THE APPARITION
If you want simple and sincere feeling, if you would see overflowingaffection, tenderness, laughter--the laughter born of great happinesswhich, at a tiny movement of the lips, is brought to the verge oftears--and the beautiful wild joy of youth illumined by bright eyestransparent to the very depths of the souls behind them--all thesethings you may find this Sunday morning in a house that you know of, anew house, down yonder, right at the end of the old faubourg. The glassdoor on the ground floor shines more brightly than usual. More gailythan ever dance the letters over the door, and from the open windowscomes the sound of glad cries, flowing from a stream of happiness.
"Accepted! it is accepted! Oh, what good luck! Henriette, Elise, do comehere! M. Maranne's play is accepted!"
Andre heard the news yesterday. Cardailhac, the manager of the_Nouveautes_, sent for him to inform him that his play was to beproduced immediately--that it would be put on next month. They passedthe evening discussing scenic arrangements and the distribution ofparts; and, as it was too late to knock at his neighbour's door when hegot home from the theatre, the happy author waited for the morning infeverish impatience, and then, as soon as he heard people stirring belowand the shutters open with a click against the house-front, he madehaste to go down to announce the good news to his friends. Just now theyare all assembled together, the young ladies in pretty _deshabille_,their hair hastily twisted up, and M. Joyeuse, whom the announcementhad surprised in the midst of shaving, presenting under his embroiderednight-cap a strange face divided into two parts, one side shaved, theother not. But Andre Maranne is the most excited, for you know what theacceptance of _Revolt_ means for him; what was agreed between them andBonne Maman. The poor fellow looks at her as if to find an encouragementin her eyes; and the rather mischievous, kind eyes seem to say, "Makethe experiment, in any case. What is the risk?" To give himselfcourage he looks also at Mlle. Elise, pretty as a flower, with her longeyelashes drooped. At last, making up his mind:
"M. Joyeuse," said he thickly, "I have a very serious communication tomake to you."
M. Joyeuse expresses astonishment.
"A communication? Ah, _mon Dieu_, you alarm me!"
And lowering his voice:
"Are the girls in the way?"
"No. Bonne Maman knows what I mean. Mlle. Elise also must have somesuspicion of it. It is only the children."
Mlle. Henriette and her sister are asked to retire, which theyimmediately do, the one with a dignified and annoyed air, like a truedaughter of the Saint-Amands, the other, the young Chinese Yaia, hardlyhiding a wild desire to laugh.
Thereupon a great silence; after which, the lover begins his littlestory.
I quite believe that Mlle. Elise has some suspicion in her mind, foras soon as their young neighbour spoke of a communication, she drew her_Ansart et Rendu_ from her pocket and plunged precipitately into theadventures of somebody surnamed the Hutin, thrilling reading which makesthe book tremble in her hands. There is reason for trembling, certainly,before the bewilderment, the indignant stupefaction into which M.Joyeuse receives this request for his daughter's hand.
"Is it possible? How has it happened? What an extraordinary event! Whocould ever have suspected such a thing?"
And suddenly the good old man burst into a great roar of laughter. Well,no, it is not true. He had heard of the affair; knew about it, a longtime ago.
Her father knew all about it! Bonne Maman had betrayed them then! Andbefore the reproachful glances cast in her direction, the culprit comesforward smiling:
"Yes, my dears, it is I. The secret was too much for me. I found I couldnot keep it to myself alone. And then, father is so kind--one cannothide anything from him."
As she says this she throws her arms round the little man's neck; butthere is room enough for two, and when Mlle. Elise in her turn takesrefuge there, there is still an affectionate, fatherly hand stretchedout towards him whom M. Joyeuse considers thenceforward as his son.Silent embraces, long looks meeting each other full of emotion, blessedmoments that one would like to hold forever by the fragile tips oftheir wings. There is chat, and gentle laughter when certain detailsare recalled. M. Joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him in thefirst instance by tapping spirits, one day when he was alone inAndre's apartment. "How is business going, M. Maranne?" the spirits hadinquired, and he himself had replied in Maranne's absence: "Fairly well,for the season, Sir Spirit." The little man repeats, "Fairly well forthe season," in a mischievous way, while Mlle. Elise, quite confusedat the thought that it was with her father that she talked that day,disappears under her fair curls.
After the first stress of emotion they talk more seriously. It iscertain that Mme. Joyeuse, _nee_ de Saint-Amand, would never haveconsented to this marriage. Andre Maranne is not rich, still less noble;but the old accountant, luckily, has not the same ideas of grandeur thathis wife possessed. They love each other; they are young, healthy, andgood-looking--qualities that in themselves constitute fine dowries,without involving any heavy registration fees at the notary's. The newhousehold will be installed on the floor above. The photography willbe continued, unless _Revolt_ should produce enormous receipts. (TheVisionary may be trusted to see to that.) In any case, the father willstill remain near them; he has a good place at his stockbroker's office,some expert business in the courts; provided that the little shipcontinue to sail in deep enough water, all will go well, with the aid ofwave, wind, and star.
Only one question preoccupies M. Joyeuse: "Will Andre's parents consentto this marriage? How will Dr. Jenkins, so rich, so celebrated, takeit?"
"Let us not speak of that man," said Andre, turning pale; "he is awretch to whom I owe nothing--who is nothing to me."
He stops, embarrassed by this explosion of anger, which he was unable torestrain and cannot explain, and goes on more gently:
"My mother, who comes to see me sometimes in spite of the prohibitionlaid upon her, was the first to be told of our plans. She already lovesMlle. Elise as her daughter. You will see, mademoiselle, how good sheis, and how beautiful and charming. What a misfortune that she belongsto such a wicked man, who tyrannizes over her, and tortures her even tothe point of forbidding her to utter her son's name."
Poor Maranne heaves a sign that speaks volumes on the great grief whichhe hides in the depths of his heart. But what sadness would not havebeen vanquished in presence of that dear face lighted up with its faircurls and the radiant perspective of the future? These serious questionshaving been settled, they are able to open the door and recall the twoexiles. In order to avoid filling their little heads with thoughts abovetheir age, it has been agreed to say nothing about the prodigious event,to tell them nothing except that they have all to make haste and dress,breakfast still more quickly, so as to be able to spend the afternoon inthe Bois, where Maranne will read his play to them, before they go on toSuresnes to have dinner at Kontzen's: a whole programme of delights inhonour of the acceptance of _Revolt_, and of another piece of good newswhich they will hear later.
"Ah, really--what is it, then?" ask the two little girls, with aninnocent air.
But if you fancy they don't know what is in the air, if you think thatwhen Mlle. Elise used to give three raps on the ceiling they imaginedthat it was for information on business, you are more ingenuous eventhan _le pere_ Joyeuse.
"That's all right--that's all right, children; go and dress, in anycase."
Then there begins another refrain:
"What frock must I put on, Bonne Maman--the gray?"
"Bonne Maman, there is a string off my hat."
"Bonne Maman, my child, have I no more starched cravats left?"
For ten minutes the charming grandmother is besieged with questions andentreaties. Every one needs her help in some way; it is she who had thekeys of everything, she who gives out the pretty, white, fine gofferedlinen, the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the daintythings which, taken out from drawers and wardrobes, spread over the bed,fill a house with a bright S
unday gaiety.
The workers, the people with tasks to fulfil, alone know that delightwhich returns each week consecrated by the customs of a nation. Forthese prisoners of the week, the almanac with its closed prison-likegratings opens at regular intervals into luminous spaces, withbreaths of refreshing air. It is Sunday, the day that seems so longto fashionable folk, to the Parisians of the boulevard whose habits itdisturbs, so gloomy to people far from their homes and relatives, thatconstitutes for a multitude of human beings the only recompense, the oneaim of the desperate efforts of six days of toil. Neither rain nor hail,nothing makes any difference, nothing will prevent them from goingout, from closing behind them the door of the deserted workshop, of thestuffy little lodging. But when the springtime is come, when the Maysunshine glitters on it as this morning, and it can deck itself out ingay colours, then indeed Sunday is the holiday of holidays.
If one would know it well, it must be seen especially in the workingquarters of the town, in those gloomy streets which it lights up andenlarges by closing the shops, keeping in their sheds the heavy draysand trucks, leaving the space free for wandering bands of childrenwashed and in their Sunday clothes, and for games of battledore andshuttlecock played amid the great circlings of the swallows beneath someporch of old Paris. It must be seen in the densely populated, feverishlytoiling suburbs, where, as soon as morning is come, you may feel ithovering, resposeful and sweet, in the silence of the factories, passingwith the ringing of church-bells and that sharp whistle of the railways,and filling the horizon, all around the outskirts of the city, withan immense song, as it were, of departure and of deliverance. Then oneunderstands it and loves it.
O Sunday of Paris, Sunday of the toilers and the humble, often have Icursed thee without reason, I have poured whole streams of abusive inkover thy noisy and extravagant joys, over the dust of railway stationsfilled by thy uproar and the maddening omnibuses that thou takest byassault, over thy tavern songs bawled everywhere from carts adorned withgreen and pink dresses, on thy barrel-organs grinding out their tunesbeneath the balconies of deserted court-yards; but to-day, abjuring myerrors, I exalt thee, and I bless thee for all the joy and relief thougivest to courageous and honest labour, for the laughter of the childrenwho greet thee with acclamation, the pride of mothers happy to dresstheir little ones in their best clothes in thy honour, for the dignitythou dost preserve in the homes of the poorest, the glorious raiment setaside for thee at the bottom of the old shaky chest of drawers; I blessthee especially by reason of all the happiness thou hast brought thatmorning to the great new house in the old faubourg.
Toilettes having been completed, the _dejeuner_ finished, taken onthe thumb, as they say--and you can imagine what quantity these youngladies' thumbs would carry--they came to put on their hats before themirror in the drawing-room. Bonne Maman threw around her supervisingglance, inserted a pin here, retied a ribbon there, straightened herfather's cravat; but while all this little world was stamping withimpatience, beckoned out of doors by the beauty of the day, there came aring at the bell, echoing through the apartment and disturbing their gayproceedings.
"Suppose we don't open the door?" propose the children.
And what a relief, with a cry of delight, they see their friend Paulcome in!
"Quick! quick! Come and let us tell you the good news."
He knew well, before any of them, that the play had been accepted. Hehad had a good deal of trouble to get it read by Cardailhac, who, themoment he saw its "short lines," as he called verse, wished to send themanuscript to the Levantine and her _masseur_, as he was wont to do inthe case of all beginners in the writing of drama. But Paul was carefulnot to refer to his own intervention. As for the other event, the one ofwhich nothing was said, on account of the children, he guessed it easilyby the trembling greeting of Maranne, whose fair mane was standingstraight up over his forehead by reason of the poet's two hands havingbeen pushed through it so many times, a thing he always did in hismoments of joy, by the slightly embarrassed demeanour of Elise, by thetriumphant airs of M. Joyeuse, who was standing very erect in his newsummer clothes, with all the happiness of his children written on hisface.
Bonne Maman alone preserved her usual peaceful air; but one noticed,in the eager alacrity with which she forestalled her sister's wants, acertain attention still more tender than before, an anxiety to make herlook pretty. And it was delicious to watch the girl of twenty as shebusied herself about the adornment of others, without envy, withoutregret, with something of the gentle renunciation of a mother welcomingthe young love of her daughter in memory of a happiness gone by. Paulsaw this; he was the only one who did see it; but while admiring Aline,he asked himself sadly if in that maternal heart there would ever beplace for other affections, for preoccupations outside the tranquil andbright circle wherein Bonne Maman presided so prettily over the eveningwork.
Love is, as one knows, a poor blind creature, deprived of hearingand speech, and only led by presentiments, divinations, the nervousfaculties of a sick man. It is pitiable indeed to see him wandering,feeling his way, constantly making false steps, passing his hands overthe supports by which he guides himself with the distrustful awkwardnessof the infirm. At the very moment when Paul was doubting Aline'ssensibility, in announcing to his friends that he was about to start ona journey which would occupy several days, perhaps several weeks, didnot remark the girl's sudden paleness, did not hear the distressed crythat escaped her lips:
"You are going away?"
He was going away, going to Tunis, very much troubled at leaving hispoor Nabob in the midst of the pack of furious wolves that surroundedhim. Mora's protection, however, gave him some reassurance; and then,the journey in question was absolutely necessary.
"And the Territorial?" asked the old accountant, ever returning to thesubject in his mind. "How are things standing there? I see Jansoulet'sname still at the head of the board. You cannot get him out, then, fromthat Ali-Baba's cave? Take care--take care!"
"Ah, I know all about that, M. Joyeuse. But, to leave it with honour,money is needed, much money, a fresh sacrifice of two or three millions,and we have not got them. That is exactly the reason why I am going toTunis to try to wrest from the rapacity of the Bey a slice of that greatfortune which he is retaining in his possession so unjustly. At presentI have still some chance of succeeding, while later on, perhaps--"
"Go, then, and make haste, my dear lad, and if you return, as I wish youmay, with a heavy bag, see that you deal first of all with the Paganettigang. Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest has thepower to smash the whole thing up, to demand an inquiry; and you knowwhat the inquiry would reveal. Now I come to think of it," added M.Joyeuse, whose brow had contracted a frown, "I am even surprised thatHemerlingue, in his hatred for you, has not secretly brought up a fewshares."
He was interrupted by the chorus of imprecations which the name ofHemerlingue raised from all the young people, who detested the fatbanker for the injury he had done their father, and for the ill-will hebore that good Nabob, who was adored in the house through Paul de Gery.
"Hemerlingue, the heartless monster! Wretch! That wicked man!"
But amid all these exclamations, the Visionary was following up hisidea of the fat baron becoming a shareholder in the Territorial for thepurpose of dragging his enemy into the courts. And you may imagine thestupefaction of Andre Maranne, a complete stranger to the whole affair,when he saw M. Joyeuse turn to him, and, with face purple and swollenwith rage, point his finger at him, with these terrible words:
"The greatest rascal, after all, in this affair, is you, sir!"
"Oh, papa, papa! what are you saying?"
"Eh, what? Ah, forgive me, my dear Andre. I was fancying myself in theexamining magistrate's private room, face to face with that rogue. It ismy confounded brain that is always running away with me."
All broke into uproarious laughter, which escaped into the outer airthrough the open windows, and went to mingle with the thousand noises ofmoving veh
icles and people in their Sunday clothes going up the Avenuedes Ternes. The author of _Revolt_ took advantage of the diversion toask whether they were not soon going to start. It was late--the goodplaces would be taken in the Bois.
"To the Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday!" exclaimed Paul de Gery.
"Oh, our Bois is not yours," replied Aline with a smile. "Come with us,and you will see."
Did it ever happen to you, in the course of a solitary and contemplativewalk, to lie down on your face in the undergrowth of a forest, amid thatvegetation which springs up, various and manifold, through the fallenautumn leaves, and allow your eyes to wander along the level of theground before you? Little by little the sense of height is lost, theinterwoven branches of the oaks above your head form an inaccessiblesky, and you behold a new forest extending beneath the other, openingits deep avenues filled by a green and mysterious light, and formedof tiny shrubs or root fibres taking the appearance of the stemsof sugar-canes, of severely graceful palm-trees, of delicate cupscontaining a drop of water, of many-branched candlesticks bearing littleyellow lights which the wind blows on as it passes. And the miraculousthing is, that beneath these light shadows live minute plants andthousand of insects whose existence, observed from so near at hand, isa revelation to you of all the mysteries. An ant, bending like awood-cutter under his burden, drags after it a splinter of bark biggerthan itself; a beetle makes its way along a blade of grass thrown like abridge from one stem to another; while beneath a lofty bracken standingisolated in the middle of a patch of velvety moss, a little blue or redinsect waits, with antennae at attention, for another little insecton its way through some desert path over there to arrive at thetrysting-place beneath the giant tree. It is a small forest beneath agreat one, too near the soil to be noticed by its big neighbours, toohumble, too hidden to be reached by its great orchestra of song andstorm.
A similar revelation awaits in the Bois de Boulogne. Behind those sandeddrives, watered and clean, whereon files of carriage-wheels movingslowly round the lake trace all day long a worn and mechanical furrow,behind that admirably set scene of trimmed green hedges, of captivewater, of flowery rocks, the true Bois, a wild wood with perennialundergrowth, grows and flourishes, forming impenetrable recessestraversed by narrow paths and bubbling springs.
This is the Bois of the children, the Bois of the humble, the littleforest beneath the great one. And Paul, who knew only the long avenuesof the aristocratic Parisian promenades, the sparkling lake perceivedfrom the depths of a carriage or from the top of a coach in a drive backfrom Longchamps, was astonished to see the deliciously sheltered nook towhich his friends had led him. It was on the banks of a pond lying likea mirror under willow-trees, covered with water-lilies, with here andthere large white shimmering spaces where sunbeams fell and lay on thebright surface.
On the sloping bank, sheltered by the boughs of trees where the leaveswere already thick, they sat down to listen to the reading of the play,and the pretty, attentive faces, the skirts lying puffed out over thegrass, made one think of some Decameron, more innocent and chaste, ina peaceful atmosphere. To complete this pleasant country scene, twowindmill-sails seen through an opening in the branches were revolvingover in the direction of Suresnes, while of the dazzling and luxuriousvision to be met at every cross-roads in the Bois there reached themonly a confused and perpetual murmur, which one ended by ceasing tonotice. The poet's voice alone rose in the silence, the verses fell onthe air tremblingly, repeated below the breath by other moved lips, andstifled sounds of approbation greeted them, with shudders at the tragicpassages. Bonne Maman was even seen to wipe away a big tear. That comes,you see, from having no embroidery in one's hand!
His first work! That was what the _Revolt_ was for Andre, that firstwork always too exuberant and ornate, into which the author throws, tobegin with, whole arrears of ideas and opinions, pent up like the watersof a river-lock; that first work which is often the richest if not thebest of its writer's productions. As for the fate that awaited it, noone could predict it; and the uncertainty that hovered over the readingof the drama added to its own emotion that of each auditor, the hopes,all arrayed in white, of Mlle. Elise, the fantastic hallucinations ofM. Joyeuse, and the more positive desires of Aline as she installedin advance the modest fortune of her sister in the nest of an artist'shousehold, beaten by the winds but envied by the crowd.
Ah, if one of those idle people, taking a turn for the hundredth timeround the lake, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habitual promenade,had come and parted the branches, how surprised he would have been atthis picture! But would he ever have suspected how much passion, howmany dreams, what poetry and hope there could be contained in thatlittle green corner, hardly larger than the shadow a fern throws on themoss?
"You were right; I did not know the Bois," said Paul in a low voice toAline, who was leaning on his arm.
They were following a narrow path overarched by the boughs of trees, andas they talked were moving forward at a quick pace, well in advanceof the others. It was not, however, _pere_ Kontzen's terrace nor hisappetizing fried dishes that drew them on. No; the beautiful lineswhich they had just heard had carried them away, lifting them to greatheights, and they had not yet come down to earth again. They walkedstraight on towards the ever-retreating end of the road, which openedout at its extremity into a luminous glory, a mass of sunbeams, as ifall the sunshine of that beautiful day lay waiting for them where it hadfallen on the outskirts of the wood. Never had Paul felt so happy. Thatlight arm that lay on his arm, that child's step by which his own wasguided, these alone would have made life sweet and pleasant to him, noless than this walk over the mossy turf of a green path. He would havetold the girl so, simply, as he felt it, had he not feared to alarm thatconfidence which Aline placed in him, no doubt because of the sentimentswhich she knew he possessed for another woman, and which seemed to holdat a distance from them every thought of love.
Suddenly, right before them, against the bright background, a groupof persons riding on horseback came in sight, at first vague andindistinct, then appearing as a man and a woman, handsomely mounted, andentered the mysterious path among the bars of gold, the leafy shadows,the thousand dots of light with which the ground was strewn, and which,displaced by their progress as they cantered along, rose and coveredthem with flowery patterns from the chests of the horses to the blueveil of the lady rider. They came along slowly, capriciously, and thetwo young people, who had drawn back into the copse, could see passclose by them, with a clinking of bits proudly shaken and white withfoam as though after a furious gallop, two splendid animals carrying apair of human beings brought very near together by the narrowing of thepath; he, supporting with one arm the supple figure moulded in a darkcloth habit; she, with a hand resting on the shoulder of her cavalierand her small head seen in retreating profile beneath the half-droppedtulle of her veil, resting on it tenderly. This embrace, half disturbedby the impatience of the horses, that kiss on which their reins becameconfused, that passion which stalked in broad day through the Bois withso great a contempt for public opinion, would have been enough to betraythe duke and Felicia, if the haughty and charming mein of the lady andthe aristocratic ease of her companion, his pallor slightly tinged withcolour as the result of his ride and of Jenkins's miraculous pearls, hadnot already betrayed them.
It is not an extraordinary thing to meet Mora in the Bois on a Sunday.Like his master, he loved to show himself to the Parisians, to advertisehis popularity with all sections of the public; and then the duchessnever accompanied him on that day, and he could make a halt quite at hisease in that little villa of Saint-James, known to all Paris, whose redtowers, outlined among the trees schoolboys used to point out to eachother in whispers. But only a mad woman, a daring affronter of societylike this Felicia, could have dreamt of advertising herself like this,with the loss of her reputation forever. A sound of hoofs dying away inthe distance, of shrubs brushed in passing; a few plants that had beenpressed down and were straightening themselves again; bran
ches pushedout of the way resuming their places--that was all that remained of theapparition.
"You saw?" said Paul; speaking first.
She had seen, and she had understood, notwithstanding the candour of herinnocence, for a blush spread over her features, one of those feelingsof shame experienced for the faults of those we love.
"Poor Felicia!" she said in a low voice, pitying not only the unhappywoman who had just passed them, but also him whom this defection musthave smitten to the very heart. The truth is that Paul de Gery had feltno surprise at this meeting, which justified previous suspicions and theinstinctive aversion which he had felt for Felicia at their dinner somedays before. But he found it pleasant to be pitied by Aline, to feel thecompassion in that voice becoming more tender, in that arm leaning uponhis. Like children who pretend to be ill for the sake of the pleasureof being fondled by their mother, he allowed his consoler to strive toappease his grief, speaking to him of his brothers, of the Nabob, andof his forthcoming trip to Tunis--a fine country, they said. "You mustwrite to us often, and long letters about the interesting things on thejourney, the place you stay in. For one can see those who are far awaybetter when one imagines the kind of place they are inhabiting."
So talking, they reached the end of the bowered path terminating in animmense open glade through which there moved the tumult of the Bois,carriages and riders on horseback alternating with each other, and thecrowd at that distance seeming to be tramping through a flaky dustwhich blended it into a single confused herd. Paul slackened his pace,emboldened by this last minute of solitude.
"Do you know what I am thinking of?" he said, taking Aline's hand. "I amthinking that it would be a pleasure to be unhappy so as to be comfortedby you. But however precious your pity may be to me, I cannot allowyou to waste your compassion on an imaginary pain. No, my heart is notbroken, but more alive, on the contrary, and stronger. And if I were totell you what miracle it is that has preserved it, what talisman--"
He held out before her eyes a little oval frame in which was seta simple profile, a pencil outline wherein she recognised herself,surprised to see herself so pretty, reflected, as it were, in the magicmirror of Love. Tears came into her eyes without her knowing the reason,an open spring whose stream beat within her chaste breast. He continued:
"This portrait belongs to me. It was drawn for me. And yet, at themoment of starting on this journey I have a scruple. I do not wish tohave it except from yourself. Take it, then, and if you find a worthierfriend, some one who loves you with a love deeper and more loyal thanmine, I am willing that you should give it to him."
She had regained her composure, and looking de Gery full in the facewith a serious tenderness, she said:
"If I listened only to my heart, I should feel no hesitation about myreply: for, if you love me as you say, I am sure that I love you too.But I am not free; I am not alone in the world. Look yonder."
She pointed to her father and her sisters, who were beckoning to them inthe distance and hastening to come up with them.
"Well, and I myself?" answered Paul quickly. "Have I not similar duties,similar responsibilities? We are like two widowed heads of families.Will you not love mine as much as I love yours?"
"True? is it true? You will let me stay with them? I shall be Aline foryou, and Bonne Maman for all our children? Oh! then," exclaimed the dearcreature, beaming with joy, "there is my portrait--I give it to you! Andall my soul with it, too, and forever."