After Berthier had seen Gabrielle safely locked up in one of the
towers that formed the extremities of his house, at Foulon’s advice
he had visited the Isle des Hirondelles.
Madame Berthier had returned from the church, and was in her own
chamber, at the farther end of the house.
This unhappy woman was Foulon’s daughter; towards her he had never
shown the least paternal love. Possibly it was not in his nature to
exhibit love. She had never been beautiful, having inherited her
father’s hatchet-face; in addition to her plainness was her colour;
her complexion was of an ashen blue-grey, the result of having taken
much nitrate of silver medicinally. Her plainness and her complexion
being neither of them attractive, Berthier made no pretence of loving
her, and Foulon did not exact it of him. Berthier, the Intendant, or
Sheriff of Paris, a man of humble extraction, being descended from a
race of provincial attorneys, had worked his way into prominence and
power by his shrewdness and unscrupulousness. He had married Foulon’s
daughter for the sake of some money she inherited from her mother,
but chiefly in hopes of one day possessing his father-in-law’s large
fortune.
Foulon had begun his career as an intendant of the army, and had
amassed immense wealth by victualling badly and charging high. The
soldiers fasted or fed on garbage, that Foulon might fatten. He was
both a contractor for the army, and one of the commission appointed
to watch and check the contractors.
Madame Berthier was naturally a woman of a warm and affectionate
disposition; but meeting with no response from her husband or her
father, and, through repeated humiliations to which she was subjected
by her profligate husband, all that warmth had accumulated into
a fire which burned in her bosom, consuming her, disturbing her
intellect, and wrecking her constitution.
She was a tall thin woman, dressed wholly in black. Her hair was
grey, a silvery grey, contrasting painfully with the blue-grey of
her face. Her large hazel eyes were clear and bright, but their
brilliance was unnatural, and impressed a stranger with a conviction
that they betokened a mental condition on the borders of insanity.
Her sitting-room was quite square, with a window to the east,
another to the west, and a third to the south. It was painted yellow
throughout; the curtains were of orange damask, and a patch of
yellow rug occupied the centre of the polished floor.
In the midst of this chamber sat Madame Berthier, making cat’s
cradles, her favourite amusement, and one with which she would occupy
herself during long hours of loneliness. By constant practice she
was able to accomplish all the usual changes with the threads very
rapidly, and she was frequently puzzling out new arrangements with an
interest and application completely engrossing.
On her shoulders couched a Persian cat, of great size, with long
hair. It had been white originally, but Madame Berthier had dyed it
saffron; the saffron stains were on her grey hands, as she wrought
with her threads. The appearance of the cat was unpleasant, for being
by nature an Albino, its eyes were pink, and they seemed unnaturally
faint, when contrasted with the vivid colouring of its coat. The
cat sat very composedly on her shoulder, with its round yellow face
against hers, and its paws dangling on her bosom.
‘Be patient, Gabriel,’ said she to the cat, who moved uneasily on her
shoulder, as his quick ear caught the sound of steps in the corridor.
‘We must all acquire patience; it is a heavenly virtue, but it is,
oh! so hard to obtain.’
Berthier tapped at the door, opened it, and introduced himself and
Gabrielle.
The cat rose, balancing itself nicely where it had been reposing,
set up its back and tail, stretched itself, and then re-settled.
‘Well now, madame,’ said Monsieur Berthier; ‘making cradles still, I
see.’
The lady worked vigorously with her threads, and did not look up or
answer her husband.
‘Look this way, Madame Plomb.’
She threw up her head, bit her lower lip, and stamped her foot
impatiently. As her eye lit on Gabrielle it remained fixed, and her
complexion became more deadly.
‘I have brought a new servant to attend on you,’ continued Berthier.
‘Are you listening to me, Madame Plomb?’
Again she stamped, but she would not speak.
‘You will take great care of her, my Angel! and you will pay especial
regard to her morals, mind that, my Beauty! I have promised her
father that she shall be under your charge, and that you shall take
care that she be virtuous and pious.’
Madame Berthier would neither look at him, nor speak to him. He knew
that she struggled daily with herself to maintain composure, and to
restrain her tongue, in his presence, and he amused himself inventing
a thousand means of insulting and irritating her, till he had wrought
her into frenzy.
‘I am sure you will like this new addition to your little staff,’
continued the Intendant, placing his large hands on Gabrielle’s
shoulders, and thrusting her forward.
The girl cowered under his touch, and an expression of horror and
loathing passed across her face. Madame Berthier, whose eyes were
fastened on her, saw this and laughed aloud.
‘What! not a word for your Zoozoo! Cruel madame, not to look at, or
speak to, your own devoted husband.’
No; not a look or a word. The poor wife sought to ignore him. She
began diligently to weave her cat’s cradles, though her eyes still
rested on Gabrielle. Maybe she trembled a little, for the yellow cat
mewed fretfully, and shifted its position slightly, then rubbed its
head against her blue cheek, as if beseeching not to be disturbed.
‘This little mignonne is a gem--a beauty of the first water. You must
be very careful of her; such pretty little faces would bewitch half
mankind. Look, madame! what a ripe luscious tint, what a rich and
glowing complexion, like a peach, is it not? It is flesh--actually
warm, soft, rosy flesh; it is not _lead_.’
Madame Berthier uttered a cry at this coarse insult, and covered her
face with her hands.
‘You should wear gloves, Madame Plomb,’ continued her husband, ‘and
then you might cover your face with some prospect of concealing your
complexion. But what do I see? You have been dyeing your hands with
saffron. Actually trying to gild lead.’
The wretched woman threw down her cat, sprang to her feet and fled
out of the room, down the corridor which extended the length of the
house, from one tower to the other. She was caught almost instantly
in her father’s arms.
‘How now!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘How is this, my little Imogène? In
a pet! one of your little naughty tantrums! Naughty Imogène!’
‘My father!’ cried the unhappy woman, ‘why did you marry me to that
man?’
‘Tut, tut,’ said M. Foulon, disengaging himself from her. ‘You ask me
that so often, that I am obliged to formularize my answers and your
questions into a sort of catechism. How does it begin? Ah! Where were
you married? _Answer_: At S. Sulpice. Who by? _Answer_: By Father
Mafitte. What were you asked? _Answer_: Wilt thou have this man to
thy wedded husband? _Answer_: I will. Now, then, whose doing was it
that you were married to Monsieur Berthier? Why, your own, child!’
‘Father, take me away.’
‘Imogène, what nonsense! May I offer you my arm to conduct you back
to your yellow chamber?’
‘Father,’ she wrung her hands, ‘he insults me.’
‘He has his little jokes about your complexion, eh? Bah! you should
not be such a baby as to mind his playful banter. He is a boy, gay at
heart, and very facetious.’
‘It is not that,’ moaned the wretched woman; ‘he brings young girls
here,--and I his wife have to receive them, and---- Oh, father! take
me away, or I shall go raging mad!’
‘Bah! young men will be young men--not that Berthier is such a youth,
either! You must not exact too much. Look at your face in the glass,
and then say,--can he find much satisfaction therein? Is it not
natural that the butterfly should seek brighter and fairer flowers?’
‘You have no heart.’
‘Imogène, I never pretended to possess those gushing sentiments which
make fools of men and women. I am a man of reason, not sentiment. I
have no passions. You never saw me angry, jealous, loving,--never! I
think, I reason, I calculate, I do not feel and sympathize; I am all
intelligence, not emotion. Bah! Take things coolly. Say to yourself,
What is reasonable? Is it reasonable that Berthier should profess
ardent passion for me, who am plain and blue? No, it is preposterous;
therefore I acquiesce in what is natural.’
‘You take his part against me.’
‘I take the part of common sense, Imogène. I cannot say to Berthier,
be a hypocrite, go against nature. I always accept human nature as I
find it, and I never attempt to force the stream into a channel too
strait for it.’
Madame Berthier stood looking from side to side distractedly. ‘I find
no help anywhere!’ she moaned.
‘Imogène, you have plenty to eat, good wine to drink, first-rate
cookery; you employ an accomplished milliner; your rooms are
handsomely furnished; you can drive out when it pleases you. What
more _can_ you want?’
‘Love,’ answered the poor woman. ‘I am always hungry. I am always in
pain here,’ she pointed to her breast; ‘I want, I want, I want, and I
never get what I desire.’ Then uttering another cry, like that which
had escaped her when her husband insulted her, and running along the
corridor from side to side, like a bird striving to escape, she beat
the walls on this side, then on that, with her hands, uttering at
intervals her piercing wail.
Berthier came into the corridor and joined his father-in-law. ‘There
is nothing more offensive to persons of sentiment than fact,’ said
Foulon, brushing the tobacco from his nose and cheeks. ‘Before fact
down go Religion, Poetry, Ethics, Art. People live in a dream-world,
which they people with phantoms. Show them that all is a delusion,
and they are wretched--they love to be deceived. Bah! I hate
sentiment. It is on sentiment that Religion and Morality are based.
What is sentiment? On my honour, I cannot tell.’
On reaching the end of the corridor, Madame Berthier stood still, and
turning towards her husband and father, she raised her hands, and
cried, as she did in church:
‘Avenge me on my adversaries!’
Then, becoming calmer, she called:
‘Gabriel!’ For the cat was standing at her door, and was mewing. The
strangely-dyed beast, hearing her call, darted past the two men, and
seating itself before her, looked up into her face.
‘My faithful Gabriel!’ she said. Then with a single bound it reached
her shoulder, and placing its fore paws together balanced itself,
whilst she walked slowly up the passage. The appearance of the woman
in the dusk, in her long black gown and shawl, with her frightful
head on one side to give room for the cat to stand comfortably, was
wild and ghostly.
She approached her husband and her father slowly. As she passed them,
she turned her face towards Foulon, and said: ‘I have looked to you
for help,’ she touched him with her stained finger. ‘I have looked to
you for help,’ she touched Berthier on the breast, turning to him;
‘I find none.’ Throwing her hand up and pointing out of the window
towards the evening star, that glittered above the horizon,--‘Queen
of heaven, I have looked to you! And,’ she continued in a low voice,
hoarse with suppressed emotion, ‘if she gives me none, I shall seek
help in myself.’
‘That is sensible, Imogène,’ said Foulon; ‘one should find resources
in one’s self.’
‘Mind,’ she said, sharply; ‘I ask for love. If I do not get it, I
take revenge.’ Then she swept into her room, and shut the door.
Gabrielle was there in her white dress and veil, scarcely less pale
than her garments. The roses in her wreath exhaled a strong odour as
they faded. She stood where she had been placed by Berthier, nearly
in the middle of the room. The evening was rapidly closing in. The
sun had set, but through the west window the light from the horizon
glimmered.
Madame Berthier threw herself into a seat and looked at Gabrielle.
‘Are you a bride?’ she asked, in a harsh voice.
‘No, madame,’ answered the girl, trembling.
‘Ah! no. You were one of those in procession to-day.’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘How came you here?’
‘Madame, I think I fainted at the thunderclap, and I remember no
more, till I was brought through the yard into this house.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Madame, I have been to the Chateau sometimes with my roses.’
‘What roses?’
‘The bunches that I sell.’
‘Then you are the flower-girl, are you, whom I have seen at the gate
sometimes?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Why have you been brought here, do you know?’
Gabrielle burst into tears, threw herself on her knees, and
stretching out her hands towards the lady entreated:--‘Oh madame,
dear, good madame! send me home, pray let me out of this dreadful
house. Madame, I want to go home to my father; pray, good madame, for
the love of Our Lady!’
‘Child,’ said Berthier’s wife, ‘are you not here by free choice?’
‘Oh no, no!’ cried Gabrielle. ‘Only let me go, that I may run home.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘At Les Hirondelles.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Gabrielle André.’
‘Gabrielle?’
‘Yes, madame.’
The strange woman uttered a scream of joy; caught her cat in her
hands, and held it up before the girl.
‘See, see!’ she said; ‘this is Gabriel, my own precious Gabriel!’
She softened towards the poor child at once.
‘Come nearer,’ she said. ‘What have you let fall? Ah! your taper.
They brought that with you, did they?’
‘Madame, I think I had it fast in my hand.’
‘Wait,’ said the lady. She struck a light, and kindled the taper,
which Gabrielle had raised from the floor.
‘Just so,’ continued she; ‘hold the light before you, and remain
kneeling, that I may see your face; but do not kneel to me; see! turn
yonder, towards the western sky, and the dying light, and the evening
star.’
Gabrielle slightly shifted her position, too frightened to do
anything except obey mechanically.
‘You are very pretty,’ said Madame Berthier. ‘How very beautiful you
are! Do you know that?’
‘Madame!’ Gabrielle was too much alarmed to colour.
‘Now, tell me, do you know M. Berthier?’
‘Oh, madame!’ the girl said, with a sob, as her tears began to flow;
‘I dread him most of all. He frightens me. He is wicked; he pursues
me with his eyes. Father had just promised that I should never come
to this house again, because, because----’ she was interrupted by
her tears.
‘Go on, Gabrielle.’
‘Because he ran after me in the forest, and the curé saved me from
him, just as he caught me up.’
‘You do not like Berthier; I saw it in your face.’
‘Oh, madame! how could I?’
The lady laughed a little, chuckling to herself. Presently she
addressed Gabrielle again.
‘Do you know me?’
‘No, madame.’
‘Do you know my name?’
‘You are called Madame Plomb,’ said Gabrielle, hesitatingly.
The woman stamped passionately on the floor, and jerked the yellow
cat off her shoulder.
‘Who told you that? Why do you call me that?’
‘Oh, madame! I am so sorry, but I heard Monsieur Berthier address you
by that name. I meant no offence.’
‘Listen to me, child.’ The lady drew her chair towards Gabrielle.
‘Give me your light.’ She snatched the taper from her trembling hand,
and waved it before her face. ‘Look on me,’ she said; ‘yes, look,
look. Now you know why they call me the Leaden!’ She blew out the
candle, and continued: ‘It is only those who hate me who call me by
that name; only those, remember, whom I hate. Beware how you call me
that again.’
She leaned back, and remained silent for some minutes. Gabrielle’s
tears flowed fast, and she sobbed heavily. She was not only
frightened, but weary and faint, and sick at heart.
‘Shall I protect you?’ asked the lady, at length.
‘Madame! I pray you,’ pleaded Gabrielle, through her tears.
‘Then I will. He shall not touch you. You shall sleep in my little
ante-room.’
‘May I not go home?’
‘Alas! poor child, how can you? The gates and doors are locked. The
walls are high; and if you scaled the walls, the bloodhounds would be
after you. Perhaps you may go home soon, but not now; you cannot now!’
After another pause, she said:
‘Gabrielle, stand up.’
The girl instantly rose.
‘Gabriel, Gabrielle, my cat and you! I love my cat, why not you? Will
you kiss me?’
Passionately she caught the girl to her bosom, and kissed her brow
and lips and cheek. Then laughing, she said:
‘Yes! Gabrielle, you must be here awhile, and you shall hold the
threads, and help to make cat’s cradles.’