Confined in the sick-room day and night, the mother and daughter spent
most of their leisure time discussing the situation. They could not
explain the lover's long silence or his sudden reappearance. If he
loved Claire, why had he left her in suspense for three dreary months?
Why did he feel obliged to give his uncle's malady as an excuse for
presenting himself at Dr. Auvray's house? But if he had recovered from
his infatuation, why did he not take his uncle to some other physician?
There were plenty of them in Paris. Possibly he had believed himself
cured of his folly until the sight of Claire undeceived him? But no, he
had asked her father for her hand in marriage before he saw her again.
But, in his delirium, Francis answered all or nearly all of these
questions. Claire, bending tenderly over him, listened breathlessly
to his every word, and afterward repeated them to her mother and to
the doctor, who was not long in discovering the truth. They soon knew
that he had lost his reason and under what circumstances; they even
learned how he had been the innocent cause of his uncle's insanity.
Fears of an entirely different nature now began to assail Mlle. Auvray.
Was the terrible crisis which she had unwittingly brought about likely
to cure his mental disorder? The doctor assured his daughter that a
fever, under such circumstances, was almost certain to put an end to
the insanity, but there is no rule without its exception, especially in
medicine. And even if he seemed to be cured, was there not danger of a
recurrence of the malady?
"So far as I am concerned, I am not in the least afraid," said Claire,
smiling sadly. "I am the cause of all his troubles. Therefore, it is
my duty to console him. After all, his madness consists merely in
continually asking my hand. There will be no need of doing that after
I become his wife, so we really have nothing to fear. The poor fellow
lost his reason through his excessive love; so cure him, my dear
father, but not entirely. Let him remain insane enough to love me as
much as I love him!"
"We will see," replied Dr. Auvray. "Wait until this fever passes off.
If he seems ashamed of having been demented, if he appears gloomy,
or melancholy after his recovery, I can not vouch for him; if, on
the contrary, he remembers his temporary aberration of mind without
mortification or regret--if he speaks of it without any reserve, and
if he is not averse to seeing the persons who nursed him through his
illness, there is not the slightest reason to apprehend a return of the
malady."
On the 25th of December, Francis, fortified by a cup of chicken broth
and half the yolk of a soft boiled egg, sat up in bed, and without the
slightest hesitancy or mortification, and in a perfectly lucid manner,
gave the history of the past three months without any emotion save that
of quiet joy. Claire and Mme. Auvray wept as they listened to him; the
doctor pretended to be taking notes, or rather to be writing under
dictation, but something besides ink fell on the paper. When the story
ended, the convalescent added, by way of conclusion:
"And now on this, the 25th day of December, I say to my good doctor,
and much loved father--Dr. Auvray, whose street and number I shall
never again forget--'Sir, you have a daughter, Mlle. Claire Auvray,
whom I met at Ems, with her mother. I love her; she has proved that she
loves me in return, and if you have no fears that I will become insane
again, I have the honor to ask her hand in marriage."
The doctor was so deeply affected that he could only bow his head in
token of assent, but Claire put her arms around the sick man's neck
and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. I am sure I should desire no
better response under like circumstances.
That same day, M. Morlot, who had become much more quiet and tractable,
and who had long since been released from the bondage of a strait
jacket, rose about eight o'clock in the morning, as usual. On getting
out of bed, he picked up his slippers, examined and reexamined them
inside and out, then handed them to a nurse for inspection, begging him
to see for himself that they contained no thirty thousand francs. Until
positively assured of this fact he would not consent to put them on.
Then he carefully shook each of his garments out of the window, but not
until after he had searched every fold and pocket in them. After his
toilet was completed, he called for a pencil, and wrote on the walls of
his chamber:
"_Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's money, nor anything that is his._"
Dr. Auvray is confident of his ability to cure him, but it will
take time. It is in the summer and autumn that physicians are most
successful in their endeavors to cure insanity.
THE GRAND MARRIAGE
BY LUDOVIC HALÉVY
[Illustration]
_Ludovic Halévy was born at Paris in 1834, and began to write
for the theatre when very young. He is the author of the opera
librettos, "Orphée aux Enfers," 1861, "Carmen," 1875, etc.;
besides a number of vaudevilles, such as "Froufrou," etc.
Most of his pieces are written in collaboration with Meilhac.
Outside of the theatre he has published a collection of little
scenes in the paper called "La Vie Parisienne," under the title
of "Madame Cardinal" and "Les Petits Cardinal"; impressions
of war under the title "L'Invasion," and some novels, such as
"L'Abbé Constantin," 1882. In 1884 he was elected a member of
the Academy._
_Halévy tempered the fantastic humors of Meilhac, and
restrained the more far-fetched of his own, bringing them
down to earth. His theatre paints what is called Parisian
life, remarkable for ease, delicacy, grace, but without much
substance. His novels have a very delicate flavor, with a
combination of suavity and irony._
[Illustration]
THE GRAND MARRIAGE
BY LUDOVIC HALÉVY
Translated by J. Matthewman.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
_Nov. 25th, 1893. 4 o'clock._
This morning at ten o'clock I was just settling down to attack
Beethoven's Twenty-fifth symphony, when the door opened, and who should
walk in but mama. Mama awake and stirring at ten o'clock! And not
only awake and stirring, but dressed and ready to go out--mantled and
bonneted.
I could not remember ever to have seen her stirring so early before.
She never manages to get to church on Sunday before the middle of the
one o'clock mass. The other evening she said, laughingly, to Abbé
Pontal:
"Monsieur l'Abbé, our dear religion would be absolutely perfect if you
substituted a mass at two for that at one. Then the concerts at the
_Conservatoire_ could be put an hour later, and Sunday in winter would
be all that could be desired."
At mama's entrance I was stupefied, and exclaimed: "You are going out,
mama?"
"No, I've just come in."
"You've just come in?"
"Yes, I had something to do this morning--to choose some stuffs for the
hangings--that blue, you know, which is so difficult to find."
"Have you found it?"
"No--no. But that they say they can get it for me--and I hope
that--They are going to send it by the day after to-morrow at the
latest."
Mama got quite confused in her explanation. She finally announced that
we were going to a _soirée_ at the Mercerey's. There was to be a little
music. She had known of it for several days, but had forgotten to
mention it to me before. I didn't show the slightest sign of surprise,
but while listening to mama, I studied her carefully, and thought to
myself: "What's the meaning of all this? Mama rambling about at this
unearthly hour, matching blues! A _soirée musicale_ at the Mercerey's!
Mama evidently confused, too! There's something hidden."
So I let her flounder and never uttered a sound. When she had finished
she took a few steps toward the door, just as actors do in a theatre
when they pretend they are going out, then she turned back and tried
to say with an air of indifference, as if the thought had only just
occurred to her: "Which gown do you think of putting on to-night?"
"To-night, mama? Really, I don't know. I might put the gray on--or the
blue--or the rose."
"No, no; not the rose. Put the blue on. You looked quite nice in it the
day before yesterday at Aunt Clarice's. Besides, your papa doesn't like
the rose, and as he is going with us to the Mercerey's--"
"Papa going to the Mercerey's!"
"Yes, certainly."
"Does he know that there's to be some music?"
"Yes."
"He knows--and yet he is going?"
"Yes. What is there surprising in that?"
"Oh, nothing, mama; nothing at all."
Whereupon she really left the room, and I was quite alone. Then,
without a moment's hesitation, I said to myself: "A marriage on the
_tapis_. They're going to show me off to some one. _That's_ why pap is
obliged to go."
Fancy papa letting himself be dragged by mama to a _soirée musicale_!
The whole world will seem topsy-turvy. There are only three places
which he finds bearable in the evening--the club, the opera during the
ballet, and the little theatres where people go to laugh and amuse
themselves generally--the theatres where young girls are not allowed to
go, but where I intend to go when I am married.
Yes, I'm sure there's an interview in the wind. It must be something
of great importance, for mama has been in a state of the highest
excitement ever since this morning. She ate no breakfast, and didn't
manage to conceal her unrest at all. Not only has she inspected my blue
dress carefully, but she has also examined me with equal thoroughness.
She fell into a fit of veritable despair on verifying the fact that
there was a slight flaw on my features.
"What's that?" she cried.
"Where? What? mama!"
"On the tip of your nose."
"Have I anything on the tip of my nose?"
"Yes, a horrid gash."
"Oh, good gracious! A gash?"
Quite horrified, I rushed to the mirror. Then I breathed freely again.
It was the merest trifle--where the kitten had given me a pat with its
paw. Nothing worth mentioning--a little reddish mark that was hardly
visible to the naked eye, and which could easily be got rid of before
evening.
But in mama's solicitous eyes the little mark assumed the proportions
of a disfiguring wound. The tip of my nose has never received so much
touching attention before. Mama made me sit still in an armchair during
half of the day, with cold-water cloths fixed like a pair of goggles on
the said tip of the aforementioned nose.
Poor mama! She's so anxious to see me married. It's quite natural,
after all. She looks very well herself yet in the evening, and it is
awkward to have to drag a big marriageable daughter around at her heels.
I don't like it, either, for that matter. I know that I make her look
older, and, therefore, as soon as we enter a room in the evening I slip
away from her, and try to see as little as possible of her afterward
until the carriage is announced. So each goes her own way, and
interferes as little as possible with the other.
She's a dear, good old soul. There are mothers who simply bully their
daughters, and worry them into marrying at five minutes' notice. Quite
a leap in the dark. Mama isn't one of them.
Besides, she knows I have made up my mind not to be hurried--and not to
decide carelessly. Marriage is not a trifling thing. If a mistake is
made it is for life; so it's well to know what one is doing when one
takes the plunge. When I get married it will be in all seriousness. I
don't intend to tumble head over ears in love with the first newcomer,
be he fair or dark, who says to his mother: "I've found the girl of my
choice. I love her, and her alone. I'll have her or nobody."
Oh, no! I'm not going into that stupidity. I intend to keep my eyes
open, and my wits about me.
Last spring I declined five very likely wooers simply because none of
them offered all the advantages of birth, fortune, and position which I
consider I am justified in demanding.
I shall follow the same course of action during the winter
campaign--the same calm prudence. I am not yet twenty, so I can afford
to wait.
Since this morning I have felt highly satisfied with myself--_very_
highly satisfied. I have not been in the least affected by mother's
open agitation. To-day, as usual, I have glanced through my notes.
On my eighteenth birthday I find I wrote the following simple words on
the first page of my notebook, which I still keep carefully under lock
and key:
MY MARRIAGE.
"And so five have bitten the dust already." I'm sure there'll be a
sixth combatant in the lists to-night. Is he the one who will finally
become my very humble and very obedient servant and lord?
In any case, he had better get ready to undergo the most rigorous and
searching examination.
I'm not like mama. I don't lose _my_ head.
_Nov. 26th. Four o'clock._
I wasn't mistaken. It _was_ the sixth.
But let me be orderly, and write the events, both small and great, in
their due sequence.
After dinner mama and I went upstairs to dress. I took a long time over
it, and was very careful, too. I may as well tell the truth. I worked
at my toilet. It took me an hour and a half to dress to my own complete
satisfaction. On coming downstairs I found all the doors open, and as I
noiselessly approached the drawing-room I heard papa and mama talking.
Papa said:
"You think it _absolutely_ necessary, then?"
"_Absolutely_ necessary. Just think of it. Your presence is
indispensable."
The temptation was too great. I stopped to listen. Was it not right, or
at least justifiable curiosity on my part?
"Why indispensable?" replied papa. "I know the young fellow. I've often
met him at the club. I've even played whist with him. He doesn't play
badly, either. He saw Irene on horseback, and thought she was superb.
That settles the whole affair as far as I am concerned. What business
is it of mine? It's only your affair--your's and Irene's."
"My dear, I assure you that propriety demands--"
"Well, well; I'll go, I'll go."
Then silence fell. Not another word was spoken. I waited to hear the
man's name, but it didn't come. My heart beat a little quicker as I
stood there in expectancy--in fact, I distinctly heard its tick-tack. I
stood two or three minutes, but as they did not think fit to resume the
conversation, I entered, and had to pretend to know nothing.
But I did know something, and that something was of importance, too. He
is a member of the "Jockey." To me that means everything. If I attach
too much importance to it, it is papa's fault, for he thinks that any
one who is not a member of the Jockey is simply nobody. The world, as
far as papa is concerned, begins with the Jockey, and ends at those who
are not of the charmed circle. I have been brought up with those ideas.
My husband must be a member of the Jockey.
Well, the three of us set off in the landau--papa gloomy, depressed,
silent; mama in the same state of eager excitement; I outwardly cool
and indifferent, but thinking hard all the same.
What could be the meaning of so much mystery? This gentleman has seen
me on horseback, and had though I was bewitching, which was very sweet
of him. Was it he who had asked to see me in a brilliantly-lighted
room--_décolletée_?
That, it seemed to me, was scarcely the correct thing. He ought to have
been shown to _me_ before I was so liberally shown to him on horseback
and on foot. But, after all, it didn't matter much.
We got to the Mercerey's at half-past ten. I was very sorry for papa,
for it really was a _soirée musicale_, and there was a quartet, too,
which is about the most trying thing in the world for one who does
not care for music, and has not been broken in into bearing it. In
addition, the music was highly and wearily classical.
There were not many people present--only about a score. The company
was very mixed, and it was evident that the affair had been arranged
in a hurry, for the people seemed to have been picked up haphazard,
with no thought for their peculiarities and idiosyncrasies--nobody knew
anybody, and there was an evident lack of sympathy.
We entered just when the andante movement of a sonata was in full
swing, and we went on tiptoe to seats. I settled myself snugly in a
quiet corner and cast a rapid, furtive glance round the battlefield. At
first I only saw a few old men--_blasé_ looking individuals--evidently
not for me.
Then, in the opposite corner, I noticed a little knot of four young
men. There could be no doubt that there was the enemy.
Yes, but which of the four? In my simplicity I thought: "It must be
he who is looking at me most devotedly and attentively." I modestly
lowered my eyes, and assumed the attitude of a saint listening with
inward rapture to the austere strains of a Haydn sonata.
Then suddenly I raised my eyes and let them fall full upon the group of
young men. But I had to drop them more quickly than I had raised them,
for all the four young men were studying me with an equal amount of
curiosity and evident approbation. I let the sonata go a little longer,
and again renewed the experiment--with the same result. The four pairs
of eyes were fixed unflinchingly upon me.
I don't think I was much put out by so much attention. In fact, I
wasn't at all put out. It was pleasant, very pleasant; and I rather
liked it than otherwise.
The country did wonders for me last summer. I have grown a little--ever
so little--fatter. Virginie, my maid, said to me the other evening
while dressing me:
"Ah! Mademoiselle, you don't know how the summer has improved you." In
which Virginie was very much mistaken. Mademoiselle _did_ know it very
well. One always notices such things first one's self.
The quartet at last came to an end, and the usual confusion of tongues
followed. I took mama aside and said:
"Mama, do point him out."
"Why, you little minx, have you guessed?"
"Yes, I've guessed. Show me him--quick--the music's going to start
again."
"That's he--the tall dark man, on the left there--the man standing
under the Meissonnier. Don't look just now. He's looking at you."
"He's not the only one. They're all doing that."
"He's not looking now, though. There he is. He's going to papa. He's
talking to him."
"He's not bad looking."
"I should rather think he isn't!"
"But his mouth's too large."
"_I_ don't think so."
"Oh, yes it is. But that's a trifle. On the whole, he'll do."
"Oh, if you only knew all--birth, fortune, everything you could wish
for. It was such an extraordinary accident, too--quite romantic."
"What's his name?"
"Comte de Martelle-Simieuse. Don't look at him; he's beginning to
look at you again. As I was saying, he is a Martelle-Simieuse, and
the Martelle-Simieuses are cousins of the Landry-Simieuses and of the
Martelle-Jonzacs. You know the Martelle-Simieuses?"
At this point one of the musicians tapped on his desk, and mama's
flow of genealogical eloquence was stopped. We resumed our seats, and
the music commenced. Mozart this time. I sank back into my corner and
settled down to my reflections. It was evident to me that he must be a
splendid catch, for mama was so excited.
Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse. Two names. Just what I had dreamt of and
longed for. Of course, I should have preferred to be a duchess; but
then there are so few real dukes left--only twenty-two, I believe--so
that is practically out of the question. But a countess is passable.
Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse. The name would sound well, I thought,
and I repeated it several times to convince myself. I paid no attention
whatever to Mozart. At first I scarcely realized that the musicians
were playing Mozart--it might have been Wagner. All that I knew was
that the musicians were playing a melody which seemed to fit in with
the words: "Madame la Comtesse de Martelle-Simieuse."
After all a name _is_ a matter of great importance, and particularly
a name which goes well with a title. He is titled as well as a
member of the "Jockey." _He_ must be titled. I wouldn't become
plain "Madame"--no, not for a fabulous fortune. Comtesse de
Martelle-Simieuse. Yes, certainly, that sounded very well.
When the quartette was over the conversation was renewed. Papa turned
toward mama, so did I. As soon as I reached her, she said, excitedly:
"The affair is marching splendidly. He has asked to be introduced to
you, and papa noticed that his voice trembled--didn't it?"
"Yes," replied papa, "his voice trembled."
"Your papa is going to bring him up to introduce him. If you are not
satisfied with him, don't stay at my side. If you are satisfied, stay."
"Of course I shall stay, mama; but it must be understood that I shall
have due time for reflection afterward. You have promised not to hurry
me."
"You will be quite free. But don't forget that it is a chance in a
hundred thousand. If you only knew his relatives, and how well they are
married. His mother was a Précigny-Laroche. Think of that! A P--"
"Yes, yes. I see."
"There is no better blood than that of the Précigny-Laroches."
"Keep calm, mama. Don't get so excited. People are looking at you."
Then papa fetched him, and we had a nice chat in the interval. It was
evident that he was affected. He had had courage to stare at me from a
distance, but close at hand he daren't look at me. I had to lead the
conversation, and I managed in ten minutes, while chatting apparently
about the most trivial topics, to learn all that was absolutely
necessary that I should know before letting things go farther.
He loves Paris--so do I. He detests the country--so do I. He thinks
Trouville is very amusing--so do I. He doesn't like shooting--nor do I.
On the other hand, he is passionately fond of horses and hunting--just
as I am. It is well that we agree on that point. How many times have I
said to myself, "My husband will have a hunting-seat." He has one. He
rents a forest which is only ten leagues from Paris. You leave Paris
at half-past eight in the morning from the Gare du Nord--the most
convenient of stations--and at half-past ten you are on horseback.
And unless the hunt is a very long one, you are back in Paris in the
evening for the theatre or a ball.
Then again, his time, his fortune, as well as he himself, are entirely
at his own disposal. He has neither father nor mother. He has only a
younger brother, who is at present serving in an artillery regiment,
and a very rich and very old aunt, who has no children. So he is the
head of the family. Martelle-Simieuse belongs to him. It is an estate
somewhere out in Vendée. Of course, I have not the remotest idea of
going and burying myself out in Vendée for half of the year; but it's
quite necessary to have a country seat, and Vendée is just as good as
anywhere else.
All which information I picked up in the short space of ten minutes or
a quarter of an hour at the outside. Madame Mercerey, seeing that we
were engaged in a serious conversation, lengthened the interval for the
benefit of us four--I might say of us three, for papa never uttered a
word--might even say of us two, for mama didn't say much either.
All the information I obtained by skilfully turning the conversation in
the most natural manner, and without asking a single question.
This morning mama told me that she was absolutely shocked at my
calmness and precision last night. Yes, I have a practical side to
my nature. I am anxious to place my life in certain unassailable
conditions of independence and security, without which there could be
neither happiness nor love, nor anything else worth having.
For instance, I'm determined not to have a mother-in-law. I don't know
what I wouldn't give _not_ to have a mother-in-law. I don't intend to
have to quarrel with one. At home a wife should be at home, and only
have her husband to deal with.
It was on account of that decision that I rejected the little Marquis
de Marillac last year. He was one of the five. I could have loved him;
really, I had already begun to. Then I saw his mother. Then I stopped.
She was a terrible creature--strict, lugubrious, and ferociously
_dévote_. She expected her daughter-in-law to go and bury herself in
the depths of Bretagne for eight months out of the twelve. Certainly,
it would have been a saving--but at what a cost! What slavery!
Besides, what would be the good of getting married, if, the day after
leaving girlhood, the wife had to become a child and go back into
leading-strings again the next day?
Now let me see. Where was I? I've really quite forgotten. Oh, I
remember. The music began again, as I said. It was the last piece. We
four sat down in a row in the following order: I, mama, papa, and he.
It was scarcely an hour before that I had first set eyes on him, and we
were already quite a little family party, we four, sitting stupidly and
stiffly in a straight line on our chairs.
Some short waltzes of Beethoven were played, with intervals of one
minute between. During the first interval mother said to me:
"Well, what do you think of him, now that you have seen him?"
"The same as before, mama."
"Is he all right?"
"He'll do."
"Then your father may venture to ask him to dinner?"
"Wouldn't that be hurrying matters rather too much?"
"We must hurry matters."
"Why, mama?"
"Sh! They're going to begin again."
I was somewhat put out. What was the reason for such unseemly haste? I
was quite shocked by it. It seemed really as if I were being thrown
at the gentleman's head. I was in a hurry to know the why and the
wherefore. I thought the concert would never end.
After ages of waiting the second interval came, and I began again:
"Mama, tell me why."
"I can't tell you anything just now. It would take too long. I'll tell
you all presently, when we get home. But if he's invited it must be
to-night; and there's not a minute to lose--yes or no?"