The wedding, solemnized in the little church of Sauzen, at
Belle-Isle-en-Mer, was very private. Maurice had for witnesses
his uncle, François Darbois, and the Marquis de Montagnac, with
whom he had become great friends. Doctor Potain and the Duke de
Morlay-La-Branche were witnesses for Genevieve. The Dowager Duchess
and the Princess de Bernecourt were present. The Countess Styvens
had been ill for a month and could not leave Brussels. She sent a
magnificent present of diamonds and pearls to Genevieve, who was
filled with joy. The Duchess gave the young bride a splendid silver
service, and the Princess brought with her some beautiful lace.
Genevieve had attached herself very strongly to the first of these
sweet women, and Maurice had made a conquest of the Princess by
painting her an admirable portrait.
The sight of the Duke made the invalid exuberant with joy. She
constantly forgot her duties as maid of honour to draw near the loved
being.
Doctor Potain watched her closely, and made a thorough examination. He
knew nothing of her love for the Duke, but when the latter questioned
him about her health, he said, "There is only one chance of restoring
her health. She must go back on the stage."
The Duke jumped. "Impossible!" he said.
"Why impossible? Her fiancé is dead."
The Duke spoke to the man of science. "Listen to me, Doctor, I am
passionately in love with this girl who loved me, but only remembers
that at intervals.... I cannot, indeed...."
"Approve of her going on the stage? Urge her yourself, and you will
save her. When she is cured if she loves you, as you believe, she will
leave everything to follow you; but now neurasthenia or madness await
her. She must be roused to work outside herself. Do as I tell you and
you will invite me to your wedding."
The Duke went straight to find François Darbois. Maurice would have
retired. "No," said the Duke to him, "I want you to stay," and he told
them word for word what the Doctor had said.
"Well, what do you think?" François Darbois asked him.
"I think that the most important thing in all the world is to save
her! I will wait...."
François pressed his hand, and there was taken between these two men,
who were so different in every way, a silent pledge that both were
determined to keep at all costs.
From that instant each one strained every nerve to revive in Esperance
her dearest desire.
Several days after this visit, Esperance received a letter from the
Comedie-Française, asking her to come to the office. She turned pink.
Her lovely forehead brightened for the first time in many months. She
handed the letter to her father, who knew what it contained, and had
been watching his child's surprise very closely.
"We must go back to Paris, father, I feel entirely well."
"Good, Mademoiselle, we will obey your orders," he said tenderly.
She kissed her father as she used to do, and began to tease him a
little.
"How nice it is to have such an agreeable papa! You have plenty of
cause to be severe, for I give you endless trouble."
"So you are to make your début at the Comedie-Française?"
"My God!" said the young girl, starting up, "that might cost you your
election!"
François Darbois began to laugh, for his joy returned to him when his
daughter's memory came back to her.
"Leave my election alone. They won't even nominate me, and I shall not
worry."
Mme. Darbois came in and François pretended to disclose the news to
her. She assumed surprise. To hide her emotion, she took her daughter
in a long embrace.
Maurice had taken his young wife to Italy, to show her in its most
harmonious setting the most beautiful aspirations of art towards the
ideal. The Duke de Morlay travelled there with them, adoring Italy as
does every devotee of art. There was not a corner of this rare country
that he did not know.
The sojourn of the young couple in Italy was pure enchantment. Maurice
was constantly surprised by the intellectual strength of his
companion. Like most artists he had an indulgent scorn for what so
many call and think the worldly class. When he originally met the Duke
he had recognized his cultivation, and found that his eclecticism was
exact, profound, and not the superficial veneer he had at first
supposed. He realized that men of the world do not vaunt their
knowledge, though it is often far deeper than that of certain artists
who never go below the depths of but one art: their own.
Almost every day Maurice received a letter or telegram giving him news
of his cousin. The advice of Doctor Potain seemed to be justifying
itself. Every day Esperance began to recover her health and spirits.
She was rehearsing at the Comedie, and her début in _On ne badine
pas avec l'amour_ was announced for the next month.
The travellers had intended to spend another ten days in Italy. But a
letter to Genevieve alarmed them. She read it aloud.
"My darling, I am just now the happiest girl in the world. First
because my dear cousin is seeing so many beautiful things that shine
through her letters and show her so enchanted with life that I feel
the stimulus myself, and long to live to go myself to breathe the
divine air of Italy, and admire the masterpieces there. Tell the Duke
de Morlay that no day passes without my thoughts flying to him. Only
one thing worries me. I can confide it to you, Genevieve, you who are
so perfectly happy. Why does the theatre draw me so that I am willing
to sacrifice for it even those I love? I see the Countess Styvens
every day. She seems a light ready to flicker out. Sometimes she looks
at me as if she saw me far, very far away, and murmurs, 'Poor little
thing, it is not her fault!' Then I shiver. What is not my fault?
Albert's death. Dear Albert, who frightened me so much sometimes, that
I felt my teeth chattering! Do you know how he died? Nobody seems to
know! Genevieve dear, the pearl collar strangles me sometimes. I
promised not to take it off, but I must take it off to play
'_Camille_' in Musset's play. Mustn't I? She cannot wear pearls
at the convent? When I promised that, I did not expect ever to appear
on the stage any more; but now! Besides, when I am on the stage I am
not myself at all. Esperance stays behind in the dressing-room and
'_Camille_' comes forth. Then the collar? Ask the Duke, without
telling him that I asked you, what I should do. This collar seems to
me such a heavy chain, so heavy and sometimes so cold. I must stop
this letter, for you see the confusion is coming back again. I am a
little frightened! I must be trembling, does it not show in my
writing? It is little Mademoiselle's pen. I embrace you with all the
strength of my joy in your happiness.--Esperance."
The writing changed.
"I must make Esperance stop. She has been wandering again as she
writes. Her pulse is very quick. I must tell her father. _Au
revoir,_ dear girl, and come back soon; for you are the brightness
and peace she longs for. My regards to your husband.--Eleanore
Frahender."
This letter made Maurice, his wife and the Duke very anxious.
"She must in some way be prevented from seeing the Countess Styvens,"
said Genevieve, "but how are we to manage that?"
They decided to shorten their stay in Italy by five days.
Esperance was to appear on the twentieth of December, about fifteen
days after her letter reached them. All the elegant world of Paris,
artistic, sensation-hunting, was waiting with delight for the
appearance of the little heroine, the idol of the public. Count
Styvens's death in a duel, slain by a well-known admirer of Esperance,
had caused a great deal of ink to be spilled. But the devotion of the
Countess towards the girl who would have been her daughter, the
denials of the witnesses to the most intimate friends, asking if ...
really ... between ourselves ... was not there something? ... deceived
the most suspicious. All these "fors" and "againsts" had kindled the
curiosity of the public, and the general sympathy was strongly in
favour of the unconscious cause of the great modern mystery. The
notice, announcing the first appearance of Esperance Darbois in _On
ne badine pas avec l'amour_ drew an enormous crowd. The house was
entirely sold out several days in advance. Many who could not get
admission waited outside the theatre to get news during the intervals.
The corridors were full of French and foreign reporters.
Behind the scenes Esperance stood looking at herself in the mirror. It
was almost time for the curtain to go up. Dressed in the convent robe,
the strings of pearls was still about her neck. Should she unclasp it,
should she not? If they went with her on the stage would she not be
betraying her art; would they not clutch and strangle her, strangle
"_Camille_," until Esperance had to come back in her place? And
if she cast it aside, her loyalty, her promise? Must she wear fetters
to keep faith? Oh, Albert, Albert! Oh, these dark shadows, these
groping dark confusions where she so often strayed. Where was rest? Or
peace? And joy, the joy of the theatre, would that, too, be taken
away? She swayed a little and longed with all her strength for a force
not her own to enter in. She was too weak to fight against her own
Destiny.
She found it. A hint of it came first in the scent of gardenia
flowers, sweet and strong and penetrating, compelling and agreeable to
the senses. Then the Duke's strong arms were about her, and she sank
gladly back as if she were falling into a flood of light.
But his swift words brought her back.
"Esperance, my darling, we have no time to lose. Come with me. The
Countess Styvens is dying. She would not send for you, she would not
spoil your triumph. But she can absolve you. She can loose the pearls.
You can remember the other request Albert made you then, his dying
wish, my living one. Come with me, be her daughter to the last, and
then, my love, to Italy, where we will find you health and strength,
and give you new life for your future as my wife."
THE END