IN THE LAND OF BOHEMIA.
Hilda looked nervously to the right and to the left, like some wild
creature brought to bay, seeking some outlet whereby she could escape.
Those keen black eyes scrutinising her from under shaggy gray eyebrows,
that cadaverous countenance with its lantern jaws, seemed to her as
the face of a grinning fiend. This man, whom she had never seen in her
life before, had but to hear her name mentioned, and at once knew all
about her. This Paris, which she had thought of as a wilderness where
she and her sorrow might hide, was a kind of trap into which she had
fallen. Above all things she had wished to avoid any encounter with
her brother, whose affection or whose idea of brotherly duty might
interfere with her scheme of self-sacrifice.
Sigismond Trottier contemplated her curiously with his cynical smile,
amused at her embarrassment, reading whole histories in her changing
colour, her look of absolute terror. Something wrong here, he told
himself. A pretty girl, fallen among this band of Bohemians in Paris,
without the knowledge of her kindred. One of those social mysteries
which Sigismond had such a happy knack at unravelling.
"Edward Heathcote is my brother," faltered Hilda, at last, "but he does
not know that I am in Paris. I do not wish him to know."
"Consider me dumb for ever upon the subject of your residence here,
Mademoiselle," said Sigismond, with a respectful bow. "A lady's wish is
a command."
He shook hands with his old friend the painter. They had been chums
for the last twenty years; and it was to his delight in Sigismond
Trottier's society, among other causes, that M. Tillet owed his
decadence as an artist. It was not that he had loved art less, but
he had loved the Boulevard more. He had given up his nights to wit
and pleasure; and he had found his working days curiously shortened
in consequence. He had been renowned as one of the finest talkers,
upon art, famed for his burning eloquence when he praised the great
painters of the past, and for his scathing wit when he ridiculed the
little painters of the present; for he had even thus early fallen to
that stage in the idler's career, when a man's chief consolation is
to undervalue contemporaneous merit. He had lived and enjoyed his
life in those days, had spent his money faster than he earned it, and
had fallen into the ranks of failure, to be supported by the toil of
his wife and her children, to be the family log, the family disease.
They were all very patient, those children of his. They worked for
him and admired him, believed in him almost. They admired the great
genius he might have been if he had only worked. They valued him for
potentialities of greatness of which he talked sometimes, in his dreamy
way; as if those idle aspirings had been actual achievements.
The shabby old _salon_, with its dark-red paper, stained and faded with
age, was glorified by some of M. Tillet's pictures, painted before his
slothful hand had begun to lose its cunning. There hung the portrait
of a beautiful duchess, exquisitely painted--a lovely head, an ideal
neck and shoulders, in white satin and brown fur, like an old Venetian
picture. The head had been successful, but shoulders, arms, and
draperies were still unfinished. The picture had been a commission, an
offering from the Duchess to her distinguished father, a Minister of
State, on his fête. But the fête had come and gone, and the portrait
was not ready. Time had been conceded, and more time, and still the
draperies remained unfinished, and still the picture was not fit to
leave the painter's studio. Finally the commission had been cancelled.
Some lesser genius had painted the Duchess, briskly, punctually,
readily, out of hand. These meaner souls can go in harness. And the
meaner soul received the seven thousand francs which were to have been
paid to M. Tillet, and the painter had his unfinished picture, as a
kind of pendant to his incomplete life. Happily, those trustful sons
and daughters of his were very proud of that unfinished portrait, and
of the four or five sketches for _genre_ pictures, never painted, which
adorned the family _salon_. There was not another man in France who
could paint like their father, they said, or who had such talent in
composition. Meissonier would have been nowhere in the race if Eugène
Tillet had but stuck to his easel.
Trottier and Tillet began to talk, and the sons went on with their
work in a free-and-easy manner, while Madame and the daughters waited
upon their guests. Poor Hilda had been so unnerved by this unexpected
encounter with a friend of her brother's that she could only falter
the feeblest replies to Marcelline and Mathilde, who tried to make
themselves at home with her.
Marcelline, who was rather strong-minded, lost patience at last, and
asked Mdlle. Duprez, in an undertone, as she handed a plate of _petits
fours_, if her young friend was not just a trifle stupid.
"She is as clever as you and your sister, and that is saying a good
deal," replied Louise Duprez, in the same undertone; "but she has just
suffered a great heart-blow, and that kind of thing is not calculated
to make one particularly lively."
This was enough for Marcelline, who was very tender-hearted. She went
back to her seat next Hilda, and took her hand at the first opportunity.
"I hope we are going to be great friends," she murmured, "although you
and Mathilde will have more in common. I long to hear you sing. Mdlle.
Duprez says you have such a lovely voice. But perhaps you are too tired
to sing to-night."
"If you will excuse me," faltered Hilda.
"Of course, we will excuse you. You must be very tired, after
travelling all night. And you were dreadfully sea-sick, no doubt?"
"No, I escaped that suffering. I am never sea-sick."
"Good heavens, is that possible? If I go but a little way on the sea,
the least little way, I suffer tortures, veritable agonies. And you
others, you English, do not seem to suffer at all. You are a kind of
sea-dogs, to whom waves and tempest are a natural element."
"I was brought up near the coast," answered Hilda. "I have been out in
all weathers."
And then she thought of that wild, rock-bound coast on which she and
Bothwell were to have lived, they two, all in all to each other,
ineffably happy amidst simplest surroundings. She thought of the boat
they were to have had--the cockle-shell rowboat in which they were
to have gone dancing over the waves from Tintagel to Boscastle, or by
Trebarwith sands, shining golden in the sunlight--in a bright world
of life and clamour, the bird-world of gulls and cormorants, a winged
populace, rejoicing in sea-foam, and light, and the music of the winds.
She thought of the life that was to have been--the fairy fabric of
the future, which had seemed so beautiful and so real, and which her
ruthless hand had shattered.
Had she done right in so surrendering that fair future? Yes, again
and again yes. The level domestic life which would have been so sweet
to her as a woman would have been stagnation, a slow decay for an
ambitious man. Her simple rustic rearing had prepared her for such a
life. The monotony of a village existence was all-sufficient for her
narrower views, her more concentrated nature. But Bothwell had seen the
world, had lived in the thick of the strife; and it was most unnatural
that he should resign all ambition, and live from day to day, working
for his daily bread, like a labourer in the fields. He was to do this
for her sake, his sole reward her love. It would have been, indeed, a
one-sided bargain.
Hilda heard the light, airy talk around her--the talk about art and
music and theatres, about the great world and its scandals--as in a
dream. It was a world of which she knew nothing; and the conversation
around her seemed as if it had been carried on in a kind of verbal
hieroglyphics. The French she heard to-night was a new language--made
up of catchwords and slang phrases--lines from new plays, words twisted
into new meanings--in a word, the language of the Palais Royal Theatre,
and the _Vie Parisienne_. Hilda listened and wondered, most of all when
Mdlle. Duprez, that most classical and academical of speakers, showed
herself perfectly at home in this little language of Bohemian Paris.
Sigismond Trottier was a favourite in the Tillet household. His visits
were rare, and he never appeared before nine o'clock in the evening. He
came nominally to tea, and the weak infusion of Bohea and the dainty
little dishes of sweet cakes were always set forth at his coming; but
the refreshment he most cared for was absinthe, and a small bottle of
that dangerous liqueur and a carafe of water were always placed on the
little table near the host's armchair, and from this bottle M. Trottier
supplied himself. That greenish hue of his complexion was the livery of
the absinthe-drinker, whose skin gradually assumes the colour of his
favourite stimulant.
Trottier was dear to Eugène Tillet as a link with that brilliant past
which was now but a memory. He liked to hear the journalist talk of
the great men who had failed, and of the little men who had succeeded
in art and literature. Strange that all the great men should have gone
to the dogs, while all the little men had been pushing forward to the
front.
It was like a game at draughts, in which the white men seem to be
winning with a rush, when somehow the black men edge in stealthily here
and there, in front, behind, at odd corners, until those splendid white
fellows are all pushed off the board. To hear Trottier and Tillet talk,
it would seem as if the chief characteristic of true genius was an
irretrievable bent towards the gutter.
The journalist's visits in the Rue du Bac were never long. He had to
leave at half-past ten, in order to write his paragraphs for the next
number of the _Taon_, to be issued early next morning.
Mdlle. Duprez took leave at the same time as M. Trottier, and the
journalist offered to escort the two ladies to their hotel, an
arrangement which the Frenchwoman had foreseen. The street was very
quiet at this hour, and as the pavement was narrow Mdlle. Duprez had an
excuse for asking Hilda to walk a few yards in front, while she herself
talked confidentially with M. Trottier.
"You no doubt think it is very strange that my young friend should be
in Paris without her brother's knowledge," she said tentatively.
"Life is so full of strange events that I have long left off wondering
or speculating about anything," he replied easily. "I have no doubt
Mees Effecotte is a most charming young person."
"Ah, but I want you to know more about her than that. I want you to
understand that she is just as good as she is charming. She is brave,
unselfish, noble, capable of self-sacrifice--and there are a good many
charming girls who are none of these things. There is nothing underhand
in her presence in this city without her brother's knowledge. I, Louise
Duprez, give you my word for that, and ask you as a favour to respect
her secret."
"I have already pledged myself to do that, _chère demoiselle_. Indeed,
I am not likely to see much more of Mr. Effecotte. He wanted my help
in a matter in which I was at first willing to aid him, but in which I
afterwards saw peril to a man whom I had known and liked in the past."
"I wished you to know that Mr. Heathcote's sister is in no way unworthy
of her brother's love and protection. She is here to break off an
engagement which would in all probability have ended unhappily."
"You need tell me no more. Your young friend is in very good hands.
Mdme. Tillet is one of the best women I know; the true heart of
motherhood beats under that broad chest of hers. She will take good
care of your young friend in this dangerous city of Paris."
They parted at the entrance to the Bon Lafontaine, where Hilda and her
friend had two little bedrooms adjoining each other, and where Hilda
slept a troubled sleep, wearied by the fatigue of her journey, but
haunted by sad thoughts even in the midst of her slumbers.
She transferred herself and her few belongings to the Rue du Bac next
morning, and then went with Mdlle. Duprez to the Bon Marché, where she
bought all she wanted, including two neat little ready-made gowns, one
of gray alpaca, and the other of black cashmere, and a black velvet
toque which gave her the true Parisian air.
"It was very wise of you to bring so little luggage. English gowns
would have stamped you at once as an Englishwoman, and would have made
people stare at you. In those neat little frocks you may pass anywhere
unobserved," said Mademoiselle approvingly.
"Except for your fair young face, which is brighter than the typical
face of the Boulevard," thought Louise Duprez, who did not care to
praise her _protégée_ too much.
She only stayed to see Hilda fairly installed in her new home, and
left Paris by an afternoon train which would take her to Havre in time
for the evening boat. She would be at Southampton next morning, and at
Plymouth in the afternoon. Hilda went to the railway-station with her
friend, full of gratitude for her kindness, kissing her with warmest
thanks at parting.
"Heaven knows whether I have done right or wrong, child, in helping
you," said the Quixotic little woman, with a doubtful sigh. "I have
allowed myself to be guided by the instinct of my heart, and a woman's
heart is not always a wise counsellor. If that young man of yours does
not care for his wealthy widow, a nice mess I have helped you to make
of two lives."
"But he does care for her. He loved her devotedly for three years. A
man cannot change all at once," argued Hilda; "and she is so elegant,
so aristocratic--fascinating, no doubt, when she chooses. Bothwell
could not help loving her."
"Then he ought not to have pretended to love you," retorted Louise
Duprez severely.
"That was my fault," said Hilda, with a sigh.
The signal for departure sounded, and the friends said good-bye.
Mathilde had accompanied Hilda to the station, and had waited
discreetly at a little distance during those last confidences. The two
girls walked home to the Rue du Bac together, Hilda fearing lest she
should run against her brother at any moment.
And now Hilda's new life began in earnest, a life in a strange
household, amidst new surroundings. She was to try and find consolation
in hard work, in her love of music--to create for herself new
interests, if it were possible, while every moment of her life was
haunted by thoughts of the lover she had deserted, and the home that
was to have been hers.
She took her first lesson at the Conservatoire on the following Monday
morning, and the professor who taught her was very encouraging about
her voice and talent. He told her she possessed an organ worthy of the
highest cultivation, capable of the grandest development. He put aside
the little German song which she had taken with her, and gave her a
solo of Glück's.
"You were taught by Mdlle. Duprez, I understand," he said. "An
admirable woman, quite an admirable manner--one of Garcia's best
pupils, and one of the few women capable of profiting to the uttermost
by Garcia's teaching. You have been taught in the best school,
Mademoiselle, and you have nothing to unlearn. That is saying a great
deal. On the other hand, I need not tell you that you have a great deal
to learn."
"I am sure of that, sir. I have come to Paris on purpose to profit by
your instructions."
"With a view to appearing in opera?"
"O, no," exclaimed Hilda, blushing; "I have no such lofty ambition. I
only want to sing a little better than I do--to amuse my brother."
"That is a very limited horizon."
"And for my own pleasure in good music."
"I see. Art for art's sake. There are very few nowadays who care to
work for art in the abstract. I shall be very proud of such a pupil."
Hilda's fresh young face--fresh in its youthfulness, despite the
settled sadness in the eyes--her blushes and simplicity, had fascinated
the gray-headed singing-master. Louise Duprez had hinted at Hilda's
story--a broken engagement, a girl's first sorrow. He had been told
that his new pupil was an English girl of good family, brought up in
a remote province, inexperienced, pure-minded; and he who had for the
last forty years been steeped in the vanity, vices, and falsehoods of
the great garish city felt his heart drawn towards this gentle girl,
with her faint perfume of well-bred rusticity.
"You have a very fine voice, my dear child, and it is a great pity you
are not obliged to earn your own living," he said, smiling at her, as
he rose from the piano. "I shall expect you to sing me that scena in
first-rate style next Wednesday."