed at her husband having had to go that morning to +Versailles—for some consultation or other, he explained, which he could +not well neglect. Thus she was left alone, and felt she would never be +able to get through with it all. Madame Berthier was the first arrival, +bringing her two daughters with her. + +“What do you think!” exclaimed Madame Deberle; “Henri has deserted me! +Well, Lucien, why don’t you say good-day?” + +Lucien was already dressed for the funeral, with his hands in black +gloves. He seemed astonished to see Sophie and Blanche dressed as +though they were about to take part in some church procession. A silk +sash encircled the muslin gown of each, and their veils, which swept +down to the floor, hid their little caps of transparent tulle. While +the two mothers were busy chatting, the three children gazed at one +another, bearing themselves somewhat stiffly in their new attire. At +last Lucien broke the silence by saying: “Jeanne is dead.” + +His heart was full, and yet his face wore a smile—a smile born of +amazement. He had been very quiet since the evening before, dwelling on +the thought that Jeanne was dead. As his mother was up to her ears in +business, and took no notice of him, he had plied the servants with +questions. Was it a fact, he wanted to know, that it was impossible to +move when one was dead?” + +“She is dead, she is dead!” echoed the two sisters, who looked like +rosebuds under their white veils. “Are we going to see her?” + +Lucien pondered for a time, and then, with dreamy eyes and opened +mouth, seemingly striving to divine the nature of this problem which +lay beyond his ken, he answered in a low tone: + +“We shall never see her again.” + +However, several other little girls now entered the room. On a sign +from his mother Lucien advanced to meet them. Marguerite Tissot, her +muslin dress enveloping her like a cloud, seemed a child-Virgin; her +fair hair, escaping from underneath her little cap, looked, through the +snowy veil, like a tippet figured with gold. A quiet smile crept into +every face when the five Levasseurs made their appearance; they were +all dressed alike, and trooped along in boarding-school fashion, the +eldest first, the youngest last; and their skirts stood out to such an +extent that they quite filled one corner of the room. But on little +Mademoiselle Guiraud’s entry the whispering voices rose to a higher +key; the others laughed and crowded round to see her and kiss her. She +was like some white turtle-dove with its downy feathers ruffled. +Wrapped in rustling gauze, she looked as round as a barrel, but still +no heavier than a bird. Her mother even could not find her hands. By +degrees the drawing-room seemed to be filling with a cloud of +snowballs. Several boys, in their black coats, were like dark spots +amidst the universal white. Lucien, now that his little wife was dead, +desired to choose another. However, he displayed the greatest +hesitation. He would have preferred a wife like Jeanne, taller than +himself; but at last he settled on Marguerite, whose hair fascinated +him, and to whom he attached himself for the day. + +“The corpse hasn’t been brought down yet,” Pauline muttered at this +moment in Juliette’s ear. + +Pauline was as flurried as though the preliminaries of a ball were in +hand. It was with the greatest difficulty that her sister had prevented +her from donning a white dress for the ceremony. + +“Good gracious!” exclaimed Juliette; “what are they dreaming about? I +must run up. Stay with these ladies.” + +She hastily left the room, where the mothers in their mourning attire +sat chatting in whispers, while the children dared not make the least +movement lest they should rumple their dresses. When she had reached +the top of the staircase and entered the chamber where the body lay, +Juliette’s blood was chilled by the intense cold. Jeanne still lay on +the bed, with clasped hands; and, like Marguerite and the Levasseur +girls, she was arrayed in a white dress, white cap, and white shoes. A +wreath of white roses crowned the cap, as though she were a little +queen about to be honored by the crowd of guests who were waiting +below. In front of the window, on two chairs, was the oak coffin lined +with satin, looking like some huge jewel casket. The furniture was all +in order; a wax taper was burning; the room seemed close and gloomy, +with the damp smell and stillness of a vault which has been walled up +for many years. Thus Juliette, fresh from the sunshine and smiling life +of the outer world, came to a sudden halt, stricken dumb, without the +courage to explain that they must needs hurry. + +“A great many people have come,” she stammered at last. And then, as no +answer was forthcoming, she added, just for the sake of saying +something: “Henri has been forced to attend a consultation at +Versailles; you will excuse him.” + +Hélène, who sat in front of the bed, gazed at her with vacant eyes. +They were wholly unable to drag her from that room. For six-and-thirty +hours she had lingered there, despite the prayers of Monsieur Rambaud +and the Abbé Jouve, who kept watch with her. During the last two nights +she had been weighed to the earth by immeasurable agony. Besides, she +had accomplished the grievous task of dressing her daughter for the +last time, of putting on those white silk shoes, for she would allow no +other to touch the feet of the little angel who lay dead. And now she +sat motionless, as though her strength were spent, and the intensity of +her grief had lulled her into forgetfulness. + +“Have you got some flowers?” she exclaimed after an effort, her eyes +still fixed on Madame Deberle. + +“Yes, yes, my dear,” answered the latter. “Don’t trouble yourself about +that.” + +Since her daughter had breathed her last, Hélène had been consumed with +one idea—there must be flowers, flowers, an overwhelming profusion of +flowers. Each time she saw anybody, she grew uneasy, seemingly afraid +that sufficient flowers would never be obtained. + +“Are there any roses?” she began again after a pause. + +“Yes. I assure you that you will be well pleased.” + +She shook her head, and once more fell back into her stupor. In the +meantime the undertaker’s men were waiting on the landing. It must be +got over now without delay. Monsieur Rambaud, who was himself affected +to such a degree that he staggered like a drunken man, signed to +Juliette to assist him in leading the poor woman from the room. Each +slipped an arm gently beneath hers, and they raised her up and led her +towards the dining-room. But the moment she divined their intention, +she shook them from her in a last despairing outburst. The scene was +heartrending. She threw herself on her knees at the bedside and clung +passionately to the sheets, while the room re-echoed with her piteous +shrieks. But still Jeanne lay there with her face of stone, stiff and +icy-cold, wrapped round by the silence of eternity. She seemed to be +frowning; there was a sour pursing of the lips, eloquent of a +revengeful nature; and it was this gloomy, pitiless look, springing +from jealousy and transforming her face, which drove Hélène so frantic. +During the preceding thirty-six hours she had not failed to notice how +the old spiteful expression had grown more and more intense upon her +daughter’s face, how more and more sullen she looked the nearer she +approached the grave. Oh, what a comfort it would have been if Jeanne +could only have smiled on her for the last time! + +“No, no!” she shrieked. “I pray you, leave her for a moment. You cannot +take her from me. I want to embrace her. Oh, only a moment, only a +moment!” + +With trembling arms she clasped her child to her bosom, eager to +dispute possession with the men who stood in the ante-room, with their +backs turned towards her and impatient frowns on their faces. But her +lips were powerless to breathe any warmth on the cold countenance; she +became conscious that Jeanne’s obstinacy was not to be overcome, that +she refused forgiveness. And then she allowed herself to be dragged +away, and fell upon a chair in the dining-room, with the one mournful +cry, again and again repeated: “My God! My God!” + +Monsieur Rambaud and Madame Deberle were overcome by emotion. There was +an interval of silence, but when the latter opened the door halfway it +was all over. There had been no noise—scarcely a stir. The screws, +oiled beforehand, now closed the lid for ever. The chamber was left +empty, and a white sheet was thrown over the coffin. + +The bedroom door remained open, and no further restraint was put upon +Hélène. On re-entering the room she cast a dazed look on the furniture +and round the walls. The men had borne away the corpse. Rosalie had +drawn the coverlet over the bed to efface the slight hollow made by the +form of the little one whom they had lost. Then opening her arms with a +distracted gesture and stretching out her hands, Hélène rushed towards +the staircase. She wanted to go down, but Monsieur Rambaud held her +back, while Madame Deberle explained to her that it was not the thing +to do. But she vowed she would behave rationally, that she would not +follow the funeral procession. Surely they could allow her to look on; +she would remain quiet in the garden pavilion. Both wept as they heard +her pleading. However, she had to be dressed. Juliette threw a black +shawl round her to conceal her morning wrap. There was no bonnet to be +found; but at last they came across one from which they tore a bunch of +red vervain flowers. Monsieur Rambaud, who was chief mourner, took hold +of Hélène’s arm. + +“Do not leave her,” whispered Madame Deberle as they reached the +garden. “I have so many things to look after!” + +And thereupon she hastened away. Hélène meanwhile walked with +difficulty, her eyes ever seeking something. As soon as she had found +herself out of doors she had drawn a long sigh. Ah! what a lovely +morning! Then she looked towards the iron gate, and caught sight of the +little coffin under the white drapery. Monsieur Rambaud allowed her to +take but two or three steps forward. + +“Now, be brave,” he said to her, while a shudder ran through his own +frame. + +They gazed on the scene. The narrow coffin was bathed in sunshine. At +the foot of it, on a lace cushion, was a silver crucifix. To the left +the holy-water sprinkler lay in its font. The tall wax tapers were +burning with almost invisible flames. Beneath the hangings, the +branches of the trees with their purple shoots formed a kind of bower. +It was a nook full of the beauty of spring, and over it streamed the +golden sunshine irradiating the blossoms with which the coffin was +covered. It seemed as if flowers had been raining down; there were +clusters of white roses, white camellias, white lilac, white +carnations, heaped in a snowy mass of petals; the coffin was hidden +from sight, and from the pall some of the white blossoms were falling, +the ground being strewn with periwinkles and hyacinths. The few persons +passing along the Rue Vineuse paused with a smile of tender emotion +before this sunny garden where the little body lay at peace amongst the +flowers. There seemed to be a music stealing up from the snowy +surroundings; in the glare of light the purity of the blossoms grew +dazzling, and the sun flushed hangings, nosegays, and wreaths of +flowers, with a very semblance of life. Over the roses a bee flew +humming. + +“Oh, the flowers! the flowers!” murmured Hélène, powerless to say +another word. + +She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and her eyes filled with +tears. Jeanne must be warm, she thought, and with this idea a wave of +emotion rose in her bosom; she felt very grateful to those who had +enveloped her child in flowers. She wished to go forward, and Monsieur +Rambaud made no effort to hold her back. How sweet was the scene +beneath the cloud of drapery! Perfumes were wafted upwards; the air was +warm and still. Hélène stooped down and chose one rose only, that she +might place it in her bosom. But suddenly she commenced to tremble, and +Monsieur Rambaud became uneasy. + +“Don’t stay here,” he said, as he drew her away. “You promised not to +make yourself unwell.” + +He was attempting to lead her into the pavilion when the door of the +drawing-room was thrown open. Pauline was the first to appear. She had +undertaken the duty of arranging the funeral procession. One by one, +the little girls stepped into the garden. Their coming seemed like some +sudden outburst of bloom, a miraculous flowering of May. In the open +air the white skirts expanded, streaked moire-like by the sunshine with +shades of the utmost delicacy. An apple-tree above was raining down its +blossoms; gossamer-threads were floating to and fro; the dresses were +instinct with all the purity of spring. And their number still +increased; they already surrounded the lawn; they yet lightly descended +the steps, sailing on like downy balls suddenly expanding beneath the +open sky. + +The garden was now a snowy mass, and as Hélène gazed on the crowd of +little girls, a memory awoke within her. She remembered another joyous +season, with its ball and the gay twinkling of tiny feet. She once more +saw Marguerite in her milk-girl costume, with her can hanging from her +waist; and Sophie, dressed as a waiting-maid, and revolving on the arm +of her sister Blanche, whose trappings as Folly gave out a merry tinkle +of bells. She thought, too, of the five Levasseur girls, and of the Red +Riding-Hoods, whose number had seemed endless, with their +ever-recurring cloaks of poppy-colored satin edged with black velvet; +while little Mademoiselle Guiraud, with her Alsatian butterfly bow in +her hair, danced as if demented opposite a Harlequin twice as tall as +herself. To-day they were all arrayed in white. Jeanne, too, was in +white, her head laid amongst white flowers on the white satin pillow. +The delicate-faced Japanese maiden, with hair transfixed by long pins, +and purple tunic embroidered with birds, was leaving them for ever in a +gown of snowy white. + +“How tall they have all grown!” exclaimed Hélène, as she burst into +tears. + +They were all there but her daughter; she alone was missing. Monsieur +Rambaud led her to the pavilion; but she remained on the threshold, +anxious to see the funeral procession start. Several of the ladies +bowed to her quietly. The children looked at her, with some +astonishment in their blue eyes. Meanwhile Pauline was hovering round, +giving orders. She lowered her voice for the occasion, but at times +forgot herself. + +“Now, be good children! Look, you little stupid, you are dirty already! +I’ll come for you in a minute; don’t stir.” + +The hearse drove up; it was time to start, but Madame Deberle appeared, +exclaiming: “The bouquets have been forgotten! Quick, Pauline, the +bouquets!” + +Some little confusion ensued. A bouquet of white roses had been +prepared for each little girl; and these bouquets now had to be +distributed. The children, in an ecstasy of delight, held the great +clusters of flowers in front of them as though they had been wax +tapers; Lucien, still at Marguerite’s side, daintily inhaled the +perfume of her blossoms as she held them to his face. All these little +maidens, their hands filled with flowers, looked radiant with happiness +in the golden light; but suddenly their faces grew grave as they +perceived the men placing the coffin on the hearse. + +“Is she inside that thing?” asked Sophie in a whisper. + +Her sister Blanche nodded assent. Then, in her turn, she said: “For men +it’s as big as this!” + +She was referring to the coffin, and stretched out her arms to their +widest extent. However, little Marguerite, whose nose was buried +amongst her roses, was seized with a fit of laughter; it was the +flowers, said she, which tickled her. Then the others in turn buried +their noses in their bouquets to find out if it were so; but they were +remonstrated with, and they all became grave once more. + +The funeral procession was now filing into the street. At the corner of +the Rue Vineuse a woman without a cap, and with tattered shoes on her +feet, wept and wiped her cheeks with the corner of her apron. People +stood at many windows, and exclamations of pity ascended through the +stillness of the street. Hung with white silver-fringed drapery the +hearse rolled on without a sound; nothing fell on the ear save the +measured tread of the two white horses, deadened by the solid earthen +roadway. The bouquets and wreaths, borne on the funeral car, formed a +very harvest of flowers; the coffin was hidden by them; every jolt +tossed the heaped-up mass, and the hearse slowly sprinkled the street +with lilac blossom. From each of the four corners streamed a long +ribbon of white watered silk, held by four little girls—Sophie and +Marguerite, one of the Levasseur family, and little Mademoiselle +Guiraud, who was so small and so uncertain on her legs that her mother +walked beside her. The others, in a close body, surrounded the hearse, +each bearing her bouquet of roses. They walked slowly, their veils +waved, and the wheels rolled on amidst all this muslin, as though borne +along on a cloud, from which smiled the tender faces of cherubs. Then +behind, following Monsieur Rambaud, who bowed his pale face, came +several ladies and little boys, Rosalie, Zephyrin, and the servants of +Madame Deberle. To these succeeded five empty mourning carriages. And +as the hearse passed along the sunny street like a car symbolical of +springtide, a number of white pigeons wheeled over the mourners’ heads. + +“Good heavens! how annoying!” exclaimed Madame Deberle when she saw the +procession start off. “If only Henri had postponed that consultation! I +told him how it would be!” + +She did not know what to do with Hélène, who remained prostrate on a +seat in the pavilion. Henri might have stayed with her and afforded her +some consolation. His absence was a horrible nuisance. Luckily, +Mademoiselle Aurelie was glad to offer her services; she had no liking +for such solemn scenes, and while watching over Hélène would be able to +attend to the luncheon which had to be prepared ere the children’s +return. So Juliette hastened after the funeral, which was proceeding +towards the church by way of the Rue de Passy. + +The garden was now deserted; a few workmen only were folding up the +hangings. All that remained on the gravelled path over which Jeanne had +been carried were the scattered petals of a camellia. And Hélène, +suddenly lapsing into loneliness and stillness, was thrilled once more +with the anguish of this eternal separation. Once again—only once +again!—to be at her darling’s side! The never-fading thought that +Jeanne was leaving her in anger, with a face that spoke solely of +gloomy hatred, seared her heart like a red-hot iron. She well divined +that Mademoiselle Aurelie was there to watch her, and cast about for +some opportunity to escape and hasten to the cemetery. + +“Yes, it’s a dreadful loss,” began the old maid, comfortably seated in +an easy-chair. “I myself should have worshipped children, and little +girls in particular. Ah, well! when I think of it I am pleased that I +never married. It saves a lot of grief!” + +It was thus she thought to divert the mother. She chatted away about +one of her friends who had had six children; they were now all dead. +Another lady had been left a widow with a big lad who struck her; he +might die, and there would be no difficulty in comforting her. Hélène +appeared to be listening to all this; she did not stir, but her whole +frame quivered with impatience. + +“You are calmer now,” said Mademoiselle Aurelie, after a time. “Well, +in the end we always have to get the better of our feelings.” + +The dining-room communicated with the Japanese pavilion, and, rising +up, the old maid opened the door and peered into the room. The table, +she saw, was covered with pastry and cakes. Meantime, in an instant +Hélène sped through the garden; the gate was still open, the workmen +were just carrying away their ladder. + +On the left the Rue Vineuse turns into the Rue des Reservoirs, from +which the cemetery of Passy can be entered. On the Boulevard de la +Muette a huge retaining wall has been reared, and the cemetery +stretches like an immense terrace commanding the heights, the +Trocadero, the avenues, and the whole expanse of Paris. In twenty steps +Hélène had reached the yawning gateway, and saw before her the lonely +expanse of white gravestones and black crosses. She entered. At the +corners of the first walk two large lilac trees were budding. There +were but few burials here; weeds grew thickly, and a few cypress trees +threw solemn shadows across the green. Hélène hurried straight on; a +troop of frightened sparrows flew off, and a grave-digger raised his +head towards her after flinging aside a shovelful of earth. The +procession had probably not yet arrived from the church; the cemetery +seemed empty to her. She turned to the right, and advanced almost to +the edge of the terrace parapet; but, on looking round, she saw behind +a cluster of acacias the little girls in white upon their knees before +the temporary vault into which Jeanne’s remains had a moment before +been lowered. Abbé Jouve, with outstretched hand, was giving the +farewell benediction. She heard nothing but the dull thud with which +the stone slab of the vault fell back into its place. All was over. + +Meanwhile, however, Pauline had observed her and pointed her out to +Madame Deberle, who almost gave way to anger. “What!” she exclaimed; +“she has come. But it isn’t at all proper; it’s very bad taste!”[*] + +[*] In France, among the aristocracy and the upper _bourgeoisie_—to +which Madame Deberle belonged—mothers seldom, if ever, attend the +funerals of their children, or widows those of the husbands they have +lost. They are supposed to be so prostrated by grief as to be unable to +appear in public. This explanation was necessary, as otherwise the +reader might not understand the force of Madame Deberle’s remarks. + +So saying she stepped forward, showing Hélène by the expression of her +face that she disapproved of her presence. Some other ladies also +followed with inquisitive looks. Monsieur Rambaud, however, had already +rejoined the bereaved mother, and stood silent by her side. She was +leaning against one of the acacias, feeling faint, and weary with the +sight of all those mourners. She nodded her head in recognition of +their sympathetic words, but all the while she was stifling with the +thought that she had come too late; for she had heard the noise of the +stone falling back into its place. Her eyes ever turned towards the +vault, the step of which a cemetery keeper was sweeping. + +“Pauline, see to the children,” said Madame Deberle. + +The little girls rose from their knees looking like a flock of white +sparrows. A few of the tinier ones, lost among their petticoats, had +seated themselves on the ground, and had to be picked up. While Jeanne +was being lowered down, the older girls had leaned forward to see the +bottom of the cavity. It was so dark they had shuddered and turned +pale. Sophie assured her companions in a whisper that one remained +there for years and years. “At nighttime too?” asked one of the little +Levasseur girls. “Of course—at night too—always!” Oh, the night! +Blanche was nearly dead with the idea. And they all looked at one +another with dilated eyes, as if they had just heard some story about +robbers. However, when they had regained their feet, and stood grouped +around the vault, released from their mourning duties, their cheeks +became pink again; it must all be untrue, those stories could only have +been told for fun. The spot seemed pleasant, so pretty with its long +grass; what capital games they might have had at hide-and-seek behind +all the tombstones! Their little feet were already itching to dance +away, and their white dresses fluttered like wings. Amidst the +graveyard stillness the warm sunshine lazily streamed down, flushing +their faces. Lucien had thrust his hand beneath Marguerite’s veil, and +was feeling her hair and asking if she put anything on it, to make it +so yellow. The little one drew herself up, and he told her that they +would marry each other some day. To this Marguerite had no objection, +but she was afraid that he might pull her hair. His hands were still +wandering over it; it seemed to him as soft as highly-glazed +letter-paper. + +“Don’t go so far away,” called Pauline. + +“Well, we’ll leave now,” said Madame Deberle. “There’s nothing more to +be done, and the children must be hungry.” + +The little girls, who had scattered like some boarding-school at play, +had to be marshalled together once more. They were counted, and baby +Guiraud was missing; but she was at last seen in the distance, gravely +toddling along a path with her mother’s parasol. The ladies then turned +towards the gateway, driving the stream of white dresses before them. +Madame Berthier congratulated Pauline on her marriage, which was to +take place during the following month. Madame Deberle informed them +that she was setting out in three days’ time for Naples, with her +husband and Lucien. The crowd now quickly disappeared; Zephyrin and +Rosalie were the last to remain. Then in their turn they went off, +linked together, arm-in-arm, delighted with their outing, although +their hearts were heavy with grief. Their pace was slow, and for a +moment longer they could be seen at the end of the path, with the +sunshine dancing over them. + +“Come,” murmured Monsieur Rambaud to Hélène. + +With a gesture she entreated him to wait. She was alone, and to her it +seemed as though a page had been torn from the book of her life. As +soon as the last of the mourners had disappeared, she knelt before the +tomb with a painful effort. Abbé Jouve, robed in his surplice, had not +yet risen to his feet. Both prayed for a long time. Then, without +speaking, but with a glowing glance of loving-kindness and pardon, the +priest assisted her to rise. + +“Give her your arm,” he said to Monsieur Rambaud. + +Towards the horizon stretched Paris, all golden in the radiance of that +spring morning. In the cemetery a chaffinch was singing. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV. + + +Two years were past and gone. One morning in December the little +cemetery lay slumbering in the intense cold. Since the evening before +snow had been falling, a fine snow, which a north wind blew before it. +From the paling sky the flakes now fell at rarer intervals, light and +buoyant, like feathers. The snow was already hardening, and a thick +trimming of seeming swan’s-down edged the parapet of the terrace. +Beyond this white line lay Paris, against the gloomy grey on the +horizon. + +Madame Rambaud was still praying on her knees in the snow before the +grave of Jeanne. Her husband had but a moment before risen silently to +his feet. Hélène and her old lover had been married in November at +Marseilles. Monsieur Rambaud had disposed of his business near the +Central Markets, and had come to Paris for three days, in order to +conclude the transaction. The carriage now awaiting them in the Rue des +Reservoirs was to take them back to their hotel, and thence with their +travelling-trunks to the railway station. Hélène had made the journey +with the one thought of kneeling here. She remained motionless, with +drooping head, as if dreaming, and unconscious of the cold ground that +chilled her knees. + +Meanwhile the wind was falling. Monsieur Rambaud had stepped to the +terrace, leaving her to the mute anguish which memory evoked. A haze +was stealing over the outlying districts of Paris, whose immensity +faded away in this pale, vague mist. Round the Trocadero the city was +of a leaden hue and lifeless, while the last snowflakes slowly +fluttered down in pale specks against the gloomy background. Beyond the +chimneys of the Army Bakehouse, the brick towers of which had a coppery +tint, these white dots descended more thickly; a gauze seemed to be +floating in the air, falling to earth thread by thread. Not a breath +stirred as the dream-like shower sleepily and rhythmically descended +from the atmosphere. As they neared the roofs the flakes seemed to +falter in their flight; in myriads they ceaselessly pillowed themselves +on one another, in such intense silence that even blossoms shedding +their petals make more noise; and from this moving mass, whose descent +through space was inaudible, there sprang a sense of such intense +peacefulness that earth and life were forgotten. A milky whiteness +spread more and more over the whole heavens though they were still +darkened here and there by wreaths of smoke. Little by little, bright +clusters of houses became plainly visible; a bird’s-eye view was +obtained of the whole city, intersected by streets and squares, which +with their shadowy depths described the framework of the several +districts. + +Hélène had slowly risen. On the snow remained the imprint of her knees. +Wrapped in a large, dark mantle trimmed with fur, she seemed amidst the +surrounding white very tall and broad-shouldered. The border of her +bonnet, a twisted band of black velvet, looked like a diadem throwing a +shadow on her forehead. She had regained her beautiful, placid face +with grey eyes and pearly teeth. Her chin was full and rounded, as in +the olden days, giving her an air of sturdy sense and determination. As +she turned her head, her profile once more assumed statuesque severity +and purity. Beneath the untroubled paleness of her cheeks her blood +coursed calmly; everything showed that honor was again ruling her life. +Two tears had rolled from under her eyelids; her present tranquillity +came from her past sorrow. And she stood before the grave on which was +reared a simple pillar inscribed with Jeanne’s name and two dates, +within which the dead child’s brief existence was compassed. + +Around Hélène stretched the cemetery, enveloped in its snowy pall, +through which rose rusty monuments and iron crosses, like arms thrown +up in agony. There was only one path visible in this lonely corner, and +that had been made by the footmarks of Hélène and Monsieur Rambaud. It +was a spotless solitude where the dead lay sleeping. The walks were +outlined by the shadowy, phantom-like trees. Ever and anon some snow +fell noiselessly from a branch that had been too heavily burdened. But +nothing else stirred. At the far end, some little while ago, a black +tramping had passed by; some one was being buried beneath this snowy +winding-sheet. And now another funeral train appeared on the left. +Hearses and mourners went their way in silence, like shadows thrown +upon a spotless linen cloth. + +Hélène was awaking from her dream when she observed a beggar-woman +crawling along near her. It was Mother Fétu, the snow deadening the +sound of her huge man’s boots, which were burst and bound round with +bits of string. Never had Hélène seen her weighed down by such intense +misery, or covered with filthier rags, though she was fatter than ever, +and wore a stupid look. In the foulest weather, despite hard frosts or +drenching rain, the old woman now followed funerals in order to +speculate on the pity of the charitable. She well knew that amongst the +gravestones the fear of death makes people generous; and so she prowled +from tomb to tomb, approaching the kneeling mourners at the moment they +burst into tears, for she understood that they were then powerless to +refuse her. She had entered with the last funeral train, and a moment +previously had espied Hélène. But she had not recognized her +benefactress, and with gasps and sobs began to relate how she had two +children at home who were dying of hunger. Hélène listened to her, +struck dumb by this apparition. The children were without fire to warm +them; the elder was going off in a decline. But all at once Mother +Fétu’s words came to an end. Her brain was evidently working beneath +the myriad wrinkles of her face, and her little eyes began to blink. +Good gracious! it was her benefactress! Heaven, then, had hearkened to +her prayers! And without seeking to explain the story about the +children, she plunged into a whining tale, with a ceaseless rush of +words. Several of her teeth were missing, and she could be understood +with difficulty. The gracious God had sent every affliction on her +head, she declared. The gentleman lodger had gone away, and she had +only just been enabled to rise after lying for three months in bed; +yes, the old pain still remained, it now gripped her everywhere; a +neighbor had told her that a spider must have got in through her mouth +while she was asleep. If she had only had a little fire, she could have +warmed her stomach; that was the only thing that could relieve her now. +But nothing could be had for nothing—not even a match. Perhaps she was +right in thinking that madame had been travelling? That was her own +concern, of course. At all events, she looked very well, and fresh, and +beautiful. God would requite her for all her kindness. Then, as Hélène +began to draw out her purse, Mother Fétu drew breath, leaning against +the railing that encircled Jeanne’s grave. + +The funeral processions had vanished from sight. Somewhere in a grave +close at hand a digger, whom they could not see, was wielding his +pickaxe with regular strokes. + +Meanwhile the old woman had regained her breath, and her eyes were +riveted on the purse. Then, anxious to extort as large a sum as +possible, she displayed considerable cunning, and spoke of the other +lady. Nobody could say that she was not a charitable lady; still, she +did not know what to do with her money—it never did one much good. +Warily did she glance at Hélène as she spoke. And next she ventured to +mention the doctor’s name. Oh! he was good. Last summer he had again +gone on a journey with his wife. Their boy was thriving; he was a fine +child. But just then Hélène’s fingers, as she opened the purse, began +to tremble, and Mother Fétu immediately changed her tone. In her +stupidity and bewilderment she had only now realized that the good lady +was standing beside her daughter’s grave. She stammered, gasped, and +tried to bring tears to her eyes. Jeanne, said she, had been so dainty +a darling, with such loves of little hands; she could still see her +giving her silver in charity. What long hair she had! and how her large +eyes filled with tears when she gazed on the poor! Ah! there was no +replacing such an angel; there were no more to be found like her, were +they even to search the whole of Passy. And when the fine days came, +said Mother Fétu, she would gather some daisies in the moat of the +fortifications and place them on her tomb. Then, however, she lapsed +into silence frightened by the gesture with which Hélène cut her short. +Was it possible, she thought, that she could no longer find the right +thing to say? Her good lady did not weep, and only gave her a +twenty-sou piece. + +Monsieur Rambaud, meanwhile, had walked towards them from the parapet +of the terrace. Hélène hastened to rejoin him. At the sight of the +gentleman Mother Fétu’s eyes began to sparkle. He was unknown to her; +he must be a new-comer. Dragging her feet along, she followed Hélène, +invoking every blessing of Heaven on her head; and when she had crept +close to Monsieur Rambaud, she again spoke of the doctor. Ah! his would +be a magnificent funeral when he died, were the poor people whom he had +attended for nothing to follow his corpse! He was rather fickle in his +loves—nobody could deny that. There were ladies in Passy who knew him +well. But all that didn’t prevent him from worshipping his wife—such a +pretty lady, who, had she wished, might have easily gone wrong, but had +given up such ideas long ago. Their home was quite a turtle-doves’ nest +now. Had madame paid them a visit yet? They were certain to be at home; +she had but a few moments previously observed that the shutters were +open in the Rue Vineuse. They had formerly had such regard for madame +that surely they would be delighted to receive her with open arms! + +The old hag leered at Monsieur Rambaud as she thus mumbled away. He +listened to her with the composure of a brave man. The memories that +were being called up before him brought no shadow to his unruffled +face. Only it occurred to him that the pertinacity of the old beggar +was annoying Hélène, and so he hastened to fumble in his pocket, in his +turn giving her some alms, and at the same time waving her away. The +moment her eyes rested on another silver coin Mother Fétu burst into +loud thanks. She would buy some wood at once; she would be able to warm +her afflicted body—that was the only thing now to give her stomach any +relief. Yes, the doctor’s home was quite a nest of turtle-doves, and +the proof was that the lady had only last winter given birth to a +second child—a beautiful little daughter, rosy-cheeked and fat, who +must now be nearly fourteen months old. On the day of the baptism the +doctor had put a hundred sous into her hand at the door of the church. +Ah! good hearts came together. Madame had brought her good luck. Pray +God that madame might never have a sorrow, but every good fortune! yes, +might that come to pass in the name of the Father, the Son, and the +Holy Ghost! + +Hélène stood upright gazing on Paris, while Mother Fétu vanished among +the tombs, muttering three _Paters_ and three _Aves_. The snow had +ceased falling; the last of the flakes had fluttered slowly and wearily +on to the roofs; and through the dissolving mist the golden sun could +be seen tinging the pearly-grey expanse of heaven with a pink glow. +Over Montmartre a belt of blue fringed the horizon; but it was so faint +and delicate that it seemed but a shadow such as white satin might +throw. Paris was gradually detaching itself from amidst the smoke, +spreading out more broadly with its snowy expanses the frigid cloak +which held it in death-like quiescence. There were now no longer any +fleeting specks of white making the city shudder, and quivering in pale +waves over the dull-brown house-fronts. Amidst the masses of snow that +girt them round the dwellings stood out black and gloomy, as though +mouldy with centuries of damp. Entire streets appeared to be in ruins, +as if undermined by some gunpowder explosion, with roofs ready to give +way and windows already driven in. But gradually, as the belt of blue +broadened in the direction of Montmartre, there came a stream of light, +pure and cool as the waters of a spring; and Paris once more shone out +as under a glass, which lent even to the outlying districts the +distinctness of a Japanese picture. + +Wrapped in her fur mantle, with her hands clinging idly to the cuffs of +the sleeves, Hélène was musing. With the persistency of an echo one +thought unceasingly pursued her—a child, a fat, rosy daughter, had been +born to them. In her imagination she could picture her at the +love-compelling age when Jeanne had commenced to prattle. Baby girls +are such darlings when fourteen months old! She counted the +months—fourteen: that made two years when she took the remaining period +into consideration—exactly the time within a fortnight. Then her brain +conjured up a sunny picture of Italy, a realm of dreamland, with golden +fruits where lovers wandered through the perfumed nights, with arms +round one another’s waists. Henri and Juliette were pacing before her +eyes beneath the light of the moon. They loved as husband and wife do +when passion is once more awakened within them. To think of it—a tiny +girl, rosy and fat, its bare body flushed by the warm sunshine, while +it strives to stammer words which its mother arrests with kisses! And +Hélène thought of all this without any anger; her heart was mute, yet +seemingly derived yet greater quietude from the sadness of her spirit. +The land of the sun had vanished from her vision; her eyes wandered +slowly over Paris, on whose huge frame winter had laid his freezing +hand. Above the Panthéon another patch of blue was now spreading in the +heavens. + +Meanwhile memory was recalling the past to life. At Marseilles she had +spent her days in a state of coma. One morning as she went along the +Rue des Petites-Maries, she had burst out sobbing in front of the home +of her childhood. That was the last occasion on which she had wept. +Monsieur Rambaud was her frequent visitor; she felt his presence near +her to be a protection. Towards autumn she had one evening seen him +enter, with red eyes and in the agony of a great sorrow; his brother, +Abbé Jouve, was dead. In her turn she comforted him. What followed she +could not recall with any exactitude of detail. The Abbé ever seemed to +stand behind them, and influenced by thought of him she succumbed +resignedly. When M. Rambaud once more hinted at his wish, she had +nothing to say in refusal. It seemed to her that what he asked was but +sensible. Of her own accord, as her period of mourning was drawing to +an end, she calmly arranged all the details with him. His hands +trembled in a transport of tenderness. It should be as she pleased; he +had waited for months; a sign sufficed him. They were married in +mourning garb. On the wedding night he, like her first husband, kissed +her bare feet—feet fair as though fashioned out of marble. And thus +life began once more. + +While the belt of blue was broadening on the horizon, this awakening of +memory came with an astounding effect on Hélène. Had she lived through +a year of madness, then? To-day, as she pictured the woman who had +lived for nearly three years in that room in the Rue Vineuse, she +imagined that she was passing judgment on some stranger, whose conduct +revolted and surprised her. How fearfully foolish had been her act! how +abominably wicked! Yet she had not sought it. She had been living +peacefully, hidden in her nook, absorbed in the love of her daughter. +Untroubled by any curious thoughts, by any desire, she had seen the +road of life lying before her. But a breath had swept by, and she had +fallen. Even at this moment she was unable to explain it; she had +evidently ceased to be herself; another mind and heart had controlled +her actions. Was it possible? She had done those things? Then an icy +chill ran through her; she saw Jeanne borne away beneath roses. But in +the torpor begotten of her grief she grew very calm again, once more +without a longing or curiosity, once more proceeding along the path of +duty that lay so straight before her. Life had again begun for her, +fraught with austere peacefulness and pride of honesty. + +Monsieur Rambaud now moved near her to lead her from this place of +sadness. But Hélène silently signed to him her wish to linger a little +longer. Approaching the parapet she gazed below into the Avenue de la +Muette, where a long line of old cabs in the last stage of decay +stretched beside the footpath. The hoods and wheels looked blanched, +the rusty horses seemed to have been rotting there since the dark ages. +Some cabmen sat motionless, freezing within their frozen cloaks. Over +the snow other vehicles were crawling along, one after the other, with +the utmost difficulty. The animals were losing their foothold, and +stretching out their necks, while their drivers with many oaths +descended from their seats and held them by the bridle; and through the +windows you could see the faces of the patient “fares,” reclining +against the cushions, and resigning themselves to the stern necessity +of taking three-quarters of an hour to cover a distance which in other +weather would have been accomplished in ten minutes. The rumbling of +the wheels was deadened by the snow; only the voices vibrated upward, +sounding shrill and distinct amidst the silence of the streets; there +were loud calls, the laughing exclamations of people slipping on the +icy paths, the angry whip-cracking of carters, and the snorting of +terrified horses. In the distance, to the right, the lofty trees on the +quay seemed to be spun of glass, like huge Venetian chandeliers, whose +flower-decked arms the designer had whimsically twisted. The icy north +wind had transformed the trunks into columns, over which waved downy +boughs and feathery tufts, an exquisite tracery of black twigs edged +with white trimmings. It was freezing, and not a breath stirred in the +pure air. + +Then Hélène told her heart that she had known nothing of Henri. For a +year she had seen him almost every day; he had lingered for hours and +hours near her, to speak to her and gaze into her eyes. Yet she knew +nothing of him. Whence had he come? how had he crept into her intimacy? +what manner of man was he that she had yielded to him—she who would +rather have perished than yield to another? She knew nothing of him; it +had all sprung from some sudden tottering of her reason. He had been a +stranger to her on the last as on the first day. In vain did she patch +together little scattered things and circumstances—his words, his acts, +everything that her memory recalled concerning him. He loved his wife +and his child; he smiled with delicate grace; he outwardly appeared a +well-bred man. Then she saw him again with inflamed visage, and +trembling with passion. But weeks passed, and he vanished from her +sight. At this moment she could not have said where she had spoken to +him for the last time. He had passed away, and his shadow had gone with +him. Their story had no other ending. She knew him not. + +Over the city the sky had now become blue, and every cloud had +vanished. Wearied with her memories, and rejoicing in the purity before +her, Hélène raised her head. The blue of the heavens was exquisitely +clear, but still very pale in the light of the sun, which hung low on +the horizon, and glittered like a silver lamp. In that icy temperature +its rays shed no heat on the glittering snow. Below stretched the +expanses of roofs—the tiles of the Army Bakehouse, and the slates of +the houses on the quay—like sheets of white cloth fringed with black. +On the other bank of the river, the square stretch of the Champ-de-Mars +seemed a steppe, the black dots of the straggling vehicles making one +think of sledges skimming along with tinkling bells; while the elms on +the Quai d’Orsay, dwarfed by the distance, looked like crystal flowers +bristling with sharp points. Through all the snow-white sea the Seine +rolled its muddy waters edged by the ermine of its banks; since the +evening before ice had been floating down, and you could clearly see +the masses crushing against the piers of the Pont des Invalides, and +vanishing swiftly beneath the arches. The bridges, growing more and +more delicate with the distance, seemed like the steps of a ladder of +white lace reaching as far as the sparkling walls of the Cité, above +which the towers of Notre-Dame reared their snow-white crests. On the +left the level plain was broken up by other peaks. The Church of +Saint-Augustin, the Opera House, the Tower of Saint-Jacques, looked +like mountains clad with eternal snow. Nearer at hand the pavilions of +the Tuileries and the Louvre, joined together by newly erected +buildings, resembled a ridge of hills with spotless summits. On the +right, too, were the white tops of the Invalides, of Saint-Sulpice, and +the Panthéon, the last in the dim distance, outlining against the sky a +palace of fairyland with dressings of bluish marble. Not a sound broke +the stillness. Grey-looking hollows revealed the presence of the +streets; the public squares were like yawning crevasses. Whole lines of +houses had vanished. The fronts of the neighboring dwellings alone +showed distinctly with the thousand streaks of light reflected from +their windows. Beyond, the expanse of snow intermingled and merged into +a seeming lake, whose blue shadows blended with the blue of the sky. +Huge and clear in the bright, frosty atmosphere, Paris glittered in the +light of the silver sun. + +Then Hélène for the last time let her glance sweep over the unpitying +city which also remained unknown to her. She saw it once more, tranquil +and with immortal beauty amidst the snow, the same as when she had left +it, the same as it had been every day for three long years. Paris to +her was full of her past life. In its presence she had loved, in its +presence Jeanne had died. But this companion of her every-day existence +retained on its mighty face a wondrous serenity, unruffled by any +emotion, as though it were but a mute witness of the laughter and the +tears which the Seine seemed to roll in its flood. She had, according +to her mood, endowed it with monstrous cruelty or almighty goodness. +To-day she felt that she would be ever ignorant of it, in its +indifference and immensity. It spread before her; it was life. + +However, Monsieur Rambaud now laid a light hand on her arm to lead her +away. His kindly face was troubled, and he whispered: + +“Do not give yourself pain.” + +He divined her every thought, and this was all he could say. Madame +Rambaud looked at him, and her sorrow became appeased. Her cheeks were +flushed by the cold; her eyes sparkled. Her memories were already far +away. Life was beginning again. + +“I’m not quite certain whether I shut the big trunk properly,” she +exclaimed. + +Monsieur Rambaud promised that he would make sure. Their train started +at noon, and they had plenty of time. Some gravel was being scattered +on the streets; their cab would not take an hour. But, all at once, he +raised his voice: + +“I believe you’ve forgotten the fishing-rods!” said he. + +“Oh, yes; quite!” she answered, surprised and vexed at her +forgetfulness. “We ought to have bought them yesterday!” + +The rods in question were very handy ones, the like of which could not +be purchased at Marseilles. They there owned near the sea a small +country house, where they purposed spending the summer. Monsieur +Rambaud looked at his watch. On their way to the railway station they +would still be able to buy the rods, and could tie them up with the +umbrellas. Then he led her from the place, tramping along, and taking +short cuts between the graves. The cemetery was empty; only the imprint +of their feet now remained on the snow. Jeanne, dead, lay alone, facing +Paris, for ever and for ever. + + +AFTERWARD + + +There can be no doubt in the mind of the judicial critic that in the +pages of “A Love Episode” the reader finds more of the poetical, more +of the delicately artistic, more of the subtle emanation of creative +and analytical genius, than in any other of Zola’s works, with perhaps +one exception. The masterly series of which this book is a part +furnishes a well-stocked gallery of pictures by which posterity will +receive vivid and adequate impressions of life in France during a +certain period. There was a strain of Greek blood in Zola’s veins. It +would almost seem that down through the ages with this blood there had +come to him a touch of that old Greek fatalism, or belief in destiny or +necessity. The Greek tragedies are pervaded and permeated, steeped and +dyed with this idea of relentless fate. It is called heredity, in these +modern days. Heredity plus environment,—in these we find the keynote of +the great productions of the leader of the “naturalistic” school of +fiction. + +It has been said that art, in itself, should have no moral. It has been +further charged that the tendencies of some of Zola’s works are +hurtful. But, in the books of this master, the aberrations of vice are +nowhere made attractive, or insidiously alluring. The shadow of +expiation, remorse, punishment, retribution is ever present, like a +death’s-head at a feast. The day of reckoning comes, and bitterly do +the culprits realize that the tortuous game of vice is not worth the +candle. Casuistical theologians may attempt to explain away the notions +of punishment in the life to come, of retribution beyond the grave. But +the shallowest thinker will not deny the realities of remorse. To how +many confessions, to how many suicides has it led? Of how many reformed +lives has it been the mainspring? The great lecturer, John B. Gough, +used to tell a story of a railway employee whose mind was overthrown by +his disastrous error in misplacing a switch, and who spent his days in +the mad-house repeating the phrase: “If I only had, if I only had.” His +was not an intentional or wilful dereliction. But in the hearts of how +many repentant sinners does there not echo through life a similar +mournful refrain. This lesson has been taught by Zola in more than one +of his romances. + +In “A Love Episode” how poignant is this expiation! In all literature +there is nothing like the portrayal of the punishment of Hélène +Grandjean. Hélène and little Jeanne are reversions of type. The old +“neurosis,” seen in earlier branches of the family, reappears in these +characters. Readers of the series will know where it began. Poor little +Jeanne, most pathetic of creations, is a study in abnormal jealousy, a +jealousy which seems to be clairvoyant, full of supernatural +intuitions, turning everything to suspicion, a jealousy which blights +and kills. Could the memory of those weeks of anguish fade from +Hélène’s soul? This dying of a broken heart is not merely the figment +of a poet’s fancy. It has happened in real life. The coming of death, +save in the case of the very aged, seems, nearly always, brutally +cruel, at least to those friends who survive. Parents know what it is +to sit with bated breath and despairing heart beside the bed of a +sinking child. Seconds seem hours, and hours weeks. The impotency to +succour, the powerlessness to save, the dumb despair, the overwhelming +grief, all these are sorrowful realities. How vividly are they pictured +by Zola. And, added to this keenness of grief in the case of Hélène +Grandjean, was the sense that her fault had contributed to the illness +of her daughter. Each sigh of pain was a reproach. The pallid and +ever-paling cheek was a whip of scorpions, lashing the mother’s naked +soul. Will ethical teachers say that there is no salutary moral lesson +in this vivid picture? To many it seems better than a cart-load of dull +tracts or somnolent homilies. Poor, pathetic little Jeanne, lying there +in the cemetery of Passy—where later was erected the real tomb of Marie +Bashkirtseff, though dead she yet spoke a lesson of contrition to her +mother. And though the second marriage of Hélène has been styled an +anti-climax, yet it is true enough to life. It does not remove the +logical and artistic inference that the memory of Jeanne’s sufferings +lingered with ever recurring poignancy in the mother’s heart. + +In a few bold lines Zola sketches a living character. Take the picture +of old Mere Fétu. One really feels her disagreeable presence, and is +annoyed with her whining, leering, fawning, sycophancy. One almost +resents her introduction into the pages of the book. There is something +palpably odious about her personality. A pleasing contrast is formed by +the pendant portraits of the awkward little soldier and his +kitchen-sweetheart. This homely and wholesome couple one may meet any +afternoon in Paris, on leave-of-absence days. Their portraits, and the +delicious description of the children’s party, are evidently studies +from life. With such vivid verisimilitude is the latter presented that +one imagines, the day after reading the book, that he has been present +at the pleasant function, and has admired the fluffy darlings, in their +dainty costumes, with their chubby cavaliers. + +It is barely fair to an author to give him the credit of knowing +something about the proper relative proportions of his characters. And +so, although Dr. Deberle is somewhat shadowy, he certainly serves the +author’s purpose, and—well, Dr. Deberle is not the hero of “An Episode +of Love.” Rambaud and the good Abbé Jouve are certainly strong enough. +There seems to be a touch of Dickens about them. + +Cities sometimes seem to be great organisms. Each has an individuality, +a specific identity, so marked, and peculiarities so especially +characteristic of itself, that one might almost allow it a soul. Down +through the centuries has fair Lutetia come, growing in the artistic +graces, until now she stands the playground of princes and the capital +of the world, even as mighty Rome among the ancients. And shall we +object, because a few pages of “A Love Episode” are devoted to +descriptions of Paris? Rather let us be thankful for them. These +descriptions of the wonderful old city form a glorious pentatych. They +are invaluable to two classes of readers, those who have visited Paris +and those who have not. To the former they recall the days in which the +spirit of the French metropolis seemed to possess their being and to +take them under its wondrous spell. To the latter they supply hints of +the majesty and attractiveness of Paris, and give some inkling of its +power to please. And Zola loved his Paris as a sailor loves the sea. + +C. C. STARKWEATHER. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LOVE EPISODE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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