It was upon the seventh day of September that Madeleine Peyre, of
Ruffec, made a mistake. This was notable; first, because the lady was
justly accounted wise, and, secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake
was a bad one.
Madeleine was the Silvia of Ruffec. She went faithfully to Mass, and
what she believed to be proper, that unobtrusively she endeavoured to
do. She spoke ill of no one. Her exquisite pink-and-white complexion,
her raven hair, her steady grey eyes, were three great several beauties.
Add that her features were regular, her teeth most white, and her figure
graceful, when you will understand that the swains of Ruffec commended
her with cause. As I have said already, Madeleine’s judgment also was
unusually sound. To ram home my comparison, it was, I think, the light
in her wonderful eyes which you forgot last of her comeliness, while the
flowers she was constantly receiving gave her actual distress. She never
would wear them. No other girl in Ruffec received any flowers.
When, therefore, Madeleine Peyre, the Silvia of Ruffec, married the
wrong man, the town pulled her down from her pedestal and let her lie.
It is the way of the world.
The announcement of the betrothal aroused consternation. People were
amazed—staggered. You could have knocked them down. That Pierre Lacaze
was a brute was common knowledge. They said his first wife had been
bullied into her grave. . . . The astonishment was succeeded by sickness
of heart. Discussion of the tragedy dissolved into sighs and
tears. . . . Finally came Anger. Madeleine Peyre was denounced for an
ungrateful fool. Where sighs had been heaved, fingers were wagged and
snapped. Ruffec told Ruffec that Mademoiselle Peyre would soon find out
her error, and that the discovery would serve her right. People began to
gloat upon the disillusionment which was awaiting their darling. Upon
the wedding day itself leers were exchanged. . . .
It is the way of the world.
Had her parents lived, the mistake would not have been made. But they
had been killed together, five years before. Madeleine, aged sixteen,
had seen no reason why the little creamery they had been keeping should
close its aged hatch. As a result, this had remained open ever since.
Out of the profits of the little enterprise its girlish governor and her
two young brothers had been lodged and fed and clothed decently. Now the
brothers were come to men’s estate, while the goodwill of the business
was a legacy worth having. Moreover, Jean and Jacques Peyre were no
fools. About their future Madeleine felt easy enough.
For the matter of that, up to the very last she had no qualms about her
own. _Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat._ Every one—her brothers
included—disliked Lacaze. The man was so obviously a brute. Madeleine
clung to him steadfastly. . . .
Then the day came, and the Silvia of Ruffec cast her pearls before
swine.
Be sure Lacaze rent her.
* * * * *
Nearly ten months had trailed by, and Madeleine had aged ten years.
The two lived in Paris, where Lacaze plied his trade of steeple-jack and
made good money. The work suited him. The hours were short, the pay
high. Fearless as a lion, the danger delighted his heart. The respect
his prowess inspired tickled his vanity.
So much for his public life.
Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only
difference was that he got her for nothing.
In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine stamp of animal, intelligent,
well-made, good to look upon. He had judged her strong, courageous, and
obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would
covet such a prize. . . .
The fellow was perfectly right.
Physically and mentally Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he
took her out and about, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed
her off to his friends they made no secret of their envy. His house was
always in order, such as he had not dreamed of. There was, however, a
fretful fly in the ointment. It was this. Madeleine’s manners were
perfect, but they were the manners of Silvia, and not the manners of a
show horse.
Within twenty-four hours of her wedding it was all over, and Madeleine
had realized her plight. Of course the blow had been frightful . . .
stunning . . . too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of
perception had exploded a second: the second, a third. . . . Her poor
brain had staggered under this fearful appulse, her spirit fainted, her
heart sunk to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze had shrivelled and died
then and there. Not so her obedience. . . . So soon as she could think
clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to dovetail her principles
into her husband’s demands.
The result was unsatisfactory—to Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fair
wallet out of a silk purse and a sow’s ear. The ways of Lacaze were not
Madeleine’s. The grace the heaven had lent her, meant nothing to him.
More—the man had a will. The grace the heaven had lent her, he made her
discard.
The result was unsatisfactory—to Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to
his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious loan, if and
when she was urged—never unless she was urged. His will had to be
expressed—_always_. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so
imperfect. Her rider’s heels ached. . . .
Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had.
Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth and—stuck to his
spurs. After a month or two his heels developed new muscles and stopped
aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry.
Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had been
done before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze
determined to break his wife’s spirit by eighths of an inch.
Fortune favours the brute.
Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs of a sharpness he
could never have compassed fell into his lap.
* * * * *
A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at meat. It came
from her brother Jean.
_Dearest Madeleine_,
_I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is
a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said
absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can
guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you
will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you
would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so,
look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau._
_Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very
much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last
week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us
of six good litres._
_Your loving brother,_
_Jean._
Covertly Lacaze watched her read it and lay it down. Something—Heaven
knows what—told him that here was matter she did not wish him to see.
He went to work delicately.
“Ah!” he cried of a sudden. “The thing had escaped me. My dear,
to-morrow put on your very best gown. We are going to the wedding of
Robert and José Tuyte.”
Madeleine winced.
“Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an
actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for
them.”
(If to appear nightly in the costume of a child of seven at _The Dead
Rat_, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of
champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she
was too slow for such a ‘stage’ was unarguable.)
“My dear, what would you? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José
before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a
wet sponge. It wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all
the time.”
“Dance?”
“Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at _Le
Parapluie_. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be
festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It
behoves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt.”
Madeleine paled.
Once before she had subscribed to festivity under the shelter of _Le
Parapluie_. The revels had haunted her ever since. . . .
She was about to protest—beg to be excused—when she remembered her
letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It
occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might save it
inviolate. Desperately she strove to keep the ball rolling. . . .
Lacaze saw her anxiety, and let her strive.
When the meal was over, he pushed back his chair. For the next five
minutes he debated audibly whether he should go forth to buy tobacco, or
send the servant. Madeleine wanted him to go—terribly, but dared not
put in her oar. She was, of course, quite satisfied that he had
forgotten her letter. Her only fear was that he would catch sight of it
again.
At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, sought for his hat,
chucked her under the chin and left the room.
Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God.
Then the door opened and her husband put in his head.
“I quite forgot,” he said, smiling. “What does young Jean have to say?”
His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand.