A few days later, Renée having set her mind upon playing in private
theatricals, a discussion arose about the filling of the second lady's
part in the play that had been chosen. One by one the names suggested
were dismissed, until Henri said, "Why not ask Mlle. Bourjot? They are
just staying at Sannois."
"Noémi?" replied Renée. "I'd love it. But she, was so cold towards me
last winter. I don't know why."
"She will have £12,000 a year," interrupted Denoisel, "and her mother
knows that you have a brother. And they are not a little proud of their
money."
Twelve thousand a year! Madame Mauperin thought of her son's future, and
supported his suggestion. It was decided that they would call on the
Bourjots on Saturday.
To Sannois they went as arranged on the Saturday. They were received
with effusion, and had to put up for an hour or so with the unbearable
arrogance of their hosts' display of wealth. Renée's warm advances to
the playmate of her childhood were received by Noémi with coolness, not
to say reluctance, but the request that Noémi should take part in the
theatricals met with her mother's approval, the shy girl's objections--
nervousness, lack of talent, and so forth--being overruled by Madame
Bourjot. Before the two families parted it was arranged that Noémi
should be taken by her governess to attend the rehearsals at the
Mauperins' house.
Renée's whole-hearted friendliness and sparkling humour soon overcame
Noémi's reserve, and under Denoisel's direction the amateur actors made
rapid progress. Madame Bourjot herself came to one of the rehearsals,
and, after the first compliments, expressed her surprise that Henri, the
principal actor, was absent. "Oh, he has a wonderful memory," said his
proud mother; "two rehearsals will set him right."
At last the great day arrived. A stage had been arranged in the large
drawing-room, which was filled to its utmost capacity, the ladies being
seated in the long rows of chairs, the men standing behind and
overflowing through open doors into the adjoining rooms. The play chosen
was "The Caprice." Henri, who revealed rare talent, took the part of the
husband; Noémi of the neglected wife. The curtain fell upon enthusiastic
applause, and Madame Bourjot, who had feared that her daughter would be
a fiasco, was delighted with her success. Amid the hum of voices she
heard the lady sitting next to her say to her neighbour, "His sister, I
know ... but for the part he is not sufficiently in love with her ...
and too much with his wife. Did you notice?" she continued, in a
whisper.
In the second piece Henri appeared as Pierrot, Renée as the forsaken
wife, and Noémi as the beloved. Henri played with real passion. From
time to time his eyes seemed to search for Madame Bourjot's. Her
neighbour felt her leaning against her shoulder. The curtain fell.
Madame Bourjot swayed, and fell back in a faint.
She was carried to the garden.
"Leave me now," she said, "I am all right now; it was the heat. I only
want a little air ... Let M. Henri stay with me."
They were left alone.
"You love her?" said Madame Bourjot, clutching Henri's arm. "I know
all.... Have you nothing to say?"
"Nothing. I have struggled for a year. I will not excuse myself. I owe
you the truth. I love your daughter, it is true."
Finally, Madame Bourjot rose and walked towards the house. Henri
followed.
"I count upon never seeing you again, sir," she said, without looking
round. With a mighty effort she regained her composure, and walked back
to the house on Henri's arm.
_III.--Stint to Death by his Sister_
It was Madame Bourjot herself who insisted upon seeing Henri again, and,
since he did not answer her letter, she went to his apartments. The
interview was painful, but she gave her consent to Henri's marriage with
Noémi, and undertook to overcome M. Bourjot's possible objections, on
condition that Henri should humour her husband's vanity by adopting a
title--an easy matter enough. The Mauperins had a farm called
Villacourt. Mauperin de Villacourt would do very well. Henri promised to
see what he could do.
Madame Bourjot and her daughter called on the Mauperins next day. The
two girls were asked to leave their mothers to their talk, and to take a
walk in the garden.
"A secret!" said Renée, as soon as they were alone. "Can you guess it? I
can--my brother. ... But you are crying. What is it, my darling Noémi?"
"Oh, you don't know!" her friend sobbed. "I cannot--if you only
knew----Save me! If I could only die!"
"Die! But why?"
"Because your brother is----" She stopped in horror at what she was
about to say, then whispered the rest of her sentence into her ear, and
hid her face on her friend's bosom.
"You lie!" Renée pushed her back.
"I?" Renée did not reply, but looked sadly and gently into Noémi's eyes.
Renée doubted no longer. She was silent for a moment; she felt almost
the duties of a mother towards this child.
In the evening Henri was surprised to find his sister waiting in his
room. She approached the subject of his impending marriage, and implored
him, by his love for her, not to give up his name, and to break off the
match.
"Are you mad? Enough of this!"
Renée fixed her eyes upon her brother.
"Noémi has told me--everything!"
Her cheeks flushed, Henri turned deathly pale.
"My dear," he said, with a shaky voice, "you interfere in things which
do not concern you. A young girl--" Then seizing her hand, he pointed
towards the door, and said, "Go!"
Renée was ill for a week, and Henri, knowing the cause, did his best to
alleviate her suffering. Still, a coldness remained between them. He
understood that she had forgiven the brother, but not the man. One day
she accompanied Henri to town and went with him to the Record Office,
where he had to make some inquiries about the legality of adopting his
own name. While he was questioning the keeper, she overheard two clerks
discuss her brother and his claim. "He thinks the Villacourt family is
extinct. But he is misinformed, although they have gone down in the
world. In fact, I know the heir to the title--a M. Boisjorand with whom
I once had a fight when we were boys. They lived in the forest of the
Croix-du-Soldat, near St. Mihiel, at La Motte-Noire." Renée fixed these
names in her mind.
"I have got all I want," said Henri, gaily coming towards her. And they
went out together.
The Bourjots were giving a great ball to celebrate the public
announcement of the engagement of their daughter to M. Mauperin de
Villacourt.
"You are enjoying yourself," said Renée to Noémi.
"I have never danced so much, it is true." And Noémi took her arm and
drew her into a small salon. "No, never." She kissed her. "Oh, what it
is to be happy! She loves him no longer. I am sure of it--I can see it;
I feel it."
"And you love him now?"
Noémi closed her mouth by pressing her lips upon Renée's. A young man
came to claim Noémi for the dance, and Denoisel requested the same
favour from Renée.
Denoisel was with Henri Mauperin. They were smoking and talking
peacefully, when the door was thrust open, and a man forced his way in,
pushing aside the valet who wanted to prevent him from entering.
"M. Mauperin de Villacourt?" he asked.
"That is my name," said Henri, rising.
"Good. My name is Boisjorand de Villacourt," retorted the stranger,
striking him so violently on the cheek that his face was immediately
covered with blood. Henri conquered his first impulse to throw himself
upon the intruder, and said calmly, "You find that there is one
Villacourt too many--so do I. Leave your card with my servant. I shall
send to you to-morrow."
It was from a marked number of the "Moniteur," which the impoverished
heir of the glorious name of De Villacourt found on his return from a
two years' sojourn in Africa, that M. Boisjorand had learned that Henri
had taken from him this name, which was all that had come down to him
from his famous ancestors. He immediately proceeded to Paris and sought
legal advice, but found that his poverty rendered legal action
impossible. After his interview with the solicitor, he went straight to
Henri's apartment to obtain the only satisfaction that was in his power.
Denoisel and another friend of Henri's arranged with Boisjorand's
seconds next morning the details of the meeting. Henri, who was an
excellent shot, had insisted on pistols at thirty-five paces, each
combatant to have the right to advance ten steps. The duel was to take
place at four o'clock the same afternoon near the ponds of Ville
d'Avray.
Neither of the two adversaries showed a trace of nervousness. The signal
was given, M. De Villacourt advanced five steps, Henri remaining
stationary. At the sixth step Henri fired, and his opponent fell. Henri
hurried towards him.
"Back to your place," shouted the wounded man. On his hands and knees he
crawled forward to the limit of his advance leaving a trail of blood in
the snow. Then he took careful aim--and Henri fell with arms extended
and his face towards the ground.
_IV.--Broken Wanderers_
To Denoisel fell the painful duty of informing Mauperin of his son's
death. The old man's grief was heartbreaking. When Denoisel was admitted
to Renée, he found her sitting on a footstool, sobbing, with her
handkerchief pressed to her mouth.
"Renée," he said, taking her hands, "he has been killed--that man should
never have known. He did not read, he saw nobody, he lived like a
wolf--he was not a subscriber to the 'Moniteur.' Some enemy must have
sent him that paper."
Renée had risen; she moved her lips; she wanted to scream "It was I!"
Then, suddenly pressing her hand against her heart, she fell senseless
on the floor.
* * * * *
Renée did not seem to recover from her illness. Denoisel saw her daily,
but a certain coldness had set in between them--he thought that Renée
held him responsible for not having prevented the duel, while Renée
vaguely feared that Denoisel had guessed her secret. He started upon a
long journey.
In those days of illness and anxiety the hearts of father and daughter
seemed to come together more closely even than before. The heartbroken
old man saw his beloved child wasting away. He called in the best
specialist from Paris, who did not exactly give up all hope, but did not
conceal that Renée's life was in danger. The poor girl, who could not
bear to witness her father's misery, put on a gay air, assuring him
again and again that she was recovering. Indeed, when, at her urging,
the family removed to the country house where she had spent her
childhood, there was a real and marked improvement, and for a while the
roses seemed to return to her pale cheeks.
But she soon fell back into her listless state. Thus she lingered on for
several months, always cheering her father and speaking of her happy
future, always fading away until she became a mere shadow of her former
bright and healthy self. Only to Denoisel, when after a long absence he
returned from the Pyrenees, she opened her heart. To him she confessed
that she knew her days were counted.
Those who travel far afield have perhaps met in foreign towns or among
the ruins of dead places--now in Russia, now in Egypt--two aged people,
a man and a woman, who seem to march along without looking and without
seeing. They are the Mauperins--father and mother.
They have sold everything and have gone. Thus they wander from land to
land, from hotel to hotel. They wander, trying to lose their grief in
the fatigue of the road, dragging their weary life to all the corners of
the globe.
* * * * *