XXII.
PARISIAN DRAMAS.
"Que l'heure est donc breveQu'on passe en aimant!C'est moins qu'un moment,Un peu plus qu'un reve."[7]
In the half-light of the great salon clad in its summer garb, filledwith flowers, the plush furniture swathed in white covers, thechandeliers draped in gauze, the shades lowered and the windows open,Madame Jenkins sits at the piano, picking out the last production of thefashionable musician of the day; a few sonorous chords accompany theexquisite lines, a melancholy _Lied_ in unequal measures, which seems tohave been written for the serious sweetness of her voice and the anxiousstate of her mind.
"Le temps nous enleve,Notre enchantement,"[8]
sighs the poor woman, moved by the sound of her own lament; and whilethe notes fly away through the courtyard of the mansion, tranquil asusual, where the fountain is playing in the midst of a clump ofrhododendrons, the singer interrupts herself, her hands prolonging thechord, her eyes fixed on the music, but her glance far, far away. Thedoctor is absent. The interests of his business and his health havebanished him from Paris for a few days, and, as frequently happens insolitude, the fair Madame Jenkins' thoughts have assumed that seriouscast, that analytical tendency which sometimes makes a brief separationfatal to the most united households. United they had not been for a longtime. They met only at table, before the servants, hardly spoke to eachother, unless he, the man of oleaginous manners, chose to indulge insome brutal, uncivil remark concerning her son, her years which werebeginning to tell upon her at last, or a dress which was not becoming toher. Always gentle and serene, she forced back her tears, submitted toeverything, pretended not to understand; not that she loved him still,after so much cruel and contemptuous treatment, but it was the oldstory, as Joe the coachman said, of "an old incubus who wants to bemarried." Heretofore a terrible obstacle, the life of the legitimatespouse, had prolonged a shameful situation. Now that the obstacle nolonger existed, she wanted to put an end to the comedy, because ofAndre, who might any day be forced to despise his mother, because of theworld which they had been deceiving for ten years, so that she neverwent into society without a sinking at the heart, dreading the welcomethat would be accorded her on the morrow of a disclosure. To her hints,her entreaties, Jenkins had replied at first with vague phrases, withgrandiloquent gestures: "Do you doubt me? Isn't our engagement sacred?"
FOOTNOTES:
[7] "How swift flies the hour We pass in love's pleasures! 'Tis less than a moment, Scarce more than a dream."
[8] "Time tears from our grasp Our blissful enchantment."
He also dwelt upon the difficulty of keeping secret a ceremony of suchimportance. Then he had taken refuge in malevolent silence, big withchilling anger and violent resolutions. The duke's death, the checkthereby administered to his insane vanity, had dealt the last blow; fordisaster, which often brings together hearts that are ripe for a mutualunderstanding, consummates and completes disunion. And that was agenuine disaster. The popularity of the Jenkins Pearls suddenlyarrested, the very thorough exposure of the position of the foreignphysician, the charlatan, by old Bouchereau in the journal of theAcademy, caused the leaders of society to gaze at one another in alarm,even paler from terror than from the absorption of arsenic into theirsystems, and the Irishman had already felt the effect of thosebewilderingly sudden changes of the wind which make Parisianinfatuations so dangerous.
It was for that reason, doubtless, that Jenkins had deemed it advisableto disappear for some time, leaving Madame to continue to frequent thesalons that were still open, in order to feel the pulse of publicopinion and hold it in awe. It was a cruel task for the poor woman, whofound everywhere something of the same cold, distant reception she hadmet with at Hemerlingue's. But she did not complain, hoping in this wayto earn her marriage, to knit between him and herself, as a last resort,the painful bond of pity, of trials undergone in common. And as she knewthat she was always in demand in society because of her talent, becauseof the artistic entertainment she furnished at select parties, beingalways ready to lay her long gloves and her fan on the piano, as aprelude to some portion of her rich repertory, she labored constantly,passed her afternoons turning over new music, selecting by preferencemelancholy and complicated pieces, the modern music which is no longercontent to be an art but is becoming a science, and is much betteradapted to the demands of our nervous fancies, our anxieties, than tothe demands of sentiment.
"C'est moins qu'un moment, Un pen plus qu'un reve. Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement."
A flood of bright light suddenly burst into the salon with the maid, whobrought her mistress a card: "Heurteux, _homme d'affaires_."
The gentleman was waiting. He insisted on seeing Madame.
"Did you tell him that the doctor was away from home?"
She had told him; but it was Madame with whom he wished to speak.
"With me?"
With a feeling of uneasiness she scrutinized that coarse, rough card,that unfamiliar, harsh name: "Heurteux." Who could he be?
"Very well; show him in."
Heurteux, _homme d'affaires_, coming from the bright sunlight into thesemi-darkness of the salon, blinked uncertainly, tried to distinguishhis surroundings. She, on the contrary, distinguished very clearly astiff, wooden figure, grizzly whiskers, a protruding under-jaw, one ofthose brigands of the Law whom we meet in the outskirts of the Palais deJustice, and who seem to have been born fifty years old, with a bitterexpression about the mouth, an envious manner, and morocco satchelsunder their arms. He sat down on the edge of the chair to which shewaved him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had left theroom, then opened his satchel with great deliberation, as if to look fora paper. Finding that he did not speak, she began in an impatient tone:
"I must inform you, Monsieur, that my husband is away and that I am notfamiliar with any of his business matters."
Unmoved, with his hand still fumbling among his documents, the manreplied:
"I am quite well aware that Monsieur Jenkins is away, Madame--" he laidparticular stress on the words "Monsieur Jenkins,"--"especially as Icome from him."
She stared at him in terror.
"From him?"
"Alas! yes, Madame. The doctor--as you are doubtless aware--is in a veryembarrassed position for the moment. Unfortunate operations on theBourse, the downfall of a great financial institution in which he hadfunds invested, the heavy burden of the Work of Bethlehem now resting onhim alone, all these disasters combined have compelled him to form anheroic resolution. He is selling his house, his horses, everything thathe owns, and has given me a power of attorney to that end."
He had found at last what he was looking for, one of those stampedpapers, riddled with memoranda and words erased and interlined, intowhich the unfeeling law sometimes crowds so much cowardice andfalsehood. Madame Jenkins was on the point of saying: "But I was here. Iwould have done whatever he wished, carried out all his orders," whenshe suddenly realized, from the visitor's lack of constraint, hisself-assured, almost insolent manner, that she too was involved in thatgeneral overturn, in that throwing overboard of the expensive house anduseless chattels, and that her departure would be the signal for thesale.
She rose abruptly. The man, still seated, continued:
"What I still have to say, Madame,"--Oh! she knew, she could havedictated what he still had to say--"is so painful, so delicate--MonsieurJenkins is leaving Paris for a long time, and, fearing to expose you tothe perils and hazards of the new life upon which he is entering, totake you away from a son of whom you are very fond, and in whoseinterest it will be better perhaps--"
She no longer heard or saw him, but, given over to despair, to madnessperhaps, while he lost himself in involved sentences, she listened to avoice within persistently singing the air which haunted her in thatterrible crash, as the drowning man's eyes retain the image of the lastobject upon which they rested.
"Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement."
Suddenly her pride
returned to her.
"Let us put an end to this, Monsieur. All your circumlocution and yourfine words are simply an additional insult. The truth is that I am to bedriven out, turned into the street like a servant."
"O Madame! Madame! The situation is painful enough, let us not embitterit by words. In working out his _modus vivendi_, Monsieur Jenkins partsfrom you, but he does it with death in his heart, and the propositions Iam instructed to make to you are a sufficient proof of his feeling foryou. In the first place, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized toallow you to take--"
"Enough," said she.
She rushed to the bell:
"I am going out. My hat, my cloak at once,--something, no matter what. Iam in a hurry."
And while her servant went to bring what she required, she added:
"Everything here belongs to Monsieur Jenkins. Let him dispose of it ashe will. I will take nothing from him--do not insist--it is useless."
The man did not insist. His errand being performed, the rest was oflittle consequence to him.
Coolly, without excitement, she carefully adjusted her hat in front ofthe mirror, the servant attaching the veil and arranging the folds ofthe cape over her shoulders; then she looked around for a moment to seeif she had forgotten anything that was of value to her. No, nothing; herson's letters were in her pocket; she never parted from them.
"Does Madame wish the carriage?"
"No."
And she left the house.
It was about five o'clock. At that moment Bernard Jansoulet was passingthrough the iron gateway of the Corps Legislatif, his mother on his arm;but, painful as was the drama that was being enacted there, this one farsurpassed it in that respect, being more sudden, more unforeseen, devoidof the slightest solemnity, one of the private domestic dramas whichParis improvises every hour in the day; and it may be that that gives tothe air we breathe in Paris that vibrating, quivering quality whichexcites the nerves. The weather was superb. The streets in those wealthyquarters, as broad and straight as avenues, shone resplendent in thelight, which was already beginning to fade, enlivened by open windows,by flower-laden balconies, by glimpses of verdure toward the boulevards,light and tremulous between the harsh, rigid lines of stone. MadameJenkins' hurried steps were bent in that direction, as she hastenedalong at random in a pitiable state of bewilderment. What a horribledownfall! Five minutes ago, rich, encompassed by all the respect andcomforts of a luxurious existence. Now, nothing! Not even a roof toshelter her, not even a name! The street.
Where was she to go? What would become of her?
At first she had thought of her son. But to confess her sin, to blushbefore the child who respected her, to weep before him while deprivingherself of the right to be consoled, was beyond her strength. No, therewas nothing left for her but death. To die as soon as possible, to avoidshame by disappearing utterly, the inevitable end of situations fromwhich there is no escape. But where to die? And how? There were so manyways of turning one's back on life! And as she walked along she reviewedthem all in her mind. All around her was overflowing life, the charmthat Paris lacks in winter, the open-air display of its splendor, itsrefined elegance, visible at that hour of the day and that season of theyear around the Madeleine and its flower-market, in a space marked offby the fragrance of the roses and carnations. On the broad sidewalk,where gorgeous toilets were displayed, blending their rustling with thecool quivering of the leaves, there was something of the pleasure of ameeting in a salon, an air of acquaintance among the promenaders, smilesand quiet greetings as they passed. And suddenly Madame Jenkins, anxiousconcerning the distress depicted on her features, and concerning whatpeople might think to see her hurrying along with that heedless,preoccupied manner, slackened her pace to the saunter of a simplepromenader, and stopped to look at the shop windows. The bright-colored,gauzy window displays all spoke of travelling, of the country: lighttrains for the fine gravel of the park, hats wrapped about with gauze asa protection against the sun at the seashore, fans, umbrellas, purses.Her eyes gazed at all those gewgaws without seeing them; but anindistinct, pale reflection in the clear glass showed her her own bodylying motionless on a bed in a furnished lodging, the leaden sleep of anarcotic in her head, or outside the walls yonder, displacing the mudbeneath some boat. Which was the better?
She hesitated, comparing the two; then, having formed her decision,walked rapidly away with the resolute stride of the woman who tearsherself regretfully from the artful temptations of the shop-window. Asshe hurried along, the Marquis de Monpavon, vivacious and superb, with aflower in his buttonhole, saluted her at a distance with the grandflourish of the hat so dear to the vanity of woman, the acme of elegancein the way of street salutations, the hat raised high in air above arigid head. She answered with the polite greeting of the true Parisian,hardly expressed by an imperceptible movement of the figure and a smilein the eyes; and, seeing that exchange of worldly courtesies amid thespringtime merrymaking, no one would have suspected that the samesinister thought guided the footsteps of those two, who met by chance onthe road they were both following, in opposite directions, but aimingfor the same goal.
The prediction of Mora's valet with regard to the marquis was fulfilled:"We may die or lose our power, then you will be called to account and itwill be a terrible time." It was a terrible time. With the utmostdifficulty the ex-receiver-general had obtained an extension of afortnight in which to reimburse the Treasury, clinging to one lastchance, that Jansoulet's election would be confirmed, and that, havingrecovered his millions, he would come once more to his assistance. Thedecision of the Chamber had deprived him of that supreme hope. As soonas he heard of it, he returned very calmly to the club and went up tohis room where Francis was impatiently waiting to hand him an importantpaper that had arrived during the day. It was a notice to SieurLouis-Marie-Agenor de Monpavon to appear the next day at the office ofthe examining magistrate. Was that addressed to the director of the_Caisse Territoriale_ or to the defaulting ex-receiver-general? In anyevent, the employment at the outset of the brutal method of formalsummons, instead of a quiet notification, was sufficiently indicative ofthe seriousness of the affair and the firm determination of theauthorities.
In the face of such an extremity, which he had long foreseen andexpected, the old beau's course was determined in advance. A Monpavon inthe police-court, a Monpavon librarian at Mazas! Never! He put all hisaffairs in order, destroyed papers, carefully emptied his pockets, inwhich he placed only a few ingredients taken from his toilet-table, andall in such a perfectly calm and natural way that when he said toFrancis as he left the room: "Going to take a bath. Beastly Chamber.Poisonous dirt," the servant believed what he said. Indeed, the marquisdid not lie. After standing through that long and exciting sitting ofthe Chamber in the dust of the gallery, his legs ached as if he had spenttwo nights in a railway carriage; and as his resolve to die blended withhis longing for a good bath, it occurred to the old sybarite to go tosleep in a bath-tub like What's-his-name--Thingamy--ps--ps--ps--andother famous characters of antiquity. It is doing him no more thanjustice to say that not one of those Stoics went forth to meet deathmore tranquilly than he.
Adorned with a white camellia with which, as he passed, the prettyflower-girl at the club decorated the buttonhole above his rosette as anofficer of the Legion of Honor, he was walking lightly up Boulevard desCapucines, when the sight of Madame Jenkins disturbed his serenity for amoment. He noticed a youthful air about her, a flame in her eyes, asomething so alluring that he stopped to look at her. Tall and lovely,her long black gauze dress trailing behind, her shoulders covered by alace mantle over which a garland of autumn leaves fell from her hat, shepassed on, disappeared amid the throng of other women no less stylishthan she, in a perfumed atmosphere; and the thought that his eyes wereabout to close forever on that attractive spectacle, which he enjoyed asa connoisseur, saddened the old beau a little and diminished theelasticity of his walk. But a few steps farther on a meeting of anothersort restored all his courage.
/>
A shabby, shamefaced man, dazzled by the bright light, was crossing theboulevard; it was old Marestang, ex-senator, ex-minister, who was sodeeply compromised in the affair of the _Tourteaux de Malte_, that,notwithstanding his age, his services, and the great scandal of such aprosecution, he had been sentenced to two years' imprisonment andstricken from the rolls of the Legion of Honor, where he was numberedamong the great dignitaries. The affair was already ancient history, andthe poor devil, a portion of his sentence having been remitted, had justcome from prison, dejected, ruined, lacking even the wherewithal to gildhis mental distress, for he had been compelled to disgorge. Standing onthe edge of the sidewalk, he waited, hanging his head, until thereshould be an opportunity to cross the crowded street, sorely embarrassedby that enforced halt on the most frequented corner of the boulevards,caught between the foot-passengers and the stream of open carriagesfilled with familiar faces. Monpavon, passing near him, surprised hisrestless, timid glance, imploring recognition and at the same timeseeking to avoid it. The idea that he might some day be reduced to thatdegree of humiliation caused him to shudder with disgust. "Nonsense! Asif it were possible!" And, drawing himself up, inflating hisbreastplate, he walked on, with a firmer and more determined stride thanbefore.
Monsieur de Monpavon is walking to his death. He goes thither by thelong line of the boulevards, all aflame in the direction of theMadeleine, treading once more the springy asphalt like any loiterer, hisnose in the air, his hands behind his back. He has plenty of time, thereis nothing to hurry him,--the hour for the rendezvous is within hiscontrol. At every step he smiles, wafts a patronizing little greetingwith the ends of his fingers, or performs the great flourish of the hatof a moment ago. Everything charms him, fascinates him, from therumbling of the watering-carts to the rattle of the blinds at the doorsof cafes which overflow to the middle of the sidewalk. The approach ofdeath gives him the acute faculties of a convalescent, sensitive to allthe beauties, all the hidden poesy of a lovely hour in summer in theheart of Parisian life,--of a lovely hour which will be his last, andwhich he would like to prolong until night. That is the reason,doubtless, why he passes the sumptuous establishment where he usuallytakes his bath; nor does he pause at the Chinese Baths. He is too wellknown hereabout. All Paris would know what had happened the sameevening. There would be a lot of ill-bred gossip in clubs and salons,much spiteful comment on his death; and the old fop, the man ofbreeding, wishes to spare himself that shame, to plunge and be swallowedup in the uncertainty and anonymity of suicide, like the soldiers who,on the day after a great battle, are reported neither as living, woundedor dead, but simply as missing. That is why he had been careful to keepnothing upon him that might lead to his identification or furnish anyprecise information for the police reports, and why he seeks thedistant, out-of-the-way quarters of the vast city, where the ghastly butcomforting confusion of the common grave will protect him. Already theaspect of the boulevards has changed greatly. The crowd has becomecompact, more active and engrossed, the houses smaller and covered withbusiness signs. When he has passed Portes Saint-Martin and Saint-Denis,through which the swarming overflow of the faubourgs streams at allhours of the day, the provincial character of the city becomesaccentuated. The old beau no longer sees any one whom he knows and canboast of being a stranger to all.
The shopkeepers, who stare curiously at him, with his display of linen,his fine frock-coat, his erect figure, take him for some famous actorout for a little healthful exercise before the play, on the oldboulevard, the scene of his earliest triumphs. The wind is cooler, thetwilight darkens distant objects, and while the long street is stillflooded with light in those portions through which he has passed, thelight fades at every step. So it is with the past when its rays fallupon him who looks back and regrets. It seems to Monpavon that he isentering the darkness. He shivers a little, but does not lose courage,and walks on with head erect and unfaltering gait.
Monsieur de Monpavon is walking to his death. Now he enters thecomplicated labyrinth of noisy streets where the rumble of theomnibuses blends with the thousand and one industries of the workingquarters, where the hot smoke from the factories is mingled with thefever of a whole population struggling against hunger. The air quivers,the gutters smoke, the buildings tremble as the heavy drays pass andcollide at the corners of the narrow streets. Suddenly the marquisstops; he has found what he wanted. Between a charcoal dealer's darkshop and an undertaker's establishment, where the spruce boards leaningagainst the wall cause him to shudder, is a porte-cochere surmounted bya sign, the word "BATHS" on a dull lantern. He enters and crosses a damplittle garden where a fountain weeps in a basin of artificial rockwork.That is just the dismal retreat he has been seeking. Who will ever dreamof thinking that the Marquis de Monpavon came to that place to cut histhroat? The house is at the end of the garden, a low house with greenshutters, a glass door, and the false villa-like air that they all have.He orders a bath, plenty of towels, walks along the narrow corridor, andwhile the bath is being prepared, listening to the running water behindhim, he smokes his cigar at the window, gazes at the flower-garden withits spindling lilacs, and the high wall that incloses it.
Adjoining it is a great yard, the yard of a fire-engine house with agymnasium, whose poles and swings and horizontal bars, seen indistinctlyover the wall, have the look of gibbets. A bugle rings out in the yard,and that blast carries the marquis back thirty years, reminds him of hiscampaigns in Algeria, the lofty ramparts of Constantine, Mora's arrivalin the regiment, and duels, and select card-parties. Ah! how well lifebegan! What a pity that those infernal cards--Ps--ps--ps--However, it'sworth something to have saved one's breeding.
"Monsieur," said the attendant, "your bath is ready."
* * * * *
At that moment Madame Jenkins, pale and gasping for breath, enteredAndre's studio, drawn thither by an instinct stronger than her will, bythe feeling that she must embrace her child before she died. And yet,when she opened the door--he had given her a duplicate key--it was arelief to her to see that he had not returned, that her excitement,increased by a long walk, an unusual experience in her luxurious life asa woman of wealth, would have time to subside. No one in the room. Buton the table the little note that he always left when he went out, sothat his mother, whose visits, because of Jenkins' tyranny, had becomemore and more infrequent and brief, might know where he was, and eitherwait for him or join him. Those two had not ceased to love each otherdearly, profoundly, despite the cruel circumstances which compelled themto introduce into their relations as mother and son the precautions, theclandestine mystery of a different kind of love.
"I am at my rehearsal," said the little note to-day, "I shall returnabout seven."
That attention from her son, whom she had not been to see for threeweeks, and who persisted in expecting her none the less, brought to themother's eyes a flood of tears which blinded her. One would have saidthat she had entered a new world. It was so light, so peaceful, so high,that little room which caught the last gleam of daylight on its windows,which was all aflame with the last rays of the sun already sinking belowthe horizon, and which seemed, like all attic rooms, carved out of apiece of sky, with its bare walls, decorated only by a large portrait,her own; nothing but her own portrait smiling in the place of honor andanother in a gilt frame on the table. Yes, in very truth, the humblelittle lodging, which was still so light when all Paris was becomingdark, produced a supernatural impression upon her, despite the povertyof its scanty furniture, scattered through two rooms, its common chintzcoverings, and its mantel adorned with two great bunches of hyacinths,the flowers that are drawn through the streets by cartloads in themorning. What a lovely, brave, dignified life she might have led therewith her Andre! And in a moment, with the rapidity of a dream, sheplaced her bed in one corner, her piano in another, saw herself givinglessons, taking charge of the house, to which she brought her share ofenthusiasm and courageous cheerfulness. How could she have failed tounderstand that that shou
ld be the duty, the pride of her widowhood?What blindness, what shameful weakness!
A sad mistake, doubtless, but one for which much extenuation might havebeen found in her easily influenced, affectionate nature, in theadroitness and knavery of her accomplice, who talked constantly ofmarriage, concealing from her the fact that he was not free himself, andwhen at last he was obliged to confess, drawing such a picture of theunrelieved gloom of his life, of his despair, of his love, that the poorcreature, already so seriously involved in the eyes of the world,incapable of one of those heroic efforts which place one above falsesituations, had yielded at last, had accepted that twofold existence, atonce so brilliant and so wretched, resting everything upon a lie thathad lasted ten years. Ten years of intoxicating triumphs andindescribable anxiety, ten years during which she had never sung withoutthe fear of being betrayed between two measures, during which theslightest remark concerning irregular establishments wounded her like anallusion to her own case, during which the expression of her face hadgradually assumed that air of gentle humility, of a culprit demandingpardon. Then the certainty of being abandoned at some time had ruinedeven those borrowed joys, had caused her luxurious surroundings towither and fade; and what agony, what suffering she had silentlyundergone, what never-ending humiliations, down to the last and mosthorrible of all!
While she reviews her life thus sorrowfully in the cool evening air andthe peaceful calm of the deserted house, ringing laughter, an outburstof joyous youthful spirits ascends from the floor below; andremembering Andre's confidences, his last letter, in which he told herthe great news, she tries to distinguish among those unfamiliar,youthful voices that of her daughter Elise, her son's fiancee, whom shedoes not know, whom she will never know. That thought, which completesthe voluntary disherison of the mother, adds to the misery of her lastmoments and fills them with such a flood of remorse and regret that,notwithstanding her determination to be brave, she weeps and weeps.
The night falls gradually. Great streaks of shadow strike the slopingwindows, while the sky, immeasurable in its depth, becomes colorless,seems to recede into the darkness. The roofs mass for the night assoldiers do for an attack. The clocks gravely tell each other the hour,while the swallows circle about in the neighborhood of a hidden nest andthe wind makes its usual incursion among the ruins in the oldlumber-yard. Tonight it blows with a wailing noise like the sea, with ashudder of fog; it blows from the river as if to remind the wretchedwoman that that is where she must go. Oh! how she shivers in her lacemantle at the thought! Why did she come here to revive her taste forlife, which would be impossible after the confession she would be forcedto make? Swift footsteps shake the staircase, the door is thrown open;it is Andre. He is singing, he is happy, and in a great hurry, for he isexpected to dine with the Joyeuses. A glimmer of light, quick, so thatthe lover may beautify himself. But, as he scratches the match, hedivines the presence of some one in the studio, a shadow moving amongthe motionless shadows.
"Who's there?"
Something answers, something like a stifled laugh or a sob. He thinks itis his young neighbors, a scheme of the "children" to amuse themselves.He draws near. Two hands, two arms seize him, are wound about him.
"It is I."
And in a feverish voice, which talks hurriedly in self-defence, shetells him that she is about to start on a long journey, and that beforestarting--
"A journey. Where are you going, pray?"
"Oh! I don't know. We are going ever so far away,--to his own country onsome business of his."
"What! you won't be here for my play? It's to be given in three days.And then, right after it, my wedding. Nonsense! he can't prevent yourbeing present at my wedding."
She excuses herself, invents reasons, but her burning hands, which herson holds in his, her unnatural voice, convince Andre that she is nottelling the truth. He attempts to light the candles, but she preventshim.
"No, no, we don't need a light. It is better this way. Besides, I haveso many preparations still to make; I must go."
They are both standing, ready for the parting; but Andre will not lether go until he has made her confess what the matter is, what tragicanxiety causes the wrinkles on that lovely face, in which the eyes--isit an effect of the twilight?--gleam with fierce brilliancy.
"Nothing--no, nothing, I promise you. Only the thought that I cannotshare in your joys, your triumphs. But you know that I love you, you donot doubt your mother, do you? I have never passed a day withoutthinking of you. Do you do as much; keep a place in your heart for me.And now kiss me, and let me go at once. I have delayed too long."
A moment more and she will not have strength to do what she still has todo. She rushes toward the door.
"I say no, you shall not go. I have a feeling that some extraordinarything is taking place in your life that you don't wish to tell me. Youare in great sorrow, I am sure of it. That man has done some shamefulthing to you."
"No, no; let me go, let me go."
But on the contrary, he holds her, holds her fast.
"Come, what is the matter? Tell me, tell me--"
Then, under his breath, in a low, loving voice, like a kiss:
"He has left you, has he not?"
The unhappy creature shudders, struggles.
"Don't ask me any questions. I will not tell you anything. Adieu!"
And he rejoins, straining her to his heart:
"What can you tell me that I do not know already, my poor mother? Didn'tyou understand why I left his house six months ago?"
"You know?"
"Everything. And this that has happened to you to-day I have longforeseen and hoped for."
"Oh! wretched, wretched woman that I am, why did I come?"
"Because this is your proper place, because you owe me ten years of mymother. You see that I must keep you."
He says this kneeling in front of the couch upon which she has thrownherself in a flood of tears and with the last plaintive outcries of herwounded pride. For a long while she weeps thus, her son at her feet. Andlo! the Joyeuses, anxious at Andre's non-appearance, come up in a bodyin search of him. There is a veritable invasion of innocent faces,waving curls, modest costumes, rippling gayety, and over the whole groupshines the great lamp, the good old lamp with the huge shade, which M.Joyeuse solemnly holds aloft as high and as straight as he can, in theattitude of a _canephora_. They halt abruptly, dumbfounded, at sight ofthat pale, sad woman who gazes, deeply moved, at all those smiling,charming creatures, especially at Elise, who stands a little behind theothers, and whose embarrassment in making that indiscreet visit stampsher as the _fiancee_.
"Elise, kiss our mother and thank her. She has come to live with herchildren."
Behold her entwined in all those caressing arms, pressed to four littlewomanly hearts which have long lacked a mother's support, behold hermade welcome with sweet cordiality in the circle of light cast by thefamily lamp, broadened a little so that she can find room there, can dryher eyes, obtain warmth and light for her heart at that sturdy flamewhich rises without a flicker, even in that little artist's studio underthe roof, where the storm howled so fiercely just now, the terriblestorm that must be at once forgotten.
The man who is breathing his last yonder, lying in a heap in the bloodybath-tub, has never known that sacred flame. Selfish and hard-hearted,he lived to the last for show, puffing out his superficial breastplatewith a blast of vanity. And that vanity was the best that there was inhim. It was that which kept him on his feet and jaunty and swaggering solong, that which clenched his teeth on the hiccoughs of his death agony.In the damp garden the fountain drips sadly. The firemen's bugle soundsthe curfew. "Just go up to number 7," says the mistress of theestablishment, "he's a long while over his bath." The attendant goes upand utters a shriek of horror: "O Madame, he 's dead--but it isn't thesame man." They run to the spot, and no one, in truth, can recognize thefine gentleman who entered just now in this lifeless doll, with its headhanging over the side of the bath-tub, the rouge mingling with the blood
that moistens it, and every limb relaxed in utter weariness of the partplayed to the very end, until it killed the actor. Two slashes of therazor across the magnificent, unwrinkled breastplate, and all hisfactitious majesty has burst like a bubble, has resolved itself intothis nameless horror, this mass of mud and blood and ghastly, streakedflesh, wherein lies unrecognizable the model of good-breeding, MarquisLouis-Marie-Agenor de Monpavon.