THE FIRST FAMILY MEETING
Jean turned slowly towards this bell which was calling him. He was
full of joy at this moment. He was taking possession of a world
which, after some years, had just been opened to him and pointed out
as his place of habitation, of work, and of happiness. These words
played on his troubled mind deliciously. They pursued each other
like a troop of porpoises, those travellers on the surface, and
other words accompanied them. Family life, comfort, social
authority, embellishments, enlargements. The house took to itself a
name--"the paternal home." He looked at it with tenderness,
following the alley near the stream; he went up the steps with a
feeling of respect, remembering that they had been built by the
grandfather to whom the house still belonged, as also all the
grounds except the saw-mill and the timber yard.
After having gone across the entrance hall, which extended from the
front to the back of the house, he opened the last door on the left.
The dining-room was the only room which had been "done up" according
to the directions and the taste of M. Joseph Oberlé. Whilst one
found elsewhere--in the drawing-room, the billiard-room, and the
other rooms--the furniture bought by the grandfather, of yellow or
green Utrecht velvet and mahogany, "My Creation," according to the
expression of M. Joseph Oberlé, showed a complete absence of line.
Colour took the place of style. The walls were covered with
wainscoting of veined maple, blue-grey, purple in places, ash-grey,
and pink-grey, covering half the height of the room. Above this, and
reaching to the small beams, were four panels of stretched cloth,
decorated with designs of smooth felt representing irises,
hollyhocks, verbena, and gladioli. Everywhere, as far as possible,
the straight line had been modified. The door mouldings described
curves which rambled madly like stalks of tropical bindweed without
any apparent reason. The framework of the large window was curved.
The chairs of bent beechwood came from Vienna. The whole had no
character, but a charm of softened light, and a remote resemblance
to the vegetable kingdom. One would have taken it for the
dining-room of a newly married couple.
The four usual table companions Jean was going to meet there hardly
corresponded to this joyous picture, and there was no harmony
between them and the decorations of the room. They invariably sat in
the same places, round the square table, according to the
established order of deep affinities and antipathies.
The first to the left of the window, the nearest to the glass, which
shed on her the reflection of its levelled edges, was Madame Monica
Oberlé, tall and slender, with a face that had been rounded and
fresh, but was now pale, lined, and thin. She gave the impression of
a being accustomed only to hear around her the words "You are
wrong." Her short-sighted eyes, very gentle, glanced at the guests
who were introduced to her with a smile always ready to withdraw and
fade away. They only paused after they had looked about for a little
time, when nothing had repulsed or misunderstood them. Then they
revealed a clear intelligence, a very kind heart, become a little
shy and sad, but still capable of illusions and outbursts of youth.
No one could have had a more careless youth, nor one that seemed a
less fitting preparation for the part she had to play later. She was
then called Monica Biehler, of the ancient family Biehler of
Obernai. From the top of her father's house, whose fortified
gable-end rises on the ramparts of the little town, she saw the
immense plain all round her. The garden full of trimmed box and
pear-trees, and hawthorn, where she played, was only separated by an
iron railing from the public promenade built on the old wall, so
that the vision of Alsace was printed each day on this child's soul,
and at the same time love of her country, so happy then--love of its
beauty, its peace, and its liberty, of its villages, whose names she
knew, whose rosy bunches of grapes she could have pointed out among
the harvest fields. Monica Biehler knew nothing else. She only left
Obernai to go with all the family to spend two summer months in the
lodge at Heidenbruch, in the Forest of Sainte Odile. Only once did
she happen to cross the Vosges, the year before her wedding, to make
a pilgrimage to Domrémy in Lorraine. Those had been three days full
of enthusiasm. Madame Oberlé remembered those three days as the
purest joy of her life. She would say: "My journey in France." She
had remained simple; she had kept, in her very retired life at
Alsheim, the easy fears, but also the sincerity--the secret boldness
of her youthful affection for the country and for the country
people. She had therefore suffered more than another would have done
in her place, in seeing her husband draw near to the German party in
Alsace, and finally join it. She had suffered in her Alsatian pride,
and still more in her maternal love. For the same cause which
separated her morally from her husband, her children were taken from
her. The lines on her face, faded before its time, could each have
borne a name, that of the grief which had scored them there: the
line of despised goodness, the line of useless warnings, the line of
her insulted country, of separation from Jean and Lucienne, of the
uselessness of the treasure of love she had stored up for them
during her single and married life.
Her bitterness had been the greater because Madame Oberlé had no
illusions as to the true motives which guided her husband. And this
he had divined. He was humiliated by this witness whom he could not
deceive, and whom he could not help esteeming. She personified for
him the cause which he had abandoned. It was to her he spoke when he
felt the need of justifying himself, and he did so whenever he had
the chance. It was against her that his anger rose, against her mute
disapproval. Never once in twenty years had he been able to get her
to agree--not by one word--that Alsace was German. This timid woman
yielded to force but she did not approve of it. She followed her
husband into German society; there she bore herself with such
dignity that one could neither deceive oneself as to her attitude,
nor bear a grudge against her for it. There she safeguarded more
than appearances. A mother, separated from her children, she had
not separated herself from her husband. They still used the
twin-bedsteads in the same room. They had continual scenes,
sometimes on one side, sometimes acrimonious and violent on both
sides. Nevertheless Madame Oberlé understood that her husband only
hated her clear-sightedness and judgment. She hoped she would not
always be in the wrong. Now that the children were grown up she
believed that some very important decisions would have to be made
with regard to them, and that by her long patience and by her
numerous concessions she had perhaps gained the right to speak then
and be heard.
Near her, and at her right, the grandfather, M. Philippe Oberlé,
had always sat. For some years, five minutes before the time of the
meal the dining-room door would open, the old man would come in,
leaning on the arm of his valet, trying to walk straight, clothed in
an anomalous garment of dark wool, his red ribbon in his
button-hole, his head weary and bent, his eyelids nearly closed, his
face swollen and bloodless. They placed him in a large chair with
arms upholstered in grey; they tied his table napkin round his neck,
and he waited, his body leaning against the chair-back, his hands on
the table--hands pale as wax, in which the knotted blue veins were
distinctly visible. When the others arrived M. Joseph Oberlé shook
him by the hand; Lucienne threw him a kiss and a number of words
audibly spoken in her fresh young voice; Madame Oberlé bent down and
pressed her faithful lips on the old man's forehead. He thanked her
by watching her sit down. He did not look at the others. Then he
made the sign of the cross, she and he alone, being a son of that
old Alsace which still prayed. And served by this neighbour so
silently charitable, who knew all his tastes, his shame of a certain
clumsiness, and who forestalled his wishes, he began to eat, slowly,
with difficulty moving his relaxed muscles. His dreamy head remained
leaning against the chair. His head alone was watching in a body
nearly destroyed. It was the theatre where, for the pleasure and
pain of one alone, there passed before his mental vision the
forebears of those whose names were mentioned before him. He did not
speak, but he remembered. Sometimes he drew from his pocket a
schoolboy's slate and pencil, and he wrote, with an uncertain
writing, two or three words, which he made his neighbour read; some
rectification, some forgotten date, his approval or disapproval to
join in with the words just spoken on the other side of the table.
Generally they knew when he was interested by the movement of his
heavy eyelids. It was only for a moment. Life sank again to the
depth of the prison whose bars she had tried to shake. Night closed
in once more round those thoughts of his, unable to make themselves
intelligible. And in spite of being accustomed to it, the sight of
this suffering and of this ruin weighed on each of the members of
the assembled family. It was less painful to strangers who sat for
one evening at the Alsheim table, for the grandfather on those days
did not try to break the circle of darkness and death which
oppressed him. Until these last years M. Joseph Oberlé had always
continued to present his guests to his father, up to the day when he
wrote on his slate: "Do not present any one to me, above all, no
Germans. Let them acknowledge my presence: that will be enough." The
son had kept the habit--and it was a touching thought on the part of
this selfish man--to give every evening an account of the business
of the factory to the old chief. After dinner, smoking in the
dining-room, while the two women went into the drawing-room, he told
him all about the day's mail, the consignments, and the purchases of
wood. Although M. Philippe Oberlé was now only the sleeping partner
of the business he had founded, he was under the illusion that he
was advising and directing still. He heard talk of the maples, pines
and firs, oaks and beeches among which he had breathed for fifty
years. He thought much of the "conference," as he called it, as the
only moment in the day in which he appeared himself, to himself, and
as some one of importance in the lives of others. Except for that he
was only a shadow, a dumb soul present, who judged his house, but
rarely gave voice to his decision.
His son on some important question disagreed with him. Seated at
table just opposite his father, M. Joseph Oberlé could make a show
of addressing himself to his wife and daughter only; during the
whole of the meal he could avoid seeing the fingers which moved
impatiently or which wrote to Madame Oberlé, but he was not the man
to keep off painful subjects. Like all those who have had to make a
great decision in their lives, and who have not taken it without a
profound disturbance of their conscience, he was always reverting to
the German Question. Everything gave him a pretext to begin it,
praise or blame--various facts, political events announced in the
morning's newspaper, a visiting card brought by the postman, an
order for planks received from Hanover or Dresden, the wish
expressed by Lucienne to accept an invitation to some ball. He felt
the need of applauding himself for what he had done, like defeated
generals who want to explain the battle, and to demonstrate how the
force of circumstances had compelled them to act in such or such a
manner. All the resources of his fertile mind were brought to bear
on this case of conscience, on which he declared himself a long time
resolute, and which aroused no more discussion, either on the part
of the sick grandfather or on that of the depressed wife, who had
decided to keep silence.
Lucienne alone approved and supported her father.
She did it with the decision of youth, which judges without
consideration the grief of old people, the memories and all the
charm of the past, without understanding, and as if they were dead
things to be dealt with by reason only. She was only twenty, at once
very proud and very sincere; she had an artless confidence in
herself, an impetuous nature, and a reputation for beauty only
partly justified. Tall, like her mother, and, like her, well made,
she had her father's larger features more conformed to the usual
Alsatian type--with a tendency to thicken. All the lines of her body
were already formed and fully developed. To those who saw her for
the first time, Lucienne Oberlé gave the impression of being a
young woman rather than a young girl. Her face was extremely open
and mobile. When she listened, her eyes--not so large as, and of a
lighter green than, her brother's, her eyes and her mouth equally
sharp when she smiled--followed the conversation and told her
thoughts. She dreamed little. Another charm besides the vivacity of
her mind explained her social success: the incomparable brightness
of her complexion, of her red lips, the splendour of her fair hair,
with its shining tresses of blonde and auburn intermingled, so
abundant and so heavy that it broke tortoise-shell combs, escaped
from hairpins, and hung down behind in a heavy mass and obliged her
to raise her brow, which was enhaloed by the light from it, and gave
to Lucienne Oberlé the carriage of a proud young goddess.
Her Uncle Ulrich said to her, laughing: "When I kiss you, I think I
am kissing a peach growing in the open air." She walked well; she
played tennis well; she swam to perfection, and more than once the
papers of Baden-Baden had printed the initials of her name in
articles in which they spoke of "our best skaters."
This physical education had already alienated her from her mother,
who had never been more than a good walker, and was now only a fair
one. But other causes had been at work and had separated them more
deeply and more irrevocably from each other. Doubtless it was the
entirely German education of the Mündner school, more scientific,
more solemn, more pedantic, more varied, and much less pious than
that which her mother had received, who had been educated partly at
Obernai, and partly with the nuns of Notre-Dame, in the convent of
the rue des Mineurs in Strasburg. But above all it was owing to the
acquaintances she made, and her surroundings. Lucienne, ambitious
like her father, like him bent on success, entirely removed from
maternal influence, entrusted to German mistresses for seven years,
received in German families, living among pupils chiefly German,
flattered a little by everybody--here because of the charm of her
nature, there for political motives and unconscious proselytism,
Lucienne had formed habits of mind very different from those of old
Alsace. Once more at home, she no longer understood the past of her
people or her family. For her, those who stood up for the old state
of things or regretted it--her mother, her grandfather, her uncle
Ulrich--were the representatives of an epoch ended, of an
unreasonable and childish attitude of mind. At once she placed
herself on her father's side against the others. And she suffered
from it. It depressed her to be brought into such close contact with
persons of this sort, whom the Mündner school and all her worldly
acquaintances of Baden-Baden and Strasburg would look upon as behind
the times. For two years she had lived in an atmosphere of
contradiction. For her family she felt conflicting sentiments; for
her mother, for example, she felt a true tenderness and a great pity
because she belonged to a condemned society and to another century.
She had no confidants. Would her brother Jean be one? Restless at
his arrival, almost a stranger to him, desiring affection, worn out
with family quarrels, and hoping that Jean would place himself on
the side she had chosen, that he would be a support and a new
argument, she at once desired and feared this meeting. Her father
came to tell her of the conversation he had had with Jean. She had
said--cried out rather--"Thank you for giving me my brother!"
They were all four at table when the young man entered the
dining-room. The two women who were facing each other and in the
light of the window, turned their heads, one sweetly with a smile
that said, "How proud I am of my child!"; the other leaning back on
her chair, her lips half open, her eyes as tender as if he had been
her betrothed who entered, desirous to please and sure of pleasing
him, saying aloud: "Come and sit here near me, at the end of the
table. I have made myself fine in your honour! Look!" and kissing
him, she said in a low tone, "Oh, how good it is to have some one
young to say good morning to!" She knew she was pleasant to look
upon in her bodice of mauve surah silk trimmed with lace insertion.
It also gave her real pleasure to meet this brother whom she had
only seen for a moment last night, before catching the train to
Strasburg. Jean thanked her with a friendly glance and seated
himself at the end of the table between Lucienne and his mother. He
unfolded his table napkin, and the servant Victor, son of an
Alsatian farmer, with his full-moon face and eyes like a little
girl's, always afraid of doing something wrong, approached him,
carrying a dish of _hors-d'oeuvre_, when M. Joseph Oberlé, who had
just finished writing a note in his pocket-book, stroked his
whiskers and said:
"You see Jean Oberlé here present, you my father, you Monica, and
you Lucienne. Well, I have a piece of news to give you concerning
him. I have agreed that he shall live definitely at Alsheim and
become a manufacturer and a wood merchant."
Three faces coloured at once; even Victor, shaking like a leaf,
withdrew his _hors-d'oeuvre_ dish.
"Is it possible?" said Lucienne, who did not wish to let her mother
see that she had already been told of the arrangement. "Will he not
finish his referendary course?"
"No."
"After his year's service he will come back here for always?"
"Yes; to stay with us always."
The second moment of emotion is sometimes more unnerving than the
first. Lucienne's eyelids fluttered quickly and became moist. She
laughed at the same time, tender words trembling on her red lips.
"Oh," said she, "so much the better. I don't know if it is in your
own interest, Jean, but for us, so much the better."
She was really pretty at that moment, leaning towards her brother,
vibrating with a joy which was not feigned.
"I thank you," said Madame Oberlé, looking gravely at her husband to
try to guess what reason he had obeyed; "I thank you, Joseph; I
should not have dared to ask it of you."
"But you see, my dear," answered the manufacturer, bending towards
her, "you see, when proposals are reasonable I accept them. Besides,
I am so little accustomed to be thanked that for once the word
pleases me. Yes; we have just had a decisive conversation. Jean will
accompany my buyer to-morrow and visit some of our cuttings in work.
I never lose time--you know that."
Madame Oberlé saw the awkward hand of the grandfather stretch
towards her. She took the slate which he held and read this line:
"That is the final joy of my life!"
There was no sign of happiness on this face, expressionless as a
mask, none, if not perhaps the fixedness with which M. Philippe
Oberlé looked at his son, who had given back a child to Alsace and a
successor to the family. He was astonished, and he rejoiced. He
forgot to eat, and all at the table were like him. The servant also
forgot to serve; he was thinking of the importance he would have in
announcing in the kitchen and in the village: "M. Jean has decided
to take the factory! He will never leave the country again!" For
some minutes in the dining-room of grey maple each of the four
persons who met there every day had a different dream and passed a
secret judgment; each had a vision, which was not divulged, of
possible or probable consequences which the event would have
relative to him or herself; each felt disturbed at the thought that
to-morrow might be quite different from what had been imagined.
Something was falling to pieces--habits, plans, a rule accepted or
submitted to for years. It was like a disorder, or a defeat mixed
with joy at the news.
The youngest of all was the first to regain her freedom of mind.
Lucienne said:
"Are we not going to have lunch because Jean lunches with us? My
dear, we are just like what we were before you came, not every day,
but sometimes--mute beings who think only for themselves. That is
quite contrary to the charms of meeting again. We are not going to
begin again. Tell me?"
She began to laugh, as if from henceforward misunderstandings had
disappeared. She joked wittily about silent meals, about the parties
at Alsheim that finished at nine o'clock, the rare visits, and the
importance of an invitation received from Strasburg. And everybody
tacitly encouraged her to speak ill of the past, abolished by the
resolution of this man, thoroughly happy, master of himself, who was
watching and studying his sister with astonished admiration.
"Now," she said, "all is going to change. From now to October we
shall be five instead of four under the roof of Alsheim. Then you
will do your service; but that only lasts a year--and besides, you
will have leave?"
"Every Sunday."
"You will sleep here?" asked Madame Oberlé.
"I should think so--on Saturday nights."
"And a nice uniform. Do you know," continued Lucienne, "that Attila
tunic, cornflower colour, braided with yellow, black boots; but
above all I like the full dress sealskin busby, with its plume of
black-and-white horsehair--and the white frogs. It is one of the
handsomest uniforms in our army."
"Yes, one of the handsomest in the German army," Madame Oberlé
hastened to correct, wishing to make amends for the unlucky words of
her daughter, for the grandfather had made a gesture with his hand
as if to rub out something from the cloth.
M. Joseph Oberlé added, laughing:
"And equally one of the dearest. I am giving you a nice present,
Jean, in leaving you to choose the Rhenish Hussars, No. 9, as your
regiment. I shall not get off for less than eight thousand marks."
"Do you think so? As expensive as that?"
"I am sure of it. Only yesterday, at the Councillor Von Boscher's,
before two officers, I mentioned the amount which I thought exact,
and no one contradicted me. Officially, the one year's service man
in the infantry should spend two thousand two hundred marks; in
reality he spends four thousand. In the artillery he should spend
two thousand seven hundred, and spends five thousand; in the cavalry
the difference is still more; and when people maintain that you can
finish the business with three thousand six hundred marks they are
making fun of you. You must reckon seven or eight thousand marks.
That is what I contend, and what I uphold."
"The regiment is admirably made up, father," interrupted Lucienne.
"A good deal of fortune in fact...."
"A good deal of nobility also, mixed with the sons of the rich
manufacturers on the banks of the Rhine."
A quick smile of intelligence passed between Lucienne and her
father. Jean was the only one who noticed it. Scarcely had the young
girl had time to straighten her lips when she said:
"The volunteer places in the regiment are taken up so quickly that
it is necessary to apply early in order to get one."
"I spoke to your colonel three months ago," said M. Oberlé. "You
will be recommended to several of the chiefs."
Lucienne chimed in giddily:
"You will be able to bring some here; it would be amusing!"
Jean did not answer. Madame Oberlé blushed, as she often did when a
word too much had been said before her. Lucienne was laughing again,
when the grandfather stopped eating, and painfully, by jerks, each
of which must have been painful, turned his sad, white head towards
his grand-daughter. The eyes of the old Alsatian must have spoken a
language very easy to translate, for the young girl ceased laughing,
made a gesture of impatience as if she said, "Oh! I did not remember
that you were here," and bent towards her father to offer him some
Wolxheim wine, but really to escape the reproach she felt weighing
on her.
The three others, M. Joseph Oberlé, Jean, and his mother, as if they
were agreed not to prolong the incident, began to talk of the
service, men at the St. Nicolas barracks, but hurriedly, multiplying
their words and their signs of interest with useless gestures.
No one dared raise his head in the direction of the grandfather. M.
Philippe Oberlé continued to stare with his look as implacable as
remorse, at his grand-daughter, guilty of a giddy and regrettable
speech. The meal was shortened owing to the general awkwardness,
which had become almost unbearable, when M. Philippe Oberlé, begged
by his daughter-in-law to forget what Lucienne had said, had
answered "No," and refused to eat further.
Ten minutes later, Lucienne went into the alleys of the park, to
rejoin her brother, who had gone out before and was lighting a
cigar. Hearing her approach behind him, he turned round. She was no
longer laughing. She had put on no hat, in spite of the wind, which
disarranged her hair; but having thrown a shawl of white wool round
her shoulders, no longer trying to charm but become all at once
passionate and domineering, she ran up to him.
"You saw it? It is intolerable!"
Jean lit his cigar, clasping his hands to protect the lighted match,
then throwing away the glowing vesta.
"Without doubt, but one must learn to put up with it, little one."
"There is no little one," she interrupted quickly, "there is a
grown-up one, on the contrary, who wants to have a clear explanation
with you. We have been separated for a long time, my dear, we must
learn to know each other, for I hardly know you and you do not know
me. I am going to help you--don't be afraid--I came for that."
He had a look of admiration for this fine creature violently moved,
who had deliberately come to him; then, without losing his calmness,
feeling that his part and his man's honour commanded him to be judge
and not to get excited in his turn, he began to walk along by the
side of Lucienne, in the alley which ran between a clump of trees on
one side and the lawn on the other.
"You can speak to me, Lucienne--you may be sure...."
"Of your discretion? I thank you. I do not want any this morning. I
came simply to explain to you my way of thinking on a certain point,
and I am not going to make any mystery about it. I repeat that it is
intolerable. You may say nothing here about Germany or the Germans,
if it is not something bad. As soon as one has a word of praise or
only of justice for them mamma bites her lips, and grandfather makes
a disgraceful scene and shames me in front of the servants, as
happened just now. Is it a crime to say to a volunteer: 'You will
bring us some officers to Alsheim'? Can we prevent you serving your
turn in a German regiment, in a German town, commanded by officers
who, in spite of being Germans, are not the less men of the world?"
She walked nervously, and with her right hand twisted a gold chain
which she wore on her mauve bodice.
"If you knew, Jean, what I have suffered by this want of liberty in
the house, to find our parents so different from what they have had
us trained to be. For I ask, why did they give it to me?"
The young man took the cigar he was smoking from his lips:
"Our education, Lucienne? It was only our father who wished it."
"He alone is intelligent."
"Oh, how can you speak like that of your mother?"
"Understand clearly," she answered, embarrassed. "I am not of those
who hide one half of their thoughts and who make the others
unrecognisable because of the flowery language they are wrapped up
in. I love mamma very much more than you think, but I judge her
also. She is possessed of intelligence as regards household affairs;
she is refined; she has some little taste for literature, but she
cannot deal intelligently with general questions. She does not see
farther than Alsheim. My father has understood far better the
position which is given us in Alsace; he has been enlightened by his
intercourse, which is very wide and of all kinds, by his commercial
interest and by his ambition...."
And as Jean made a questioning movement: "What ambition do you
mean?"
Lucienne continued: "I surprise you; yes, for a young girl, as you
said, I seem audacious and even irreverent. Is it not true?"
"A little."
"My dear Jean, I am only anticipating your own judgment--only
hindering you from losing time in comparative psychological studies.
You have just come home, I left school two years and a half ago. I
am letting you benefit by my experience. Well, there is no doubt
about it: our father is ambitious. He has all that is necessary for
success. A will of iron for his inferiors, much flexibility
_vis-à-vis_ others, wealth, a quickness of mind which makes him the
superior of all the manufacturers or German officials we meet here.
I prophesy you that now that he is in favour with the Stadthalter
you will not be long in seeing him a candidate for the Reichstag."
"That is impossible, Lucienne."
"Perhaps; but it will come to pass, nevertheless; I am sure of it. I
do not say that he will stand for Obernai, but for some place in
Alsace, and he will be elected, because he will be supported by the
Government and he will settle the price.... Perhaps you did not give
this a place in your calculations when you decided to return to
Alsheim? I know I upset your ideas. You will have many such
disturbances. What you must know, my dear Jean"--she laid stress on
the word "dear"--"is that the home of the family is not an amusing
one. We are irremediably divided."
Jean and Lucienne were silent for a moment, because the lodge was
quite near; then they turned towards the lawn and took the second
alley, which led to the house.
"Irremediably? You believe this?"
"It would be childish to doubt it. My father will not change and
will not become French again, because that would be to give up his
future for ever, and many commercial advantages. Mamma will not
change, because she is a woman, and because to become a German
would be to give up a sentiment which she thinks very noble. You
surely do not aim at converting grandfather? Well then?"
She stopped and faced Jean.
"Well, my dear, as you cannot bring peace into the family by
gentleness, bring it by being strong. Do not imagine you can remain
neutral. Even if you would, circumstances will not permit it. I am
sure of that. Join with me and father, even if you do not think as
we do in everything.
"I have sought you out to implore you to be on our side. When mamma
understands that her two children think her wrong she will defend
her childhood's memories less energetically; she will advise
grandfather to abstain from demonstrations like those of to-day, and
our meals will be less like combats at close quarters. We shall
command the situation. It is all that we can hope for. Will you?
Papa told me, quickly this morning, that your tenderness for the
Germans was not a lively one. But you do not hate them?"
"No."
"I only ask for tolerance and a certain amount of consideration for
them--that is to say, for us who see them. You have lived ten years
in Germany; you will continue to do here what you did there. You
will not leave the drawing-room when one of them comes to see us?"
"Of course not. But you see, Lucienne, even if I act differently
from mamma, because my education has made me put up with what is
odious to her, I cannot blame her. I can find the most touching
reasons why she should be what she is."
"Touching?"
"Yes."
"I find them unreasonable."
Jean's green eyes and Lucienne's lighter ones questioned one another
for a moment. The two young people, both grave, with an expression
of astonishment and defiance, measured each other and thought: "Is
it she I saw just now so smiling and so tender?" "Is it really he
who resists me, a brother brought up like me, and who ought to yield
to me, if it were only because I am young and he is glad to see me
again?" She was displeased. This first meeting had placed in
opposition the paternal violence which Lucienne had inherited and
the inflexible will which the mother had transmitted to her son. It
was Lucienne who broke the silence. She turned to continue the walk,
and shaking her head:
"I see," she said. "You imagine that you will have a confidante in
mamma, a friend to whom you can open your heart fully? She is worthy
of all respect, my dear. But there again you are mistaken. I have
tried. She is, or thinks she is, too miserable. All you tell her
will immediately serve her as an argument in her own quarrel. If you
wished, for example, to marry a German----"
"No, no; but no."
"I am only supposing. Mamma would go at once to find my father, and
would say to him: 'Look at this! It is horrible! It is your fault!
Yours!' And if you wished to marry an Alsatian our mother would at
once take advantage of it and say: 'He is on my side, against you,
against you.' No, my dear, the real, true confidante at Alsheim is
Lucienne."
She took Jean's hand, and without ceasing to walk she looked up at
him, her face beaming with life and youthfulness.
"Believe me, let us be frank with each other. You do not know me
well. You have travelled so much. I astonish you. You will see that
I have great faults. I am proud and selfish, hardly capable of
making sacrifices; something of a flirt, but I have no roundabout
ways. Lately, when I was looking forward to your arrival, I
promised myself a lasting joy, the joy of having your youth near
mine to understand it. I will tell you all that is important in my
life, all that I am resolved to do--I have no one here whom I can
trust absolutely. You cannot know what I have suffered. Will you?"
"Oh yes."
"You will tell me your thoughts, but above all I shall have spoken
to you. I shall not suffocate, as I have often done in this house. I
shall have many things to tell you. It will be some way of regaining
the intimacy we have almost lost, and will give us a little tardy
fraternal companionship. What are you thinking about?"
"About this poor house."
Lucienne lifted her eyes above the slate roof which rose in front.
She wished to say, "If you knew how sad it really is," then she
embraced her brother, and said:
"I am not so bad as you think me, brother, nor so ungrateful to
mamma. I am going to find her to talk about your return. She
certainly wants to speak of her happiness to some one."
Lucienne left her brother, turning again to smile at him, and
walking as a goddess might, with steps free and finely poised, with
her hand replacing the pins which held up her hair so badly,
disarranged as it was by the walk and blown about by the wind, she
took the fifty steps which separated her from the staircase, and
disappeared.